#Gil galad x reader

[earthlybeam]

Could you do elves with parter reader (established relationship but a new one) where the reader isn't used to being treated with kindness. Like maybe they were in an abusive relationship before that they haven't really opened up about and how the elves would react to them flinching/ expecting them to be angry over normal things/ being shocked at being treated with normal decency etc

Could you do this with Cirdan, Thranduil, Elrond and Gil galad

Thanks and love you work !!!

Thank you so much for your thoughtful and encouraging words, They truly mean a lot and are deeply appreciated. ❤️‍🔥🥺✨

Gil-Galad, Thranduil, Elrond, Cirdan version below.

🏵️𝓖𝓲𝓵-𝓰𝓪𝓵𝓪𝓭

The realization comes suddenly, like a cold hand gripping your chest. A mistake—small, perhaps, but still a mistake. You’ve forgotten something. An errand, a meeting, a task he had entrusted to you, and in the rush of the day, it had slipped from your mind completely. Your breath hitches. Your hands grow cold.

You stop where you stand, heart hammering, as if the very walls of Lindon might close in around you. A familiar dread coils in your stomach, tightening with each passing second. He will be disappointed. He will not say it outright—no, not in anger. But he will remember. He will store it away, bring it up later in those small, insidious ways that linger beneath the surface of kind words. A passing remark, a quiet sigh, a subtle reminder that your fault has not been forgotten.

You have lived this before. A breath stumbles out of you, and you brace yourself, already reaching for an explanation before he even knows there is something to forgive. “I—I’m sorry,” you blurt out, your voice too fast, too unsteady. “I didn’t mean to forget, I just got caught up in something, and I—” The words tumble out before you can stop them, desperate to explain, to preempt the reaction you fear is coming.

Gil-galad, who had been reading at his desk, looks up at the sound of your voice. His expression is calm, steady. He studies you with quiet intent, his sharp eyes missing nothing. But there is no flicker of disappointment, no tightening of his jaw or brief falter in his movements that might betray frustration.

You wait for it anyway. You wait for the sigh, the weary remark that will sit like a stone in your chest for days. For the cool silence that will follow, an unspoken reminder of your failure. You wait, body rigid, heart thudding in your ribs like a trapped bird. But it does not come. “It is forgotten,” he says simply. His voice is even, untroubled, as if the mistake itself holds no weight. “There is nothing to apologize for.”

For a moment, you do not understand the words. They should bring relief, should allow you to breathe again. But instead, you remain tense, caught between the instinct to defend yourself and the unsettling kindness before you. Your mind races, searching for the hidden edge in his tone, the faintest sign that his patience is not infinite.

Gil-galad sees it. His brow creases—not in irritation, but in something softer, something almost pained. Slowly, deliberately, he sets the book aside and rises, his movements careful, measured. There is no sharpness, no sudden motion to startle you. “Do you think so little of my love that you expect me to hold this against you?” His voice is gentle, but beneath it is something else—something deeply sorrowful.

You freeze. You do not know how to answer. He watches you—not with judgment, not with disappointment, but with the quiet understanding of someone who has long known how to read between the lines. He does not press, does not demand an explanation. But the way his head tilts, the way his hands remain at his sides rather than reaching for you—he knows.

“Love is not a tally of mistakes,” he murmurs, his voice a steady anchor against the storm in your mind. “It is not a weapon to be wielded against you.” The words land somewhere deep within you, in a place long locked away, where love had always been a thing to be earned, a fragile thing that could be taken away with the slightest misstep. You had been taught that love was conditional, that affection came with rules and unspoken debts.

But here he stands, telling you otherwise. He sees the wariness still clinging to you, the shadow of past wounds that have not yet faded. And he does not push them aside, does not try to pry them from your grasp before you are ready. Gil-galad exhales softly. Then—without hesitation—he reaches for your hands.

His touch is warm, grounding. He does not hold too tightly, leaving room for you to pull away if you wish. But when his thumbs brush lightly over your knuckles, his touch is firm, reassuring. “You are allowed to forget things, meleth nin.” His voice is low, steady. “You are allowed to make mistakes. I will not use them to wound you.”

Your breath wavers, something tightening in your throat. You want to believe him. Want to trust that love could be something as steady, as unwavering as the warmth of his hands against yours. “I do not know how to unlearn it,” you confess, the words barely above a whisper.

Gil-galad does not waver. His hold does not tighten, nor does he let go. Instead, he nods, as if this is the answer he expected. “Then let me show you,” he says, his voice filled with quiet certainty. And he does. Not just with words, but with actions. He never brings it up again. There are no lingering remarks, no subtle reminders, no shift in how he treats you. His affection does not wane, his patience does not fray. He does not make you prove yourself worthy of his love. He teaches you—not with grand gestures or sweeping declarations, but with something far simpler. With love that does not count your mistakes.

🍷𝓣𝓱𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓾𝓲𝓵

The evening air was cool, laced with the scent of the ancient trees that surrounded Thranduil’s halls. The gentle rustling of leaves in the canopy above created a soft, whispering symphony, and the glow of candlelight flickered against the polished stone walls of his private chambers. It was a quiet moment, one of the few where neither of you felt the need to speak. The weight of the world, the duties he bore, and the shadows you carried—none of it mattered here, not in this fragile bubble of peace.

You sat beside him, the warmth of his presence a steady thing at your side. This was still new, this closeness, and you found yourself treading carefully, as if one wrong step might shatter whatever it was that had begun to form between you.

Your gaze wandered, drawn to the way the candlelight caught in his hair, a silver cascade that gleamed like moonlight against his pale skin. There was an effortless regality about him, a quiet power in the way he carried himself. He looked untouchable, as eternal as the trees of his kingdom, and yet, here he was, close enough to reach for—if only you dared.

And then, without thought, he reached for you. A simple thing, an unthinking gesture—his hand lifted toward your face, fingers poised to brush aside a stray strand of hair that had fallen against your cheek. But before his fingertips could make contact, before you could even register what was happening, instinct took hold. You flinched. It was slight, barely a flicker of movement, but enough. The tension in your shoulders, the way your breath caught, the brief tightening of your jaw—you knew it was there, and worse, so did he.

Thranduil’s hand froze midair. His fingers, mere inches from your skin, lingered for a heartbeat too long before he withdrew, slow and measured, as though unwilling to startle you further. The shift in his expression was barely perceptible, but you saw it—the way his sharp, piercing gaze darkened, not in offense, but in realization.

Your stomach twisted. Foolish. You knew better. You had spent years perfecting the art of keeping such reactions hidden, of swallowing them down, of smoothing your features into something unreadable. But the body was treacherous, bound by instinct rather than reason. And now, you had given yourself away. You cursed yourself silently.

“I—” The word barely left your lips before you stopped, swallowing hard. What could you even say? That it was nothing? That it was a reflex? That he shouldn’t make something of it? He had seen the truth, and worse, he had understood it. The silence that stretched between you was not an empty one. It was heavy, weighted with something unspoken, something neither of you were quite ready to name.

Thranduil was not a man who acted carelessly. He did not fill silences with meaningless reassurances or rush to smooth over uncomfortable truths. He was deliberate in all things, and so, when he finally spoke, his words carried the weight of careful consideration.

“Who made you expect pain from something so gentle?” His voice was soft, but beneath it lay something sharper, colder—not toward you, never toward you, but toward the memory of whoever had instilled this reflex into you. The question settled like a stone in your chest.

You did not answer. Not immediately. Because how could you? You had spent so long swallowing the past, convincing yourself it was behind you, that it did not matter anymore. And yet, here it was, surfacing in a single, involuntary movement. It was humiliating, infuriating, and worst of all, undeniable.

Thranduil did not push. He did not demand explanations or force you to meet his gaze. He only waited, his patience as vast as the ages he had lived. Your hands curled into your lap, fingers pressing into your palms. “I—” The words tangled in your throat, a bitter knot of hesitation. You wanted to say it was nothing, that it didn’t matter, that he shouldn’t look at you like that—with understanding, with pity. But you could not force the lie past your lips.

His gaze remained steady, unwavering. And then, with the same deliberate care he always carried, he reached for you again. This time, there was no suddenness to it. No movement quick enough to startle. His hand moved downward instead of toward your face, his fingers brushing against your own, resting lightly atop your hand. A touch so careful, so measured, it was almost weightless.

But it was there. And it was yours to accept or to pull away from. You let out a slow breath, forcing your shoulders to relax, the tension unwinding just enough. You did not pull away. His hand lingered, warm against your skin, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in a single, quiet motion. It was not meant to soothe or comfort, not an attempt to erase the past or fix what had already been done. It was simply a presence. A reminder that you were not alone in this moment.

“You are safe.” His voice was softer now, the earlier edge tempered into something quieter, something more sure. “Whatever ghosts you carry, they will find no hold here.” The words settled deep, slipping past your carefully constructed defenses before you could stop them. You had no response, no way to put into words the tangled emotions pressing against your ribs.

So you only nodded, allowing the weight of his words to settle around you. Thranduil did not ask for more. Not tonight. He did not need answers, nor explanations. He only needed you to understand one thing—he would never be a man you had to flinch from. And somehow, despite everything, you believed him.

📜 𝓔𝓵𝓻𝓸𝓷𝓭

The library of Rivendell was a sanctuary of quiet, a haven of parchment and ink, where the scent of aged vellum mingled with the faint trace of lavender and candle wax. The golden light of late afternoon streamed through the tall windows, spilling warmth over the polished wooden floors, casting long shadows that danced with the flickering of the lamps.

You sat curled in one of the carved chairs near the window, your legs tucked beneath you, a thick, leather-bound book resting in your lap. It was peaceful here, the kind of peace you were still learning to accept, still hesitant to trust. But in Elrond’s presence, it was easier. He was steady—calm and patient, never demanding, never pressing. Even in silence, there was a quiet understanding between you, a newness to your relationship that felt like standing at the edge of something vast and uncharted. It should have been terrifying. But with him, it felt… safe.

At his desk, Elrond worked with quiet efficiency, the smooth glide of his quill over parchment the only sound breaking the stillness. He was composing a letter, his brow furrowed slightly in thought, though not in frustration. He had a way of carrying himself that spoke of wisdom and measured restraint, of power held carefully in check. With him, you never had to guess at his mood, never had to walk on uneven ground, wondering when it would give way beneath you. He was predictable in the way a river was—flowing steadily, unwavering in its course.

But then his voice rose, clear and commanding.“LINDIR!” The name echoed through the chamber, firm and authoritative, a summons rather than a reprimand. But the instant the sharpness registered, something inside you recoiled. It was not anger—your mind knew this. He was not speaking to you—you knew this too. And yet, the reaction was already set in motion before reason could intervene.

Your shoulders tensed, your hands clenching around the edges of your book. The breath caught in your throat, too shallow, too quick. A shiver ran down your spine—not from cold, but from instinct. Your heart pounded against your ribs, and in that brief, terrible moment, you were no longer in Rivendell. No longer in the warmth of the library, in the company of a man who had only ever shown you kindness. You had flinched. The moment was small, subtle—barely more than a tremor. Perhaps most would not have noticed. But Elrond did.

The sound of rustling parchment ceased. Silence settled between you, but you felt his gaze before you dared meet it. His eyes, sharp as a blade and yet impossibly gentle, flickered from your face to the rigid set of your shoulders, the way your fingers had curled so tightly around the book that your knuckles were white. You forced yourself to relax, to smooth over the moment before it could become something real. You knew how to do that—how to swallow down fear, how to dismiss your own reactions as nothing, how to pretend. “I was not angry,” Elrond said softly, his voice now a soothing contrast to the sharpness that had startled you. “Nor was my voice meant for you.”

The kindness in his tone was worse than if he had ignored it. Worse because it asked nothing of you but acknowledgment. Worse because it was patient. Worse because it saw you. You swallowed, shaking your head as if to dismiss the entire thing, trying to will your body into forgetting. “I know,” you murmured, forcing your voice into something steady, something dismissive. It was fine. It was nothing. Just a foolish reaction. You could move past it. You always had before.

But Elrond was not so easily deterred. He did not speak right away. He did not press, did not demand explanations you were not ready to give. Instead, he simply remained—watchful but not scrutinizing, steady but not imposing. And then, slowly, he extended a hand toward you. Palm up, fingers relaxed, offering rather than insisting. You stared at it for a moment.

The instinct to refuse, to pull away, was immediate. It had always been easier to deny comfort than to accept it, easier to pretend you didn’t need it. But Elrond’s patience was a quiet thing, unwavering and endless. He would not withdraw his hand if you did not take it. He would not be wounded if you refused. It was simply there, waiting, reminding you that you did not have to navigate this alone.

Tentatively, you let your fingers brush against his. His hand was warm. Steady. The contact was not possessive, not seeking to hold or control—only to anchor. The moment you accepted it, his fingers curled around yours, not to keep you in place, but to assure you that you were not lost. “I would never raise my voice in anger toward you,” he said, quiet and certain. “Nor do I wish for you to fear me.” The words settled in your chest, unfamiliar in their gentleness, in the way they asked nothing of you but to believe them. You wanted to believe them.

Your fingers tightened slightly around his, just a small shift—but it was enough. A silent acknowledgment. Not a promise that you would stop reacting this way overnight, nor that you could undo the years of conditioning that had taught you to brace for pain where there was none. But for now, in this moment, you allowed yourself to breathe. And Elrond, ever patient, simply remained at your side.

🌊 𝓬í𝓻𝓭𝓪𝓷

The wind carried the scent of salt and woodsmoke through the Grey Havens, crisp and familiar, whispering across the docks where Círdan worked. The golden light of the setting sun shimmered across the waves, gilding the wooden planks beneath your feet and casting long, gentle shadows across the shipwright’s steady form. The rhythmic lapping of the tide against the shore blended with the distant cries of gulls, filling the air with the quiet hum of a world in motion—one that Círdan had known for countless ages.

You stood nearby, watching him work with quiet admiration. His hands, calloused from centuries of shaping wood and weaving sails, moved with a certainty that spoke of experience beyond reckoning. There was something soothing about the way he carried himself—unhurried, precise, as though time itself bent to his will rather than the other way around.

Beside you, a small wooden box rested on the dock, filled with nails and tools for his latest vessel. You had been lost in thought, content to exist in this moment, basking in the peace that seemed to settle around Círdan like the tide at dusk. But in your distraction, you shifted your foot too suddenly, knocking the box from its place.

The sharp clatter of nails spilling across the dock split the air like a whip crack. Your breath caught. Too loud. Too sudden. Too much. The reaction came before thought—your stomach clenched, hands jerking up in instinctive apology, heart pounding as though the small mistake carried the weight of something greater. “I’m sorry,” you blurted out, already dropping to your knees to gather the scattered nails. “I wasn’t paying attention, I—”

The words tumbled from you before you could stop them, before you could even consider if they were necessary. You braced yourself for what would come next—a sigh of exasperation, a sharp look, quiet disappointment at your clumsiness. You had interrupted him. You had caused a mess. You had— Warmth. Not anger. Not even the slightest trace of frustration. Just warmth, as Círdan’s large, steady hands covered yours, halting your frantic movements. His touch was gentle, grounding, like the solid weight of the earth beneath your feet after too long spent adrift at sea.

“There is no need for that, meleth,” he said, his voice deep and steady as the waves beyond the harbor. His thumbs brushed lightly over your fingers before he withdrew, kneeling beside you with the same unshaken calm he always carried. “It is a small thing.”

But it did not feel small. Not to you. You swallowed hard, forcing your breath to steady, but the tightness in your chest remained. “I wasn’t thinking. I—I’ll be more careful next time.” Círdan’s keen eyes studied you, the depth of his gaze seeming to pierce through layers you had carefully built around yourself. When he spoke again, there was no scolding, no chastisement—only quiet understanding, something deeper than mere sympathy. “You apologize often,” he observed, his tone absent of judgment. Your fingers curled slightly around one of the fallen nails. “I don’t mean to.”

“I know.” He picked up a few of the scattered nails himself, placing them back into the wooden box with slow, deliberate movements, as though to show you there was no urgency, no cause for distress. “But there is no fault here. No harm done.” You nodded, but the familiar knot in your chest did not loosen. You knew he meant his words. Knew, logically, that he was not merely placating you, not holding back irritation that would emerge later. And yet—your body still braced for something that would never come.

A sigh left Círdan’s lips then, but it was not heavy with frustration. No, it was something softer. Something knowing. “I have done the same,” he admitted after a pause. His voice, usually so steady, carried a thread of something distant—something old, something worn but not broken. You glanced up at him in surprise. “You?”

He nodded, his gaze drifting for a moment toward the western horizon, where the sun’s light met the endless sea. “A long time ago, I apologized for things that did not need apology. For staying behind when my heart longed for the West. For burdens that were never mine alone to carry.” He turned his eyes back to you then, ancient and fathomless as the waves. “But those who loved me did not ask for my apologies. Just as I do not ask them from you.”

Your throat felt tight again, but this time, it was not from fear. Círdan reached for your hands once more, slower this time, giving you the choice to pull away if you wished. You did not. You let him take them, let his warmth settle over you like the tide washing away the debris of a long, storm-ridden shore.

