#cirdandaddy

🍷𝓣𝓱𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓾𝓲𝓵

𐂂 Thranduil Caught in a Spider’s Trap and Falling into a Pit While Thranduil and the reader/you are engaged in battle against a group of hostile giant spider in the depths of Mirkwood and reader/you save him

The darkness of Mirkwood had always been an ever-present threat, but tonight it felt even more suffocating. The night air was thick with the scent of damp earth and the faint, almost nauseating tang of decay. The battle raged around Thranduil and you—swarming spiders, venomous and vile, scuttled across the floor of the forest like dark shadows, their eyes glinting in the moonlight. The vicious creatures had long plagued the ancient woods, their hunger insatiable, their venom deadly. Thranduil’s blade flashed in the dim light as he fought off one of the monstrous arachnids, his movements graceful and deliberate, as always. His skill with a sword was unmatched, every strike a precise decision. Yet, for all his agility and battle-hardened experience, he was not immune to the dangers of the forest. Beneath his feet, the ground suddenly shifted.

The earth trembled, the roots of the ancient trees groaning under the weight of the battle and the forces of nature. Thranduil’s eyes narrowed in alarm as the ground crumbled beneath him. He had little time to react before his booted feet were swallowed by the shifting soil, and he found himself falling. A sharp gasp escaped his lips as he plunged downward, the pit opening beneath him like a maw, pulling him further into its depths. The trees above him seemed distant as he plummeted, the foliage that once protected the woodland king now closing in, smothering the light and muffling the sounds of battle above. But it wasn’t just the pit that threatened him. Thranduil’s sharp elven senses picked up the faintest rustling, the quiet skittering sound of something moving in the shadows. He barely had time to react as he twisted mid-fall, catching sight of the massive spider—a hulking creature with glistening, venomous fangs and limbs long enough to span a dozen men. It leapt from a nearby tree with frightening speed, its webbing trailing behind it like a death sentence.

Before he could draw his blade or think of a way out, the spider’s web shot forward, its strands wrapping around his body, gluing him halfway down in the pit. His movements were slowed, his legs pinned, and the sticky threads clung to him like chains. His once-immaculate silver armor was now tangled in the webbing, and Thranduil, struggling against the sticky strands, felt the cold grasp of helplessness for a brief moment. The spiders began to circle, their multi-eyed gaze trained on their prey. Thranduil’s breathing quickened as his thoughts turned to escape. His mind raced with calculations, his thoughts sharp as ever despite the danger. He knew he needed to act swiftly if he were to survive this—he needed to cut through the webbing, but his sword was too far out of reach. The pit was deep, the air thick with the smell of the forest and the acrid scent of spider venom. It was then, as the spiders closed in, that a sudden, unexpected force swept through the pit—you. In a flash, you appeared at the edge of the pit, your form illuminated by the faint glow of the moon above. You leapt into the pit without hesitation, your feet landing soundlessly in the shifting soil as you avoided the webs and debris that littered the area. There was no fear in your movements, no hesitation. You had seen the danger, and in a heartbeat, you had made your decision. Thranduil’s sharp gaze followed your every movement, his mind struggling to reconcile the vulnerability he felt with the awe he couldn’t help but feel for your bravery.

Without wasting a moment, you sprinted toward him, your hands steady as you carefully sliced through the thick webbing with a blade or a sharp object of your own. The spiders hissed and clicked their mandibles, closing in around you both, their large bodies casting ominous shadows across the pit. The tension was palpable—the spiders were relentless, sensing the weakness of their prey, and yet, despite their terrifying size, you didn’t flinch. With a swift motion, you freed Thranduil from the sticky grasp of the webs. His body collapsed forward, his limbs unsteady, but you were there to catch him. The webbing still clung to parts of him, but now it was only a minor hindrance. The king’s eyes met yours as he stood, his chest heaving with effort, his breath shallow, but alive. There was a flicker of disbelief in his gaze as he processed what had just happened. His regal poise had faltered in the face of danger, but the moment he saw you fight off the approaching spiders, his admiration for you grew tenfold. You had protected him, not with hesitation or doubt, but with decisiveness, your every action driven by an unwavering will to keep him safe.

Thranduil moved, his hand instinctively reaching for his sword, the glint of his blade reflecting in the dim light. His stance was shaky, but his resolve was firm. The spiders were not to be underestimated, but he could see the way you handled yourself. You were a force of nature in your own right. As the spiders charged, you stood side by side with him, your weapons raised in defense. Thranduil’s mind quickly shifted back to the task at hand. The pit, the danger—it was all secondary now. Your loyalty to him, your willingness to fight by his side, it made all the difference. His voice, hoarse but steady, broke the tension. “You have my gratitude,” he said, his voice low yet filled with an undeniable warmth. There was no formality in his words, no barriers to his sincerity. It was rare for Thranduil to show such vulnerability, but in that moment, he was truly grateful. He moved with you, fighting back the arachnids with precision and strength. The battle was fierce, but together, you were unstoppable. And as the last of the spiders was slain and the pit began to quiet, the king’s gaze softened toward you once more. He was still breathing heavily, his armor now torn and stained, but his respect for you—his appreciation—was clear in the quiet gaze he held upon you.

“Thank you,” he said again, softer this time, his voice laced with gratitude. “I would not have survived this without you.” And in the depths of Mirkwood, surrounded by the echoing silence of the forest, it was clear that something had shifted. Thranduil had always been a king of stone, his heart a fortress built from centuries of loss and sorrow. But with you by his side, something in him softened, and for the first time in many years, he allowed himself to feel a flicker of connection—something real and enduring, something that went beyond the duty of a king and the loyalty of his subjects. It was something he had not expected. But in the pit, with you fighting by his side, he knew—you were his ally, his protector, and perhaps, in time, something more.

📜 𝓔𝓵𝓻𝓸𝓷𝓭

✶ Avalanche/Rockslide While traveling in the mountains near Rivendell, Elrond is caught in a sudden rockslide. The reader shoves him out of the way or shields him with their body, taking the impact themselves.

The mountain path was narrow, winding precariously along the steep slopes that framed Rivendell in its protective embrace. The air was crisp and sharp with the scent of pine and stone, the faintest hint of snow carried on the wind from the higher peaks. Elrond moved ahead with an ease that belied the dangers of the terrain, his every step deliberate and precise. His deep blue-gray cloak swayed gently as he walked, the fine embroidery of Rivendell’s craftsmanship catching the occasional glint of sunlight filtering through the clouds. This trail was familiar to him—one he had traveled many times in search of solitude or to meet travelers approaching from the wilds. He had always admired the way the mountains framed the valley, the ridges standing like silent sentinels over his home. But today, there was a strange tension in the air, an unspoken unease that made him glance up toward the looming cliffs above. The skies had darkened slightly, the rumble of distant thunder echoing faintly through the peaks.

“Elrond,” you called from behind, your voice carrying over the whisper of the wind. “Do you think we should move faster? This weather… it feels strange.” He paused, turning to look at you. His dark hair framed his face, and for a moment, the concern in his sharp gaze was evident. He studied the rocks above and then the path ahead, his instincts honed by centuries of experience. “The mountains are prone to shifts,” he said, his voice calm yet carrying an undercurrent of caution. “We will tread carefully, but there is no need to rush. Fear clouds the mind and invites missteps.” His words were meant to reassure, and as always, his composure gave you a sense of security. But just as you were about to reply, a low, ominous rumble rolled through the mountains. It started softly, a vibration you felt in the soles of your boots, before growing into a deep, resounding groan that seemed to echo all around you. The very earth beneath you shuddered.

“Elrond—” you started, your voice edged with alarm, but he had already turned sharply, his eyes darting upward. The cliffs above you began to shift, a cascade of loose stones tumbling down the slope. Then came the unmistakable sound of cracking rock, loud and jarring. A section of the mountainside gave way, and in an instant, boulders and debris began to hurtle downward, crashing against the slopes with terrifying speed. The ground quaked beneath your feet as the rockslide roared to life. “Elrond, move!” you shouted, your body already reacting before you had time to think. Elrond’s eyes snapped to you, wide with alarm—but he hesitated, looking back toward the path, clearly calculating the best way to evade the deadly rush of stone. That moment of hesitation was enough to make your decision for you. Without a second thought, you lunged toward him, shoving him hard toward the edge of the path, where the rocks seemed less likely to strike.

The force of your push sent him stumbling out of harm’s way, but it left you exposed. The world seemed to blur as the avalanche of rock and debris thundered down. You felt the sharp, jarring impact of stone against your back and shoulders, the force of it knocking the air from your lungs. Pain exploded through you as a heavy boulder clipped your side, sending you sprawling to the ground. Dust and grit filled the air, making it hard to breathe, hard to see. Through the chaos, you vaguely registered Elrond’s voice, sharp and commanding, cutting through the din. “No!” It wasn’t the composed tone you were used to—it was raw, laced with a fear you had never heard from him before.You tried to push yourself up, but the weight of the rocks pressing against you made it nearly impossible. Your limbs felt heavy, your vision swimming as the world began to quiet, the deafening roar of the rockslide fading into an eerie stillness. The pain was overwhelming, but even through the haze, you could feel someone pulling at the stones, hands firm yet careful as they worked to free you.

“Elrond…” you murmured, your voice barely audible. “I am here,” he said, his tone steady but trembling at the edges. “Do not move.” His hands, so skilled and steady, worked with a precision born of centuries of healing as he cleared the debris from your body. The weight was gradually lifted, but the damage had already been done. You could see the flicker of anguish in his eyes as he assessed your injuries, his composure cracking ever so slightly. “You should have let me take the fall,” he said softly, his voice thick with emotion as he crouched beside you. His hands moved over you with practiced care, pressing gently against your ribs, checking for fractures. “This is my fault—I should have seen the signs. I should have—” His voice broke, but he forced himself to focus, his hands glowing faintly with Elvish healing light as he worked to stabilize you. “You’re… too important to lose,” you whispered, your voice weak but firm despite the pain. “I couldn’t let that happen.”

Elrond’s movements stilled for a moment, his gaze meeting yours. The look in his eyes was devastating—an ocean of guilt, gratitude, and something deeper, something he would never allow himself to say aloud. “And what of you?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. “You would trade your life for mine so easily?” You managed a faint, lopsided smile. “Not easily. But it was worth it.” His jaw tightened, and he returned to his work, his hands moving with renewed urgency. “You will not leave me,” he said, the words quiet but filled with an unshakable resolve. “Not like this. I will not allow it.”

You felt the warmth of his healing light spreading through you, dulling the sharp edges of the pain. Still, you could see the strain on his face, the way his usually steady hands trembled slightly as he poured his energy into saving you. It wasn’t just the physical wounds he was trying to heal—there was something breaking inside him, something he couldn’t hide. As the pain began to subside, you reached up weakly, your fingers brushing against his hand. “Elrond,” you murmured. “It’s not your fault.” He looked at you, his expression fierce and unguarded. “Perhaps not,” he said, his voice low and heavy. “But it is my responsibility to protect you—and I failed.”

“You didn’t fail,” you replied, your voice barely audible. “You saved me.” He shook his head, his composure faltering further as he cupped your hand in his own. “And you saved me. At too great a cost.” The silence between you was filled with the distant sound of falling stones and the soft rush of wind through the mountains. As Elrond worked tirelessly to tend to your wounds, his touch gentle and his brow furrowed in concentration, you realized that the walls he had so carefully built around himself had cracked—if only for a moment. And in that moment, the weight of his heart was laid bare.

🌊 𝓬í𝓻𝓭𝓪𝓷

𓇼 Tides of Sacrifice While sailing across a storm-ravaged sea, Círdan, the ancient mariner, is thrown overboard by a violent wave. The reader/you rushes to save him, braving the treacherous waters and risking their own life to pull him back from the brink of death.

The wind roared like a living beast, tearing at the sails and lashing the ship with relentless fury. The sea, dark and churning, rose in great swells that battered the hull as if determined to drag the vessel into its depths. Amid the chaos, Círdan moved across the deck with the sure-footed grace of one who had spent long ages upon the seas, his grey hair whipping wildly in the storm’s fury. Yet even the oldest mariner can be caught off guard when the sea is angry. A sudden, violent lurch of the ship sent crates tumbling, ropes snapping like serpents. Círdan reached for the rail to steady himself, but the slick wood betrayed him. His footing gave way beneath him. For the first time in countless years, his balance failed. Time seemed to slow as his ancient form fell, his outstretched hand just grazing the railing before he vanished overboard into the merciless sea.

The sound of the splash was swallowed almost instantly by the howling storm, yet it echoed in your ears, sharp as a blade. For a moment, panic seized the deck. The crew shouted his name, their voices carried away by the wind, but no sign of him rose from the waves. The great Círdan—ancient, wise, and revered—had been claimed by the raging sea. Without thought, without hesitation, you flung yourself over the side. The shock of the icy water hit you like a thousand knives, stealing your breath and smothering the sounds of the storm. The sea was alive, pulling and twisting around you, trying to drag you into its embrace. Salt stung your eyes as you dove deeper, the world a murky whirl of gray and black, but you forced yourself to focus. Somewhere below, Círdan was sinking into the deep.

At last, through the gloom, you caught a glimpse of him. His silver hair floated around his face like a halo, his limbs weighed down by the heavy robes he wore. He was still conscious, though weakened, his movements sluggish as the current tugged at him. Gritting your teeth, you kicked hard, fighting the pull of the waves until your fingers closed around his arm. He turned his head toward you, his eyes wide with a mixture of surprise and something deeper—a silent plea not for himself, but for you. The sea is no place for mortals, and he knew this better than anyone. Yet you did not let go. Bracing yourself against the cold and your screaming lungs, you pulled him upward, stroke by stroke, until at last the surface shattered around you both, and you gasped for air.

The storm raged on, but the ship was there, its lights faint beacons through the downpour. Voices called out as ropes were lowered, hands reaching to haul you back aboard. Círdan, though shivering and pale, was heavier than you imagined, but you held on, your arms trembling as the crew helped drag him to safety. Once both of you were sprawled on the deck, the world seemed to steady itself. The sea still roared, the wind still screamed, but the focus of all eyes was on Círdan and you. You coughed, water spilling from your lungs as you lay gasping, too tired to move. Beside you, Círdan slowly sat up, his movements deliberate, as though the weight of what had just occurred pressed upon him more than the storm or the cold ever could.

His ancient face, lined by centuries of wisdom and sorrow, turned toward you. His grey eyes, deep as the sea itself, met yours, holding you there as if trying to fathom the heart that had risked itself for him. “Why?” he asked softly, his voice carrying through the wind, clear as a bell despite its gentleness. The question was not a rebuke but a quiet wonder, spoken by one who rarely found himself surprised. “Why would you risk your life… for one such as I?”

