Gur's Garbage

⇢ ˗ˏˋLegolas 

Legolas flirts by paying attention — closer than anyone else ever has.

He remembers the way you braid your hair.

He notices when your smile doesn’t reach your eyes.

He offers you water before you ask. A cloak before you shiver. Silence when you need it.

“You favor your left when you walk. Did you injure your ankle?”

(Said not as concern but as proof he sees what no one else does.)

He doesn’t seek to impress. He seeks to understand. And that, somehow, is far more disarming.

Legolas speaks with honesty, not innuendo. His compliments are never exaggerated — they’re precise, soft-spoken, and entirely unexpected.

“You are brave,” he’ll say and mean it, not as flattery, but as fact.

“I have never met one like you,” he’ll admit, with no hint of irony.

“You move like someone who has had to fight for stillness. I find that… admirable.”

There is no teasing edge, no mischief. His flirtation doesn’t seduce. It honors.

Legolas does not touch often but when he does, it is reverent.

He steadies you on uneven ground with a hand at your elbow, feather-light and fleeting.

He brushes a strand of hair from your face in battle’s aftermath, his fingers cool, his gaze unreadable.

And if he ever lets you lean against him — it is deliberate, not casual. A choice. A permission.

“You are safe here.”

(He doesn’t mean the campsite. He means his arms.)

He never pushes. He waits for you to reach for him and you will.

Some call it aloofness. But Legolas’s silences are intentional. When he is quiet around you, it is not from distance, it is from comfort.

He sits beside you without speaking, eyes on the stars, letting your presence speak for itself.

He shares memories in fragments — carefully, sparsely — like a rare bloom he lets you see but not touch.

“There are trees in Ithilien that glow silver in the moonlight. I would like to show you, if… if you ever wish to see them.”

His silences aren’t empty. They invite you in.

If he truly begins to feel something deeper, Legolas’s restraint begins to falter in the smallest of ways.

His gaze lingers too long.

He starts saying your name more, even when he doesn’t need to.

He stays close in battle, not for strategy but protection.

“If I seem overcautious, forgive me. I… would rather not lose you.”

It’s not possessive. It’s genuine fear of loss, wrapped in grace.

And when he finally admits his feelings, it will not be in grand gestures but in a moment of stillness so charged with emotion it leaves no room for doubt.

“I am yours… if you wish me to be.”

⇢ ˗ˏˋHaldir

Haldir is reserved to the point of severity, but therein lies the pull, because when he grants you attention, it feels earned.

He watches, silently, and when he speaks — it is brief, measured, and intentional.

He does not smile easily. Which is why when he does, even slightly — it feels like a secret.

His flirting is rarely initiated in public. He is a warden first. But alone? Then you might notice the change.

“You’re observant. I value that… though I would advise against staring too long. It gives others ideas.”

He does not court. He allows you closer. And that, to him, is courtship.

Haldir doesn’t flatter idly. His compliments are scarce and often couched in dry, almost challenging delivery.

He might say, “You’re not as incapable as I feared.”

Or, “You adapt quickly. That is… useful.”

“You surprise me. I don’t often admit that. Don’t make me regret it.”

There’s a touch of arrogance, yes but it’s earned. And when he lets you see the rare glimmer of amusement behind the cool facade, it’s intoxicating.

He does not touch casually. But if he allows himself near you, it’s deliberate.

He will correct your stance with a hand at your wrist, brief but firm.

He’ll lean in to murmur something meant only for you, his voice low, his breath brushing your ear.

He might walk just slightly closer than necessary during a patrol.

“I stay close because your footwork still falters on uneven ground. Don’t mistake it for anything else.”

(It is something else. He just refuses to admit it.)

He will test you — not cruelly, but precisely.

He watches how easily you fluster, how much you push back.

If you return his barbs with wit, he’ll raise a brow — just slightly — and say nothing. But later, you’ll find he lingers longer in your presence.

He never gives all at once. He’ll give just enough to make you question what’s underneath.

“You’re not afraid of me. You should be. I haven’t decided what I intend to do with you yet.”

And it sounds like a warning. But it feels like an invitation.

Should Haldir allow himself to care, the change is subtle but profound.

He’ll begin to offer things unasked: water, protection, information.

He will trust you with silences — not cold ones, but shared ones.

He’ll still mask his affection in discipline but now, it will be laced with quiet protectiveness.

“If anything were to happen to you under my watch, I would consider it a failure. And I do not fail.”

And if you ever touch his hand first — he won’t pull away. He won’t speak. But you’ll feel it in the stillness: he’s chosen you.

“I doubt that,” he replies. “Your spirit is more resilient than you believe.”

Your cheeks warm at the unexpected praise. You clear your throat and nod toward the pine.

“This one reminds me of home.”

Haldir steps closer—one soundless stride, then another—until he stands beside you beneath the wide boughs. The air shifts subtly with his presence, cool and steady as a winter current.

“You miss the place of your youth,” he observes.

You nod. “The forests were nothing like Lothlórien, but the pines… they always smelled like this. Crisp. Comforting.”

Haldir considers your words in that quiet, measured way of his.

“Elves do not often associate pine with comfort,” he admits. “Its presence signals the edge of winter, of long marches, of battles fought in the cold.”

He pauses, tilting his head faintly toward you.

“But for you, it holds gentler memories.”

Your breath escapes softly.

“Yes,” you say. “It does.”

The breeze whispers through the needles overhead, sending a cascade of soft, fragrant scent around you. Haldir inhales, and for once he does not hide the way he slows to savor it.

“I see why you favor this tree,” he murmurs. “It stands alone from its kin. Strong, steadfast—even in seasons that would weaken others.”

You blink, turning toward him. “Are you… comparing the tree to me?”

His gaze flicks to yours—sharp, striking—as if weighing whether to confirm it.

Finally, he speaks.

“I am.”

The word hangs between you like a held breath.

Before you can respond, he lifts a hand—not touching you, but close enough that the gesture carries warmth.

“If the scent brings you solace,” he says, voice a quiet vow, “then I will see that your quarters are lined with pine boughs through winter’s end.”

You stare at him, stunned. “Haldir… you don’t have to do that.”

His expression softens by a fraction—an elf’s version of a confession.

“I know.”

A pause.

“I wish to.”

The wind moves again—cool, fragrant, and gentle—and you find yourself leaning ever so slightly toward him, your shoulder brushing the edge of his cloak.

Haldir does not move away.