“You do not need to apologize for existing,” he murmured, pressing his palm gently against yours. “Nor for small things that do not trouble me. You are not a burden.” It should have been simple. It should have been easy to believe. But the weight of those words, the sheer certainty in them, settled deep inside you like the first breath of fresh air after years spent beneath heavy waters. Círdan did not rush you to answer. He did not demand that you believe him in an instant. He only gave you time. And for the first time, you let yourself consider the possibility that he might be right.

[doodle-pops]

What if the elves and their s/o did that challenge, where they eat a chocolate filled with aphrodisiac and watched a movie (or something else) without giving in first. Who do you think is to crack first? Who cracks somewhere in the middle? And who is likely to win and have their s/o begging for them instead?

A/N: Oh I love this 😏. Someone likes playing games they can’t win lol. Oh, I’m eating this ask up.

Cracks instantly. Screw that damn movie, you’re far better to watch…

— CELEGORM (obvious ain’t it), Curufin, Caranthir, Amrod, Amras, Argon, Beleg, Thingol, Elladan

Struggle but fail quickly. However, they put in some effort and maybe last through the opening of the movie before the aphrodisiac hits too hard…

— Fëanor, Fingon, Maeglin, Glorfindel, Egalmoth, Ecthelion

Cracks somewhere in the middle as they put up a fight, maybe last through half the movie, but alas, you look too tempting…

— Maedhros, Maglor, Celebrimbor, Aegnor, Angrod, Turgon, Rog, Galdor, Elrohir, Gwindor

Holds out until you break first. Too composed and disciplined to crack, and rather make you beg before giving in. Something about their image on the line…

— Fingolfin, Finrod, Finarfin, Gil-Galad, Elrond, Erestor

[thatlittlered]

rings of power men | tropes

warning(s): light TROP spoilers, gn!reader used throughout

author's note: most of these will be turned into actual fics :)

-.-.-

Elrond + friends to lovers

GIF by @fukutomichi

As kind as summer, as gentle as the soft rays of sun upon your faces whilst you sit in each other's company and he is weaving, unbeknownst to you, tales of your wit and beauty in his mind; poems he would never dare show you. It was love long before either of you knew what to call it.

Gil-galad + opposites attract

GIF by @fukutomichi

Born and raised the son of kings, Gil-galad has known nothing but duty during his lifetime. A King neither ventures, nor tries his hand at passing affections, and yet the curse of a still beating heart inevitably finds him when his lieutenant and trusted friend Círdan is apprenticed by a lovely lowly elf.

Celebrimbor + soulmates

GIF by @dailyflicks

It is instant, absolute. As if the two of you were born a mystical creature, bearing two faces, four arms and four legs, until the Valar separated you and forced you to spend eternity searching for your other half. In the worst of times and the most unlikely of places, the search has come to cease. Alas, so has the time of peace.

Arondir + forbidden love

GIF by @lousolversons

The Silvan elf comes to respect the race of men for what they are during his time in the Southlands and whilst he dare not admit it, it does pertain with knowing you. It is hard to care for the hateful gazes of villagers when your own gaze is so tender under the moonlight, your hands cold and decisive when you touch him here where no one can hear or see. Though he has not tasted mortality, it must taste like you and the urgency you kiss him with, as if in fear the sun might never rise again.

Elendil + forbidden love, age gap

GIF by @frodo-sam

This man was born to be your dutiful protector, loyal like no other and sworn to serve you as his ruler with everything he has. Loyalty and love tend to melt into each other, merge so that it is impossible to tell them apart. It is a tormenting, silent agreement that neither of you may speak on these feelings and yet, it... overwhelms.

Valandil + childhood sweethearts

GIF by @fukutomichi

To know and love Valandil comes as easy as breathing air. You have been doing both for just as long, you think. Childish adoration blossoms in time until your souls are tethered and he will commit his life to earning rank and making it official, from the streets of Númenor to the edge of the world, where he hopes to travel with you.

Isildur + love triangle, second chance

GIF by @vidalharkness

Isildur has always held a deep admiration for you, a childish infatuation even, but your bond with Valandil always comes before all and he happily accepts things as they are for a long time. Friendship is of equal, if not grander, worth and he considers both of you his dear friends above all. Until Valandil is killed, that is. The love each of you have for him and each other perseveres until grief threatens to swallow you whole. On the precipice of desperation, a teary kiss is meant to bring comfort. Yes, of course. That is what this must be.

-.-.-

bonus:

Adar + enemies to lovers

GIF by @anthemias

Sauron saw in you every weakness, every earthly, pathetic desire to be appreciated and loved when everyone and everything has been cruelly ripped from you. To be part of something larger than the pain eating away at your chest until your days in Middle Earth are over and you can find refuge in the arms of those who unlike you, gave their lives for a greater cause. He saw and took full advantage. Adar sees it now too when he looks at you; the agony of knowing you have played into the hands of evil itself just as he has. There is always a sliver of affection in understanding another, is there not?

[criticallyinneedofadar]

An Unexpected Joy

A/N: A bit of Gil Galad fluff... making Gil Gadaddy a reality ;) Also- look at his haiiiirrrrr its so prettyyyyy

Pairing: Ereinion Gil Galad x reader

Word Count: 1.7K

______________________________________________________________

Your steps are light as you tread through the dimmed corridors of the camp, the night’s quiet punctuated by the soft crackling of distant fires. The mingling scents of smoke and herbs fill the air, earthy and pungent, the healers’ remedies still clinging to the battlefield’s recent memory. You feel the strain of conflict clinging to you like a shadow, its weight not yet lifted. Eregion has fallen, its people scattered across hills and ravines, each soul a flicker of light in the dark. And yet here you are, walking through the ruins and remnants, driven by a miracle you had only dared to dream, an ache of longing finally met.

The trail narrows as you descend deeper into the glade, down to a secluded grove nestled at the bottom of a ravine. You pause, the sound of water trickling nearby, a peaceful counterpoint to the fury you’ve left behind. The ravine is shrouded in a thick, quiet darkness, broken only by glimmers of starlight filtering through the leaves. You continue carefully, following the faint tracks left by those who came before, your heart guided by an unshakeable instinct. At last, you see them: Ereinion, your beloved, King Gil-galad, seated vigilantly on a low log beside the resting figure of Galadriel.

She lies on a bed of soft moss, her silver-gold hair spilled across the ground like moonlight. Her breathing is soft, a steady rise and fall, each breath a testament to the healing power of the rings. The harshness of battle has fallen away from her in sleep, leaving only peace in its place.

Ereinion sits nearby, his gaze fixed on her with a soft intensity, as though even in this quiet moment he must protect her from unseen threats. His face, usually so stern in the presence of others, is touched by gentleness in the solitude of the glade. The firelight from a nearby torch dances over his features, highlighting the weary lines etched by long years and countless sacrifices. His hair tumbles over his shoulders, dark and unbound, catching glints of silver in the starlight, and for a moment, you pause, heart full, seeing in him the king and the man you’ve loved for centuries.

Quietly, you approach, hoping not to disturb him, but the soft rustle of your steps gives you away. He turns, his gaze catching yours, and in his eyes, you see a flicker of relief, of joy, mingled with something deeper. Here, in this hidden glade, with the echoes of war left above, you find yourself on the cusp of sharing a revelation more profound than any you’ve carried before.

“Meleth nîn,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper as he turns to you. His eyes soften with an unspeakable relief as they meet yours, and he steps forward, closing the distance in one swift, unhesitating motion. His arms wrap around you, pulling you close as if you are his very breath, his anchor in this ravaged land. “You’re here. Safe. How did we escape without a scratch?”

You melt into his embrace, letting the warmth of his touch wash over you, steadying the parts of yourself still shaken from the day’s terror. “By some grace we did,” you say softly, resting your head against his chest. The steady beat of his heart calms you, grounding you in this moment. You close your eyes, breathing him in, and for a second, all the fear, the grief, the worry dissipate like mist.

But as the silence deepens, your thoughts turn to Galadriel, who still lies in a quiet slumber. “And Galadriel?” you ask, your voice a mere murmur against his shoulder. “Will she recover?”

He sighs, a weight in his breath that you can feel deep within his chest. He pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, the flicker of sadness and resolve in his gaze unmistakable. “Her wound was dark, festering from the touch of Morgoth’s crown itself,” he says, his voice low and strained. “It was… worse than I could have imagined. She has endured great pain, more than any soul should bear. We feared the wound might take her, that the shadow clinging to her would devour even her spirit.”

His gaze falls to where she lies, his eyes softening with a deep affection and sorrow. “But the rings have done their work. She is healing, the darkness lifted, though it took all we had to cast it out. Now, she only needs to wake. It will take time, yet I believe she will return to us.”

You follow his gaze, taking in Galadriel’s peaceful, sleeping form. Her face, though still and pale, no longer bears the strain that had marked it before, her breathing deep and even. Relief fills you, mingled with a gratitude too immense to name. She has survived a shadow few could endure���and in some quiet way, that gives you strength. 

The words press against your lips, a tremor of anticipation and uncertainty, too immense, too impossible to hold back any longer. Yet as they linger, unspoken, a wave of nervousness washes over you. The enormity of what you are about to reveal fills you with both joy and fear, and for a moment, you hesitate, wondering if this fragile new hope should remain a secret for just a moment longer, kept safe from the harshness of the world.

But Ereinion is watching you closely, his gaze shifting from tender relief to concern. He pulls back, searching your face with quiet intensity, sensing the weight of what you hold back. "Are you truly alright, meleth nîn?" he asks softly, his hand brushing a stray strand of hair from your cheek. "You look… troubled." His voice is gentle, and his brow furrows, the ever-present protector surfacing in his gaze.

You swallow, heart pounding. "I am," you whisper, voice barely a breath. But the truth wells up in you like light breaking through darkness, and you realize you cannot hold it in any longer. With a deep, shuddering breath, you close the small distance between you and rest your forehead against his, feeling the strength of his presence, his warmth, grounding you.

"There's something else, Ereinion," you say, your words trembling with the weight of them. Your hands, trembling but sure, reach for his and guide them to rest gently over your stomach. You press his hands there, urging him silently to feel, to sense the delicate, radiant spark of life that stirs within you—a light so faint, yet already strong, like the glimmer of a star.

His fingers curl instinctively over your stomach, and you watch as his expression shifts, disbelief dawning in his eyes, mingling with wonder. You feel his breath hitch, and for a heartbeat, neither of you moves. It’s as if the world itself has stilled, holding its breath for this impossible truth. And then, like a whisper only he can hear, he senses it—the faint yet unmistakable light of the fae stirring within you, growing, living.

"A child?" His voice is barely audible, choked with wonder and joy, his gaze filled with awe as he looks down at your joined hands, as if the world has rearranged itself around this single, precious moment.

For a heartbeat, there is only silence, but then realization dawns in his eyes, followed swiftly by the gleam of pure joy. He clasps your hands, disbelief mingling with awe. “A child!” His laughter, bright and unrestrained, fills the air. He pulls you into him, pressing a kiss to your lips, as though your happiness has rekindled some part of him worn by the years of warfare.

When he draws back, you can see his mind already racing, the strategist within him awakening. “But what of the battle’s toll on you?” he asks, concern darkening his features as he cups your face. “Are you unharmed? You’ve been through so much—how can I be sure—”

“I’m fine, my love,” you assure him, pressing your hand over his. “Whole and safe. Our child is strong.”

He exhales in relief, though his eyes linger on your face, still assessing, still planning. “Then I’ll make sure that nothing will threaten you both,” he promises fervently. “You must have the best care, a fortified place far from the battlefronts. And when the battle breaks out again…” His thoughts tumble over one another as he strategizes how to keep you safe, listing every precaution, every arrangement, his love woven into each detail.

With a smile, you reach up and quiet him with a gentle kiss. “Ereinion,” you murmur, resting your forehead against his. “We’ll do this together. The timing may not be what we imagined, but together we can weather it.” The warmth of your words and touch stills his worry, and he nods, a faint smile lifting his lips. His hand covers yours, resting over the life you now share.

Before you can speak again, a dry voice cuts through the quiet of the glade, laced with humor and unmistakable sharpness. "I must be more wounded than I thought," Galadriel drawls, her eyes barely open but glinting with mischief. “Or perhaps I’m hallucinating… It’s either that, or I am far too injured to stomach such sickening affection.”

You and Ereinion both turn, momentarily startled, and find her watching you from her place on the moss-covered ground, a small, genuine smile tugging at her lips. Laughter bubbles up between you, spilling into the soft night air, as relief and joy mingle freely. Still chuckling, Ereinion lifts his gaze, meeting Galadriel’s with a smirk.

“Ah, but don’t strain yourself further, Lady of Light,” he replies, voice dripping with feigned reproach as he holds you tighter in his arms. “It wouldn’t do for you to exhaust yourself any more than necessary. Not all of us are accustomed to such stoic detachment from matters of the heart.”

Galadriel huffs, managing to roll her eyes in spite of her injuries. “I will recover, Ereinion, if only to save myself from enduring another moment of this spectacle.” But there is warmth in her gaze as it drifts between the two of you, a faint shimmer that speaks of her own hidden joy. Though she hides it well, you can see the spark of approval in her eyes, an unspoken blessing shared in the soft, knowing look that only a friend and ally can give.

You rest your head against Ereinion’s shoulder, and for a moment, the world feels untouched by shadows, your heart buoyed by this rare, shared joy. You steal one more glance at your husband, the glimmer of hope rekindling between you. Whatever lies ahead—whatever battles or burdens the future may hold—you know you’ll face it hand in hand, just as you always have.

[mirkwdmstrss]

by the river’s edge

summary: gil-galad feared the worst in not knowing whether you lived or died in the siege at eregion. upon being reunited, you take him to a clandestine hideaway to help cleanse his body and mind of the horrors he witnessed on the battlefield. with a full heart and clear mind, he asks you something you did not expect

word count: 4.4k

pairing: gil galad x reader

genre: hurt comfort, fluff

tags: implied sex, mild blood, nudity

Branches whipped across his face as he blindly pushed through the dense foliage, never minding the sharpened thorns or abrasive barks stinging at his exposed flesh. Such was the nature of this valley, to protect those that sought refuge within its walls. Another might have torn their sword from its sheath and slashed at the maze of vines and tangles of tree limbs, but Gil Galad was not so far yet lost to his fears and anxieties to cause undue harm to the natural world.

You are alive. You are well.

These are the words he’d kept repeating to himself after nearly having lost Galadriel hours earlier. To have lost her would’ve been a blow to him unlike any other. To have lost her while also not yet knowing if you lived or died caused immeasurable fear to shadow his heart; and he wasn’t sure if he’d survive the loss of either of you if that was what the Valar had deemed to happen on this day.

Hope. He held to hope. If they had all survived what they had thus far, surely you, and the rest of those trapped in the Siege at Eregion had been able to escape. Galadriel had been unable to speak when he and Elrond had worked tirelessly to stabilize her injuries. He knew in his heart though that she would’ve done her best to help as many as possible escape through the secret tunnels in her pursuit of Sauron, a Lady of Light in the darkest of times. Though he’d intended to stay by the commander’s side, Arondir and Elrond had promised her safe delivery to the valley in which the survivors had been rumored to flee to and encouraged him to go on ahead without them to find you.

And as he drew upon an opening in the thicket all around him, his heart swelled to hear the language of his people. As he broke through trees, their tongues fell silent; stunned to find their high king in such a disheveled state. His eyes rapidly scanned the gathering crowd, though it was not very big to begin with. Had so few made it out? Surely this couldn’t be everyone.

“Where are they?” he asked no one in particular, eyes unable to focus on any one person for too long.

“Who, High King?”

Gil Galad turned at the sound of his title and was surprised to find Vorohil. He was sure he’d died in Eregion after being struck by the enemy's arrows; and though he cradled his left arm close to his chest, he seemed otherwise unharmed save a few cuts and bruises on his face.

He spoke your name and his heart sang upon Vorohil’s face instantly brightening. With his right hand, he pointed toward an outcropping of rocks near a small waterfall. “Just past those boulders, my lord. We’ve established a rudimentary infirmary. They’ve been tending to the wounded night and day. I probably wouldn’t be here to tell you of it had it not been for them.”

Gil Galad parted from him, a brief word of thanks rolling off his tongue as he swept down the hill, never minding the praise and thanks his people extended towards him as he rushed past. This battle was not won by him alone, by the Valar, this battle hadn’t been won at all; but they survived due to the leadership of many, and he would address his people formally once all were present.

For now, all that mattered was you.

As he rounded the mass of boulders, the expanse of land opened up into a dell shadowed by enormous trees and the gentle rush of a number of small brooks flowed freely over smooth stone.

At least a dozen elves, soldiers and civilians alike, were laid out on makeshift beds of grass in various states of health and wellness. Some had suffered broken bones, some penetrating stab wounds. A couple of elf maidens he recognized from Eregion busied themselves over an elf that had suffered an arrow to the shoulder who cried out as they withdrew the shaft and immediately packed the wound with bandages that looked like they’d been made from someone’s cloak. He greeted them and they startled.