He reached out, his hand trembling slightly, though not from the cold. His grip found yours, steadying both of you, anchoring the moment between you. Around you, the crew murmured, relieved and awed, but Círdan’s focus never wavered. For a long moment, he simply gazed at you, his expression one of quiet reverence—an emotion so rarely seen from one as composed as he. “Long have I walked this world. Long have I guided others across treacherous waters. But never… never did I imagine one would turn back for me.” His voice caught, and his brow furrowed as though the weight of your action bore down upon him.

You could see it then—the great depths of Círdan’s heart. He had seen empires rise and fall, kin sail West never to return, and endless battles won and lost. Yet now, in this fleeting moment, he looked at you with something like awe, as though he had glimpsed something precious, a light no shadow could touch. “You gave much,” he murmured, his voice steadying as he gathered himself. “More than I deserved, I think, but still you gave it. And for that, I am in your debt.” Slowly, painfully, he rose to his feet, and though his body trembled from the cold, his bearing held the dignity of the lord he was. He extended a hand to you, pulling you up beside him.

“Acts of courage such as yours shine brighter than the Silmarils,” he said softly, his gaze never leaving yours. “I have lived through many storms, and I have seen the strength of many hearts. But yours, today, burns brightest of all.” His hand, steady and warm despite the chill, rested briefly on your shoulder. “Know this,” he continued, his voice carrying the weight of an oath. “Whatever path lies before you, you shall not walk it alone. Should you ever call upon me, I will come. For you have given me a gift beyond measure—a life returned, when I had thought all debts long paid.”

Círdan turned then, his face lifted to the dark sky, the rain pouring over him. “The sea has taken much from me,” he murmured, almost to himself, “but it will not take my gratitude. Not now, not ever.” And in that moment, despite the cold, despite the storm, a strange warmth settled within you—a knowledge that even in the vastness of this world, even in its ancient, unyielding tides, your act of courage had changed something. For you had saved not just a life, but a legend. And Círdan would never forget.

🩵𝓒𝓮𝓵𝓮𝓫𝓸𝓻𝓷

Celeborn, would react to the human quirks

Friendship bracelets

𖣂 Celeborn’s reaction to being handcuffed to you as a “friendship bracelet” would initially be one of silent disbelief. His silver brows would arch gracefully as he regards the cuffs with the calm yet calculating gaze of an elf who has faced centuries of surprises, none quite like this. He’d gently test the metal restraint, his fingers brushing against yours in the process, but his expression remains composed.

𖣂 “My lady (or lord), it seems your creativity knows no bounds,” he’d say, his voice tinged with dry amusement. “Though I fail to see how binding oneself to another constitutes a bracelet, I commend the boldness of your invention.”

𖣂 He would likely humor you for a time, maintaining his graceful demeanor as you drag him along, explaining your reasoning. The elves nearby might stifle laughter or exchange glances of mild shock, unaccustomed to such “human eccentricities.” Celeborn, however, would not remove the cuffs immediately. Instead, he’d study you with a growing smile, finding your spontaneity both baffling and endearing.

𖣂 “I have lived millennia and faced foes from Angband to Dol Guldur, yet none have restrained me quite so… creatively. Shall we parade through Lothlórien thus bound, or is this to remain our little secret?” His tone carries an air of teasing elegance, though his eyes soften with clear affection.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦ ꕤ ၄၃ ꕤ ✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

You Burning their tongue on food even though they just said, “This is too hot.”

𖣂 Celeborn would observe the entire sequence of events with a mixture of disbelief and quiet amusement. His silver-gray eyes would follow as you blew on the spoonful of steaming stew, muttering, “This is too hot,” only to proceed to pop it into your mouth anyway. The sharp intake of breath and pained expression that followed would cause him to blink once, slowly, before exhaling a soft, knowing sigh.

𖣂 Setting aside whatever task he’d been engaged in, he’d step closer, his voice calm and steady, yet carrying a faint trace of exasperation. “You knew it was too hot,” he’d remark, his tone betraying a rare flicker of humor beneath the surface. “And yet, you chose to test the limits of your own wisdom.”

𖣂 Kneeling gracefully beside you, he’d take your hand in his, examining you with the same attentiveness he reserved for the well-being of his people. “Here,” he’d say, handing you a goblet of cool water. “Drink. Though I wonder if even this lesson will temper your impulsiveness.”

𖣂 Despite the reserved delivery of his words, the corners of his lips would quirk slightly, betraying a quiet fondness. As you winced and fanned your mouth, he’d lean back and watch with an expression both paternal and affectionate, shaking his head faintly. “I have walked through millennia of battles and council chambers, but I doubt I will ever understand your kind’s eagerness to suffer for the sake of haste.”

𖣂 Later, as the pain subsided and you regained your composure, he’d add with a wry smile, “Perhaps next time you will heed your own words—or, at least, let me taste it first.” His tone was light, but his gaze was warm, his endless patience shining through despite your occasional recklessness.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦ ꕤ ၄၃ ꕤ ✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

You Laughing so hard you start hiccupping or snorting as if some sort of animal (pig) or dying animal).

𖣂 Celeborn would initially watch your outburst with a slight tilt of his head, his silver hair catching the light as his serene expression faltered into something closer to bemused curiosity. Your laughter—starting as a cheerful chuckle—soon escalated into uncontrollable hiccups and snorts that echoed through the tranquil halls of Lothlórien, shattering the elven silence.

𖣂 At first, he would blink, his composure intact, though the faintest lift of his brow betrayed his inner surprise. When the snorting began, however, a soft huff of breath escaped him—perhaps the closest thing to a chuckle you’d ever hear from the dignified Lord of Lothlórien.

𖣂 “Are you… unwell?” he’d ask, his voice calm but touched with concern, as though unsure if this strange noise signaled some form of mortal ailment. Stepping closer, he’d place a hand on your shoulder, his touch light yet grounding, his observant gaze scanning your face for signs of distress. When it became clear this was not a malady but simply you being overtaken by mirth, his expression would soften into something warmer, his lips curving into a small but genuine smile.

𖣂 The sound of your snorts, however, would eventually prove too much for even his legendary self-control. A quiet laugh—low and melodic, almost as if it surprised him—would slip from his lips, a rare and precious thing. He would shake his head slowly, his long fingers brushing a strand of hair from his face as he regarded you with deep affection.

𖣂 “Your joy is… infectious,” he’d murmur, though his words were tinged with a teasing tone. “But I must admit, I have never before heard such sounds come from a living creature. Are you attempting to mimic a wild boar? Or is this simply your unique interpretation of merriment?”

𖣂 When your laughter only intensified at his playful jab, hiccups punctuating your snorts, Celeborn would let out a soft sigh, though his eyes shone with genuine warmth. “You are unlike anyone I have ever known,” he’d say, his voice touched with amusement and quiet wonder. “May your spirit never change, even if it leaves me questioning whether I have wandered into a pasture rather than my own hall.”

𖣂 Later, when you’d finally calmed, wiping tears of laughter from your eyes, he’d gently hand you a goblet of water. “Here, drink,” he’d say, his tone affectionate yet practical. “Though I fear the snorting will haunt my dreams tonight.” His wry humor would glimmer beneath his measured demeanor, revealing just how deeply he cherished your humanity, quirks and all.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦ ꕤ ၄၃ ꕤ ✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

You Forgetting why you walked into a room.

𖣂 Celeborn would notice your sudden pause in the doorway with his usual quiet attentiveness, his keen eyes watching as you glanced around the room, your brow furrowed in confusion. He’d set aside the book he was reading or the map he was studying, his composed demeanor remaining intact, though the faintest trace of curiosity would cross his face.

𖣂 “Have you misplaced something?” he’d ask gently, his melodic voice breaking the silence. Rising with the effortless grace of an ancient elf, he would step toward you, his long robes whispering against the floor. When you simply stood there, blinking in befuddlement, he’d tilt his head slightly, his expression a mixture of patience and mild amusement.

𖣂 “I… can’t remember why I came in here,” you’d admit, the frustration in your voice tinged with embarrassment. At this, his lips would quirk ever so slightly, the faintest hint of a smile breaking through his usual stoic demeanor.

𖣂 “Ah,” he’d say, his tone laced with quiet humor, “the mysterious ways of the human mind. So fleeting, so unpredictable.” He’d place his hands behind his back, his gaze soft and warm as he regarded you. “Perhaps you sought counsel or came to tell me of something important… or perhaps it was merely a passing whim.”

𖣂 You’d laugh nervously, shrugging as you glanced around the room again, hoping for a clue that refused to present itself. Celeborn would step closer, his gaze observant yet kind, and after a moment of silence, he’d offer, “Mayhap retracing your steps will awaken the memory. Or… we could simply wait. I have found that the answers we seek often come when we are not looking for them.”

𖣂 He’d gesture toward a nearby chair, his composed demeanor radiating a calm that seemed to make the moment less awkward. “Sit, if you like. Let your mind wander. Though I must admit,” he’d add with a faintly teasing glint in his eyes, “I am intrigued to see how long it will take before your purpose is revealed.”

𖣂 If the memory eventually returned to you, he’d nod with quiet approval. “There it is,” he’d say simply, as though nothing had been out of the ordinary. But if it didn’t, and you gave up with a sheepish shrug, Celeborn would chuckle softly—a rare sound, low and melodic.

𖣂 “Fear not,” he’d say, his voice carrying a warm reassurance. “Even the wisest of us lose our way on occasion. Perhaps this is a reminder to simply enjoy the journey, even if the destination eludes you.” His words, like always, would feel like a gentle balm, turning your fleeting human forgetfulness into something almost endearing.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦ ꕤ ၄၃ ꕤ ✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

You Flipping the pillow to the “cool side” before settling in.

𖣂 Celeborn would watch you with an air of quiet curiosity as you flipped the pillow with a practiced motion, seeking the cooler side before settling in for rest. His eyes, ever observant, would narrow ever so slightly as if contemplating the simple, yet curious habit of mortals. A faint smile would tug at the corners of his lips, the gesture subtle but filled with warmth.

𖣂 “Ah,” he would murmur, his voice calm and even, “such a small act, yet one I have never seen in all my years. To think of the need for coolness in sleep… How different the experience of time is for your kind.”

𖣂 He would step closer, his movements graceful and deliberate as he examined the pillow, almost as if pondering its purpose in a way that only an elf with millennia of life experience could. “We elves,” he would continue, “do not often need such concerns for comfort. The cool side of the pillow… a mortal tradition, I suppose?”

𖣂 As you settled in, his thoughtful gaze would soften, and he would chuckle quietly to himself, a rare sound from the typically composed lord of Lothlórien. “Perhaps it is a reflection of the fleeting nature of your kind, always seeking a moment’s relief, always aware of the changing seasons in your lives. I wonder if we elves, with our timeless existence, would understand such little comforts.”

𖣂 His voice would soften with a tender affection. “Still, I find it… charming. That in such small things, you find comfort. Perhaps I, too, should try it one day, to see what it is that brings you such peace in this simple act.” His tone would be teasing, but beneath it was an unmistakable fondness.

𖣂 Celeborn would watch as you lay back, content with your small ritual, and after a moment, he would say, his tone quiet but sincere, “Sleep well, my friend. May the cool side of the pillow bring you comfort, as your presence does to those around you.”

𖣂 In his heart, Celeborn would find a quiet, reflective appreciation for these human quirks. Though they were foreign to him, they spoke to the warmth and fleeting beauty of mortal life, something he had come to cherish through his companionship with you.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦ ꕤ ၄၃ ꕤ ✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

🏹𝓗𝓪𝓵𝓭𝓲𝓻

Haldir, would react to the human quirks

Friendship bracelets

➳ Haldir’s first reaction would be one of cautious surprise. His sharp Elven eyes narrow slightly as you hold up the handcuffs, the cold metal glinting in the soft light of Lothlórien. A deep sense of confusion stirs within him. Elves are creatures of grace, tradition, and subtlety, and this—this device—feels so very out of place. His instinct is to recoil, to question why such a thing is even necessary. His mind races, considering the implications of being physically tethered to someone, even if only by metal cuffs. Elves are proud of their independence and autonomy, and Haldir, with his disciplined nature, values his personal space.

➳ “Mellon,” he begins, his voice hesitant but still calm, “What… are these?” His eyes flicker to the cuffs, then back to you, unsure whether to be annoyed or intrigued. The connection between you both is new, fragile in its beginnings, and the physical closeness this suggests makes him feel exposed in a way he isn’t accustomed to.

➳ As the cuffs click into place, he freezes for a moment, his posture stiffening. He doesn’t pull away, but the discomfort is evident in the way his jaw tightens. The concept of being tied to another, especially in such a direct way, clashes with his deeply ingrained Elven sense of pride and order. But he is not cruel. He doesn’t demand you take them off immediately. Instead, his thoughts turn inward as he tries to process the action.

➳ “I… I do not understand,” he says softly, his usual composure wavering just a little. There’s a brief flicker of vulnerability in his eyes, though he quickly masks it with the usual calm, pragmatic exterior. He stands tall, trying to hold on to his usual sense of control, though the sensation of being tethered to you, a human he barely knows, feels strange.

➳ However, seeing the earnestness in your eyes—the warmth, the hope, the connection—slowly changes his perspective. His lips twitch upward, not quite a smile but the closest he will come for now. There’s something in your gesture, something unspoken, that makes his guarded heart soften. “Strange, but… not entirely unwelcome.” His voice, though still guarded, betrays a hint of reluctant affection.

➳ He will stand by your side, perhaps a little stiff, but in the silence between you both, the handcuffs would serve as an unspoken bond, a symbol of trust—strange, yet meaningful. Haldir might not yet fully understand the gesture, but for the first time in a long while, he feels a small, unexpected pull toward you, tethered not just by metal but by something deeper, something more human.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦ ꕤ ၄၃ ꕤ ✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

You Burning their tongue on food even though they just said, “This is too hot.”

➳ Haldir’s sharp eyes are trained on you as you take a bite of the food, knowing full well that it is too hot, yet watching you do so with an almost fascinated intensity. He had warned you, the heat was obvious even to him—yet you insisted. As soon as you burn your tongue, a flash of concern flickers in Haldir’s usually composed gaze. His mind races for the proper course of action. Should he offer aid? Should he speak? But before he can act, he watches you flinch and hear the muffled exclamation of discomfort, clearly regretting your choice.

➳ His natural instinct is to respond immediately, stepping forward, but the elf within him, ever so poised and composed, hesitates. He stands still for a heartbeat, his gaze flicking down to your face, registering your discomfort. His stoic demeanor cracks for just a second, a faint line of concern forming between his brows. His tone, always measured and calm, carries a touch of disapproval, though it’s not harsh. “I told you it was too hot, meleth nín,” he says softly, his voice tinged with both reprimand and care. There’s a quiet gentleness behind the sternness, a reflection of how deeply he cares.

