#ThisIsAnAttackNotAQuestion

[not-glorfindel-stop-asking]

Would you rather have someone lazily tug at the laces of your robe while keeping heavy eye contact OR have them run a single fingertip down your throat before smirking at your reaction?

WHAT.

What, dear Anon of the City of Ymous, possessed you to craft such a question?

What muse whispered in your ear—what scandalous, audacious spirit took hold of your hand and guided you to type out these words?

Was it the wind, heavy with the scent of spring?

Was it the moon, low and silver and dripping temptation into the night?

Were you perhaps, in the throes of some great romantic fever, clutching at your chest and sighing longingly at the ceiling before you decided, “Yes. Yes, this is the moment I must inquire about Lindir’s preference for devastating flirtations”????????

I demand to know. For academic purposes.

But to answer—IF I MUST—allow me a moment to regain my composure, for truly, the sheer nerve of this inquiry has left me reeling. Staggering, even. I have had to sit down. I have had to place a hand upon my chest like some tragic figure in a romantic play, whispering “oh Valar” under my breath as I attempt to process what has just transpired.

Now. I am a dignified, well-mannered individual. A professional, if you will. A scholar. A composer. A refined and respectable member of Elrond’s household. And yet. AND YET.

You present me with a choice between a slow, deliberate tug at my robes—with unwavering eye contact— and the trailing of a single fingertip down my throat, followed by… a smirk? A smirk?!

What kind of tragic, romance-novel foolishness is this?

Do you think I would survive either? Do you think my delicate sense of propriety could withstand such an assault? Would I remain standing? No.

One would leave me frozen in place, as if struck by some cruel enchantment, incapable of forming a coherent thought. The other would see me set ablaze—combusting on the spot, reduced to nothing but a pile of elegant, tragically flustered ash.

There is no victory here. No way out. No escape from the utter destruction of my composure. Only the inevitable, catastrophic downfall of whatever dignity I so desperately cling to.

HORNY JAIL FOR YOU.

Immediately. Do not collect two hundred silver coins. Do not stop to pick up your quill and parchment to draft further obscenities. Straight to the dungeons. And may the Valar have mercy on your soul.