“High king,” they greeted in turn with a bow of their heads.

“Please,” he said in dismissal, waving them back towards the injured. “I don’t mean to interrupt. Tell me, where is—”

His voice faltered and a choked sob escaped his lips as you appeared from around a bend in the rock formation.

Gil Galad was upon you in an instant, a breath of air whooshing from your lungs as two strong arms wrapped around your middle, forcing you to drop the basket you’d been holding. Clean linens spilled about your feet as the High held you close against his mud and blood stained chest plate, his large hand cradling your neck and fingers tangling into your hair.

“Thank the Valar you’re alive,” he breathed into your ear.

“Me?” you questioned, pulling back to look into his deep brown eyes as you cupped his cheek in your hand. “From what I heard, you llead a charge with less than two dozen elves at your backing. You’re lucky you made it out with only a scratch.” You ran your thumb along his jaw where a rather nasty cut split the skin of his cheek. “Come, let me tend to you somewhere more private, my lord.”

Gil Galad inclined his head as though he wanted to say more, but then realized all eyes of those that were conscious were currently on the two of you; and though he cared not if they saw him show affection towards you, it was probably the last thing they expected to see at this current moment in time. With a nod of his head, he relented and allowed you to curl your fingers around his and tug him along down a path that curved on between the rocks.

The sun shone overhead, breaking through the boughs of the trees dappling the path in swirls of golden light. Birds chirped in their branches and the sound was so sweet, it nearly puzzled Gil Galad for he’d not heard the birds sing in weeks and wasn’t sure he’d ever hear them again for the carnage of what had transpired in Eregion.

As you wandered down the path, eventually, he could no longer even hear the voices of those back at the stream’s edge.

“Where are you taking me?” he asked, craning to look around your frame.

You turned to look at him over your shoulder, and he smiled upon finding both adoration and amusement shining back at him in your eyes; a welcome contrast to the horror and fear he’d seen reflected back at him in the eyes of his people as they’d fallen around him in battle.

“Somewhere I can get you cleaned up, would that please the High King?” You asked coyly, batting your lashes at him.

A smile hooked the corners of his lips as your playful tongue expelled the images of war from his mind. Without thinking further of it, he tugged on your hand and with one strong pull of his arm, twirled you around the path so you were flush with his body and had to arch your back in order to gaze up at him, the press of his hand against the small of your waist making you feel more safe and secure than you had in weeks. A moment of silence stretched between you, but only a moment, before you both launched yourselves at one another.

You threw your arms around his neck as he hoisted you up into the air to press his lips against yours. He tasted like blood and sweat, but you didn’t care because he was there and he was alive. He moaned into your mouth as he squeezed you tightly and you laughed against his lips, feeling joy for the first time since you couldn’t even remember.

Pressing your hands against his shoulders in a gentle signal to let you down, you kissed the corner of his mouth. “There will be plenty of time for that later, let’s get you cleaned up. In the coming days, we’ll have little time together with all the responsibility that will fall to you. You’ll need to look a little bit more presentable for your people.”

Gil Galad arched a brow in response as he placed your feet back on the ground. “Are you saying I don’t look presentable right now?”

You smirked in response, giving him a once over. “I suppose you could stay dressed in that.” A wicked glint entered your gaze. “Or you could allow me to help bathe and dress you in a fresh set of clothes. Your armor has seen better days, after all.”

Gil Galad nodded his head slowly, an eagerness in his eyes you’d not seen in ages. “It has, hasn’t it?”

You murmured your assent and led him off path through a break in the dense foliage where a clear blue waterfall gushed into a wide pebbled pool beneath. Wide rocks poked out of the water, bathed in sunlight. Oaks and other trees grew tall, curving toward the sky in beautiful arches. The surrounding mountain of the valley and thick brush encircling the space kept it hidden from those just following the path, so there would be plenty of privacy here.

“How did you find this place?” Gil Galad asked as his eyes looked about in wonder. Vines of wisteria crawled along the canopy, filling the space with a sweet and delicate scent.

“I was searching for herbs to use in poultices and salves for the injured.” You gestured towards the sandy bank where a number of small baskets were packed full with various herbs and plants. Beside that was a larger basket you’d used to wash linens, a number of which were stretched out to dry on the sun drenched rocks.

A knowing look entered the depths of his brown eyes. “Very far to wander on one’s own, don’t you think?”

You squeezed his hand as you continued to lead him down towards the falls, “We can always go back.”

“No, no,” he replied. “This will do just fine.”

“Good,” you said softly, backing up towards the water’s edge, your feet sinking just so into the smooth sand surrounding the pool. With a delicate hand, and without breaking eye contact with him, you curled your palm around his wrist, undoing the straps of one gauntlet before following suit and removing the other. You tossed them onto the sand and followed the length of his torso, seeking out and undoing the latches of the chest plate along his sides and those holding it in place over his shoulders. Gil Galad breathed a sigh of relief as he pulled it over his head and let it fall away, not minding how it hit the sand with a firm thunk. Finally, your fingers found and made quick work of the buckles holding his pauldrons in place.

Fire danced in the depths of his deep brown eyes as you took a measured step towards him and reached for the belt at his waist, holding his long sword tight to his hip. His fingers folded over yours, threading through them to undo the buckle. He gripped his sword as the belt from around his waist and dug his weapon into the earth with one powerful thrust of his arm. You swallowed thickly and felt your heart hammer a steady beat against your ribcage as you dared to gather the fabric of his tunic into your hands.

“Go on, then,” he said, voice low. Your fingers skimmed the trail of dark hair beneath his navel as you pushed the fabric of his shirt up and over his shoulders, allowing him to tug the remainder over his head and cast it aside in a ripple of golden fabric. He shook out his hair and it fell across his broad shoulders in deep brown waves.

When he took a step closer to you, closing what little distance remained between the two of you, every muscle in your belly clenched with heat. “Are you just going to watch me bathe?” he asked softly. “Or shall you join me?”

“Whatever my king prefers,” you answered with a small bow of your head. Your breath hitched in your throat when his fingers gripped your chin in his hand, tilting your face up to look at his. “What have I told you about calling me by my name?”

A blush coated your cheeks as a shy smile played about your lips. “Years now, we’ve spent together, and I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the way your name rolls off the tongue.”

Gil Galad dropped his fingers from your chin to fall upon the bare skin of your shoulder. As he curled his fingers around the back of your neck to make quick work of the knot holding your simple halter shift dress in place, his lips brushed the shell of your pointed ear. “Perhaps, we can see how it rolls off the tongue whilst mine lavishes the body it belongs to.”

“Bite your tongue,” you scolded playfully.

“If you ask nicely,” he purred, tugging the knot free and with it, your dress fell in a pile of fabric around your ankles.

Your nipples immediately peaked in response to the gentle breeze of the warm summer day; the sun on your back instantly warming you through to your core. As you toed out of your sandals, you stepped forward to reach for the ties on his trousers. His hands curved over your hips and you gasped as he grabbed your backside firmly in his palms causing you to fumble the laces. When you finally managed to pull them loose, you watched as he kicked out of his boots to shimmy them off, casting them aside and leaving him completely nude before you save for his ring, Vilya, whose ruby glittered in the sun.

You found yourself unable to look away from him, bared like this to you in the open air; and you to him. There was as much beauty in it as there was vulnerability and you craved him now more than ever.

Before you could place a hand on him, he lunged towards you. A squeal escaped your lips as he tackled you into the pool; arms wrapped tightly around your waist as he turned his body to take the brunt of the impact with the water’s surface. The water was cold, yet refreshing, and you both spluttered and laughed as you kicked yourselves upright. You reached out a hand to brush a lock of hair out of his face and rubbed your finger along the dried blood on his cheek.

“I’m so glad you made it back safely,” you murmured as your laughter fell away.

Gil Galad turned his head to place a gentle kiss upon your thumb which lingered there. “When I have something so important to come back to, I do everything in my power to make it so.”

“This is but a lull in the storm,” you ventured, fear lacing your words.

His eyes flashed with concern, irises flickering as he searched for solace in yours. “Do not trouble yourself with such dark thoughts, not when I have found strength in your gentle arms.” He folded himself around you then, fingers splayed against your back as he buried his nose into your hair.

You closed your eyes, reveling in the touch of his strong and gentle caress. “I want to show you something,” you whispered in his ear, causing him to pull back and regard you with bemused curiosity.

Releasing his hand, you took slow, measured steps back. Fortunately, you’d had plenty of time to explore this place in the days since you’d taken refuge in the valley. The roar of the falls grew louder as you backed up closer and closer to it. A devious grin pulled at your lips as you took a breath and held it before stepping back through the curtain of water into the secret cavern behind it.

You waded back and swam in a slow circle, taking in the smooth rounded out walls that tapered up high towards an opening in the ceiling overhead. The sun cut across the top, reflecting off the walls in shimmering silver and golden light that danced along the cavern walls.

Gil Galad appeared then, swiping a hand over his face to smooth his hair back. His lips parted as awe struck him, head tilting back to admire the clandestine space.

“Ulmo must be fond of you to have revealed such a place,” he breathed, completely wonderstruck as he turned to admire the expanse of smooth flat stones that made up the perimeter of the space, dipping and forming alcoves where one could sit or out of the water. He could picture you now, stretched out across one while the water lapped at your flesh and he lapped at your—

“The vines that grow down through the opening in the cavern are soapwort.”

“Soapwort,” Gil Galad repeated, mind returning to a more appropriate topic.

You nodded, swimming over to one of the vines curling down the wall and plucking a flower from it. You rolled the petals between your hands until a gentle lather foamed between your palms. You plucked a handful and made your way over to a cluster of smooth rocks. After taking a seat on one that resided just beneath the water's surface, you waved Gil Galad over to join you.

You set the flowers on a dry portion of rock sticking out of the water and placed your hands on his chest when he drew near, pressing down in a quiet order to sit. When he did, you smoothed his hair back over his shoulders. After breaking down the herbs in hand, you massaged the lather into his hair, kneading his scalp with your fingers as you did so.

The murmurs of satisfaction that left the High King’s lips brought a knowing smile to your own. So often he busied himself with the kingdom, as was his duty, that he never took true time for himself. If you could offer him but a moment’s respite from the horrors he’d seen befall your people, then that would be enough. After rinsing the sweat and dirt from his hair, you shifted your attention to clean the marks of battle from his flesh. Gil Galad winced as you worked the herb’s lather into the cut on his cheek, but you only smiled.

“I will not see the High King of Lindon felled by infection if you don’t let me clean this and keep squirming like that.”

“It’s not a pleasant feeling,” Gil Galad quipped, though his eyes betrayed his amusement.

You only smirked in response and continued to wash the memory of the siege from his flesh, gently guiding your fingers over every inch of his skin; not missing the way his cock twitched several times in response to your heated touch.

As you turned to pluck more soapwort from the vine for yourself, Gil Galad’s hulking silhouette shadowed yours as he reached an arm above your head to pick several blossoms just out of reach.

“Allow me,” he offered, voice rumbling: and as he sat down on one of the partly submerged rocks, he looped an arm around your waist to pull you down into his lap. “I doubt you’ve paused to pay any heed to your own needs.” He pressed a soft kiss to your temple and you closed your eyes, leaning your head back to rest against the crook of his neck as your spine laid flush with his torso. “Let the carer be cared for in turn.”

He tended to you then with as gentle a hand as you had shown him and when his hands swept across your chest and torso, you couldn’t fight the way you arched into the wide plane of his body.

“Do you like it when I touch you there?” he murmured in your ear.

You nodded as his hand curved around your belly, fingers creeping ever lower. “And what if I were to touch you elsewhere?”

“I think I’d like that very much,” you breathed, voice raspy.

Gil Galad hoisted you into his arms then eliciting a delighted shriek from you as you threw your arms around his neck to keep from falling back into the water.

“Then allow me to treat you like the royalty you’ll one day be at my side.”

•••

Gil Galad rolled off of you and onto his back beside you, both of your chests heaving with labored breaths after the love you’d just made on the shores of the falls left you fully spent and sated. You turned on your side to face him, dragging a finger along the fine layer of hair covering the expanse of his chest. He reached an arm across your back to pull the edge of the cloak you laid upon up and over your lower bodies to provide some protection from the sun beaming overhead, though he marveled at the way its light danced along your bare skin.

When the silk had settled over you, he stretched one arm behind his head to look upon you better and with the opposite, reached forward to stroke the skin of your cheek with the backs of his fingers.

“Your skin is flushed,” he murmured, a tender smile playing on his pink lips.

A laugh tumbled from your throat as you regarded him keenly, “And who’s to blame for that, I wonder?”

“If worshiping your body is wrong,” Gil Galad mused as he leaned forward to nip at your chest, which was already littered with purple-blue marks from the way he’d suckled your skin. “Let me never be right. Place all blame on me and judge me guilty.”

His eyes glittered in the afternoon sun and you saw the promise of his words reflected back at you in them. You pressed a featherlight kiss to his lips and moaned into his open mouth as his arm tightened around your back, as if he could bring you closer together than you already were.

“Never doubt the love I have for you,” he breathed as he touched his forehead to yours. “In these dark times, it is the light that guides me through each peril; the star that will always lead me home to you.”

“How could I ever doubt that which you make so clear to me in every word you speak and every gentle touch you place upon my skin?”

“Then let me declare it to all who dwell in our kingdom,” he said resolutely, eyes brightening.

A huff of laughter tumbled from your lips at the sudden excitement gleaming in his eyes.

“Wed me.”

Your smile faltered as you searched his features for a sign that he was joking, but all you found was determination. “What?” was all you could manage to stammer out.

His smile widened as he propped himself up on one elbow, his dark hair falling in a curtain across his shoulder as he smoothed an arm down your bicep.

“Let us be wed,” he repeated. “In this place, in this valley. Let the first act in defiance of the spreading darkness be one of love. Marry me.”

Tears brimmed along your lashes as he withdrew the ring adorning his pinky finger and held it before you. Sunlight reflected off the thin gold band and the sapphire adorning it gleamed brightly in the afternoon rays.

“When the time came, I thought—” his voice caught in his throat. He pressed his lips together as he looked down at the ring, a deep sadness entering his gaze. “I thought I might have Lord Celebrimbor craft you a ring fit for a royal of our realm, but now…” A tear slipped from the corner of his eye and you watched as it slid down his cheek. He ran his finger along the smooth gold and held it tightly. You cupped his cheek in your hand, wiping the tear away with your thumb and he leaned into your palm, finding solace in the warmth of your touch. With a deep breath, he continued. “This was the last ring he’d made for me before crafting the Three and I know he’d be honored by my asking you to wear it for all our lives and with it, bind yourself to me and me to you.”

He gazed up at you then from beneath his lashes, eyes sad yet hopeful. “I come before you now, not as a King, but as a lover; as your partner, your equal in every way.” His brow rose as an almost shy smile curved the corners of his mouth. “Say yes and I’ll spend the rest of my immortal life loving you with all that I am.”

You bit down on your lip, eyes flickering between his and the ring he held before you.

“Yes,” you whispered, lips trembling as you smiled and threw your arms around him, knocking the wind from his lungs as he fell back against the sandy bank. You pressed your lips against his and murmured the word again and again. “In this lifetime and every henceforth.”

Gil Galad pushed himself upright into a sitting position, and you with him. You turned in his lap so that you were facing him and wrapped your legs around his waist. The High King took your left hand in his and you splayed your fingers so he could slip the ring onto your finger.. “It fits you better than it did me,” he mused with a soft smile on his lips.

You held your hand up to the light where you could both admire its beauty. “The Lord of Eregion truly was the greatest of Elven smiths. I should’ve liked to have told him that.”

“One day,” Gil Galad said as he took hold of your hand in his. “When our time to sail comes, he’ll be there to greet us on silver shores and we can rejoice in the sorrows and joys of our lives, including this moment; which I know will forever remain my singular and most treasured.”

And as the sun parted between the trees once more, the wind gently stirring their green and golden boughs; you could see forever staring back at you in the eyes of the High King alongside a firm hope for a brighter tomorrow at his side.

[tootoomanycats]

Hi.

I think it’s a travesty that Gil-Galad has barely a crumb of fanfics or even head canons.

So I’m working on something to add to that sexy, sassy, big boy’s fandom.

I definitely have a type, and it’s men who have their shit together, have goals and a very good sense of self control but are pent up…so I can watch them snap.

This is rough draft, unedited and just thrown down to keep my idea going but dang nabbit, the thirsty folks deserve a drink!

I present the first teaser for *drum roll*

The Plan

UPDATE: 1/27/2025 First chapter has been posted HERE!

Desperation pushed you to find the guest quarters and put distance between the High King and yourself. After what you just did, you can’t look him in the eye, gods you don’t want look yourself in the eye.

Dammit, was that the same door with a potted plant you passed a few minutes ago? You were going in circles, fast pacing, and red faced from embarrassment. He knew, he had to know you were lost and still Gil-Galad followed while offering no help in your escape from him.