➳ He moves swiftly then, his Elven grace ensuring he doesn’t come off as rushed, but his eyes remain focused on you with an intensity that betrays his concern. “Here,” he says, his voice shifting into a soothing tone as he offers you a drink, likely something cool to help ease the burn. His actions are deliberate, his usual reserve slipping slightly as he ensures you’re taken care of, though his brow remains furrowed, still mildly frustrated at your stubbornness.

➳ The whole scene would be an odd mix of sternness and affection. He’s not used to such impetuousness—Elves are so controlled in their ways, and the impulsiveness of humans confounds him. Yet, there’s an undeniable softness in the way he checks on you, despite the small reproach.

➳ He would likely shake his head, an amused yet bemused look crossing his face as he waits for you to recover. “Next time, heed my words, Y/N. I would not want to see you hurt.” His tone is quiet, earnest, but there’s also the faintest trace of a smile hidden beneath his careful expression. Haldir may be overly cautious, but it’s all driven by a deep desire to protect and care for those he holds dear.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦ ꕤ ၄၃ ꕤ ✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

You Laughing so hard you start hiccupping or snorting as if some sort of animal (pig) or dying animal).

➳ Haldir stands in silence, his eyes narrowing slightly as he watches you laugh. Your laughter, initially light and joyful, grows louder and more erratic until it erupts into hiccupping and snorting—a sound completely foreign to him. His normally composed and serious demeanor falters, his sharp Elven features momentarily betraying a flicker of surprise. His gaze flicks to your face, a mix of confusion and slight discomfort flashing across his expression.

➳ The snorts, in particular, catch him off guard. What manner of sound is this? He thought humans were graceful, full of poise, but in this moment, your laughter seems almost… animalistic. He takes a step back, almost instinctively, as if unsure of how to react. Was this normal for you? The thought lingers, and his mind races, trying to reconcile this display with the orderly, composed nature of Elves.

➳ Yet, despite his initial shock, a deeper part of him can’t help but find the sight… endearing. There’s something raw and genuine in your laughter, a vulnerability in the way you are so unguarded. It stirs something unfamiliar within him—a softness, a flicker of affection that he doesn’t often allow himself to acknowledge. His lips twitch slightly, struggling to maintain his usual stern composure.

➳ “You…” he begins, his voice strained, but he trails off, unsure how to address the unexpected nature of your outburst. His serious aura falters, though he does not fully crack into a smile. “You are… quite loud when you find something amusing,” he says, his tone attempting to remain dignified but betraying an edge of bemusement.

➳ Still, Haldir cannot suppress the quiet chuckle that slips past his lips, much to his own surprise. The sound is brief, and he quickly schools his expression back to seriousness, as if to pretend it never happened. But beneath the veneer of discipline, there is a flicker of warmth—a rare glimpse of the Haldir who is capable of finding humor in the most unexpected places.

➳ “You are… certainly unique, Y/N,” he adds softly, his words carrying a mixture of intrigue and affection. There is a certain fondness in his eyes as he watches you continue, though his demeanor is still largely reserved, wary of letting his emotions fully surface. He finds this human trait of yours perplexing, but also… oddly charming.

➳ “Try not to disturb the peace of Lothlórien with such sounds,” he teases lightly, though his tone remains gentle, the edges of his usual stoicism softened by the affection he feels for you in this moment.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦ ꕤ ၄၃ ꕤ ✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

You Forgetting why you walked into a room.

➳ Haldir watches you enter the room with purpose, only to stand still for a moment, a look of confusion spreading across your face. His keen Elven eyes observe as you glance around, your expression betraying the realization that you’ve forgotten why you came in. There’s a fleeting pause, and he feels a flicker of concern—then, a slight shift in his posture as he silently assesses the situation.

➳ You pause, almost lost in thought, and he cannot help but feel a slight pang of curiosity. What has distracted you so thoroughly, Y/N? His mind races briefly, his sense of duty making him wonder if you are unwell or if something has happened to cause this lapse in memory. His gaze softens, though he keeps his distance, watching you as though trying to decipher the cause.

➳ There’s a quiet, almost imperceptible sigh from him, but it’s not one of frustration. Rather, it’s a sigh of understanding mixed with the faintest hint of amusement. Haldir, who has lived for millennia, has seen and experienced the meticulous planning of Elven minds, the careful attention to detail, and the control of Elven lives. But this? This is uniquely human—a fleeting moment of forgetfulness that is, perhaps, a reflection of your imperfection, your beautiful unpredictability.

➳ He steps forward with slow, deliberate grace, his voice carrying a quiet warmth as he addresses you. “Is everything well, meleth nín?” he asks, his tone calm but with an undercurrent of genuine concern. He doesn’t push, but he offers you the chance to gather your thoughts, his expression softening with an empathy that only someone as observant as him would offer.

➳ There’s a momentary silence before he adds with a subtle smile, “If it is of any help, I often find that the mind is not quite as sharp when one is distracted by matters of the heart.” His comment is gentle, offering both an explanation and a way for you to laugh off the slip. Haldir’s stoic nature remains, but there’s an unmistakable glint of affection in his eyes. He’s not mocking you, not at all. He’s merely acknowledging the small, human imperfections that make you who you are—precisely the qualities that draw him closer.

➳ He doesn’t ask for explanations or dwell on the forgetfulness. Instead, he merely waits, his quiet presence offering a comforting reassurance. If you don’t remember why you walked into the room, it’s of little importance to him. His thoughts are focused on you, not the trivialities of such human quirks. “Perhaps it will come to you in time,” he says, his tone thoughtful. “Or we may simply walk out and start anew, as Elves are wont to do with most things.”

➳ With that, he offers you a kind smile, his usual sternness softened, and gives you a moment to gather your bearings. He doesn’t press further. Instead, he offers his arm or a steady presence, eager to ensure that the moment doesn’t feel embarrassing for you. His love for you, grounded in his devotion to Lothlórien, allows him to view these small, human slips not with judgment but with affection.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦ ꕤ ၄၃ ꕤ ✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

You Flipping the pillow to the “cool side” before settling in.

➳ Haldir watches, silently observing as you reach over to flip your pillow to the “cool side” before settling in. His gaze lingers on you for a moment, an eyebrow subtly arching in quiet curiosity. In Lothlórien, the rhythms of nature and the stillness of the forest are far more predictable than the small, human quirks that you exhibit. Elves, who have long learned to sleep soundly under the gentle embrace of starlight, never felt the need to worry about the warmth of their pillows. But here you are, flipping the pillow with a small, decisive motion, as if performing some ancient ritual.

➳ Haldir remains still, but his mind is already processing the moment. Why would one flip the pillow? he wonders, though he doesn’t ask. He doesn’t need to. His gaze softens, intrigued by the simple, human need for comfort. He is not unfamiliar with the concept of rest, but he cannot recall ever experiencing such an impulse himself. Elves, after all, are known for their grace and ease, even in sleep. But you, you are different—a creature of fleeting moments and small habits that make you uniquely human.

➳ It’s a strange thing for him to observe: this small, almost childlike act of adjusting the pillow for comfort, a simple gesture of vulnerability that seems so out of place in the ever-stern, ever-vigilant world of the Elves. Yet, there’s something endearing in it. He feels a strange sense of warmth tug at his chest, a flicker of affection for your little quirks, the small moments that make you feel more… human.

➳ When you settle in and lie down, Haldir glances at you, his lips twitching, almost as if he’s trying to suppress the curiosity and affection that suddenly floods him. He’s seen warriors prepare for battle, skilled in every aspect of combat, yet here you are, preparing for rest in such a human, innocent way. It’s humbling in a way. You’re not bound by tradition, not enslaved to the rigid order of his people. You are free toexperience the world in ways that make you you.

➳ “I… did not know that one could adjust the pillow like this,” he says quietly, almost to himself. He doesn’t mock you; instead, there’s a quiet, contemplative tone to his voice, as if he’s genuinely trying to understand. There’s a brief pause before Haldir adds, with the faintest smile tugging at his lips, “In Lothlórien, we find our peace in the embrace of the trees. But I suppose the cool side of a pillow might do as well.”

➳ His words carry no judgment, only a curious understanding of how something so simple could mean so much to you. He watches you for a long moment, feeling an unexpected tenderness that only deepens with each passing second. The night seems quieter now, the distance between his Elven ways and your human ones feeling just a little less vast.

➳ If you catch his eye, you’ll see that there’s a glint of amusement—an acknowledgment that he’s starting to see how your small, human habits are endearing, a reflection of the simple joys you find in life. For him, it is a new lesson in understanding the beauty of imperfection. And just for a moment, Haldir allows himself to lean back, to let the gentle tranquility of the moment wash over him, accepting that not all things are to be understood or controlled. Some things, like flipping a pillow, are just meant to be experienced.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦ ꕤ ၄၃ ꕤ ✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

🌊 𝓬í𝓻𝓭𝓪𝓷

Cirdan, would react to the human quirks

Friendship bracelets

𓇼 Círdan would pause for a moment, his ancient eyes gleaming with a mixture of amusement and mild surprise as he looked down at the handcuffs now linking him to you. Elves, with their preference for elegance and freedom, would rarely consider such practical, yet confining, gestures. A gentle smile would tug at the corners of his lips, his voice warm and kind, though tinged with amusement.

𓇼 “Ah, I see you’ve found a new way to bind us together,” he might say softly, his gaze meeting yours with a mix of affection and a hint of playfulness. The thought of being physically restrained, even in such a mild manner, was something far from the Elven way, yet Círdan would not scold you. Instead, he would appreciate the sentiment, understanding it as a sign of your bond.

𓇼 “You’ve chosen a curious form of closeness,” he would continue, his tone light but sincere. “But perhaps next time, a less…metallic approach might suit us better.” There would be no judgment, only the calm, patient wisdom of one who had seen many ages pass, and who knew that human gestures, however odd by Elven standards, were often full of heart. Círdan would likely gently tug at the cuff, raising an eyebrow, before offering a small laugh, letting the moment pass without further comment.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦ ꕤ ၄၃ ꕤ ✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

You Burning their tongue on food even though they just said, “This is too hot.”

𓇼 Círdan would watch with a patient, knowing look as you burned your tongue on the food despite his warning. Having lived through countless ages, he’d seen such simple mistakes many times, yet still, there would be a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. His voice, though warm and gentle, would carry a hint of quiet humor.

𓇼 “I did try to warn you, my friend,” he might say with a soft chuckle, his tone not mocking but more of a fond acknowledgment of your human nature. Elves, with their heightened senses and careful precision, could never make such a mistake, but Círdan understood that humans often had a different approach to things—one that embraced the moment, perhaps without fully considering the consequences.

𓇼 He would likely offer you a soft, understanding smile, a hand reaching for a nearby cool drink or cloth to help soothe your discomfort. “The heat can be fierce to the unprepared,” he would murmur, his voice soothing, the wisdom of the ages in his words. “But you learn quickly, don’t you?” His demeanor would remain calm, his concern for you evident, but never in a way that felt overbearing. He knew that in moments like these, a gentle word and quiet support were all that was needed.

𓇼 Círdan would not be frustrated or annoyed; instead, he would find joy in your innocence, in the way humans experience life in ways Elves no longer could. The bond between you, however small the mistake, would only deepen.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦ ꕤ ၄၃ ꕤ ✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

You Laughing so hard you start hiccupping or snorting as if some sort of animal (pig) or dying animal).

𓇼 Círdan would watch you with an amused yet serene expression, his ancient eyes softening with affection as your laughter erupts into uncontrollable hiccups and snorts. Elves, so often graceful and composed, rarely let their mirth take such an unruly form, yet Círdan’s patience and understanding would make him savor this moment. He would recognize in your laughter the genuine joy and innocence of humanity, a trait that, despite its occasional awkwardness, he found utterly endearing.

𓇼 “Ah, I did not expect such a display,” he would say with a quiet chuckle, the faintest twinkle in his wise eyes. His voice would be calm and warm, not mocking, but filled with a kind appreciation for the simple, human way you expressed yourself. “It is a rare thing indeed, to see such… vivid merriment among us.”

𓇼 Círdan might pause, his gaze soft as he took in the moment. He would allow your laughter to wash over him, undisturbed by any sense of judgment or discomfort. To him, your laughter—hiccupping and snorting as it was—was a reminder of the liveliness that humans brought to the world, something Elves, despite their long lives and wisdom, could not fully replicate.

𓇼 He would likely smile and offer a gentle hand to steady you, his voice carrying a quiet amusement as he said, “No need to be embarrassed. In fact, I think I prefer this. It is… refreshing.” With a rare, deep chuckle, he would allow the moment to pass, enjoying the lightness you brought into his ancient world, a world often marked by gravitas.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦ ꕤ ၄၃ ꕤ ✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

You Forgetting why you walked into a room.

𓇼 Círdan would observe with a soft, understanding smile as you stand there, momentarily lost in thought, a slight frown tugging at your brow as you try to recall the purpose for entering the room. In his long years, he had seen countless instances of forgetfulness, but he would never be impatient with it, particularly in humans, whose minds, unlike those of Elves, often flitted from one thing to another with such ease.

𓇼 “Ah, a fleeting thought,” he might say gently, his voice rich with calm wisdom. He would never find such moments frustrating; instead, he would appreciate how human minds sometimes wander, unable to grasp hold of every fleeting thought. His gaze would soften, and his smile would remain kind. “You are not alone in this. Even the sharpest minds falter at times.”

𓇼 Círdan would likely take a step closer, his presence steady and reassuring. He would not rush you or offer forced answers but would simply allow the moment to settle, trusting that your thoughts would soon return to you. “Sometimes, it is the small distractions that pull us from our tasks,” he would add, his tone not condescending, but understanding. “And perhaps, it is not so important after all.”

𓇼 His eyes would gleam with quiet amusement, and he might offer a comforting gesture—placing a hand lightly on your shoulder or offering a knowing smile. For him, moments like these were reminders of the beauty in human nature imperfect, but full of wonder. And Círdan, ever wise and patient, would let you take your time, knowing the answers would come when the time was right.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦ ꕤ ၄၃ ꕤ ✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

You Flipping the pillow to the “cool side” before settling in.

𓇼 Círdan would watch you with quiet amusement as you flipped the pillow to the “cool side” before settling in. Though Elves, with their long lives and heightened senses, did not often concern themselves with such mundane comforts, Círdan would understand that such simple acts were part of the human experience. In his many years of watching the world, he had come to appreciate the small ways in which humans sought comfort and solace, often in ways that Elves had long since moved beyond.

𓇼 A soft smile would appear on his face as he observed you, perhaps with a slight tilt of his head. His voice would be gentle, laced with a warm curiosity: “Ah, a small ritual of comfort, I see.” There would be no judgment in his tone, only an understanding that your way of seeking peace in the world was different from his own. Elves did not need to flip their pillows; they had an ageless tranquility, a stillness that came with their nature. But Círdan would respect your small act, seeing it as a sign of your connection to the physical world, something that the long-lived Elves, with their more ethereal existence, could not fully grasp.

𓇼 He might chuckle softly, though it would be a laugh of warmth, not mockery. “I suppose I am too accustomed to eternal calm to know such fleeting discomforts. But it is… a simple joy.” There would be an affectionate tone in his voice, a recognition of the human need for such small comforts, and how they anchored you to the world in a way that the Elves, with their distance from mortality, often did not need.

𓇼 With that, Círdan would settle beside you, his presence quiet but reassuring. There was no need for grand words or gestures. The quiet understanding between you both was enough. And in that moment, he would realize that the little human habits—like flipping the pillow—were just another way your lives intertwined.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦ ꕤ ၄၃ ꕤ ✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

🔥𝓐𝓭𝓪𝓻

Adar, would react to the human quirks

Friendship bracelets

☬ Adar’s expression softens briefly as he looks at the handcuffs, his sharp, calculating eyes assessing the situation. For a moment, he remains silent, his usual cold demeanor flickering with confusion. His fingers brush lightly over the metal cuffs, feeling their weight, but there’s no sign of amusement or warmth. Instead, a deep, calculating thought crosses his mind.

☬ “You think… this is a gesture of closeness?” His voice is low, measured, tinged with a hint of skepticism. The thought of being tethered to someone else, even in a seemingly innocent gesture, doesn’t sit well with him. Despite his occasional tenderness toward the Orcs, he’s not accustomed to bonds that he can’t control. His eyes narrow as he considers how best to respond, his hand instinctively tightening on the cuff, pulling slightly.

☬ “It’s a chain,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. “A reminder of where we all belong.” His words carry an undercurrent of bitterness, as though the cuffs represent a deeper truth about power and control—something he knows all too well.

☬ He doesn’t yank at the cuffs, but there’s an unspoken weight in his stance, his mind already shifting to how to turn this unspoken connection to his advantage. It’s clear that, despite the apparent softness in your gesture, Adar’s mind always operates with a darker, strategic intent.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦ ꕤ ၄၃ ꕤ ✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

You Burning their tongue on food even though they just said, “This is too hot.”

☬ Adar watches you, his sharp gaze never leaving you as you burn your tongue on the food. His eyes flicker with a mix of irritation and something darker, an unreadable emotion that flashes briefly before he masks it again. When you wince in pain, he doesn’t immediately offer comfort, his mind calculating the moment like a strategist sizing up the consequences of every action.

☬ He sighs, a low, almost imperceptible sound, as if you’ve broken some unspoken rule, but there’s a bitter edge to it. “Did I not warn you?” he asks coldly, his voice carrying an unmistakable tone of frustration. He leans forward slightly, his dark, intense eyes studying you for any sign of weakness or regret.

☬ “Foolishness,” he mutters, shaking his head. Despite the apparent reprimand, there’s a strange sense of detachment in his words—like a father disappointed in his child’s disobedience, but unable to fully express the concern buried beneath his stern demeanor. “You could have avoided it, yet you chose to ignore the warning.”

☬ He watches you struggle with the pain, a hint of something softer flashing across his face. It’s not pity, but a rare, fleeting concern for you as someone he is reluctantly tethered to. His hand twitches slightly, almost as if to reach out, but it stops short, the chains of his own emotions pulling him back.

☬ “If you’re going to endure, at least do so with some sense,” he adds, his voice quieter, though still sharp with the remnants of command. “I won’t have you hurt yourself because of ignorance. Next time, listen to the warning.” There’s an edge of finality in his words, but also something darker—a reminder that even small actions have consequences, and with him, the lesson might be more painful than expected.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦ ꕤ ၄၃ ꕤ ✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

You Laughing so hard you start hiccupping or snorting as if some sort of animal (pig) or dying animal).

☬ Adar watches you closely, his sharp, calculating gaze fixed on you as you laugh uncontrollably, hiccupping and snorting in a way that echoes through the air. At first, he remains still, eyes narrowing slightly as the strange, unrefined sounds fill the space between you. His expression remains unreadable, but there’s a flicker of something—discomfort or maybe even irritation—beneath his composed exterior.

☬ He stands motionless for a moment, his mind dissecting the situation. “Is this supposed to amuse me?” he asks, his voice low and laced with a hint of disdain. It’s not the kind of laughter that he’s accustomed to, certainly not the kind he can control or twist to his advantage. The sound of your snorting, your unrestrained display, grates against the cold, calculated environment that Adar has so carefully built around himself.

☬ A muscle in his jaw tightens, and his lips curl slightly in distaste. “I never took you for… this,” he mutters, his eyes flicking to the side in something between surprise and irritation. For a brief moment, he considers whether to simply walk away, but instead, he stays, watching you as you continue.

☬ “Enough,” he commands sharply, voice cutting through the air with cold authority. “Cease this… display.” His words aren’t accompanied by any warmth, only a deep, almost contemptuous need for order. To him, such unrefined behavior is beneath him, something chaotic that doesn’t belong in his calculated world.

☬ He watches you, but there’s something beneath his harsh exterior—an unusual flicker of curiosity. He doesn’t understand your outburst, doesn’t know what makes you laugh like this. It’s a vulnerability he’s not used to seeing in others. There’s a brief moment of silence before he speaks again, his tone softened just slightly, though it’s still sharp. “You must learn control, just as I have. Or your foolishness will undo you.”

☬ But his gaze lingers a fraction too long. The strange vulnerability in your behavior leaves a slight, nearly imperceptible shift in his demeanor, a reminder that even someone like him can be caught off guard by the unexpected.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦ ꕤ ၄၃ ꕤ ✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

You Forgetting why you walked into a room.

☬ Adar watches you as you stand there, clearly distracted, your mind seemingly adrift. He observes the moment with an unreadable expression, his dark eyes narrowing slightly as you fumble with the empty space around you, trying to recall why you walked into the room. A brief flicker of something—amusement, perhaps, or mild irritation—passes across his face, though it’s quickly masked by the cold detachment he so often wears.

☬ “Do you… find your mind wandering often?” His voice is low, but the edge of his tone is unmistakable, as though he expects more from you than simple forgetfulness. There’s a sharpness to the question, like he’s probing for weakness, testing how much control you truly have over your own thoughts and actions.

☬ He doesn’t move, instead choosing to stand with arms crossed, an imposing figure in the doorway. “You forget, and yet you stand here, unable to recall what you came for,” he observes, his voice laced with a mix of disappointment and quiet condescension. “Such disorganization would not be tolerated in my presence. Focus. Purpose. It is how the strong survive.”

☬ He takes a slow step forward, his gaze never leaving you, as if assessing whether this lapse in memory is a sign of deeper vulnerability or just a passing moment. “Perhaps this is a failure of your will,” he muses, his tone now colder, with a touch of disdain. “You should train yourself to be sharper, more disciplined.”

☬ For a moment, he remains silent, studying you with the intensity of someone who is used to being in complete control. There’s no warmth in his words, only the weight of his expectations. “Remember why you came here,” he commands, his voice firm. “And if you cannot, then I suggest you leave this place. Your mind is a tool. It should not be left to falter.”

☬ As he speaks, there’s a flicker of something more profound in his eyes, a brief understanding of the frustration that accompanies losing focus, though it’s quickly swallowed by his usual icy demeanor. Yet, in that small moment, there’s a rare glimmer of the complexity within Adar—a leader who, despite his harshness, understands the fine balance of control, even over one’s own mind.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦ ꕤ ၄၃ ꕤ ✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

You Flipping the pillow to the “cool side” before settling in.

☬ Adar watches you with an intensity that never seems to waver, even in the most mundane moments. As you flip the pillow to the “cool side” before settling in, he stands still for a moment, observing the small, almost subconscious action with a certain level of curiosity. His eyes narrow slightly, analyzing the way you handle the simplest of tasks, his mind already making note of your behavior.

☬ For a brief second, there’s an odd flicker of something in his gaze—almost as if he’s trying to understand why such an action, so trivial in his mind, seems to bring you a sense of comfort. He has no such need for warmth or coolness in his rest, his body long having adapted to conditions harsher than the soft comforts of a pillow. To him, rest is something far more utilitarian, a necessary pause in the midst of his endless plans and leadership.

☬ “You are… particular,” he mutters, his tone almost disdainful but tinged with a hint of bemusement. The subtlety of your behavior doesn’t escape his notice, and he finds it… strange. To him, the act of sleep is an impersonal thing—something to be endured rather than enjoyed.

☬ His lips curl into a barely perceptible frown. “Comfort,” he continues, his voice softer now but still cutting through the air, “is a weakness. It makes you soft, distracted.” His words hang in the air, heavy with the same cold authority he commands. “In the world I know, comfort is fleeting, and even the smallest indulgences can lead to your downfall.”

☬ He doesn’t move to intervene, but his gaze lingers, almost studying you as if he’s waiting for something. As if this small act of self-care might tell him something deeper about you. Despite his harsh words, there’s a quiet complexity in his eyes—a mix of distant understanding and the distant remnants of his lost Elven nature, a memory of the small comforts that once meant something to him.

☬ “You may rest,” he says, his voice quiet, but with an undercurrent of something like… permission. It’s a strange thing for him to offer, yet, it comes naturally, almost instinctively. There’s no sense of kindness in it, but there’s something almost compassionate, as if he understands the need for small, personal rituals. “But know this,” he adds, his voice hardening once again, “comfort will not protect you from the harsh truths that lie ahead.” And with that, he turns away, leaving you to your rest, though his presence still looms in the space, heavy and ever-watchful, as though guarding you even in your most vulnerable state.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦ ꕤ ၄၃ ꕤ ✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

🏵️𝓖𝓲𝓵-𝓰𝓪𝓵𝓪𝓭

The golden light of Lindon’s afternoon sun filtered through the open archways of Gil-galad’s private chamber, casting long shadows across the marble floor. The sea breeze carried the scent of salt and pine, and the faint rustle of leaves outside added to the quiet serenity of the space.

Gil-galad sat with his usual poise, his back straight, one hand resting lightly on the intricately carved armrest of his chair. Across from him, you were far less composed. Your leg stretched outward, taking up a rather excessive amount of space as you leaned back with an air of relaxed ease.

His keen silver eyes flickered to your posture—unbothered, yet entirely aware. His lips pressed together in a manner that suggested amusement rather than disapproval. A slow blink. A deliberate glance at the space you occupied. Then, a single raised brow.

“You seem quite at home,” he remarked, his voice smooth, carrying a quiet authority laced with something dangerously close to amusement. He did not reprimand you—he never did. He merely watched, as if measuring something unspoken between you.

You didn’t move, emboldened by the lack of outright censure. “I am quite at home,” you replied, stretching just a little further, a deliberate challenge. A silence followed—one that might have been intimidating if it weren’t for the telltale gleam of mischief in his eyes. And then, with the grace only a High King could possess, he mirrored you.

Effortless. Poised. Intentional. One leg extended, his form shifting ever so slightly into the very position you had taken. The sight was almost absurd—Gil-galad, the dignified and composed ruler of the Noldor, perfectly mimicking your stance with an air of undeniable elegance.

Yet, there was an unmistakable edge to it, a quiet checkmate in the game you had just started. His expression remained composed, but there was no mistaking the humor beneath the surface. “It seems,” he mused, voice softer now, dipping into something dangerously smooth, “that I, too, am quite at home.” The challenge was clear: your move.

💍𝓒𝓮𝓵𝓮𝓫𝓻𝓲𝓶𝓫𝓸𝓻

The warm glow of the forge flickered against the stone walls, casting long shadows that danced across the polished floor. The scent of molten metal and aged parchment filled the air as Celebrimbor, nose buried in an intricate blueprint, barely glanced up when you settled into the chair across from him.

Then, he noticed. His quill hovered mid-air, a thin drop of ink trembling at its tip. His keen Elven eyes flickered from your face to the way you sat—sprawled out with undeniable confidence, legs spread, utterly at ease in his presence. It was casual, effortless, perhaps even unconscious, but to him? It was something else entirely.

A sharp inhale. A slight twitch of his fingers. He swallowed, realizing only now that his grip on the quill had tightened enough to leave an indent on the parchment. He was a craftsman, a smith who had forged wonders beyond mortal comprehension, and yet, at this moment, his mind could not shape a single coherent thought.

His lips parted slightly, as if to say something—perhaps a reprimand, perhaps a question—but no words came. Instead, his gaze flickered away, darting to a safer place: the curve of your wrist, the glint of your belt buckle, the polished surface of the table. Composure. He needed composure.

With a quiet breath, he adjusted his posture, suddenly aware of how stiffly he sat. His own legs, always carefully placed together in an almost regal manner, shifted slightly—just enough to mimic your stance, though he would never admit to the influence. His fingers drummed against the parchment before he finally spoke, voice carefully neutral.

“… Is that comfortable?” A pause. Then, softer, almost contemplative “It suits you.” His eyes met yours again, lingering for a heartbeat longer than necessary before he swiftly turned back to his work, though the slight flush at the tips of his ears betrayed him.

🌊 𝓬í𝓻𝓭𝓪𝓷

You sit across from Círdan in a quiet chamber overlooking the sea. The air is filled with the scent of salt and aged wood, and the sound of distant waves lulls the space into a solemn stillness. The ancient Elf sits with his usual grace—straight-backed, his hands resting lightly upon the arms of his chair. His silver beard, rare among his kind, catches the dim light like woven starlight.

You, on the other hand, are… well, comfortable. Perhaps a little too comfortable. Legs sprawled wide, taking up more space than strictly necessary, you lounge in the seat as if the weight of ages does not sit upon your shoulders. There is an ease in your posture—casual, perhaps even a little careless.

Círdan does not react immediately. He simply watches, his sea-grey eyes calm, unreadable, but undeniably aware. He is in no rush to speak, nor does he fill the silence with unnecessary words. The room itself seems to hold its breath, waiting.

Then, at last, he exhales softly and tilts his head just so, regarding you with the patience of one who has seen empires rise and fall. His voice, when it comes, is deep and steady—like the tide rolling in.

“I see,” he muses, his tone carrying neither scorn nor amusement, only observation. “You are comfortable here.” A pause. A single, deliberate glance at your seating arrangement. “Perhaps more than is customary.”

He does not command. He does not need to. His presence alone is enough to shift the air in the room, to remind you—gently, yet unmistakably—that you are in the company of someone whose authority does not need to be asserted to be felt.

And so, without thinking, you adjust. Not out of fear, nor out of embarrassment, but because there is something in Círdan that invites a quiet kind of reverence. The kind that asks not with words, but with being.

📜 𝓔𝓵𝓻𝓸𝓷𝓭

Elrond might react to the reader/you swooping in to save them from a perilous situation like being captured by orcs.