“How long shall I expect you to hide away this time? I was under the impression that it was too precious to waste-being as short as it is.” Gil-Galad knew that his words were sharp, their sarcasm laced like a blade with poison. He could feel his pride pulsing like an open wound after what you just did. Emotions raw from weeks of you seesawing both towards and away from him.

“How dare you!” Came your rage in a whispered hiss, spinning on your heels to glare at the tall elf who followed behind so closely.

How dare he?

Gil-Galad could feel his neck heat as the temperance of his frustration grew. He was not the one disillusioned from reality. “I believe the offense is mine to have. For I was not the one to run and cower after you kis-“

“Shush! Don’t you dare finish that sentence.”

Not once in the entirety of his life time, centuries long that it was, has anyone ever dared to ‘shush’ him. His posture straightened, the tips of his ears faintly hued red as frustration turned to insult.

“First you run is cowardice from your own actions, now you not only refuse to acknowledge them but have the gall to shush me?” He glared from where he stood, watching as each word cut through your panic and your eyes shamefully turned to the ground.

Gil-Galad’s pride raged like that of a wounded beast trapped behind the bars of well trained control. Had he not been kind in taking in you and your small group? Housed and feed you, treated the wounded and sick to health, all to see your worries lessen?

He had no expectation of receiving anything in return, other than a thank you for the kindness- which you and your small group had given ample times over. Nor was no expectation to have the fluttering feeling of attraction reciprocated, his only hope was to continue the friendship he enjoyed in your company.

But he did not deserve the inconsistencies of your actions and words. Spinning his minds thoughts and hopes in circles that dizzied and confused. So many times you flirted back, even flirting boldly at him, flustering him. How much he had held self control in his desires to reach out to you, feel the grasp of your hand in his. Even for you lean on him when sitting together.

Just moments ago when you kissed him so tenderly, he had been frozen, his mind trying to confirm what he had hoped for had finally come true. But before he could reciprocate the action, you fled. No more. He could take this no more.

Update post for this story here -----> Update 10/17/24

Update #2 for this story here ----➡️ Update 12/26/24

[poetryvampire]

✨️trop men and if they could get you off based mostly on vibes ✨️

💕Now to level the playing field let's give a simple y/n on if they could get the job done during your first time together and the overall mood of the evening. Mildly nsfw (I'm not gonna get too detailed...unless 👀)

Adar💀 Yes. Woof, not to get too crass right off the bat but daddy is the name he earned so yes absolutely. Also brace yourself it will be kinkier than you think and it will awaken something in you. And it would start off painfully slow just easing you into it lightly. Seems like a great opportunity to try things you've been curious about but beware you're getting into like five kinks that haven't even crossed you mind before. One minute you're having a romantic candle lit dinner then Bam youre wearing a chain collar with his name on it.

Elrond 😇 Oh, god bless. No. Baby I'm sorry but no. That being said it would still be a great time with really positive vibes. But Elrond would get too in his own head thinking about options and the best 'plan of attack' to actually deliver. Plus he would play it super safe not wanting to off put you in anyway and thus would kill the passion a bit. Still would be the biggest sweetheart and over all give you a fun time. (Give him time to build his confidence though lotr Elrond Fucks for sure)

Halbrand 🐶 LISTEN Listen listen...No. Hear me out. I just-I feel it in my blood that this guy will rizz you so hard and talk such a big game and than when he time comes it's just ok at best. Like he's made at least one person come before and thinks he has cracked the code. Still his heart's (seemingly) in the right place and its pretty romantic over all. Lots and lots of cuddling.

Annatar 🐱 Yes. And it's amazing but the vibes are terrible. He gets way too intense too fast. He's the kind of guy to say some really weird shit during. Like not even anything dirty just waxing poetic about how you're part of each now and the bond of your bodies is inescapable even in death. And he waaay into talking about how you belong to him now and you're just like?? Is he just talking crazy in the heat of the moment or ?? Also no aftercare and he's 100% gone when you wake up.

Arondir 🏹 Yes. And it's Good but not as romantic as you were hoping. He's into you but Arondir def doesn't realize what a catch he is and is surprised that you're so here for him. Also buddy's got a lot going on so he's still gonna be pretty guarded emotionally. Still he's extremely respectful and such a good kisser like he's got your head spinning and you've barely started.

Elendil 🗡 No. But he tries hard and it's a great time. He's kinda got that big puppy Halbrand thing going on but like genuine. Def more into you than you are him. Elendil will rizz you with care. Pays very close attention to what you like/want. Even if it doesnt happen he's fine with talking about it, even makes a few light jokes at his expense. He's terribly good at putting you at ease. By the end of the night you're more smitten than you first thought.

Celebrimbor 💍 Yes. Are you kidding me?We're talking mastery, we're talking attentiveness, we're talking about a very smitten old man that's going to court you with his whole heart. The vibes are impeccable and he's going to make it known that taking care of you is his top priority. Additionally I can't explain why but you know this man's head game is god tier.

Gil Galad 🏵 Yes. Don't even get me started on how this man is gonna rock your world. The high king is a big guy so it's go big or go home when it comes to love and affection. He doesn't allow himself to pursue romance often but when he does he goes hard. In terms of the act itself and the amount of extravagance and detail he'd put into wooing you. Plus cmon you know he's stressed and pent up as hell. Brace yourself for being be absolutely worshipped All night. You're in for a wicked case of jelly legs and you're not going anywhere.

[ohnogovno]

rings of power season 2 light spoilers. x reader fic ideas for the second season of rings of power, these are more concepts than fully fleshed out ideas, please feel free to use!

celebrimbor: you traveled with galadriel and halbrand in S1, you arrive at Eregion injured, celebrimbor is a good friend and is mortified to see you so injured, helps take care of you as the elvish rings are made (and after). also anything with fluff or him being affectionate. maybe you resided in Eregion for a long time before your travels with galadriel and celebrimbor was worried that he had missed his shot with you.

annatar: met you as halbrand, jealous of your closeness to celebrimbor in Eregion, tries to get your attention, maybe tells you stories of Valinor/ the Valar, etc. maybe when he “reveals himself” to you and celebrimbor he heals your wounds to even further prove he is who he says he is.

sauron: MORE YES HELLO, you were a fellow maiar who accompanied sauron on his journey with melkor/morgoth and escaped adar just in time to not be “killed” as sauron was long ago. you saw the light shoot into the sky and felt the ice grip the land, and you ran, knowing the uruk would be coming for you next (having at least equal blame for the uruks’ suffering). you ran across middle earth, moving from town to town before adars forces could find you. you end up in the final town that adar plunders before the numenorian forces arrive and you are reunited with your “king of the southlands”. halbrand thought adar had killed you long ago but this was a pleasant surprise, his queen was with him again. he takes you to eregion with galadriel and eventually reveals himself to celebrimbor, while you reveal yourself as another heavenly visitor.

adar: you were one of the first age elves taken by morgoth/melkor, before you were fully corrupted by morgoth or sauron, adar lets you go (or can’t bring himself to stop you from escaping). you spend time in lindon recovering, eventually travel with galadriel to help her look for sauron (while you look for adar). you reunite in the southlands before Mt. Doom erupts, he keeps you close to him in Mordor.

elrond: you and elrond were not so easily convinced to whole heartedly support the wearing of the elvish rings. he goes to you for comfort (when he was on the run or when he was back in Gil Galad’s trust). maybe he’s in Eregion when you come back injured from Mordor with halbrand and galadriel and he stays with you as you heal. maybe halbrand starts showing too much interest in you while in Eregion and elrond doesn’t like it one bit.

gil galad: (lord is this man tall, and all the close up’s on his hands are doing me no good) literally anything for gil galad. please.

nsfw ideas: you’ve taking a walk in the outskirts of the forest with one of the elves, you stumble upon a flower (s*x pollen).

[youlikefanficdontyousquidward]

All the Kings horses

Summary: When your injured in Eregion Gil-Galad has to confess his feelings.

There may be a smutty sequel to this in time but for now enjoy another shorter fic.

This morning you were reveling in the beauty of Lindon, admiring the golden leaves drifting through the gentle breeze and singing songs of hope and love with your kin. Now you sat on horse back, clad in your silver armor and preparing to march to Eregion.

You rode just behind your dear friend Elrond with the High King beside him. As the current captain of the King's guard had been sent with most of Lindon's forces to march into Mordor it fell to the few left to take up his mantle. The responsibility weighed heavy on your mind. Sure you weren't the only one who would be ensuring his safety but to you it was a personal matter.

You'd met the young High King when you were a simple foot soldier. You had fought under his banner against the forces of Morgoth. There you saw him on the battle field, his broad form clashing against the enemy. His spear glinting in the light as he spun it with a grace that left you speechless. He was every bit the King you'd imagined and when his firm grasp clasped your hand to help you rise, you swore you'd fight for him until the end.

It had been an age since then and you were sure he had not remembered one soldier from such a battle. Still he had always treated you with respect despite your low rank. Asking your opinion on trivial matters, or sharing with you a book or two to enjoy in your free time.

When the horses stopped to rest, you dismounted and took your post. You were unsure why you'd been ordered to stand guard inside the King's tent. The honor rightfully should have gone to higher ranked guard but you were not about to question your temporary captain. Not when the power had gone right to her head and not when it let you gaze at your King.

Elrond entered and you bowed your head to him with a smirk but there was no levity to be found. His face was serious as he placed a hand on your shoulder. He passed on to speak to your King and you were left feeling more apprehensive about the battle to come.

It was a bad omen indeed and when the fighting began you stayed back with King GIl-Galad and a few of the guards. As Elrond had explained they need only fend off the orcs until dawn. By then Prince Durin would've brought his army from Khazad-dum for much needed reinforcements. Too many had already fallen and you felt your hands itch for your sword.

"Enough!" Your King growled. "I will not stand by as my people are slaughtered."

There was no argument, none of the guards dared disobey and from the firm nods of your kin you knew it was settled. You rode in formation, the bow man taking out threats as you made your way into the fray.

From horse back you struck down at closing in orcs, keeping yourself between them and your King. As your group neared the cleared river bed the bow man was struck. You'd barely known him, just another face you passed in your duties but you'd done so for 200 years. Now that face struck the wet ground with a snap you could hear over the cries of battle. There was a shout and the elleth flanking the King went flying off her horse as it fell. You rode on, catching a glimpse of her fighting against a gathering group of orcs.

You stayed by King Gil-Galad through the night, fighting by his side as the field grew quieter. You met Elrond on the field, loosing a throwing knife to strike an assailant coming up behind him. You lost your 2nd and 3rd in close combat, to the eye and toe of orcs.

You lost the last when it became lodged in the skull of an orc that almost clipped the King's armor. You'd had it in hand and leapt onto the beast, knocking it down and stabbing up through the mouth. You heaved in deep breathes, the prolonged fight starting to wear on you and rose from off the corpse.

Gil-Galad stood, haloed by the first light of dawn. His hair loose and glowing stands dancing in the breeze. Morning had come and a horse stood on the hill. Vorohil had returned and worse for wear. Despite the arrows he managed to ride to you, collapsing into Elrond but he brought no comfort. The dwarves were not coming.

Still your King called you to ranks and the battle continued. Each sword slash felt like you were trying to stop the flow of a great river. No matter how many fell the fight never stopped. You were pushed back past the wall into Eregion, baring witness to the city in ruins. You could not abandon hope now however, with each moment you fought on those within the city were granted time to escape.

Pain erupted from your leg, an arrow piercing into the flesh of your thigh. You screamed before blocking the orc approaching, crashing your head past the joint blades and crushing their nose with your helm. It fell loose and clattered against the stone path, rolling to stop by the feet of an approaching horde.

You stepped back, meeting your King against you. In a moment of silent connection you knew he was seeing much the same thing. You'd lost sight of Elrond some streets back and hoped that somehow he'd appear now. Slaying his way to rescue his King.

You fought on but in the narrow passage you lost your sword. You heard Gil-Galad call your name but you couldn't see him in the mass of orc's beating down on you.

Your mind seemed to swim in to the depths, going dark and blank for many minutes at a time before you surfaced for a moment. In blinks it seemed you went from face down on the carved stone of the street to your arms painfully gripped as your limp body dragged after you. Flashes of carnage, orc, elf, blood, viscera, all blurring into a collage of suffering. In the dark of your mind you smelt burning but couldn't draw the strength to open your eyes. The warm sensation trickling from your hairline, down your face was a likely culprit.

"Lord Sauron said we don't need these ones..." A nasally voice spoke near by.

Your hair was pulled painfully, jolting your head back and for a moment you could see again. Gil-Galad, your King and the only elf to ever take such root in your heart, strained against his captors. Something cold touched your throat but in the haze you were back in Lindon, receiving your armor for the first time since the war. Elrond was there too, shouting, congratulations maybe? Everything was perfect and tranquil. The leaves fell gently on the wind and you shut your eyes.

When they opened again all you knew was pain. So loud it thrummed in your head that all else seemed drowned out by it. You groaned against it, shifting to try assess cause. A large hand landed on your shoulder and you flinched.

"Apologies." A strained voice spoke withdrawing. "Just take a moment."

Your hand came up to your face, rubbing against the brightness of the light ahead. It came away with russet flakes sticking to your fingers.

"And perhaps we don't reopen our head wounds while we're at it." Gil-Galad's voice came crisper now.

"Wher..." You began, jolting suddenly and reaching for your missing sword.

Gil-Galads hands took your own, encompassing them with ease and radiating in you such calm that you forgot your pounding heart.

"Safe, my dearest friend." He smiled, brighter than the sun and no less warm.

Your heart stuttered in your chest at his words. You'd think it was some trick of your injured head but his hands were still holding your own and his face a serene mask. His eyes left your own for a moment, focusing on your lap as his thumb brushed gently over your bruised knuckles.

"I thought I may have lost you. That years of deluding myself that it was for our best interest that I say nothing, would have robbed me of this chance." Gil-Galad murmured.

He didn't sound himself and you began to worry. You shifted your hands in his to clasp them. You gave a reassuring squeeze and kept focused on his softening features. His brow lifted and those dark eyes met your own again.

"Please, If this isn't what you wish say the word and you will never hear another syllable about it." Gil-Galad promised but you kept your lips sealed.

"I have loved you too long from afar. I wish for you to be by my side from now until the end of all things. I wish to hear you sing and laugh and tell those awful jokes that you tell when you think I'm not listening. I want all of you and all I have to give is me and my burdens." Gil-Galad professed.

You had no words, no eloquent speech of your own just a hand taken and laid on his shoulder and lips pressed to his own. Gil-Galad responded in kind, his hand coming to cup your cheek as he deepened the kiss.

"They are no burdens." You manage between kisses. "Not when shared with you."

This seems to spur him on, nipping at your lower lip and moving his hand up into your hair. You hiss suddenly, pulling back as the reminder of your pain pulses to life again.

"Sorry my love." Gil-Galad apologises with a chaste kiss to your temple. "There will be time when you're healed."

You pout at this, earning a hearty laugh and another soft kiss against your lips. You supposed you'd waited this long for him, what was another day.

[lady-raidia]

You guys are crazy! 😭 My Gil-Galad story "Forest Heart" blew up the last few days and over 100 people interacted with that post! 😭Thank you so so so much, I can't believe the love you are giving my little story! 😭💕 I know that part 2 was long due, that's why as a little thank you, I finally managed to write the next part for Fores Heart. I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it! 💕

@lucypaulette @elifereinion - you two left such nice comments, I hope you enjoy part two as well! 😭💕

You can find part one here: Forest Heart

WHISPERS OF A HEART 🌿

Pairing: Gil-Galad x Reader

Summary: Part II of "Forest Heart" - The celebrations are grand but your soul feels tired. When you wander under the moonlight, you get lost in the eyes of the king.

Warnings: None!

🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿

Two days. Two days since your heart and soul stumbled upon the High King in the woods. And for two days you can’t get him out of your head. You still feel embarrassed by being so careless, but the fear that you might have insulted him by not addressing him properly vanished quickly. Yesterday and the day before, Elrond and you spent some time in the gardens, talking about dwarves, eagles and dragons.  After he scolded you for ignoring his words. But while you talked and laughed about various stories you have heard, wandering around to enjoy the sunshine on your face, you could see the king from the distance. On both days he was trying to enjoy a walk but on both days different people gathered around him, asking questions, reporting problems or sharing information. You could see it in his face, his tired soul and shattered mind. But when his eyes met you from a distance, his whole being lit up. It was only for a moment but it electrified your whole body. And the past two days you both spend glancing at each other from far away, while the words you both want to say stay hidden.

But tonight, you have to focus on your friend. The celebrations are in honor of Galadriel and her troop and you have to give her the attention she deserves. The festivities are grand, the food is great and your feet already hurt from all the dancing. You start to feel exhausted by your surroundings, even though the celebrations are far from being over. You excuse yourself, telling your friends that you will be back, that you just need some time for yourself.

You leave the noise of the festivities behind you while you seek refuge in the gardens, breathing in the cool night air. These quiet moments are your home; stepping away from the crowdedness of Lindon, away from the conversations and laughter that feel too far removed from the peace you have known all your life. Tonight, though, the restlessness lingers.