The ancient woods of Eregion were silent, the kind of silence that came when predators were near. The golden light of dusk bled through the canopy, staining the forest floor in hues of amber and crimson. The wind barely stirred, as if the trees themselves held their breath. Somewhere within this tranquil facade, chaos brewed. Elrond Half-elven had been captured. The orcs had struck swiftly and without mercy, ambushing him and his small party as they returned from a reconnaissance mission. His guards had fought valiantly but were quickly overwhelmed. Now, bound and bloodied, Elrond knelt in a rough clearing, surrounded by the jeers of his captors. His silver-threaded tunic was torn, his dark hair matted with dirt and blood. Yet, even in this moment of vulnerability, his eyes shone like steel—cold, calculating, and unyielding.

The orcs had made a mistake. They had underestimated him. But even Elrond, for all his cunning, could not see a clear path to freedom. His hands were tightly bound behind him, the ropes cutting into his skin, a reminder of his helplessness. His weapons were gone, and though his mind raced with strategies, every scenario ended the same: with his blood soaking the earth. His pride and experience told him to fight, but in the quiet dark of the clearing, with the weight of captivity pressing down on him, Elrond knew he was out of options. For a fleeting moment, something close to frustration stirred within him—but he quickly pushed it aside. Anger wouldn’t free him, nor would it serve him here. He needed to think, needed to wait, but time was a luxury he no longer had.

The orcs were already bickering over their prize. One particularly large brute brandished a jagged blade and snarled something in their guttural tongue. Elrond didn’t flinch. He met the orc’s gaze with cold detachment, refusing to grant them the satisfaction of his fear. He had seen this before—death in various forms, and in many guises. If this was to be his end, he would meet it with dignity. But even as he steeled himself, he could feel the weight of his impending fate, the very real possibility of this moment being his last. And then, a sound—a faint rustle in the underbrush. The orcs didn’t notice, too consumed by their squabble, but Elrond’s keen ears caught it. His sharp gaze flickered toward the shadows at the edge of the clearing, where the fading light painted shifting patterns on the forest floor. For a moment, his mind raced. Was it a stray animal? A larger threat? No. The movement was too deliberate, too precise, to be mere chance.

A slight shift in the air, a tension, drew his attention fully. He felt a strange spark of hope—a quick, unfamiliar surge, like a breath after being submerged too long. And then, his senses sharpened, pulling his attention entirely to the darkness beyond. Something—or someone—was coming. Someone was there. Someone you. You had tracked the orcs for hours, following the trail of broken branches and spilled blood. When you’d come upon the scene—Elrond bound and surrounded—you hadn’t hesitated. There wasn’t time to formulate a grand plan or to consider the consequences. All that mattered was saving him.

From the shadows, you moved with practiced stealth, each step as quiet as the fall of a leaf. Your hand tightened around the hilt of your blade as you assessed the situation. The orcs were many—more than you’d expected—but their focus on Elrond gave you the element of surprise. It would have to be enough. Your attack was swift. The first orc didn’t even have time to scream before your blade slid across its throat. The second fell just as quickly, your dagger finding its mark in the gap between its armor. By the time the others realized what was happening, you were already upon them, a whirlwind of steel and determination.

Elrond’s head snapped up at the commotion, his sharp gaze locking onto your form as you cut through his captors like a storm. Surprise flashed across his face, quickly replaced by something else—something akin to awe. You moved with a grace that rivaled even the elves, your every strike precise, your every motion purposeful. The orcs snarled and lunged at you, but you were relentless. The clearing erupted into chaos as you danced between them, your blade gleaming in the fading light. One by one, the orcs fell, their cries echoing through the trees. Still, more kept coming, their brute strength and numbers threatening to overwhelm you.

Elrond, though bound and weaponless, wasn’t idle. He twisted his wrists against the ropes, his sharp mind analyzing every detail of the fight. When one orc charged toward you from behind, he shouted, “Behind you!” His voice, commanding even in captivity, gave you just enough warning to sidestep the attack and deliver a killing blow. Finally, the last orc fell, its body hitting the ground with a heavy thud. The clearing was eerily quiet once more, the air thick with the stench of blood. You turned to Elrond, your chest heaving as you hurried to his side.

“Are you hurt?” you asked, your voice breathless but steady. “Nothing that won’t heal,” he replied, his tone calm despite the ordeal. His eyes, however, betrayed the storm of emotions roiling beneath his composed exterior—relief, gratitude, and perhaps a touch of disbelief. You knelt behind him, cutting through the ropes with quick, efficient movements. As the bindings fell away, Elrond flexed his hands, wincing slightly at the raw skin beneath. He rose to his feet with the grace of one who had endured far worse, his imposing presence undiminished by his injuries. “You should not have come for me,” he said, his voice low but firm. “It was reckless.”

“Perhaps,” you admitted, meeting his gaze without flinching. “But I wasn’t about to leave you to them.” For a moment, Elrond said nothing, his piercing gray eyes searching yours. Then, slowly, the corners of his lips curved into the faintest of smiles. “Foolish,” he murmured, almost to himself. “But brave.” Together, you moved through the forest, leaving the carnage behind. Elrond insisted he was fine, though you couldn’t help but notice the way he favored one leg as he walked. When you offered to slow down, he waved you off with a faint smirk. “I am not as fragile as I look.” As night fell, the two of you stopped to rest in a small, sheltered glade. Elrond sat with his back against a tree, his eyes fixed on the stars above. You sat beside him, the silence between you comfortable but charged with unspoken words. Finally, Elrond broke the silence. “You saved my life,” he said, his voice soft. “I do not say this lightly, but I am in your debt.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” you replied. “I did what anyone would do.” “No,” he said, turning to face you fully. “Not anyone. Few would risk their lives for another, let alone against such odds. You have my gratitude—and my respect.” There was a sincerity in his tone that left no room for doubt. For all his wisdom and strength, Elrond was not one to offer his trust easily. Yet, in this moment, he looked at you not as a subordinate or even a savior, but as an equal. As the night deepened and the stars shone brighter, you realized that this moment—shared in the aftermath of danger—was the beginning of something far greater than either of you could have anticipated.

🏵️𝓖𝓲𝓵-𝓰𝓪𝓵𝓪𝓭

Gil-Galad might react to the reader/you swooping in to save them from a perilous situation like being captured by orcs.

The night air was cold, and the sky overhead was shrouded in a blanket of clouds. The dark, twisted trees of Middle-earth seemed to close in, casting ominous shadows across the forest floor. In the heart of the woods, Gil-galad, the High King of the Noldor, stood tall—his regal bearing unshaken, even in the face of danger. The faintest shimmer of starlight glanced off his golden armor as he and his companions prepared for an ambush. His keen silver grey eyes scanned the surroundings, always vigilant, always prepared for what came next. But even the most vigilant of Elven kings could be caught off guard. The attack was swift. Orcs, crawling from the dark crevices of the forest, came at them like a tide. The clash of metal on metal rang out as Gil-galad led his warriors with strength and precision, a beacon of light in the chaos. His movements were fluid, his strikes calculated, but even he was not immune to the overwhelming number of attackers.

In the midst of the fray, one of the Orcs, taller and stronger than the others, launched itself at Gil-galad with terrifying speed. It knocked the King off balance, sending him crashing to the forest floor with a heavy thud. His sword fell from his hand, skidding away into the underbrush. For a fleeting moment, Gil-galad’s breath was knocked from his lungs, his vision blurred from the sudden impact. The sting of the fall reached deep into his ribs, and the sharpness of the pain reminded him that even a King was not invincible. The Orcs closed in, snarling, their eyes gleaming with malice. He could feel his heartbeat pounding in his ears, his pulse quickening as he struggled to regain his bearings. Gil-galad’s gaze sharpened despite the fog of disorientation, his mind already calculating his next move. He rolled to the side, narrowly avoiding a blade aimed at his heart. He reached for his sword, but it was too far away. There was a fleeting moment, a brief weakness—something unfamiliar—that passed through him. A flash of helplessness that he rarely allowed himself to feel. It was swiftly buried beneath layers of command and duty, but it lingered just a little longer than he would have liked. Just as the Orcs began to close in, something unexpected happened.

A rush of movement swept through the trees. In a blink, you appeared—your form silhouetted by the faint moonlight that filtered through the canopy above. Without hesitation, you leapt into the fray, your blade flashing like a streak of lightning in the darkness. The battle paused for a brief second as Gil-galad, still on the ground, turned his head in your direction. His heart skipped a beat—not from fear or shock, but from an overwhelming sense of awe. With swift precision, you cut through the nearest Orc, your movements an elegant dance of strength and agility. The creatures fell back, surprised by the sudden turn of events, their snarls turning to fearful hisses. But it wasn’t the Orcs that held Gil-galad’s attention. It was you. Your movements were effortless, your focus unwavering. You cut through their ranks, protecting the King as though you were born for this very moment. Gil-galad’s thoughts raced. He knew his warriors were skilled, but there was something about you—something about the way you moved, the way you fought with such certainty and grace—that left him speechless. A profound sense of gratitude and admiration swelled in his chest.

His breath was still ragged from the fall, but he forced himself to push off the ground, his hand gripping the earth for support. His eyes locked on yours as you cleared the final Orcs with a grace that could only come from an elf with purpose. The moment you turned toward him, your gaze filled with concern, his lips parted to speak, but no words came. For the first time in many long years, the weight of the battle felt distant compared to the relief that flooded him at your presence. He could feel the adrenaline still coursing through his veins, but it was tempered by an undeniable surge of gratitude. You had been there when he faltered—when the weight of the crown, the history of his people, and the perils of the battle had threatened to pull him down. You stepped toward him, your voice calm and steady as you spoke. “Are you injured, my king?” Gil-galad, still shaken but steadying himself, nodded. “I am unharmed, thanks to you.” His voice was low, but the words carried a sincerity that he could not conceal. There was no formality in his words, no regal distance between you. Only an unspoken appreciation. He would have never admitted it aloud, but in that fleeting moment, he felt an unfamiliar vulnerability, one he did not know how to shield himself from.

You bent down to help him, extending your hand. He took it, and as you helped him rise to his feet, a look of quiet admiration crossed his face. For a moment, he simply stood there, his gaze softening as he took in the full depth of your actions. A flicker of something more stirred within him—a warmth he hadn’t felt in ages. But it was the steadiness of your touch, the way you stood by him without hesitation, that left him in awe. The king, ever the leader, found his heart racing not with the weight of his title, but with something far simpler: a respect, perhaps something even deeper, for the one who had stood by him in the face of danger. “You have my deepest gratitude,” he said, his tone rich with meaning. “Without your intervention, I may not have made it out of this alive.” There was a weight in his words—an acknowledgement that, in this chaotic world of shifting alliances and countless battles, your presence had changed everything. He had long borne the weight of his kingdom, the responsibility of leadership, but tonight, that burden had been eased by you.

His eyes searched yours, and for a moment, the world around them faded. The sounds of battle, the crashing of blades, the cries of the fallen—all of it melted away as Gil-galad’s gaze softened. “Your bravery… it does not go unnoticed,” he added, his voice low and earnest. “I will not forget this.” As you stood by him, your hands still holding his, he felt the weight of the moment settle between you both. The connection was undeniable. He had seen countless lives lost in the wars of Middle-earth, witnessed the rise and fall of kingdoms, but in this fleeting moment, he felt something he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in a long time—trust. Perhaps, even something more. The night was still, the threat of the Orcs momentarily forgotten, as the two of you shared a brief but significant moment. It was then that Gil-galad realized the depths of your loyalty—not just as a warrior, but as someone who had saved him not for glory, but for the simple love of what was right. And as he returned to the fight, standing side by side with you, the King’s heart swelled with something he hadn’t expected—hope.

🌊 𝓬í𝓻𝓭𝓪𝓷

Círdan might react to the reader/you swooping in to save them from a perilous situation like being captured by orcs.

The salt-laden air of the Grey Havens stung the skin as the distant waves crashed relentlessly against the shore, their rhythm a cruel backdrop to the chaos unfolding on the docks. The normally serene harbor had become a battlefield, its once tranquil shores stained with the blood of the brave and the wicked alike. Orcs had struck swiftly, their guttural cries mingling with the clang of steel and the roar of flames licking the sky. A boat had been set ablaze, its wreckage casting an eerie glow on the water as smoke swirled into the darkening sky. Círdan, his silver hair flowing behind him like a banner, stood as an unyielding sentinel amidst the chaos. His movements were fluid, a dance of deadly elegance as he cut down the attackers one by one. Despite the ferocity of his strikes, his age was beginning to show. His breath, though steady, came with more effort now, and his movements were slower, less sharp than they had once been. The weight of centuries rested on his shoulders, and though his resolve was unbroken, fatigue crept into his limbs.

The orcs were relentless, and soon he was surrounded. A heavy cleaver struck his sword with a resounding clash, forcing him back against the stone wall of the harbor. The ground beneath his feet was slick, and for a brief moment, Círdan felt the full weight of age and weariness. His heart pounded in his chest, but still he raised his sword, determined to protect his people, to fend off the dark tide. Then, the sound—a rustle in the trees above, so faint it could have been mistaken for the wind. But not to Círdan. His sharp eyes flickered toward the movement, his heart quickening with hope. He knew what it meant. You were here. You had been tracking the orc band for days, following their trail with patience and precision. But when you had seen the smoke rising from the docks, when you had realized that the mighty Shipwright himself was in peril, there was no hesitation. You burst from the shadows, a whirlwind of action and determination. Your blade was already in your hand as you descended from the ridge above the harbor, landing with the grace of a predator.

The first orc never knew what hit it. You moved like lightning, your strike clean and efficient, the orc’s blood spilling across the stones before it even had time to scream. The second orc fared no better, falling at your feet with a single, well-placed blow. Círdan’s blue eyes widened in surprise at the sight of you, the flicker of disbelief in his gaze quickly replaced by something far deeper—recognition, relief, and perhaps even a touch of awe. You had come for him, risking everything to pull him from the jaws of death. “Stay behind me!” you shouted as you moved toward him, your voice firm and unyielding amidst the chaos of battle. For a moment, Círdan hesitated. He had always been the protector, the one to stand between others and danger. But as he saw you cut through the orcs with such deadly precision, the decision was made for him. He gritted his teeth, his sword rising once more to meet the next foe. Together, you formed an unstoppable force, a seamless unity that struck terror into the hearts of the orcs.

The battle raged on, but your combined strength was a force of nature. At one point, a brutish orc captain, wielding a massive axe, charged at you. Círdan saw it coming before you did. Without hesitation, he stepped into the line of fire, his sword parrying the deadly blow that would have otherwise struck you down. The force of the strike rattled him, but his gaze remained as steady as the sea. “You risk much for an old shipwright,” he said, his voice calm even in the midst of the battle. “I’m not leaving you here!” you replied fiercely, spinning to meet another attacker. “Not after all you’ve done for Middle-earth.” For a fleeting moment, Círdan’s expression softened, and his eyes lingered on you with a new respect. Few understood the sacrifices he had made over the centuries, the countless battles fought in the shadows, the weight of leadership that bore down on him. But you—here you were, putting everything on the line for him. And somehow, it stirred something deep within him.

With renewed purpose, you fought side by side, driving the orcs back, step by step, until their resolve shattered. The last of the attackers fell with a guttural cry, their bodies littering the stones of the harbor like discarded refuse. The once-bloody battlefield fell silent. The air was thick with the scent of salt and blood, but the clamor of battle had ceased. Only the gentle lap of the waves against the shore and the distant cries of gulls broke the stillness. Círdan stood beside you, his breath coming in measured, steady bursts. He was still strong, but the toll of the fight had left its mark on him. His cheek was bloodied, a thin cut running across his face, but his posture was unyielding. He looked at you with gratitude and something deeper—an understanding that had not existed between you before.

“You have my thanks,” he said quietly, his voice steady but filled with unspoken emotion. His blue eyes held yours, and for the first time in your presence, he spoke not as a leader, but as a fellow soul who had witnessed your bravery firsthand. “Few would have risked their lives for me. Fewer still would have succeeded.” You nodded, feeling the weight of his words. “You’ve spent centuries helping others, Círdan. It’s about time someone returned the favor.” A small, genuine smile tugged at the corners of his lips, rare and fleeting but filled with warmth. “Then I am fortunate it was you,” he said, his voice low but sincere. As the first light of dawn crept over the horizon, casting a soft glow over the harbor, you and Círdan stood side by side, looking out over the water. The battle had been long and fierce, but the bond forged between you in the heat of conflict was even stronger. There was no need for words now. The understanding between you was clear.

Círdan placed a hand on your shoulder, his grip gentle but strong—a silent gesture of respect. “You have the heart of a mariner,” he said softly, his voice carrying the cadence of the sea. “Fearless, steadfast, and loyal. I will not forget this.” And as the light of the new day broke over the Grey Havens, you knew that, in your heart, you had not only saved a life—you had earned the trust and respect of one of Middle-earth’s greatest figures.

💍𝓒𝓮𝓵𝓮𝓫𝓻𝓲𝓶𝓫𝓸𝓻

The day had been long, and the workshop was dimming as the light from the setting sun cast a golden hue over the forge. The soft clinking of tools and the scent of freshly worked metals filled the air. Celebrimbor, lost in his work, was completely absorbed in the intricate patterns of a ring he was carefully crafting. His mind was sharp, as always, focusing intently on the task before him, the hum of the forge a steady backdrop to his thoughts. But even the most focused of Elves couldn’t escape the distraction of you. You were just there, standing beside him, watching with a curious glint in your eye. With a playful smile, you leaned closer, just enough to make him shift his attention ever so slightly. He couldn’t help but feel your presence, though he tried to keep his eyes on the delicate metalwork. It had become a game between the two of you—one you played to perfection. And today, you were in the mood to test him.

Without warning, your fingers brushed against his ear—just the lightest of touches at first, a whisper of sensation that had Celebrimbor’s posture stiffen. His pointed ears twitched in response, a subtle hint of discomfort that would only be noticed by someone as attuned to his nature as you were. His eyes flickered toward you, and you caught that fleeting moment of hesitation, a slight narrowing of his gaze. “What are you doing?” Celebrimbor asked, his voice betraying an edge of wariness, though his gaze never left his work. His sharp hearing had caught the barely audible shift of your breathing, the almost imperceptible anticipation in your movements. You grinned, not answering immediately, and instead, your fingers traced along the edge of his ear, deliberately slow. You saw his jaw tighten as if he was doing everything in his power not to react. But the more you toyed with him, the more the soft flush of pink began to show along the pale tips of his ears.

The heat of his body and the tension in his posture only heightened as you pinched the delicate tip of his ear, just hard enough for him to feel the sharp sting. It was a playful move, but one that signaled your intent clearly. You wanted his attention, and you knew just how to get it. Celebrimbor flinched visibly, his hand instinctively going to his ear, but you caught his wrist before he could pull away. “You’re distracting me,” he murmured, though the strain in his voice was unmistakable. The elf lord’s pride made him hesitant to acknowledge that you were, in fact, getting the better of him. But you weren’t satisfied with just that. No, you needed more, and with a gleam in your eyes, you gave his ear another firm pinch, this time holding the sensitive flesh between your fingers for a moment longer, just to watch him squirm. When he finally looked up from his work, his eyes narrowing in silent accusation, you offered him a sweet, almost innocent smile. But it didn’t fool him—he could tell exactly what you were doing. “You seem rather… distracted,” you teased, your voice light and mischievous. “Can’t focus, can you, Celebrimbor?”

His breath caught in his throat. The shift in his demeanor was subtle, but it was there: the little involuntary twitch of his ear, the way his hands faltered in their work, the slight flush of color across his usually composed face. He had no doubt that you were enjoying this, and while a part of him knew that he should resist, another part—the part that admired your daring spirit—couldn’t help but relent. You weren’t done yet, though. With a devilish gleam in your eye, you leaned forward, brushing the tips of your fingers lightly against his ear once again, this time lingering longer. “I think you’ve been avoiding me, Celebrimbor,” you purred, almost too sweetly. “Too much time spent on your work, don’t you think?”

The elf lord’s breath hitched. His sensitive ears were a point of pride, an aspect of his Elven heritage that had always been carefully guarded. To have them toyed with so… brazenly, by none other than you, was a peculiar blend of discomfort and arousal that he couldn’t shake. He shot you a look—a mix of playfulness and genuine frustration—but your mischievous grin only deepened. “You have to stop this,” he muttered, his voice tinged with both warning and something else—something that could only be described as an invitation. The power dynamics in this little game were shifting. You knew just how to push him to the brink of his patience, how far to take it before he would finally give in.

But you weren’t finished yet. Not by a long shot. Reaching up, you dared to gently nibble at the tip of his ear, just enough to make him flinch harder than before, his face flushing a deeper shade of crimson. His breath grew ragged, and you knew the battle was nearly won. Celebrimbor’s sharp hearing couldn’t have missed the sound of your breathing, the soft teasing laugh you gave. He was on edge now, every nerve heightened by the playful torment you were inflicting upon him. “Do you really want me to stop?” you asked, your voice low, almost seductive, as your fingers continued their delicate assault. You were enjoying every moment, watching him unravel before you, and the way he fought to maintain his composure was absolutely delicious. Finally, after a strained silence, Celebrimbor spoke, his voice no longer filled with the stern authority that usually accompanied him. “If you keep this up,” he began, his words drawn out in a low, almost hesitant tone, “I’ll never finish this ring.”

You leaned closer, your lips brushing against the curve of his ear, teasing him once more. “You’ll finish it,” you purred, “when I say so.” For a moment, Celebrimbor stood frozen, his eyes darting between you and his work. He was caught—torn between his sense of duty and the overwhelming pull of your mischief. But as he gazed at you, that deep flicker of emotion—something tender yet frustrated, longing yet resistant—flashed in his eyes. You’d won. And he was enjoying it more than he cared to admit. With a sigh, he finally let go of his tension. “You’re impossible,” he muttered, his voice laced with both irritation and reluctant affection. But even in his exasperation, the corners of his mouth twitched upward. You could tell he was finally accepting defeat… at least for the moment. And as you continued to tease and torment him with the gentle pressure of your fingertips on his sensitive ears, Celebrimbor knew that this playful battle between you would never truly end. And honestly, he couldn’t say he was entirely displeased by it.

🌊 𝓬í𝓻𝓭𝓪𝓷

Círdan stood near the edge of the Grey Havens, overseeing the work of his shipyard. The early light of dawn painted the horizon in soft hues, and the air smelled of the sea, of salt and wood, of a world that had known centuries of life. His hands, though calloused from years of craftsmanship, worked with a gentle touch, guiding the wood of the great ships, the only remaining ties to the lost lands of the Elves. But his focus, which was usually unwavering, had been interrupted by a familiar, annoying presence. You, the one who never seemed to tire of pushing his buttons, had found a way to slip under his radar once more. With quiet footsteps that hardly seemed to register in his sharp ears, you crept closer, a grin tugging at the corners of your mouth. Your mischievousness was always apparent, even before you did something bold or brash, and it always kept him on edge.

You walked behind him, just close enough to feel the warmth of his presence, but far enough to remain unseen. His hands continued their delicate work, and Círdan thought for a moment that perhaps you were content to watch—until you shifted your focus. Without warning, your fingers reached out to lightly pinch one of his elven ears. The reaction was immediate. His body stiffened, though his eyes remained trained on the wood, unwilling to give you the satisfaction of seeing him react. Elven ears, especially his, were sensitive to the touch—more so than any mortal could ever understand. The sensation of your fingers against his skin was both a pleasurable and dangerous feeling, a line between teasing and something far more intimate.

But Círdan was no stranger to this. He had endured centuries of attention from others, but your presence, your unpredictability, made him tense in a way that few others ever could. It wasn’t enough to just pinch his ear once, though. You, always the brat, did it again, this time more forcefully, and Círdan’s eyes flicked toward you, narrowing slightly, but his lips remained a thin line, betraying little of his true thoughts. “I see you’re in a particularly playful mood today,” Círdan said, his voice calm, betraying none of the frustration that was building in him. He turned his head slightly to face you, though his gaze remained focused elsewhere, careful not to let you see just how much your touch had affected him. His ears still burned from the pinches.

“Maybe I’m just bored,” you replied, your voice dripping with playful defiance. “You never pay attention to me when I’m quiet, so I figured I’d try something else.” With a wicked glint in your eyes, you reached up once more, your fingers brushing against the delicate, sensitive curve of his ear. Círdan exhaled sharply. His brows furrowed ever so slightly, the only sign of his discomfort. His ears were a point of pride, a feature so sensitive that not even the gentlest touch could be ignored. And yet, you seemed to delight in tormenting him with it, knowing full well what you were doing. He could hear every breath you took, every slight shift of your body. Elven hearing was impeccable, and he knew exactly what you were up to.

“You’re persistent,” he muttered, his voice still smooth, but there was a hint of steel behind his words now. He could no longer pretend to be unaffected. His gaze turned toward you fully, and for a moment, his usually calm demeanor cracked. His expression became one of restrained intensity. You smirked at his reaction, watching the subtle twitch of his ear as you pressed your advantage. His composure was beginning to crack under your constant teasing, and it brought you a strange sense of satisfaction. “You know,” you said, your voice playful yet laced with mischief, “I thought you elves were supposed to be graceful and composed. But you… you’re getting all flustered over a simple pinch.”

Círdan’s patience was legendary. He had endured the loss of his kin, watched countless ages pass, and yet the impish persistence of one mischievous Elf was proving to be more troublesome than any of the trials he had faced in his long life. But this was no ordinary annoyance. This was you—his constant companion in chaos, his unwitting tormentor. You didn’t mean harm, but you reveled in testing his boundaries. The moment you reached up again, Círdan’s hand darted out, capturing your wrist gently but firmly. His fingers wrapped around your arm, the warmth of his touch a stark contrast to your playful intent. He didn’t move to push you away or scold you, but the silent command in his grip was enough. “You’ve been warned,” Círdan’s voice was low, almost a growl, though his eyes still held a glint of amusement. “Elves are not toys, nor are their ears for your amusement.” His tone had shifted—there was no anger, but a quiet authority, as if he were asserting his control over the situation. But you, of course, were not one to back down easily. You leaned in slightly, your breath warm against his ear, your voice a soft whisper. “Then maybe you should stop being so tempting,” you teased, your fingers once more hovering near his ear, threatening to pinch once again.

Círdan closed his eyes for a brief moment, his long experience giving him the patience to suppress the feelings stirring inside him. But when you pinched his ear once more, he couldn’t hold back any longer. He let out a soft sigh, a sound so faint it was almost imperceptible, but it was enough for you to hear. It was a combination of frustration, amusement, and something else. Slowly, almost methodically, he brought his hand up and cupped your cheek, forcing you to meet his gaze. There was no hint of rage or resentment, only the quiet, commanding presence of one who had seen and done much in his long life. “You seem to believe this is a game,” he said, his voice still soft but filled with authority. “But remember, I’m not easily moved by games of the young.” Yet his touch, his gaze, suggested otherwise. The air between you crackled with unspoken understanding, the tension between playfulness and something far more intimate. You grinned, the challenge in your eyes unmistakable.

“Well then, maybe it’s time to play a little harder.” The nerve. He had long been a master of restraint, and yet something about this persistent, bratty behavior of yours dug under his skin. Círdan, the shipwright, the mariner who had sailed the seas for centuries, found himself undone by the smallest of actions—a pinch, a caress, the deliberate torture of his sensitive ears. His patience was legendary, and his authority unquestionable. Yet, in moments like this, his control over himself was tested in ways he hadn’t anticipated. And it irritated him to no end. You had a way of making even the simplest tasks unbearable, teasing him until he lost track of time and composure. But Círdan knew this was a game, one where both of you were aware of the stakes. He wasn’t as much a victim as he appeared, nor was he a passive participant. He knew exactly how you played—how you poked at him, how you pushed his buttons. And yet, he couldn’t help but wonder, What would it take for you to stop? Perhaps a firmer hand, a quiet warning, or perhaps—just maybe—he might give in.

🔥𝓐𝓭𝓪𝓻

The night air was still, heavy with the scent of pine and damp earth. Adar stood tall, vigilant in the shadows, his sharp eyes scanning the forest’s edge. His senses were finely tuned, always alert to any danger. But there was a different kind of tension in the air tonight, one that wasn’t caused by any threats lurking in the woods. You, as always, had found your way into his orbit. You were closer than you should have been, too close to his side as he tried to concentrate. He could feel the brush of your presence, your energy, and though he was a master of control, there was something you did — something about your playful teasing — that made even Adar, the ever-dignified Elf, falter. He had barely heard you approach, but there you were. You were behind him now, just out of sight, and with a sly, mischievous smile playing on your lips, you reached up to pinch the delicate tip of his ear.

Adar’s entire body stiffened, a shudder rippling through him as the sharp, sensitive sensation hit. His breath caught in his throat for a brief moment before he took a long, controlled inhale, trying to keep his composure. “What are you doing?” he asked, his voice low and composed, though it betrayed a flicker of irritation. You didn’t answer immediately. Instead, you waited for a heartbeat, enjoying the way his posture seemed to stiffen even more. You’d learned long ago how much this one weakness of his — his ear — could break through his usual unshakable calm. Without warning, you pinched it again. Harder this time. Just enough to make his body react. The noise that escaped him was subtle, a slight gasp, but it was there — and it only made you more determined. You could feel the weight of his gaze on you now. He hadn’t turned yet, but his silence was as telling as any words.