You keep on walking, taking in the sight of the flowers bathing in the moonlight, the grass shimmering with dew. But your attention quickly moves elsewhere. Standing alone beneath a large tree, the moonlight casts a pale glow on his dark hair. It’s him. Gil-Galad. His back is facing you at first, but as you move closer, he turns around as if sensing your presence. Your eyes meet, just like all the times before. Except that there is no one else around—just him and you and the hidden words, that want to leave the darkness. There is a soft smile on his lips, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Something about him feels distant, his mind occupied by thoughts far heavier than you can imagine.

“It is the second time that I have met you under the moonlight.”, he speaks while his eyes never leave yours. “It is peaceful under the moonlight, something we both seem to value.” You pause for a moment, trying to calm your heart which beats stronger and faster with every second. “Do you often seek silence away from others?”, you ask softly, even though you already know the answer. Gil-Galad’s smile deepens a little, though his gaze remains distant. “More often than I care to admit. The burden of a crown is heavy,” he replies, his voice barely above a whisper. He looks toward the trees, the quiet peace of the garden offering no rest from the weight on his shoulders. “But between the trees and under the glimmering moon, I can forget it for a while.” With one hand he reaches out to touch the tree next to him, his touch is gentle, as if he is scared to break something sacred.

Without thinking, entranced by him, you step closer. Your mind does not fully understand why you feel the urge to be closer to him, but your heart already knows. It always knew that fate waited for you under the moonlight. “It is the heaviest of burdens, one that can not be shared. I am glad you can find peace in nature, the leaves may not understand the heavy task that was laid upon you but they can offer a welcoming retreat.” You step next to him, looking at the tree in front of you.

There is a pause, and when he finally shifts his head to look at you, his gaze is soft but searching, as if he is trying to find something within you … “You understand the need for peace.,” he says. “I have seen it in you. It is as though you carry a sense of peace within you that the rest of us have long lost.” His words pull at something inside you, a feeling you thought to have shaken off. “I don’t if it is peace … Perhaps a longing. A longing to belong somewhere. I believe to have found my place between flowers and trees, far away from everyone. But … I am not sure anymore if that truly is where I belong. Or if I belong at all.”, you admit, looking up to the sky before you turn your gaze to the king next to you. His eyes meet yours fully now, and for a moment, the vulnerability inside your soul is gone.

“You are not like anyone I have ever met,” he says quietly, the words almost slipping out before he can catch them. “There is something about you … something I can’t quite explain.” Your heart flutters at his confession, and you take another step closer, close enough to feel the warmth of his presence. “I don’t know what it is either,” you whisper, your voice barely audible. “But I have felt it since I arrived.”

The air between the two of you is heavy with unspoken words, but both of your hearts feel a sense of lightness when you are around each other. But the tension grows stronger with desire as his gaze drops to your lips for just a moment before returning to your eyes. His hand almost moves instinctively, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. His touch makes you shiver and you soon realize that you are absolutely bewitched by him.

“You make it easy to forget,” he murmurs, his voice filled with a vulnerability you have never heard from him before. His fingers linger near your cheek, the warmth of his hand a stark contrast to the cool night air. “When I am with you, it is as though the weight of the world disappears.”

Your breath catches in your throat, and for a moment, all you can do is look at him. The moonlight reflects in his eyes and it is as if you are looking at Valinor itself. The soft glow, the promise of a new dawn, when you allow it – you feel something shift inside of you; a pull stronger than any duty or fear. Without thinking, your hand moves to rest on his chest, feeling his heart beating fast beneath your fingertips.

“I don’t want to be someone who complicates things for you,” You speak with fear but in your chest, you can feel hope. Words don’t matter anymore.

His hand moves to cover yours, holding it gently against his chest. “It is already complicated.”, he admits, his voice low. “But for once, I don’t care.”

And before you can say anything more, he closes the little distance that was left between you, his lips finding yours. The kiss is as tender as the rising sun, as tender as the smell of dewy grass in the morning. The world seems to stop, time suffocates in the softness of this moment, and all you can feel is him – his warmth, his breath, the way his hands gently hold you as if afraid you might slip away.

The kiss is brief, but it leaves you both breathless, your heart racing as you pull back just enough to meet his gaze again. His eyes are filled with the same vulnerability, the same uncertainty that you feel deep in your chest. But there is also hope, a wish for a golden future.

“I shouldn’t –“ he begins, but the words die on his lips, as if even he doesn’t believe them anymore. You shake your head softly, your hand still resting on his chest. “Neither should I,” your voice is trembling slightly. “But maybe … maybe for once, we don’t have to think about what we should or shouldn’t do.”

For a long moment, he says nothing, his eyes searching yours, and then he pulls you close again, resting his forehead against yours. There, in the quietness of the garden, you both hold each other, whispering sweet promises of a new dawn. The moonlight had brought you together and even though the future is uncertain, your feelings are not. The burden of a king remains heavy, but his heart finally found peace in your soul.

[earthlybeam]

Hi, I just recently started rewatching and getting back into the Hobbit and LOTR and I found your blood and I’m in love with it. I love the way you write and how you portray the characters so well. If you’re still writing for LOTR and are accepting requests then could I ask how you think the elves (Legolas, Thranduil, and Elrond plus whoever else you like) would react to an aggressively affectionate reader? Like for example, with cuteness aggression, randomly when the reader sees Legolas and thinks he’s cute, they end up jumping on him and tackling him, possibly squeezing him extremely hard in a hug. The reader’s acts of aggression affection are random and happen whenever and wherever. The reader just loves their elf so much that they cannot control themselves. Please and thank you

Welcome back to the wonderful world of The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings! It’s always exciting to revisit Middle-earth, and I’m so glad you’re enjoying it all over again. 🎉 And wow—thank you so much for your kind words! That truly means the world to me. Writing for these characters is such a joy, and knowing that you love how I portray them makes it even more special. 🫶 I absolutely love your idea! The contrast between the elves’ usual grace and composure and a reader who just cannot contain their love is hilarious and adorable. 🤣🤌

Thranduil, Elrond, Legolas and I added Gil-galad all versions below.

🍷𝓣𝓱𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓾𝓲𝓵

The grand halls of Thranduil’s palace shimmered with the golden light of lanterns, their glow casting long, elegant shadows across the polished stone floor. Delicate carvings of twisting vines and woodland creatures adorned the archways, the very walls seeming to hum with ancient whispers of the forest. It was a place of quiet grandeur, of timeless elegance.

And standing near the entrance, draped in robes of deep forest green, was Thranduil—King of the Woodland Realm, ruler of the elves of Mirkwood, a figure of both awe and intimidation. His silver circlet rested regally upon his head, catching the flickering light with an almost ethereal glow. His expression was composed, unreadable, though there was a certain tightness at the corners of his mouth—an unspoken exasperation that only those who truly knew him might recognize.

He should have already been on his way, attending to whatever pressing matter awaited him beyond these halls. He had responsibilities, duties, obligations that demanded his attention. And yet… He could not move.

Because there you were—wrapped around his leg like an overgrown, determined koala, clinging as if your very life depended on it. The long, elegant lines of his robes pooled around you as you anchored yourself to him, arms and legs locked in a vice-like grip. Your cheek was pressed against the fine embroidery of his outer cloak, and from the way you stubbornly tightened your hold, it was clear you had no intention of letting go anytime soon.

Thranduil’s sharp, ice-blue gaze flicked downward, his expression a mask of pure disbelief. “…What,” he intoned, his voice as smooth as polished glass, “do you think you are doing?” You barely lifted your head, merely nuzzling further into the warmth of his robes. “No.” A single, elegant brow arched. “No?” You buried your face fully against the intricate designs woven into his attire, voice muffled but determined. “You’re leaving.”

“I am the King,” he reminded you coolly, the words carrying the weight of centuries of command. “I have responsibilities.”

“I don’t care,” you mumbled. Your grip tightened like a vice. “You’re too pretty to leave.” A long, heavy pause. Somewhere in the vast expanse of the hall, a nearby guard shifted awkwardly, very pointedly averting his gaze, as if pretending he wasn’t witnessing this absurd display. The soft rustle of banners and the faint flickering of candlelight were the only sounds that filled the air.

Thranduil exhaled a slow, suffering breath. By the stars, why were you like this? He could handle many things. He had led his people through war and shadow, navigated the treacherous politics of Middle-earth, survived centuries of rule in a realm beset by growing darkness. He had faced down dragons, battled the forces of Sauron, endured loss and grief that could break lesser beings. But this? This unrelenting, absurd display of affection that completely ignored all notions of decorum, personal space, and reason? He did not know what to do with you. “You will release me at once,” he commanded, his voice edged with warning.

You shook your head. “No.” A muscle in his jaw twitched. Thranduil’s lips pressed into a thin line. He was a king. A ruler of elves. A warrior who had seen battle. And yet he was currently being held hostage by a stubborn, overaffectionate mortal who refused to let go of his leg. “Do you truly intend to remain attached to me like this all day?”

“Yes.” Silence. The faintest flicker of something almost imperceptible crossed his features—something caught between frustration and bewilderment. His fingers twitched at his sides, as if considering his next move. Infuriating. Absolutely infuriating. And yet, despite the exasperation curling in his chest, there was something else, something he could not quite name. A warmth. A quiet amusement, buried so deep beneath layers of centuries-old restraint that it barely made itself known. No one had ever dared to cling to him like this. Not as a king. Not as a warrior. Not as Thranduil.

He was Thranduil, son of Oropher, King of the Woodland Realm. His presence alone was enough to command both awe and fear. Yet you clung to him like he was just… yours. He sighed heavily, lifting a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose, as if summoning patience he did not have. And then, without another word, he moved. In one fluid, effortless motion, he bent down, wrapped an arm around your waist, and lifted you clean off the ground. The world tilted. You let out a small yelp as you were suddenly airborne. “Hey—!”

He adjusted you in his arms with practiced ease, cradling you against his chest as if you weighed nothing at all. His grip was firm but careful, one arm secured around your lower back while the other supported you effortlessly. “If you insist on behaving like a child,” he murmured, his tone smooth and unimpressed, “then I shall carry you as one.”

You blinked up at him, momentarily stunned. The sheer ease with which he had lifted you left you momentarily speechless. He didn’t even seem strained. The scent of his robes—fresh pine, autumn leaves, and something distinctly Elven—wrapped around you, grounding you in his presence. For a moment, all you could do was stare. And though his expression remained regal, unreadable, you did not miss the way his grip subtly lingered.

Without another word, he began walking. Through the grand halls, past the ever-watchful eyes of his guards, Thranduil carried you as though you were nothing more than an inconvenient parcel he had been forced to bring along. His posture remained flawless, his pace even, utterly unaffected by your weight. You, however, grinned up at him, mischief dancing in your eyes. “See?” you hummed, tilting your head in his arms. “This is nice.” Thranduil did not dignify you with a response. Instead, he merely muttered something in Elvish under his breath—something you suspected was not particularly flattering. But he did not let go.

📜 𝓔𝓵𝓻𝓸𝓷𝓭

The Council of Elrond was meant to be a place of solemn discussion, a gathering of minds to determine the fate of Middle-earth. It was a time for wisdom, for deliberation, for diplomacy. It was not meant for this. At the head of the long table, Elrond stood with effortless grace, a pillar of composure and dignity. His robes, flowing and regal, caught the light of the midday sun filtering through the high arched windows of Rivendell’s great hall, the silken fabric shifting with the movement of his breath. His hands, long and elegant, rested lightly upon the polished wood as he spoke, his voice measured, calm, and steady—each word imbued with the weight of centuries.

The gathered council members—elves, dwarves, and men alike—listened intently, their expressions ranging from grave contemplation to hesitant agreement. Some nodded in silent accord, others furrowed their brows as they pondered his wisdom, but all remained enraptured by the Lord of Rivendell’s presence.

His back was turned to you. And you, seated among the others, were watching him—watching the way he carried himself, poised yet powerful, a figure carved from both wisdom and war. He was too graceful, too composed, too breathtaking for his own good. And you loved him. You loved him so much it made something in your chest ache. Which was why, in an act of pure, unfiltered instinct, you launched yourself from your seat and sprinted toward him at full speed.

The world blurred at the edges. There was no room for thought, no space for hesitation—only the singular, all-encompassing need to be close to him. The air rushed past you, the murmuring voices of the council fading into the distance, drowned out by the pounding of your heart and the sudden intake of breath from those around you. Elrond, for all his centuries of wisdom and foresight, had precisely half a second to sense the shift in atmosphere before it was too late.

The impact was swift and merciless. Your weight collided into him with full force, your arms locking around his shoulders just as your momentum propelled him forward. A startled inhale—sharp, indignant, and vaguely resembling a half-formed Elvish curse—escaped him as he pitched forward, his long fingers shooting out to brace himself against the council table. The polished wood groaned under the sudden weight of an Elf-lord and his very enthusiastic assailant.

Scrolls tumbled to the floor in an unceremonious cascade of parchment. A goblet tipped onto its side, spilling deep red wine dangerously close to a very alarmed dwarf, who yelped and jerked his legs away just in time. A quill snapped in half beneath an abandoned tome. Someone audibly gasped.

And you? You clung to him like your life depended on it. Elrond exhaled, slowly and deliberately, his forehead lowering to meet the table in what could only be described as the ultimate gesture of long-suffering patience. His back remained straight despite the additional weight, his arms still outstretched in a bracing position, his chest rising and falling in a manner that suggested he was counting to ten in Quenya before deciding how best to proceed.

The council chamber had fallen into absolute silence. Elrond did not move. Neither did you. The only sound was the faint rustling of fabric as you nestled against him, your face buried in the crook of his neck, your breath warm against his skin. A long, long sigh escaped him. “Mellon nín,” he said at last, his voice as even as ever, though beneath it lay a complex weave of emotions—resignation, exasperation, and, buried so deep it was nearly imperceptible, the tiniest sliver of amusement. “Was this absolutely necessary?”

Without lifting your head, you nuzzled into his shoulder, entirely unrepentant. “Yes.” His fingers twitched where they lay upon the table—whether from the urge to pry you off or pull you closer, even he wasn’t entirely sure. A chair scraped against the stone floor as one of the men leaned forward, brow deeply furrowed. “…Is this… normal?” From his seat, Gandalf let out a quiet chuckle, stroking his beard with twinkling amusement. “Ah, young love,” he mused. “Quite… enthusiastic, in this case.”

Elrond closed his eyes briefly, as if beseeching the Valar for strength. He was a Lord of Rivendell. He had led armies into battle, forged alliances with kings, stood against the darkness of Sauron himself. And yet, here he was—bent over a council table, carrying the full weight of someone who had, quite literally, thrown themselves at him in the middle of one of the most important meetings in the history of Middle-earth.

Still pinned beneath you, still braced against the table, Elrond finally turned his head just enough for you to see his face. His expression was unreadable at first—his brows slightly drawn, his lips pressed into a firm line, the very image of composed dignity fraying at the edges. But there, in the smallest crease at the corner of his mouth, was something else.

A smirk. A very small, very restrained smirk. “Are you quite finished?” he murmured, voice pitched just low enough for only you to hear. You grinned against his shoulder, squeezing him just a little tighter. “Not even close.” Elrond inhaled deeply through his nose. He did not move. He did not protest. He simply accepted his fate.

🍃𝓛𝓮𝓰𝓸𝓵𝓪𝓼

The moonlight bathed the clearing in silver, casting an ethereal glow upon Legolas as he stood at the edge of the trees. The gentle night breeze stirred his golden hair, making him look like something out of a dream—untouchable, otherworldly, perfect. His sharp gaze was fixed on the distant horizon, lost in thought, the weight of centuries pressing upon his immortal soul. And then—A blur. A rush of footsteps. A sudden, breathless surge of movement cutting through the quiet of the night.

Before Legolas could fully register what was happening, an impact slammed into him with startling force. Strong arms wrapped around his torso, squeezing with unrelenting affection. His body staggered back under the sheer intensity of it, boots skidding against the soft earth, his normally impeccable balance momentarily thrown off. His hands instinctively caught hold of the figure assaulting him, fingers gripping tightly to steady both of them.

His first thought? An ambush? No—there was no malice, no danger. Only warmth. Only the frantic beating of a heart pressed against his chest, the breathless laughter of the one person in Middle-earth who would dare launch themselves at an Elven warrior in such a reckless manner.

“Mellon nîn—” he exhaled, his voice a mix of bemusement and disbelief. Youonly clung tighter, your face buried against his shoulder, arms locked around his waist in an unbreakable grip. “You’re too pretty,” you mumbled into his tunic, your voice muffled but no less desperate in its declaration. “I can’t take it anymore.”

Legolas blinked, his mind catching up with the absurdity of the situation. Was this… an attack of love? A soft chuckle rumbled in his chest, still breathless from the unexpected tackle. “And for this, you choose to strike me down?” he asked, amusement laced in his tone, though his arms had unconsciously wrapped around you in return.