“You really don’t know when to stop, do you?” Adar’s voice had an edge to it now, though it was still smooth. Still controlled. But you could tell that he was struggling to maintain it, and that knowledge made the playful glint in your eyes shine brighter. You moved in closer, stepping around him until you were directly in his line of sight. His sharp gaze flicked to yours, and in that moment, you saw something you always wanted — a hint of frustration and curiosity mixed together. His usually calm demeanor was slipping. “You don’t mind, do you?” you teased, your voice like a melody, playful and sweet, as your fingers brushed along his ear once more.

Adar’s lips pressed together in a tight line, and his eyes narrowed slightly. He was trying not to let you get the better of him, but it was difficult. He could feel the pulse of something hot and impatient building within him, something he rarely gave into. But you? You were relentless. “Stop,” he said again, his voice firmer now. “This is… dangerous.” You gave him a smile that could only be described as wicked. “Is it? I don’t think so. I think you just don’t want to admit that you like it.” You knew you had him now. The small flicker of vulnerability in his eyes was enough for you to press your advantage. Slowly, you slid your fingers to the edge of his ear again, feeling the slight pulse of heat under the soft skin. His breath hitched, just barely, and the tension in his body became more palpable, his usually steady hand twitching ever so slightly at his side.

“I know you can hear everything, Adar,” you whispered, leaning just close enough for him to feel your breath against his ear. “Every soft sound, every little touch. And I know you can hear the way your heart races when I do this.” You traced your fingers along the curve of his ear, deliberately moving in slow circles, your touch soft, teasing, a challenge to his composure. You could feel the way he reacted, the subtle tremor in his body that betrayed him despite his attempts at control. His breathing was becoming shallow. His eyes, though sharp, were now focused on you, filled with a complex mix of frustration and desire — though he would never admit that aloud. “You think this is a game?” His voice was colder now, his command over his emotions slipping. He was trying to fight it, trying to keep his usual distance, but the way your touch was playing over his ear was becoming impossible to ignore.

You pressed further, not willing to relent. “I don’t think. I know.” Adar took a slow, measured breath, as though trying to regain his focus, but you weren’t giving him a chance. Another pinch to the ear, sharper this time, and his whole body seemed to jerk in response. His lips parted in a barely audible hiss, his eyes momentarily closing as he fought to hold onto his dignity. But you knew the truth. The truth was that this game of yours had always been about more than just teasing. You were pushing him to a point — a point where his resistance would no longer hold. And with every movement, every pinch, you could feel the cracks forming in his control.

“Do you want me to stop?” You asked again, your voice low, just as sweet and innocent as before, as if you were giving him a choice. You knew, though, that he couldn’t say no to you. Not now. Adar was silent for a moment, his gaze intense. For a fleeting second, you wondered if he would just walk away. But then his eyes softened, just the slightest bit, and you knew you had won. “Why do you do this?” he murmured, his voice strained, the battle within him between restraint and temptation becoming apparent. You smirked, moving closer until you were almost pressed against him. “Because you can’t resist me, Adar. You’re just as intrigued as I am by what’s happening between us.” His eyes flicked down to your lips for a brief moment, and then back up to your eyes. There was a flicker of something deeper now — something more than frustration. Something that almost bordered on admiration, if you were bold enough to admit it.

Finally, with a deep breath, Adar’s hand lifted from his sword, and he reached for you, his fingers brushing your cheek in an unexpected gesture of… control? Or was it surrender? You couldn’t be sure. But when his hand rested on your neck, pulling you just the slightest bit closer, you knew this game was far from over. “Do it again,” he whispered, his voice a mixture of command and the faintest hint of pleading. You raised an eyebrow, delight curling on your lips. “You’re sure?” He nodded, the weight of his gaze leaving no room for hesitation. “I’m sure.” And with that, you leaned in, your fingers once again tracing the contours of his ear, ready to push both of you further into the game you’d started — a game where power, play, and the unspoken connection between you both would rule every move. Adar, for all his strength, had finally surrendered to you — the bratty, teasing force that knew how to claim his attention the hard way.

👑𝓖𝓲𝓵-𝓰𝓪𝓵𝓪𝓭

🜲 The throne room of Lindon, a place of quiet majesty and solemnity, would come to a screeching halt as the unmistakable sound of your audacious slap echoed off the high, vaulted ceilings. All movement ceased. Courtiers, advisors, warriors—everyone froze mid-breath, their eyes widening in unison. Gil-galad, renowned for his calm demeanor and unshakeable poise, stood utterly still for a heartbeat that seemed to stretch for centuries.

🜲 Slowly, his head turned, his piercing grey eyes locking onto yours. His expression was the very picture of measured restraint: a slight raise of the brow, the faintest twitch of his lips as if fighting back an incredulous smile, and the telltale tightening of his jaw betraying his effort to maintain decorum. The silence grew heavier by the second, until finally, he spoke, his voice calm yet laced with an unmistakable edge of authority

🜲 “Mellon… I see you are feeling particularly brave today.” His tone was light, but there was an undercurrent of amused exasperation. As murmurs of suppressed laughter rippled through the room, Gil-galad raised a single hand, silencing the gathering with ease. “You are dismissed,” he commanded, his voice calm yet brooking no argument. The room cleared in record time, though not without a few daring elves sneaking curious glances back at their king.

🜲 Once alone, the weight of his royal composure softened. He took a single, measured step toward you, his regal stature towering but not menacing. A smirk now played at the corners of his mouth, though his tone remained deliberately even. “‘Dummy thick,’ was it? I must admit, I’ve been called many things in my time, but this… This is new.”

🜲 His eyes gleamed with restrained laughter as he leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “Tell me, Mellon, do you often seek to test my legendary composure? Or is this simply your way of declaring undying affection?”

🜲 Despite his composed exterior, there was a rare warmth in his gaze, a flicker of genuine amusement and curiosity. Gil-galad was not easily ruffled, and while your audacious act may have startled him, it also delighted him in a way he’d never admit to anyone but you.

🜲 Finally, he stepped back, clasping his hands behind his back in a show of regal control. “You are fortunate that I am quite fond of you, or I might have to remind you of the importance of decorum. But be warned, my moonlight—if you insist on testing my patience again, I may have to respond in kind. And I assure you,” his smirk widened, “my reprisal will be far more creative.”

🜲 Later, when the court had long since forgotten the incident, you’d catch him staring at you with a twinkle in his eye, muttering something under his breath about audacious mortals and their baffling courage. And though he’d never admit it, a small part of him couldn’t help but be impressed by your nerve. After all, it wasn’t every day someone dared to treat the High King of the Noldor with such… familiarity.

🌊 𝓬í𝓻𝓭𝓪𝓷

𓇼 Círdan, the Shipwright of unparalleled wisdom and quiet authority, would respond to your audacious act with a remarkable blend of composure and restrained emotion. The Grey Havens, bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun, was filled with the gentle murmur of waves and the soft bustle of Elves tending to ships. Amid this tranquil scene, your hand landed firmly on Círdan’s backside, followed by the unmistakable words, “Dummy thick.”

𓇼 A profound silence swept across the gathered Elves. Tools were dropped. Conversations faltered. Even the seagulls seemed to pause mid-flight. Círdan himself stood utterly still, his weathered yet noble face remaining calm, though the faintest quirk of an eyebrow betrayed his surprise. Slowly, he turned to look at you, his deep, sea-gray eyes filled with a mixture of disbelief, patient reproach, and perhaps the faintest flicker of amusement.

𓇼 “Dummy thick,” he repeated, his voice quiet yet impossibly firm, as though testing the phrase on his tongue. He regarded you with the gravitas of one who had witnessed ages of folly and bravery alike. “You have chosen a peculiar way to express yourself.”

𓇼 The surrounding Elves, knowing Círdan’s temper was as deep and still as the ocean, seemed torn between horror and barely concealed mirth. One or two may have quickly excused themselves to avoid being caught laughing, while others simply looked on in stunned silence. After a long pause, Círdan sighed softly and dismissed the onlookers with a calm but authoritative wave of his hand. “Leave us,” he said. His voice carried no anger, only a quiet insistence that brooked no refusal.

𓇼 Once the two of you were alone, he crossed his arms and regarded you with a bemused expression, the faintest twitch of his lips suggesting that he was, against all reason, suppressing a smile. “Your boldness is… unparalleled,” he said, his tone as smooth and measured as the tides. “But I would advise against such actions in public. While I may find it within myself to forgive, I cannot say the same for my dignity—or the composure of my kin.”

𓇼 He took a step closer, his ancient, commanding presence both comforting and intimidating. “Now,” he said, voice low and touched with subtle warmth, “tell me truly. What possessed you to do such a thing?” The corner of his mouth curved upward, ever so slightly, as he awaited your answer—a rare and fleeting glimpse of the humor hidden within the wise and gentle mariner.

𓇼 Círdan would never be truly angry. His wisdom and patience far exceeded the momentary shock, but he would ensure you understood the weight of your audacity. Later, as he stood at the prow of his latest ship, gazing into the horizon, he might allow himself a quiet chuckle at the memory, though he would never admit it aloud.

🏹𝓗𝓪𝓵𝓭𝓲𝓻

➳ The Marchwarden of Lothlórien is a paragon of discipline, vigilance, and decorum. However, when your hand met his backside with a loud slap and you followed it up with, “Dummy thick,” in the presence of his comrades on patrol, every bit of his composure would be tested.

➳ His first reaction would be stillness. Absolute, rigid, unblinking stillness. The elves standing nearby, ever-observant and quick to react to disturbances, would also freeze in confusion, their sharp gazes darting between you and their esteemed leader.

➳ Haldir would slowly turn his head to look at you, his expression a tightly controlled mask that barely concealed the storm brewing beneath. His pale brows would furrow, and the tips of his ears might even turn slightly red—a rare crack in his otherwise stoic demeanor.

➳ “Mellon nín,” he would say in a tone low and measured, though anyone who knew him well would detect the faintest edge of exasperation, “I believe there are better ways to express your admiration… and perhaps a more appropriate setting.”

➳ Despite the calmness of his words, you’d notice his jaw clenching as he struggled to maintain his composure. Haldir is nothing if not dignified, and the sheer impropriety of your act would leave him inwardly flustered, though he’d refuse to show it. His brothers, Rúmil and Orophin, stationed nearby, would absolutely lose it. Their laughter would echo through the trees, breaking the awkward silence and further deepening Haldir’s embarrassment.

➳ Once the patrol resumed or the area cleared, Haldir would pull you aside into a more private corner of the forest. His sharp gaze would soften, though his expression would remain stern.

➳ “Do you understand what you’ve done?” he’d ask, his tone a mixture of reprimand and reluctant amusement. “Not only did you compromise my dignity, but you have now given Rúmil endless fodder for his teasing.” He’d sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose before stepping closer to you. Despite his initial frustration, Haldir could never stay truly angry with you. The corners of his lips might even quirk up slightly as he added, “Dummy thick, hm? I did not realize you had such… unique descriptions in Westron. I shall assume this is a compliment?”

➳ Afterward, he’d likely adopt a more teasing demeanor when the two of you were alone. Though his public persona is dignified and serious, Haldir is not without a sense of humor. He’d use this incident to his advantage, dropping subtle, dry remarks like, “Shall I ensure my armor is properly fitted to avoid further distractions?”

➳ Brother of haldir, Rúmil and Orophin Absolutely delighted. They’d never let Haldir live this down and would bring it up in the most inconvenient moments. The Other Guards Torn between shock and stifled laughter. No one dares to comment outright, but you’d catch the occasional sidelong glance and suppressed smirk. Galadriel (if she hears of it): An amused, knowing smile. “Haldir, it seems your patrols have become… eventful.” Celeborn Mildly perplexed but ultimately nonchalant. “At least they seem to enjoy one another’s company.”

🌊 𝓬í𝓻𝓭𝓪𝓷

Stranger:

𓇼 Círdan, being one of the most ancient and wise elves of Middle-earth, would initially be slightly bemused by the openness of human affection. To him, gestures such as holding hands or a quick kiss on the cheek might feel overly casual and unfamiliar. He might gently step back, his brow furrowing slightly as he processes the gesture, though he would not show irritation. Instead, his reaction would be more of thoughtful contemplation. Círdan understands that human culture values connection and affection in a different way than elves do, and his keen foresight might make him curious about the meaning behind these displays.

𓇼 While Círdan may not reciprocate immediately, he would not reject the gesture outright. His age and wisdom make him patient and understanding. If the human’s actions are accompanied by respect, his response would be measured but warm, perhaps a small bow or a formal touch on the shoulder. He might even offer a smile to ease any awkwardness.

𓇼 Internal thought: Such actions are not of my kind, yet I see the comfort they bring. How strange, but… they are earnest. Public action: A formal, gentle touch on the shoulder, or a respectful nod, his expression thoughtful but slightly distant.

Friend:

𓇼 With a trusted friend, Círdan’s reaction becomes more warm, though he remains composed. He is no longer a stranger to human affection and can appreciate it in a deeper, more personal way, especially as you have earned his trust. If you were to place a hand on his arm or offer a quick touch when parting, he might show a glimmer of affection in return, perhaps placing his hand briefly on your shoulder or wrist.

𓇼 He would not embrace the physicality of human affection in public, but in private moments, he might be more open to softer displays of warmth. He might wonder how the bonds of friendship among humans can be so freely expressed. While he doesn’t fully understand the need for such touch, he might even begin to appreciate it, as he learns from you about the depth of human connections.

𓇼 Internal thought: There is something… comforting about this touch. I find it curious, though not unwelcome.Public action: A brief, respectful touch—perhaps a hand on the back or shoulder as you walk side by side, acknowledging the friendship without overwhelming the space between you.

Lover:

𓇼 Círdan’s transformation when dealing with a lover is where the warmth of human affection fully touches him, though it takes time. He is a man of great patience and wisdom, and when he finally opens his heart to you, his demeanor softens. In private, he becomes more relaxed, allowing himself to be drawn into your warmth.

𓇼 Círdan is tender in his affections—small, meaningful gestures that reflect the depth of his feelings. When you are together, he might hold your hand without hesitation, or offer a gentle kiss to your forehead. His touch is steady and reassuring, and you can feel the unspoken care in every moment spent near him.

𓇼 One endearing, more playful aspect of Círdan’s affection is his enjoyment of having you touch his beard. As an elf who has lived for millennia, he’s quite accustomed to the dignity and grace of his long, silvery beard, but with you, he finds himself smiling softly when you take the time to braid or play with it. This small, intimate act allows him to feel cherished, and he genuinely enjoys the attention.

𓇼 Círdan might surprise you with moments of affectionate vulnerability, allowing you to play with his beard as if it were a form of connection. He finds solace in these small, quiet moments with you, and although he maintains a serene, composed exterior, he cannot hide the fondness in his eyes when you braid it or softly tug on the strands.