You lifted your head slightly, your eyes gleaming with pure, unfiltered adoration. “Yes.” Your answer was simple, as if there was no other possible explanation. “You were standing there looking all beautiful and tragic under the moonlight, and I just—” You squeezed him tighter. “—I just had to do something about it.”

Legolas sighed, though the corners of his lips betrayed him by curving into a small, helpless smile. He was not used to this—this overwhelming, impulsive affection. Elves did not love in such a chaotic manner. Their passion was deep, but it was slow-burning, controlled, and tempered with time. But you… you loved as fiercely as a firestorm, with all the grace of a hurricane, and he—he was powerless against it.

“You are relentless,” he murmured, but there was no reprimand in his voice. Only quiet wonder. “Yes, I am.” You lifted your head fully now, eyes locked onto his, still latched onto him as though you had no intention of ever letting go. “And you’re stuck with me, so get used to it.”

Legolas simply looked at you, his arms still securely wrapped around your waist, his heart doing something strange and unfamiliar in his chest. He had faced countless battles, had stared down creatures of shadow and flame, had fought against the tides of darkness for centuries without flinching— And yet, here, held within your grasp, he felt utterly and completely conquered. “Then I shall endure it,” he murmured at last, his voice soft, reverent. “For as long as you wish it.”

🏵️𝓖𝓲𝓵-𝓰𝓪𝓵𝓪𝓭

Gil-galad sat in his study, his sharp blue eyes scanning the delicate script of an ancient elven manuscript. The flickering candlelight cast golden shadows across his regal features, highlighting the quiet intensity in his expression. His brows were slightly furrowed in concentration, his long fingers resting on the table as he contemplated the wisdom of ages past. His posture was perfect, dignified as always, radiating an air of calm authority.

But none of that mattered to you at this moment. Because as you sat across from him, watching his impossibly noble face, something inside you snapped. He was just too beautiful. Too serious. Too composed. And suddenly, an overwhelming need overtook you—a need so strong it nearly made you dizzy.

You had to squish his face. Before your rational mind could intervene, your hands shot forward, cupping his cheeks in your palms. His skin was smooth and cool beneath your touch, his cheekbones sharp yet softened by your fingers as you squeezed ever so slightly. His lips pursed slightly from the pressure, and his already strong jaw tensed in mild surprise.

Gil-galad froze. His piercing gaze, once lost in deep thought, now locked onto you with quiet disbelief. He did not pull away, did not even attempt to stop you—no, he simply blinked, utterly bewildered by what was happening to his very dignified royal face. “… What is this?” he finally asked, his voice calm but undeniably puzzled.

You barely heard him, too consumed by your own chaotic affection. His skin felt so soft. His cheekbones were so regal. He was like the world’s most serious, most elegant cat, and you could not help but give another gentle squeeze, watching as his expression remained caught between confusion and resigned amusement. “You’re too handsome for your own good,” you declared, your thumbs pressing lightly into the hollows of his cheeks. “It’s unfair. I had to do something about it.”

Gil-galad exhaled slowly, as if trying to process the sheer absurdity of the situation. Here he was, the High King of the Noldor, a warrior, a strategist, a ruler of Elves—and yet, here you were, treating him like a mischievous house pet in need of affectionate punishment. And the strangest part? He let you.

He did not remove your hands, did not chide you for your impulsiveness. He merely regarded you in silence, his face still gently smushed between your fingers, as if attempting to decipher how he had found himself in such a position. “If you are finished treating my face as though I were some—some petulant kitten…” he murmured, one brow lifting ever so slightly. You grinned, tilting his head slightly from side to side as if testing the optimal level of squish.

“… Not yet,” you admitted cheerfully. Another slow, measured blink. A pause. And then, ever so softly, the barest hint of a sigh—one that, if you listened closely enough, might have concealed a tiny trace of amusement. “Very well,” he relented, his deep voice tinged with something you almost mistook for indulgence. “Do as you must.” And so you did

[doodle-pops]

Foreign Hearts

Gil Galad x modern human!reader

A/N: At last, the final piece for the event of this year is out! I wanted to go out with a bang but I didn’t expect to write so much (ノ_･､). Enjoy!

Warnings:modern human reader, fluff, humour, modern reader in Middle Earth, relationship talk

Words: 3.7k

Synopsis: Reflecting on the secrecy of the love you’ve shared with the High King, turned into another romantic and heartwarming moment between you two.

The sun had just begun its slow descent, casting a golden hue over the serene landscape of Rivendell. The air was crisp and cool, carrying with it the sweet fragrance of blooming flowers and the gentle rustle of leaves. The melody of a distant waterfall filled the air, mingling with the song of birds that flitted through the trees. Rivendell was a place of peace, of beauty that seemed untouched by time, and it had become your sanctuary since that fateful day when you had mysteriously appeared in the forests nearby.

It had been months since you found yourself in Middle-earth, a place you had only known from the pages of books and the whispers of legends. One moment, you had been living your life in the modern world, surrounded by the familiar hum of technology and the bustle of city life; the next, you were wandering through a forest that seemed to belong to another time, another world entirely.

The elves who had found you, clad in their silver and green, had been as shocked by your appearance as you were by theirs. You were an anomaly, a puzzle they couldn’t quite piece together. Lord Elrond, the wise and kind ruler of Rivendell, had taken you in, offering you shelter and care as you adjusted to this strange new reality.

Living in Rivendell was like stepping into a dream—everything was so ethereal, so perfect, that you often had to pinch yourself to make sure it was real. Yet, despite the beauty around you, it was hard not to feel out of place. The elves, with their flowing robes, graceful movements, and ancient wisdom, seemed like beings from a different world altogether. Your modern speech, your casual mannerisms, even your sense of humour—things that had been perfectly normal back home—stood out starkly against the elegance of elven customs.

There were times when you caught the elves watching you with a mixture of curiosity and amusement, their ageless faces betraying their thoughts more than they likely realised. You had tried, at first, to conform to their ways, to adopt their formal speech and graceful etiquette. But it was exhausting to maintain, and eventually, you had accepted that you were simply different. You were a visitor in their world, and while you respected their ways, you couldn’t entirely change who you were.

It was during one of these quiet, introspective days that you first met Gil-galad.

The High King of the Noldor had arrived in Rivendell on a visit to consult with his Herald, Lord Elrond. You had heard of him in passing—the Elven king who ruled over Lindon, a figure of great authority and wisdom. But you hadn’t given it much thought, assuming that someone of his stature would have little reason to notice someone like you.

You were wrong.

The meeting had been as unexpected as everything else in Middle-earth. You had been wandering through one of the many gardens of Rivendell, lost in thought, when you nearly collided with someone. Looking up, you found yourself staring into the most striking pair of blue eyes you had ever seen. He was tall—taller than any of the other elves you had met—his presence commanding and regal, yet there was a warmth in his gaze that immediately put you at ease.

“Forgive me,” he had said, his voice smooth and deep, though the amused glint in his eyes told you he wasn’t at all displeased by the encounter.

You had stammered out an apology, feeling flustered and out of place in front of someone so imposing. But the King had only smiled, intrigued by your manner of speech—so different from the formal, melodic tones of the elves. His curiosity was piqued, and instead of continuing on his way, he had engaged you in conversation.

At first, you had been nervous, unsure of how to speak to someone of such high status. But as the conversation flowed, you found yourself relaxing. Gil-galad was different from what you had expected. He was charming and kind, with a sharp wit that matched your own. He seemed genuinely interested in your world, in your experiences, and you found yourself laughing and talking more freely than you had since you arrived in Middle-earth.

Over the course of his stay in Rivendell, you and the High King crossed paths often. Each encounter left you feeling a strange mixture of excitement and confusion. He was a King, after all, and you were… well, you weren’t even sure what you were anymore. Yet, there was no denying the connection that had begun to form between you. It was as though he saw past the strangeness of your situation and was drawn to the very things that made you different.

It was during one of these visits that he had gifted you the music box. A small, intricately carved thing made of mahogany, it played a melody that was hauntingly beautiful. You had been surprised, touched by the gesture, and from that moment on, the music box had become one of your most treasured possessions.

Now, as you sat on the stone bench in one of Rivendell’s many gardens, you found yourself once again lost in thought, the music box cradled in your hands. You had come here to find some peace, to escape the swirling thoughts and emotions that had been troubling you ever since your feelings for Gil-galad began to deepen.

The gardens were quiet, the air cool and filled with the scent of blooming flowers. The sun was low in the sky, casting a soft, golden light over everything. It was a perfect evening, the kind that made you forget, if only for a moment, that you were far from home.

“Does it not trouble you?”

The familiar, smooth voice pulled you from your reverie, and you looked up to see Gil-galad approaching, his expression curious and gentle. He was dressed in his usual attire—garments of silver and royal blue, the colors of his house—his presence as commanding as ever. He sat down beside you on the bench, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his body, but not so close as to make you uncomfortable.

You blinked, trying to shake off the fog of your thoughts as you focused on him. But your gaze was drawn to his lips, and for a moment, you couldn’t think of anything else. His lips, curved into that familiar teasing smile, held your attention, and your thoughts muddled together into a jumble of emotions.

He noticed your gaze and, with a smirk, leaned closer, his voice laced with amusement. “Is there something on my face, or rather, my lips, my love?” he teased, drawing out the moment, clearly enjoying your flustered reaction.

You felt heat rise to your cheeks, and you quickly looked away, focusing intently on the music box in your hands. Your fingers traced the delicate carvings, desperate for something to distract you from the fluttering in your chest. “Your teasing is going to get you into trouble one day, My King,” you muttered, your voice a mix of shyness and annoyance—though the latter was directed more at yourself than at him.

Gil-galad’s expression softened as he leaned back slightly, giving you a bit more space. “How many times must I remind you? You may call me Ereinion,” he said gently, though there was a hint of playful reproach in his tone.

You kept your eyes on the music box, refusing to look up and meet his gaze. “Once more…I suppose,” you replied quietly.

Silence settled between you as he continued to watch you, his eyes tracing the movements of your hands and the way you muttered softly to yourself in a language he couldn’t fully understand. Your mother tongue, ancient and melodic, was a lexicon from a world and age far removed from his own. Yet, despite the differences, he found comfort in these moments, in simply observing you in your element, even when the words escaped him.

“You are unhappy, are you not?” he asked, his voice gentle but laced with an undertone of certainty.

A smile tugged at your lips, as though his statement amused you, and for a brief moment, a crackle of energy filled the air, as if the very atmosphere responded to your unspoken thoughts. Setting the music box aside, you turned to face him, giving him the full weight of your attention. “Why would you come to such a conclusion, or rather, how?” you asked, disbelief coloring your tone. “I don’t recall ever giving the impression that I was.”

His expression softened, though there was a shadow of hurt in his eyes. “You do not address me by my name as lovers do,” he said quietly, his voice tinged with a sadness that pained you to hear. “It is almost as if you were embarrassed or uninterested in being with me. Is it because of our secrecy?”

And as the question hung in the air between you, you realised that this was a moment of truth, a moment when the feelings you had been trying to ignore could no longer be denied.

The weight of his words hung in the air, pressing against your chest like a heavy stone. Gil-galad’s expression, so often the picture of composed regality, was softened by the sadness in his eyes, a sadness that you had never intended to cause. But the truth, like the stone in your chest, was complicated and unyielding.

You reached out, your fingers brushing against his hand, warm and comforting as always. “Ereinion,” you began, the use of his name deliberate, a balm for the hurt you had unknowingly inflicted. “It’s not that I’m embarrassed or uninterested in being with you. Far from it.”

He turned his hand over to grasp yours, his thumb gently tracing circles on your palm. The simple gesture was comforting, grounding you in the moment as you searched for the right words. Words that would explain what you felt without causing him more pain.

“You have to understand,” you continued, your voice soft but steady, “I’m a human, Ereinion. A mortal. And that means…well, it means that I’m different from the people you’ve ruled and loved for centuries. I’ve seen how some of the elves speak about humans—like we’re nothing more than a fleeting thought in their minds. I know that not all of them feel that way, but enough do that it will make our relationship…complicated.”

His brows furrowed slightly, but he didn’t interrupt, simply listening as you voiced the thoughts you had kept buried for so long.

“You’re their High King, their leader, and their symbol of everything that is strong and eternal about the Eldar. And if they knew that you had chosen a human, someone who will live for only a blink of an eye compared to their long lives, to stand by your side…” You trailed off, shaking your head slightly. “I don’t think they would accept it. Not easily, anyway.”

He started to speak, but you held up your hand, a small smile playing on your lips as you looked at him, your heart swelling with affection. “It’s not just that, Ereinion. It’s also…well, I’m happy with things the way they are. Keeping our relationship a secret, it means I don’t have to deal with the expectations and judgments that would come if I were known as your chosen one. It’s a relief, honestly.”

You shifted slightly on the bench, feeling the smooth, cool wood beneath you as you gathered your thoughts. “When I first arrived in Middle-earth—when I was suddenly…here—I was lost. Confused. I didn’t understand your world or its customs. And despite the kindness I’ve been shown, especially by Lord Elrond, I still struggle with it. I’m not like the others. My behaviour, my speech, even the way I think, it’s all…different. I’ve spent over a year in Rivendell, learning and adapting as best I can, but there are times when I still feel like an outsider, like I don’t quite belong.”

The grip he held on your hand tightened slightly, a silent reassurance that he was there, that he understood. His eyes, so often filled with the weight of his responsibilities, now held only concern for you, his secret love.

“I’m not saying this to make you feel guilty,” you added quickly, seeing the flicker of guilt cross his features. “In fact, it’s the opposite. I’m grateful that we can keep our relationship private. It means I don’t have to deal with the pressure of being a ruler, of trying to prove my worth to people who might never accept me. I’ve heard how some of the elves speak of humans—how we’re seen as lesser, as irrelevant. I’ve witnessed the way they look down on us, dismiss us.”

You paused, meeting his gaze with a steady look. “There’s no way they would accept me as their leader. And that’s okay. I don’t need them to. I’m happy with my freedom, with not having to live up to impossible expectations or navigate the treacherous waters of court politics and finding myself crying in a corner every day of the week, anxiously. I’m content being your secret lover, someone who can love you without the weight of a crown on my head.”

A faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, making his expression softened further, the sadness giving way to a deep, abiding affection. “You are remarkable,” he said quietly, his voice filled with a kind of awe that made your heart skip a beat. “To find contentment in such circumstances…it’s not something many could do.”

You chuckled softly, the sound breaking the tension that had built between you. “Well, I’ve always been one to adapt, but not this time. Maybe if it was another human instead of me, they might enjoy the idea of being a royal more than the problems it bring,” you teased lightly. “Besides, I’ve never been one for grand titles or public adoration. I prefer the quiet moments, like this one, where I can just be myself with you.”

He nodded, a small, grateful smile crossing his lips. “It’s those quiet moments that I cherish most as well,” he admitted. “In all my years, with all the burdens of leadership, it’s rare to find someone who sees me not as the High King, but as Ereinion—just an elf who loves and is loved in return.”

Your heart warmed at his words, and you squeezed his hand gently. “And that’s exactly how I see you,” you said softly. “I fell in love with you, not for your title or your power, but for who you are—the elf who listens to my ramblings, who teases me when I’m being too serious, who finds joy in the small things.”

The weight of your conversation still hung in the air, but with it came a sense of relief—a feeling that you had finally voiced the thoughts that had been swirling in your mind for so long. Gil-galad’s expression had softened, his eyes still holding that deep affection, but now there was an understanding between you that hadn’t existed before.

You broke the silence first, a small smile playing on your lips as you leaned back on the bench, your fingers still intertwined with his. “You know,” you began, your tone lightening, “I never imagined when I first ended up in Middle-earth that I’d be sitting here with the High King of the Elves, having a heart-to-heart in a secret garden.”

He chuckled softly, the sound a deep, warm rumble that you felt as much as heard. “And I never imagined that I’d fall in love with a human from a world I’ve never even heard of,” he replied, a teasing glint in his eyes. “But life has a way of surprising us, doesn’t it?”

You nodded, a laugh escaping your lips as you thought back to the strange journey that had brought you here. “That’s an understatement. I mean, one day I’m sitting in my apartment, minding my own business, and the next thing I know, I’m in Rivendell, surrounded by elves and trying to figure out how not to embarrass myself with every other word I say.”

Gil-galad’s smile widened, and he leaned back beside you, the tension between you dissipating like morning mist. “I remember the first time I heard you speak,” he mused, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “You were trying to explain the concept of a ‘microwave’ to Elrond, and he looked as though he was trying to decipher an ancient riddle.”

You groaned, your cheeks heating at the memory. “Oh, don’t remind me. I must have sounded like a complete lunatic. I’m still not sure he believes that microwaves aren’t some kind of magic.”

“Well,” Gil-galad said, his tone mock-serious, “you have to admit, it does sound rather magical. A box that cooks food in mere moments? Even I have trouble wrapping my head around it.”

You rolled your eyes, unable to keep the grin off your face. “It’s just science,” you replied with a playful nudge. “But then again, in a world where magic is real, I suppose science might seem a little…mystical.”

He chuckled again, his gaze softening as he looked at you. “That’s one of the things I love about you,” he said, his voice warm. “You bring a perspective that’s entirely different from anything I’ve known. You see the world in a way that none of us do, and it’s…refreshing.”

You raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at your lips. “So what you’re saying is, you fell for me because I’m weird?”

He laughed, the sound full and genuine, and you couldn’t help but join in. “Well, if by ‘weird,’ you mean unique, then yes,” he teased, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “And besides, I think you’re the only person who can make me laugh like this.”

You tilted your head, a mischievous glint in your eyes. “Oh, so I’m your court jester now? Should I start juggling or learn to ride a unicycle?”

Shaking his head, his laughter fading into a soft smile. “No, you’re much more than that. But if you do learn to juggle, I’m sure we could arrange a performance at the next feast.”

You playfully swatted his arm, your heart feeling lighter with each moment you spent in his company. “You’re incorrigible, you know that?”

He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “Only with you, my love.”

The warmth of his breath against your skin sent a pleasant shiver down your spine, and you felt your resolve to keep things light slipping away under the intensity of his gaze. But before you could lose yourself in the moment, you caught yourself and leaned back, a smirk on your lips as you tried to regain the upper hand.

“You know,” you said, your tone teasing, “if this is your way of convincing me to move in with you, you’re going to have to try harder. I’ve grown rather fond of my little room in Rivendell, and I’m not sure I’m ready to give up my bach pad just yet.”

His brow raised and lips quirking into a smile. “Oh? And what would it take to tempt you away from your ‘bach pad,’ as you call it? A private suite in the palace? Endless bouquets of flowers delivered daily? A personal chef to prepare all your meals?”

You pretended to consider his offer, tapping your chin thoughtfully. “Hmm, those are all tempting…but I’m not sure. I mean, who’s going to teach Elrond about the wonders of modern technology if I’m not around?”

He laughed again, a deep, rumbling sound that made your heart flutter. “You make a good point. I’m not sure he’s ready to tackle the mysteries of the ‘microwave’ on his own.”

“I don’t think he’s even ready for to learn about the internet or the blender. However, he did take learning the TV, fairly,” you laughed.

“When you do, inform me for I would be interested in witnessing his utter confusion,” he replied with equal merriment.

You grinned, pleased with your little victory, but before you could bask in it for too long, Gil-galad leaned in once more, his expression suddenly serious. “But in all seriousness,” he said, his voice gentle, “I want you to know that wherever you are, that’s where I want to be. Whether it’s in Rivendell, here in my palace, or anywhere else…as long as we’re together, I’ll be happy.”

The sincerity in his words caught you off guard, and for a moment, you were at a loss for what to say. You had always known that he cared for you deeply, but hearing it spoken aloud, in such a simple, heartfelt way, made your chest tighten with emotion.

After a beat, you managed a smile, though it was softer now, more vulnerable. “I feel the same way,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “And as much as I joke about it…I know that wherever you are, I’ll always feel at home.”

His hand tightened around yours, his thumb brushing softly against your skin. “Then that’s all I need,” he said quietly.

The moment stretched out between you, filled with a warmth and understanding that words couldn’t fully capture. It was in the way he looked at you, the way his hand fit perfectly around yours, the way the world seemed to fall away when you were together. Here, in that garden, under the stars of a world you never expected to call home, you found something you never knew you were searching for.

But even as you basked in the comfort of the moment, a flicker of mischief returned to your eyes. “But just so you know,” you added with a grin, “if you ever try to get me to wear one of those elaborate court attires, we might have a problem.”

Launching into another round of laughter, the sound echoing in the stillness of the night, he shook his head. “Noted,” he said, his eyes shining with affection. “I wouldn’t dream of it. But I have to say, I think you’d look stunning.”

You wrinkled your nose playfully. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Your Majesty. I prefer my sweatpants and t-shirts, thank you very much.”

He smiled, leaning in to press a soft kiss to your temple. “And that’s exactly how I like you,” he murmured, his voice filled with a warmth that made your heart grown warmer.

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[thatlittlered]

rings of power men | terms of endearment

warning(s): not even spoilers really, gn!reader

author's note: these are mostly based on my other post about tropes I am convinced these men are written for

enjoy

-.-.-

Elrond

my love, my beloved, meleth nîn, my lovely, my precious love, light of my life, my beauty, my flower, my stars and sky and many, many more

You couldn't possibly get this man to call you by name once you make your feelings clear to one another. He is a poet after all.

Gil-galad

my beloved, my dear, my darling, melethrinen/melethronen

I think that even after you are wed, Gil-galad would refrain from referring to you by your given titles, unless in public. Expressing himself in such a tender and vulnerable manner does not come easily for him, but he will genuinely try for you.

Celebrimbor

guren vell (my sweet heart), precious one, dear, my Lady/Lord

The Elven-smith has never spoken loving words before so it might take a while, but once he is assured you return his feelings, he too is surprised by how easily they roll off his tongue. He won't specify this, but when he calls you by title it is because he pictures you ruling Eregion by his side.

Arondir

guren gîn (my heart)

He is a man of few words and tends to express his affection through actions instead. Simple as it is, it overflows with emotion each time it's spoken.

Elendil

my Queen/King, my dear heart, darling, melda (beloved, dear)

For the most part, he will still refer to you by title, even in your most private moments where keen ears are nowhere to be found. It is a title of reverence by now, especially when he calls you his. You might hold his heart in your hand, but he too, is the keeper of yours.

Valandil

wife/husband

Valandil knew who he was from a very young age the two of you would be together forever since the moment you met. The rest was details. It matters little whether you are betrothed, or married or anything else; you are his and he is yours.

Isildur

love

It is not a common occurrence. It's far more common for him to whisper your name with honey practically dripping from his mouth when he is calling out for you. He does however love and need being called all sorts of sweet names and that is mostly the reason why he cannot come up with any of his own. His mind goes blank.

bonus:

Adar

enda óma (heart of my heart)

He is a man who is very protective of all he deems his and you are no different. Your size, your strength, your fighting capabilities matter not, he will always view you as a beautiful, fragile thing he's come to care for and will do anything to guard from harm.

[criticallyinneedofadar]

Royal Duties

I wrote three little one shots for the pole just in case lol so now I'm posting all three

Pairing: Gil Galad x Reader

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Morning light filters through the tall windows of the grand hall, glancing off the polished stone floors and casting a warm glow over the rows of nobility gathered to witness court proceedings. You sit beside Ereinion, the high-backed throne beneath you feeling almost too formal for the mood between you and the king. Ereinion leans forward slightly, face carefully composed, yet his eyes flick over to you with the faintest glint of mischief.

As a particularly haughty lord delivers a speech about his region’s contribution to the realm, you barely manage to keep a straight face. Ereinion clears his throat softly, disguising a chuckle as he murmurs just loud enough for you to hear, “I don’t think there’s a single person in this hall who doesn’t already know how ‘noble’ his house is.”

The corners of your mouth twitch, and you turn to him, casting a sidelong glance. “Do you think he’d notice if we slipped out the back?”

“Not if we leave the guards with a very good excuse,” he replies smoothly, casting you a look that suggests he’s half-serious. Then, with the practiced grace of a king who’s held this position for centuries, he adjusts his expression to one of benevolent patience, looking for all the world as though he’s deeply engaged.

The lord finally finishes, and Ereinion, without missing a beat, offers him a solemn nod. “Thank you for your… continued service,” he says, a small smile tugging at his lips as the lord bows himself out of the hall.

The moment he’s out of earshot, you lean toward Ereinion, unable to hold back your grin. “Shall we give him a new title? Perhaps Lord of Long-Winded Speeches?”

He bites back a laugh, the sound escaping in a soft breath. “Consider it granted. I’ll have the scribes make note of it.”

The two of you exchange a look, and for a heartbeat, you’re just Ereinion and… well, not the queen, not here under the judgmental gaze of court. Just the two of you, sharing an inside joke.

After several more interactions with various lords and advisors — all of whom seem to be vying to one-up each other — you and Ereinion finally manage a brief escape. You slip into one of the palace gardens, hidden by high walls and leafy trees, where the murmur of court life fades into a distant hum.

He grins, glancing around to make sure no one followed, then gives you a low bow, offering his hand. “My lady, might I steal a dance?”

You raise an eyebrow, taking his hand with mock formality. “I thought we’d save that for the next dreadfully dull council meeting. Just to keep them on their toes.”

“Good point,” he replies, spinning you under his arm in a quick flourish. He catches you in a mock-dramatic pose, his face so close that you can feel his breath, warm against your cheek. His eyes linger on yours, and the flirty banter fades for just a moment as he holds your gaze.

“Should we head back?” you murmur, aware that duty awaits — and that the more time you spend away from court, the more questions you’ll face.

But Ereinion only shrugs, his smile unmistakably mischievous. “Let them wonder. The king and queen deserve a moment to themselves, don’t you think?”

Ereinion’s hand is warm in yours as he spins you down the marble halls, your laughter mingling with his in the quiet, echoing corridors. The two of you move in perfect sync, each step lighter than the last. He dips you dramatically, and you stifle a laugh, whispering, “You know, this isn’t exactly dignified for the High King and Queen.”

“Good thing we’re in the far wing, then,” he replies, grinning as he pulls you upright again. “Besides, a little undignified behavior keeps things interesting.”

You can barely reply as he whirls you around, catching you just as you’re about to stumble. This side of Ereinion, so full of laughter, the sharp edge of command nowhere to be seen—it’s a rare thing, and you savor every second.

Just as he’s twirling you under his arm again, a figure appears at the end of the hall, stepping out from around a corner with raised eyebrows and a barely suppressed smile. Elrond crosses his arms, watching you both with an amused shake of his head.

“Oh, how regal,” he drawls, a glint in his eyes. “The High King and Queen, so tirelessly devoted to their duties, I see.”

You straighten, feigning the most queenly look you can manage despite the laughter bubbling up. “Elrond,” you say sweetly, “do you think I wouldn’t relegate you to writing our correspondence for Lord of Long-Winded Speeches?”

At this, Ereinion throws his head back, his laughter filling the hall. It’s deep, genuine, and utterly without restraint, echoing off the high ceilings as though he hasn’t laughed this freely in an age. Elrond stares, visibly startled, as his king—the indomitable Gil-galad, ruler of the Noldor—doubles over, still clutching your hand, his shoulders shaking with laughter.

You join him, feeling the tears gather in your eyes as you squeeze his hand tighter, both of you struggling to compose yourselves. Elrond looks between the two of you, his expression utterly dumbfounded.

“Truly,” Elrond finally says, “I’ve seen many things over the years, but this…” He shakes his head in mock exasperation, trying and failing to hide a grin of his own. “I’ll leave you to your… ‘royal duties,’ then.”

With a smirk, you give him a little wave. “We’ll leave you to your actual duties, Elrond. Someone’s got to keep up the kingdom’s standards, after all.”

As he walks away, muttering under his breath about “giggly rulers,” you turn to Ereinion, whose face is still lit up with laughter.

“Shall we?” he asks, still a little breathless.

You both head down the hall, still snickering quietly, leaving a thoroughly shocked Elrond behind. And as you walk hand-in-hand, you can’t help but feel that these moments—the ones stolen from duty, spent in laughter—are what make this life with him complete.

[boop-le-snoot]

kinktober #3

Strangelove

kinktober day three | restraints, bratting (if you squint, he's very polite) | cw: 18+, sub!Gil, service dom!gender neutral! Reader, inappropriate use of Elvish rope, mouthy princess gil, oral sex (m receiving), safe sane and consensual | word count 4,1k | author's note under the cut | click here for the full kinktober list |

“Now,” a majestic voice rolls over the room like thunder.

You cannot see its owner for that he is hidden behind several of his advisors but your mind paints a picture familiar and amusing.

Face scrunched in petulance, crown slightly askew, the High King bends down to bring his face closer to the dignitary. “I have spoken all there is to say on the matter. Do not make me repeat myself!” He straightens promptly, dark eyes flashing in flickering golden light, and addresses the expectant crowd. “I have exceeded my quota of patience for today! Take your leave! Ego!” The command comes off as harsh even for the King when he is in one of his moods, so he hurries to soften the blow. “We shall continue on the morrow.”

Golden robes billowing out behind him, High King Erenion Gil-Galad takes his leave without sparing a second glance towards the disappointed Elves. Some nod in understanding, knowing just how heavy-handed some of the advisories can get when vying for the King's favour. Some frown and rush off towards the main exit, muttering displeasures to themselves. You linger, letting the crowd disperse into smaller groups, and nimbly make your way towards the side exit, unnoticed amongst various discussions and arguments.

The narrow hallway greets you with a silence and a chill, this year's autumn exceptionally windswept and grey. Erenion's abandoned outer robe stands out like a sore thumb: carelessly thrown over a toreutic statue, it glistens with what little sunshine pierces through low-hanging clouds pregnant with rain and fog. You pick up the garment and fold it at the waist before throwing it over your shoulder, adjusting the pile of notes to your chest. Well-worn soles of your shoes make no noise as you near the King's private study.

The door stands open, no more than a hand's width, and most of your field of view inside the room is occupied by the broad back of your King. It is tense, hard at the nape and taut at the seams of his shirt. Often, you have privately wondered of the possible incident that may finally cause him to burst out of his clothing - once or twice, you were sure Lady Galadriel had come very close to causing Erenion to simply spontaneously combust.

Such he stood with his back turned to you. Pent up, hard-boiled and simply done. A mostly empty carafe of wine at his left hand, a drained glass in the right.

“More wine,” he said the moment you announced yourself with a light step and a creak of the door.

“Yes, my Lord,” you replied evenly, racking your brain for the probable location of the nearest servant. Erenion Gil-Galad was a fair king and a kind ellon but that did not stop all servants from clearing his path when he got into a particularly sullen mood. A sulking King was no good company to anybody.

You trotted over to the nearest chair to place his outer robes onto. He turned swiftly. You needn't raise your eyes to see him struggle to swallow whatever bitter remark had been curling on his tongue; even so hotly angered, stupid he was not. Erenion knew better than to bestow unjust abuse towards his most dutiful and loyal attendant.

He spoke your name and you nodded in acknowledgement before smoothing out his robes and placing your stack of parchment on a nearby table. Not engaging in chit-chat but simply offering a quiet, steady, ataractic presence to the disgruntled King. Soft swishing of the parchment as you rearranged it invited a soothing ubiquity into the cool room. You felt, not saw, your King's shoulders drop. The clink of an empty glass being put down followed suit.

“These noxious vultures!..” Came the predicted grumble. Erenion's footsteps, unusually heavy and resounding for an Elf, traced a path from that corner of the room towards his desk. “Arguing for the sake of it...” Some of the more passionate choice words got lost in the pull of drawers being opened and paper bags' crinkling.

You hid a secretive smile. The Royal Snack Shelf, having been restocked by yours truly, was doing splendid at its job. A whimsical, silly detail even, but nevertheless quintessential at easing the burden of your King's day-to-day routine. A mentor in your past had given you valuable lessons on sweetening the bitterness of all that is tedious and mundane and you had taken them all to heart.

Periodically interrupted by crunching, the King's mouth ejected a day's worth of vitriol into the world, onto you and onto nobody at large, as he paced the long, spacious office like a caged lion. With every sentence he seemed to deflate a little and you counted every tiny victory as you mindlessly sorted and re-aligned your pages. The ranting was a canonical event and you did not interfere.

“... Grach! What secret information do your scrolls contain that is more important than listening to your King?!” Erenion's exclamation was not loud, but his deep and rich voice made it sound petulant and harsh.

Ah. One of those nights.

You straightened your back, taking your sweet time to readjust the muscles of your spine that were beginning to cramp from your hunched position and rapidly evened the stack that had previously preoccupied all of your attention. The bottom of it connected with the table with a sharp, resound tap, and Erenion immediately froze in his tracks.

You turned around slowly, body coiled in perfect precision, a masterful image of picture-perfect regard. Wide-eyed, Erenion frowned, dark brows creasing over the bridge of his nose. Your voice was even when you spoke.

“I am your dutiful servant, my King.” Bowing at the neck and not at the back, you crossed your hands behind yourself, looking him directly in the eye. “It is my job to thoroughly inspect all that concerns you and see to your comforts, which includes your spiritual well-being. At the present moment, it is imperative I allow you to vent your frustration without risk of scrutiny and judgment.”

Erenion, ever the imperfect perfectionist, scoffed. A knee-jerk reaction you harboured no ill will towards, for that you knew it would serve to be so much more rewarding when he finally decided to yield. As the King's brow darkened further with peevishness, his body language spoke of unmistakable interest. A creature of greatness and great contrasts was your King, most exhilarating. Bittersweet, like sour cherry wine.

“You think you know me better than myself?”

You pretended to think about it. “In certain areas, yes.” Jerking your shoulder a little, you took small, short steps towards him, observing him for any changes. Although his face was now contorted in a kingly version of a pout, his chest remained open and shoulders lax.

Looking down on you, Erenion seemed almond amused. “And what is it that you think I presently require?”