𓇼 Internal thought: Your hands… you bring a joy to me, not unlike the waves that crash against my ships. Your touch feels like home. Public action: A gentle kiss to your forehead or a lingering touch on your hand. In private, he might allow his beard to be braided or touched, smiling with fondness and patience as you play with it, making these quiet, tender moments all the more precious.

𓇼 Círdan’s Affection in Private: Círdan may be stoic and reserved in public, but in private, he shows his love in quiet, meaningful ways. His affection is deep and sincere, and the small, intimate gestures, such as you braiding his beard, hold great significance to him. He has lived for so long, and yet with you, he finds joy in the simplicity of human touch. As your lover, he is protective, patient, and kind, and his affection is all the more tender because it comes from a place of experience and wisdom. You are his anchor, and he shows that by allowing these small acts of tenderness that few others would see.

𓇼 Extra Touch (For a Cute Moment): When you braid his beard, Círdan may chuckle softly, his deep voice resonating with quiet amusement. His eyes would twinkle with fondness, and he’d probably murmur, “Be careful, my love, for even a shipwright’s beard is not immune to a sailor’s tangles.” It’s his way of letting his guard down just a little, in the most endearing and sweet way possible.

🌟Extra Bonus as círdan deserves the love🌟

Círdan Nervous Around You: 😳

𓇼 Círdan, as a shipwright and mariner who has spent millennia observing the world with keen foresight, is not accustomed to the vulnerability of romantic feelings. Though he is calm and composed in most situations, he finds himself uncharacteristically nervous around you. His usually steady hands might tremble just a little when you’re near, and there’s an odd warmth in his chest that he can’t quite explain, despite his wisdom and experience.

𓇼 He’s quick to notice your subtle gestures—how your eyes linger on him just a moment longer than usual, or how you smile when he’s near. He is no fool; he knows that you likely have a soft spot for him, and for the first time in his long life, Círdan is uncertain about how to act. His usual confidence wanes in your presence, replaced by a gentle, almost imperceptible nervousness.

𓇼 He tries to maintain his usual composure, but it’s clear that he is affected by you in ways he doesn’t quite understand. He may try to shift the conversation back to more neutral topics or focus on his work, but his mind often drifts back to you. Every small touch or glance feels like a spark, and when you smile at him, he feels both elated and overwhelmed. He doesn’t know how to express this new, deeper connection—he is an elf, after all, who has seen the rise and fall of ages, but this feeling is as new to him as it is to you.

𓇼 Internal thought: Why do your eyes make my heart race? I have walked through countless lifetimes, yet this… this is new. Public action: He might avoid direct eye contact, his hand lingering over his work longer than necessary, and he would unconsciously smile at you when you’re not looking. When he speaks to you, his voice might be just a bit softer, filled with warmth, as if his words carry an unspoken meaning.

𓆉 ⋆｡˚𓇼 ⋆｡˚𓆟 ⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖ 𓆉 ⋆｡˚𓇼 ⋆｡˚𓆟

Círdan’s Reaction to You Playing with His Hair: ⭐️

𓇼 As an elf who values personal space and restraint, Círdan is initially uncertain about how to react when you start playing with his hair. Elven culture holds the act of touching someone’s hair as intimate, and it is typically reserved for the deepest forms of connection or courtship. He may feel a sudden, gentle tug at his heart when you touch his long, silvery beard or run your fingers through his hair. He would likely freeze for a moment, unsure whether he should pull back or lean into the touch.

𓇼 The sensation of your fingers against his hair brings a warmth that he is not accustomed to. His ancient, composed self is momentarily swept away by the gentle intimacy of the moment. Despite his initial hesitation, Círdan might slowly relax, allowing you to continue, though his thoughts race. He is so used to being the one who takes care of others, the one in control of situations, but with you, the roles have subtly shifted.

𓇼 If you braid or gently tug at his hair, Círdan might look at you with soft, affectionate eyes, his lips curling into a tender smile. He finds himself enjoying the attention, his heart swelling with a feeling he hadn’t experienced in centuries. He’s touched, not just physically but emotionally, by your closeness and the quiet, intimate bond that is growing between you both.

𓇼 Internal thought: I have crafted many ships, sailed many seas… but nothing has ever felt as delicate as this moment. Your touch… it is like the wind, soft yet ever-present. Public action: He might lean in slightly, closing his eyes for a brief moment to savor the feeling, or he may reach up and gently touch your hand as it lingers in his hair, silently acknowledging your connection. His reaction would be calm, but there would be a sparkle in his eyes that betrays his growing fondness.

𓆉 ⋆｡˚𓇼 ⋆｡˚𓆟 ⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖ 𓆉 ⋆｡˚𓇼 ⋆｡˚𓆟

A Kiss and How Círdan Reacts: 💋

𓇼 When you finally lean in and kiss him—whether it’s a soft, tentative kiss on the cheek or a delicate press of lips to his—Círdan is momentarily frozen, his mind racing. He’s been aware of the tension between you both, but the realization that you feel the same way as he does takes him by surprise. He might feel his breath catch in his throat, and his heart beat just a little faster than usual, as if time itself has slowed for that brief moment.

𓇼 When the kiss ends, he would pull back slightly, his eyes searching yours, looking for any sign of hesitation. He is a creature of great patience, but he is also deeply sensitive to the emotions of those around him, and the weight of this simple gesture does not escape him.

𓇼 His reaction would be tender but quiet, perhaps brushing a stray lock of hair from your face, his fingers lingering on your skin for just a moment too long. His voice, though soft, would carry the weight of his emotions, his words almost like a whisper carried by the wind.

𓇼 Internal thought: How strange… to have lived for so long and yet, in this moment, feel as if I am a youth again, uncertain and full of wonder. Public action: A soft, lingering touch on your hand or a gentle press of his forehead to yours. He would not rush, but instead savor the moment, letting the warmth of your kiss settle into his being. A gentle, thoughtful smile would likely follow, his eyes searching yours for reassurance or to gauge your own feelings.

If you want anymore of any other elven characters like thranduil, Elrond, lindir, haldir, feren, meludir, Galion, elros, elladan, elrohir, Legolas, celeborn, erestor, glrofindel.

Let me know 💚🍃

🌊 𝓬í𝓻𝓭𝓪𝓷

The weight has been pressing down for so long that you’ve stopped noticing it—until now. Until it becomes unbearable. It starts as a twinge, a whisper of unease that coils around your ribs, tightening, squeezing. Then, all at once, it crashes into you. Your chest constricts, each breath shallow and ragged, as if the air has turned to molasses. The harder you try to inhale, the more your lungs rebel, rejecting the air like a foreign thing. Your heart hammers—too fast, too hard—each beat a violent drum against your ribs. It hurts. A dull, aching pressure, then a sharp pang as panic grips your body with an iron fist.

Your hands tremble. First a small, involuntary twitch, then full-blown shaking. You clench them into fists, nails digging into your palms deep enough to leave crescents in your skin, but it doesn’t stop. The tremors spread up your arms, seizing your shoulders, making them lock so tight they ache. You can’t move. You can’t control it.

The room warps. The edges blur, twisting and pulsing like a mirage, the colors too bright, too sharp. Every sound stretches and distorts, voices blending into a low, incomprehensible hum. Someone calls your name, but it’s distant, hollow. The words slip past you, unreachable. The only thing you hear clearly is the pounding in your skull, the rush of blood in your ears, and the uneven, gasping rhythm of your own breath.

You tell yourself to keep it together. You always do. Just breathe. Just push through. You try to count, to ground yourself, to grip onto something—anything—to anchor yourself. But your fingers won’t listen, won’t unclench, and your mind is spiraling, spinning out of reach. Then—something small. A tiny, insignificant failure. A missed deadline. An unanswered message. A single task forgotten in the avalanche of everything else. It shatters you.

The dam breaks, and suddenly, you are drowning in it. A sob claws its way up your throat, but it sticks, choking you. You lurch forward, body folding in on itself, arms wrapping around your middle in a desperate attempt to hold yourself together. But it doesn’t work. You’re unraveling, breaking apart in pieces too jagged to catch.

The walls press closer. The air thickens, suffocating. Your head spins, a dizzy, sickening sensation that makes your stomach clench. The floor tilts beneath you. You squeeze your eyes shut, but the darkness only makes it worse. You can’t move. You can’t think. You can’t breathe.

The panic is everything now, crashing over you in waves, sweeping you under. Your body is no longer yours, hijacked by something stronger, something relentless. Tears burn down your cheeks, but you don’t remember when they started falling. A sob wracks through you, your chest convulsing, but it only makes the air harder to find.

Somewhere, a voice cuts through the storm—a quiet, steady sound. A hand touches your shoulder. The contact is grounding, but it feels distant, like you’re floating just beyond your own skin. You try to hold onto it, to latch onto something real. But you are still lost, still gasping, still fighting against the invisible force that won’t let you go. And for a moment, you wonder if it ever will.

A voice—low, ancient, carrying the weight of centuries—cuts through the storm. Not sharply, not forcefully, but like the pull of the tide, steady and inevitable. “Y/N” A hand rests on your shoulder—light, warm, impossibly steady. It doesn’t jolt you or demand your attention, but its presence is undeniable, anchoring you when everything else feels like it’s slipping away. Círdan.

You don’t see him at first. The room is still warping, your vision still swimming, your body still locked in the iron grip of panic. But he is there. Unmoving. Unshaken. And somehow, you know he will not leave. The weight on your shoulder shifts, not pressing, just present. The gentle warmth of his touch seeps through the storm raging beneath your skin, quiet but firm against the tremors racking your frame. A silent reassurance.

“Breathe.” Not a command. Not an expectation. An offering. A reminder, as simple and constant as the waves against the shore. You try. The breath comes shallow, ragged, unsteady. Your chest still feels like it’s caving in. But Círdan does not rush you. He kneels beside you, moving with the slow grace of the tide, his presence vast but never overwhelming. His robes whisper softly against the floor as he settles in, as if he has all the time in the world to sit here with you. “The sea is never still,” he murmurs, voice as deep as the ocean, as soft as the wind over open waters. “Yet it does not fight the tide. Do not fight this, child. Let it pass through you.”

His words slip past the noise in your mind, threading through the panic with the patience of one who has seen ages pass. There is no urgency in his tone, no expectation that you must master yourself this instant. Only quiet understanding. Your hands are still clenched into fists, nails biting deep into your palms. He notices. Slowly, carefully, he reaches for one of them. His touch is impossibly gentle, as if he understands exactly how fragile you feel in this moment.

“Here,” he says, guiding your fingers to unfurl with the same patience he has for the shifting tides. His palm is warm against yours, his grasp neither firm nor weak—just steady. Just there. You don’t even realize you’ve exhaled until he nods slightly, as though acknowledging the small victory of that single breath. Then, with the same quiet patience, he lifts his hand from yours and brings it to your face.

The roughened pads of his fingers brush against your cheek, steady and sure, as if grounding you further in the present. His thumb catches the damp trail of tears, smoothing them away without a word. You flinch at the touch—not in fear, but in surprise at the sheer gentleness of it. He does not pull away. Instead, his fingers move with the lightest pressure, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, brushing it back from your face as if to remind you that you are still here. That you are not lost.

“The worst of it will pass,” he says, quiet but sure. “Not at once. But it will.” Your breathing is still uneven, your body still wracked with tension, but—he’s right. The crushing weight hasn’t lifted, but it has loosened, if only by the smallest degree. He does not tell you to stop shaking. He does not tell you to be strong. He only stays, hands warm against your skin, letting you feel the solid warmth of his presence.

“I have seen tempests rage across the sea,” he murmurs, voice like the hush of waves on the shore. “I have watched them churn and crash with fury, relentless and wild. But no storm lasts forever.” His thumb traces one last soothing line across your cheek before his hand falls away, but his presence does not lessen. If anything, it deepens.

“You are not lost.” The words are spoken with certainty, like a truth as old as the world. Something in you unravels—not in the way you were breaking earlier, but in the way tightly bound ropes loosen after years of strain. The room is still too bright. Your body is still too tense. But Círdan remains beside you, unwavering, patient. He does not pull you to your feet, does not ask you to move before you are ready. He is simply there. And slowly, breath by breath, the storm inside you begins to ebb.

The storm has not fully passed, but its grip loosens, retreating in slow, weary waves. Your breaths are no longer sharp gasps but uneven, trembling inhales. It is still too much—your limbs are heavy, your chest aches, and exhaustion clings to you like sea mist after a storm. But you are no longer drowning. Círdan does not move away. He does not pry, does not demand explanations you cannot yet give. He only watches, steady and patient, with the quiet understanding of one who has seen tempests rise and fall a thousand times over.

“You bear much,” he says at last, his voice a low murmur, deep as the tide. “But you are not alone in this burden.” The words settle over you, not with the weight of expectation, but with a quiet certainty that does not require a response. It is not pity, nor is it empty reassurance. It is simply truth—offered gently, freely, like the sea meeting the shore. A shudder runs through you, though whether from lingering fear or sheer exhaustion, you do not know. Your body is too tense, too tightly wound, like a rope pulled to its limit. The weight of everything still lingers, pressing at the edges of your mind. But then—

Warmth. Círdan’s hand moves, slow and careful, running through your hair in a soothing motion, his fingers threading through the strands with practiced ease. The touch is light, deliberate—not to restrain, not to control, but to comfort. To remind you that you are still here. Still breathing. Still held. The motion is hypnotic, steady as the lapping waves. Your body sags under the quiet reassurance, the tension in your shoulders easing, little by little. He does not rush you, does not pull you away from the last echoes of your fear. He only stays, grounding you with the quiet weight of his presence.

Then, carefully, his arm shifts. The change is subtle, almost imperceptible—until you feel the warmth of his embrace, solid and unwavering. He does not force it upon you, does not demand you take solace in it. But he offers, and when you do not resist, he draws you closer. The motion is slow, deliberate, as if he understands how fragile you still feel. His arms are strong, steady, cradling you against him—not as something broken, but as something precious. He holds you as one would hold something long lost and newly found, with a patience that does not waver, a quiet presence that speaks of lifetimes of understanding.

Your forehead rests against the fabric of his robes, the scent of salt and wind wrapping around you like a distant memory. His hand continues its slow path through your hair, a quiet, ceaseless rhythm that grounds you, anchors you. “The sea is patient,” he murmurs, his voice a lull in the stillness. “It wears down stone, reshapes the land. But it does not rush.” You do not know if he speaks of the tides or of you. Perhaps both.

Your body is still weary, your mind still frayed at the edges. But for the first time in what feels like an eternity, you do not feel like you are drowning alone. Círdan does not offer easy answers. He does not tell you the burden will vanish, nor does he promise that the storms will never return. But he stays. And perhaps that is enough. “Rest,” he says, quiet and sure. And this time, you listen.