“Temperance,” you crooned. The air between your bodies thickened. With your eyes, you traced the fluid lines of his arms covered by his form-fitting undershirt. The hills of his biceps tapered down to wide forearms and sturdy wrists; towards broad palms, adorned with multiple rings but calloused from practice of warcraft. Erenion Gil-Galad was a beautiful King, all smooth lines and luxuriance from the regal curl of his plush mouth down to his shaking fingertips. “You need a lesson in temperance, my King.”

“Is that so?” He inquired lowly. Amusement, intrigue and apprehension all mixed up in his voice, colouring it with hoarseness usually reserved for lovers of a capricious occasion. Erenion was not known for those, but then again, it was unbecoming of a Noldorin High King to voluntarily overturn control of his persona to an assistant, even if it was temporary.

But you were just so good at what you did. How could he not surrender? With a gentle touch and a sharp word, you beheld the King within your eye as if nothing else outside it existed at all. The usually reserved personal aide, you became anything he needed you to be behind closed doors, be it a punching bag filled with sharp nails that cut him right back at every snap or a firm palm, offering rich handfuls of well-earned praise.

There was no diplomatic school advanced enough to lecture anyone on how to handle a King, so you could say that it came naturally. And proof was in the (re)actions: the willingness of Him to acquiesce, the intensity with which you handled him and just how far you were willing to go.

Erenion Gil-Galad stepped back. Again, and then again, until he landed noisily in the nearest chair, his broad, tall body sagging into the comfort of soft upholstery. Like this, you were just about eye-level with each other, and you beheld him with genuine sympathy and utter devotion. He stared back, eyes wide, deep irises seamlessly blending into dark pupils.

A cursory sweep around the room while he was contemplating your expression revealed an unexpected treasure: a thick roll of elvish rope laid on a nearby chair, likely accidentally left behind by a commander rushing in to receive or confirm orders. You smiled and looked away, least your plans be ruined by Erenion's inherent reaction to do the opposite of what people wanted him to do.

Carefully, you raised your hands to rid him of the crown. It always had to go first - dutiful servant as you were, it was most cumbersome to be reminded of his higher status when doing something scandalous with the King's body. Not that the situation lacked appeal, as a concept, but the crown had a weight attached to it. You were set on freeing the King of his burdens, after all.

Erenion's eyelashes fluttered as you gently carded your fingers through long, thick chocolate hair. Tugging lightly at the roots and brushing over the shortened warrior's edges at his temples. Tracing his strong jawline to brush a teasing thumb over his lips just to withdraw before he licked it like a playful kitten. You caressed the sensitive leaf shape of his ear and were immediately rewarded with a pleased rumble coming from the depts of his chest. For now, Erenion was much content to sit back in his chair and hold the outside of his palm against your leg, but it would not last.

Not when your fingers made swift work of the laces on his shirt and freed him from it. As the fabric landed on a nearby ottoman, his large palms settled over your hips, possessively kneading the meat there.

“Impatient,” you chided with a gentle shake of your head, eliciting a displeased grumble from the King, followed up by his fingertips digging deeper into you, clinging to your bones. A tap on his nose caused his eyes to shoot open. Your smile only grew. “Impertinent.”

Opening his mouth, Erenion's eyes shot to his crown abandoned nearby and back at your face. He pursed his lips, and, in lieu of a response, leaned in to rub his cheek over your clothed chest. You stood still, letting him find his comfort, but did little else. Until the very moment Erenion withdrew, his famous kingly pout back on full display.

“Melmë.”

“Erenion.” You echoed, matching his tone. “Are we in a rush?”

“Yes!” He grumbled. Looked at the window, where the clouds had obscured stars and the moon, blanketing Lindon within an impenetrable darkness. Several candles illuminated the room and that was it: not a single torch was lit outside the window. Erenion sighed. “Well, no, alas...”

“We are not in a rush.” You placed your palms atop his own, squeezing them once: a wordless command to release you. He did so and you stroked his face, his eyes, which he closed. Placing a kiss on his forehead, you swiftly grabbed the rope and returned with it, unfurling the roll as Erenion grew visibly more restless from the lack of touch. He dared open his eyes and immediately gasped, aghast. “Temperance,” you reminded him.

“No!” He protested, but made no move to get up or otherwise interrupt your planned activity.

You were sure many would call you mad for enjoying this exact moment of your games: the feigned resistance. Erenion would gripe and groan and complain and inevitably ruin his trousers in the process and there was no sweeter reward for your troubles that could be. The more he objected, the higher he riled himself up. That final leap over the edge beckoned you both in the distance. Erenion fell apart beautifully and...

A sigh. “Yes,” you stressed, wrapping the rope around his chest and the back of the chair before weaving it swiftly and delicately over his forearms, effectively securing them to the armrests. The length of the rope allowed for a safe amount of movement and several pretty knots.

It should withstand a good deal of resistance; Erenion's awareness of his own size and strength and their comparison to yours put an upper limit on just how physical these games would get. Ever cognisant, Erenion would flat out refuse even the possibility of causing you pain with his body so certain workarounds had to implemented. And even then, you found yourself wistful, wishing nothing more than for your King to lose himself to simple, mindless pleasures.

When was Erenion Gil-Galad ever simple? Effectively prevented from seeking out touch, he sat poised and regal, chin pointed in defiance, as he watched you shed your outer robes and and miscellaneous clothing. His eyes roved over you hungrily, yearning, as you stood before him in nothing but your underthings. Veins of his hands thick with rushing blood, what little was south of his trousers anyway: obscured by his breeches, the outlined of his hard cock stood as tall and proud as him.

You sat astride it, reveling in the hiss that came from his lips as you pressed your weight atop it and stayed still. The line of his jaw was fascinating to explore: you enlisted your lips, your fingers to do so.

As you'd predicted, his patience was... Not there.

“Well?”

“Hm?” You rumbled at the root of his ear, hot breath ghosting over the lobe.

“What now?” Centuries at Court kept his voice steady; his body was the biggest traitor. Blood rushed, a siren's song to you, enticing to switch your attentions to the other side of his face. Tenderly and thoroughly, you lavished it with attention, attacking Erenion's erogenous zones with tempered precision. You were in no rush to reply. He could not wait to feel. “I am sat in my office, indisposed and restrained, for the sake of your amusement?” He spat.

“No,” you murmured. And immediately corrected yourself because lying to your king is wrong. “Well, yes. But you are restrained for your own sake, as well. Good things come to those who know how to wait.” You preached, finishing off with a quick bite at the ball of his shoulder. Your hands slid lower, palming his thick pectorals, flicking his nipples.

There wasn't much to do but feel and bestow sensation and Erenion knew that. And enjoyed it so, his length twitching against your leg as you alternated between hard and soft, fast and slow, biting and kissing. Periodically, you withdrew enough to observe the changes on his face: how it grew from annoyed to flat to quivering. He panted softly through parted lips, groaning upon coming in contact with your own sex.

The buck of his hips straightened you up atop his lap. “You are much too impatient, darling,” you whispered against his lips. “Rushing to start one thing before the last has even ended,” withdrawing from his cock, you kissed him gently, pulling away as soon as he leaned in to envelop your tongue with his hot mouth. A whine slipped out instead and you smiled, brushing your closed mouth over his, moist and spit-slick.

“Multitasking is a necessary skill!” He objected, the ‘for a King’ hanging heavy and unsaid.

In lieu of a response, you ran your hands through his crown-free hair and gathered it in a loose ponytail, arching his head back. He moaned, low and long, and you rewarded him with a kiss to his lips. He did not misbehave this time as you mouthed at each other, losing time and space where your lips connected. You heard the creaking of wood, felt the bulge of Erenion's muscles as his body released all of its pent up tension.

Slowly, you lowered yourself back down to sit over his cock. Swallowing his moan and a noise of your own, you felt sparks fly as a sloppy movement brushed over where you were most sensitive. It was a sobering action. There was very little time for pleasure while you were doing your job, or, rather, the pleasure came from granting your King such. Boldly, your tongue snuck into his mouth to coax out his own so you could suck on it with conviction.

Erenion moaned, back arching within confines of his restraints. A wet spot was steadily growing under you, the result of your combined desire. Your mouth slid off his, smearing spit over his cheek as you panted. To pretend to be unaffected would be pointless and foolish. A pair of dark eyes sparking with amusement met yours: he looked too smug for an Elf who was at the brink of coming undone.

Cheeks flushed and mouth wet, Erenion Gil-Galad gave you a little smirk.

You wished nothing more than to bite him. So you did. Teeth clashed as you initiated another kiss, taking full control of it this time. It was wet and messy, full of growling and fangs as you temporarily abandoned your gentleness. You fucked his mouth with yours until your tasted bloody meat, and only then you withdrew, observing the momentary change in his behaviour. He was surprised, conquered, staring at you with reverence.

Your game of tug of war continued. He pushed and you pulled: he arched his chest and you bit down on his nipple, pulling it taut and letting your teeth scrape the surrounding sensitive tissue until his gasps descended into whimpers and bitten-off, broken Quenya. You raked blunt nails over his sides as he shuddered with sensation somewhere between pleasure and pain. Very few knew their King was ticklish and even fewer had the skills to incorporate it into ardurous sensual torture. You could have given any experienced courtesan a run for their money with how you played the High King akin to an instrument.

Maglor's incredible and terrifying singing had nothing on the broken noises coming out of the hot wet mouth of your King. Erenion was no songbird, no, he was a lone wolf howling at the moon. You observed the results of your handiwork as he shook with desire. There was little else to do but marvel.

Erenion Gil-Galad was a vision. Arms and chest criss-crossed with angry red welts where the ropes had rubbed a webbed pattern into his skin, he sat flushed and panting. Mouth red, as if wine stained, and eyes lidded, moved in wordless pleas for release. The need was showcased at the apex of his thighs where he'd leaked right through his trousers. Brown fabric was stained nearly black all around his sizeable bulge.

It was when you found yourself kneeling before it that reality sharply hit you in the face. Here you were, a servant, kneeling at the feet of your King, and he could do little else than plead for your mercy. And there was nothing else you wished to see more than give it to him - to see his face fall slack and easy, to see his twitching fingers finally find rest. But it was not the point of this. One release just bought the two of you a little time until the next.

The only thing you truly had control over was the amount of time it passed between the two. Not when you gave it and not how you gave it, for all that Erenion had to do was dismiss your advances and you would go back to sorting his mail and compiling his daily schedule.

Distracted, you nuzzled into his crotch, and fiddled with his trousers. His erect cock greeted you with a throb; the King moaned and threw his head back, straining the ropes to a point you began to consider they would lose their magic at once and simply snap. No such thing happened even as you blew gently onto the heated head of his cock.

“Cruel!..” He mumbled in between curses in languages you did not even know. “I was patient!” He objected to your withdrawal from his cock with fervor.

You were simply adjusting yourself. Not that he saw it, nearly delirious with need.

“Patient on account of lacking other options,” you teased him mirthfully.

He chuckled, but that noise quickly turned into a moan as you stuck out your tongue to trace the thick, prominent vein curving along the underside of his cock. Taking care to avoid the sensitive head, you took some tablets to lavish the shaft with soft licks of tour tongue. The sweet-salty taste of him beckoned you, clear droplets sliding down his cock just so you could curl your tongue around the middle of it to catch as much of the nectar as you could.

You went downwards, popping each of his testicles into your mouth. A whine in a pitch very few had ever heard echoed in the room; the chair creaked, it's back legs lifting off the ground. You immediately withdrew, placing apologetic kisses all along his cock as you ascended towards the tip. Erenion had been patient indeed and was now firmly stood at the edge of total overstimulation.

Sensitive Elven bodies, used to hard wars and tender lovemaking, had a very fine line that separated pleasure and pain. It'd been a steep learning curve to learn how to pluck the strings of your King just right, but once you figured out how to get him in that sweet spot betwixt the two and never firmly on the side of either, your sessions became something beautiful.

You wrapped your lips around him - he shuddered - and hollowed out your cheeks, tonguing along the frenulum as you swallowed as much of your King as would fit in your mouth. What couldn't fit was taken up by your hand, working him with all your might, going in for the winning round with single-minded abandon.

Erenion bucked his hips wildly, adding to the cacophony of your coupling. Moans, sighs and wet squelching, the creak of the chair that surely was to be replaced come morning - it all faded into the background as you kept your eyes firmly on the face of your King. Contorted in sweet agony, he gasped for breath once, twice, before his brow turned lax and a torrent of bittersweet nectar flooded your mouth.

Kneeling in awe and reverence, you swallowed it all. Erenion's chest heaved, covered in a translucent sheen of cool sweat, and he remained moaning softly all throughout it, reacting only when his flaccid flesh slipped from your mouth. His mouth was open and eyes closed as you undid the knots, content to ignore your own discomfort until the moment to relieve it offered itself.

You rubbed his wrists, eyeing his face for any discomfort. There was none - Erenion remained as timelessly beautiful when disheveled as he was in his golden garb. The corners of his mouth turned up in a lazy, absent smile, he freed a wrist to pull you in. You mirrored his smile.

“Come,” he spoke, voice rough. Unsteadily, he stood up, and pulled you towards the hidden door leading to his chambers. “We are not finished yet.”

Pretending to be surprised, you chuffed softly at the lack of care he showed at his own state of undress. He truly cared not, for he was the King, and managing his reputation (and any missteps of his in that regard) was your responsibility as his personal attendant anyway.

Would he ever make it easy for you? No. But, perhaps, one day you might get him to beg...

Someone said slightly bratty sub gil x service dom reader? OK I said it. I am pretty sure this is gender neutral, but in case it isn't, point out gendered things/words to me. I didn't bother to proofread it because I got too horny while writing it. I don't like this as much as I wish I did but oh well.

a/n: the bigger sub/smaller dom is an actual issue if you get physical during your scenes. I've dommed men roughly the size of Ben (I'm 5'4 130?lbs) and there are scenes and things that we simply cannot do safely, unless the sub is at least somewhat restrained. Even further, taking into account that canonical gil-salad is 7+ft... Tie that elf down before you let him brat/overstim or you'll get flat out 💅yeeted💅 across all Lindon.

[gabrielemillers]

An Elvish Love

Gil Galad x Elf F!Reader

Warning: smut 18+

You are nervous. Even if he is your husband and has been nothing but kind and loving towards you, he is still the High King. You don't want to disappoint him. It's your first time and you want to please him.

-Do not worry Y/N. Our King is kind and patient and he loves you. It won't change because you are a virgin. In fact, I'm sure it will please him. says Galadriel with a soft smile.

-You really think so?

-Absolutely. Now go and don't worry if you are not ready he will understand.

-Thank you Galadriel.

You leave your best friend's room to go to yours, where you know the High King is waiting. Deep down you know he won't pressure you into anything, but still a part of you is insecure and want him to be pleased. You take a deep breath and enter the room.

Your husband is waiting by the window, looking at the stars lost in thoughts. He looks ethereal with the moonlight on his face, still wearing his golden robes and his crown. He is beautiful. And he is yours. The High King turns around when he hears you and smiles.

-Meleth nin. You're here. I've missed you today. he says.

-I've missed you too vero. Busy day as always?

Your husband sigh and you see the tension in his body. Immediately you join him on his side of the room and take his hands in yours, comforting him. He smiles at the geasture.

-Tell me about it, it might make you feel better. you say softly.

-I don't want to trouble you with such problematics matters. No, it's kind of you to offer but I would like to be with you without talking about the kingdom.

-Okay, well I actually had an idea while coming here. you say blushing.

-Tell me. I'm intrigued.

-I though...well since we have been married for quite some time now... well could...consumate our union. you say shyly.

The High King smiles at your shyness and you can see he likes the idea. Very much.

-I would love nothing more than lay with you my love, but are you sure? I don't want to pressure you. he says.

You wrap your arms around his neck and kiss him swilfty.

-I'm more than sure vero. I really want you.

-In that case, I will happily give wife what she wants from me.

The High King leans down to kiss you softly. You moans and put your hands in his longs brown locks. One thing leading to another, it's not long before you are laying naked on the bed, with Gil Galad between your legs. He makes you see stars two times with his tongue and fingers before entering you slowly with his cock.

It hurts at first, but with his preparations the pain soon turns into great pleasure.

-Oh my king... don't stop please.. you whisper in his ear as he moves at a steady pace.

-You're taking me so well Y/N. he praises you.

He kisses you passionately as you grab his hair and back to hold him close to you. That way you feel him much deeper and you are about to come.

-Ereinion I'm going to... you moan in pleasure.

-Let go for me my love. Let me feel you come around me.

You climax at his command, your vision going white in extasy. Your release triggers his and the High King groans in pleasure as he spills his seed deep into you.

You return to reality as your husband pulls out and lay at your side breathless. You are feeling sore but in a good way and really tired.

-Was...was it good for you? you ask him blushing.

-My love, it was more than perfect. I've loved it and adore you more than any word could express it. replies your husband smiling kindly.

He takes your left hand in his and kisses the back of it. You blush then yawn making him laugh.

-Sleep my love, you did so well for me. I'll be here tomorrow morning.

You fall asleep with a smile. You had nothing to fear at all. In fact, you realize now what you've been missing in these last few months.