cyn, 26, they/she 🫧 (follows as @spocksbrainzone) 💌 if you follow you will find: marvel, DC, lotr, twilight, cod, Maasiverse (and lots of hyperfixation sprees)
Charles had been with the Van der Linde gang for less than two months now, but liked to think he was used to the group's antics.
Still, this particular situation was beyond the pale, even for them.
"Is there a reason Karen is pointing a gun at Micah?" Charles asked John as they worked together to haul hay from Pearson's supply wagon to the feed point.
"'Cause it's Micah?" John snorted, then looked over his shoulder at the scene. "Wait—dammit. Looks like Sean found some goddamn mistletoe again."
Charles grunted as he lay his burden down, pushing his braided hair back over his shoulder as he regarded the scene.
Karen was standing under one of the trees that marked the boundaries of camp, a scraggly pine that grew up alongside the deer trail that their guard used to get from the inner camp out to the perimeter. Upon its branches dangled a bunch of pale green, round leaves with white berries, tied messily with a scrap of crimson ribbon that Charles recognized from one of Karen's own dresses.
Below the incongruous foliage—mistletoe didn't usually grow on pine, not naturally—was Karen, guard rifle in hand. At the moment she had it pointed at Micah, who was leering at her nastily.
"C'mon, miss!" Micah wheedled, his eyes greedy under his ugly blonde brows. "It's tradition! You wouldn't want even more bad luck in the marriage mart, would ya? God knows you're halfway to expired goods already."
"I'd rather die a shriveled up spinster like Grimshaw than let you anywhere near me, Micah," Karen spat back, a furious flush high on her pale cheeks. "You leave me be!"
Seeing that no one else was inclined to stop gawking or laughing at the scene long enough to come to the poor woman's rescue, Charles stormed over. He hadn't known Micah any longer than the rest of the gang—but he knew enough to know he wouldn't mind if Karen did shoot the man. Still, capable as the woman was, it didn't seem courteous to leave the woman to fend for herself.
Charles put himself between Karen and Micah, squaring up with the other man. "What the hell is going on here?"
"None of your business," Micah sneered. "Me and Miss Jones here—"
"You and Miss Jones nothin'!" Karen snapped. "I'd kiss a snake before I kissed you!"
Charles turned to her, baffled. "Why do you have to kiss anyone?"
Karen flushed further, her eyes casting to the side in embarrassment. "Just some stupid superstition," she muttered, the muzzle of her rifle dipping to point at the ground now that Charles was between her and her harasser. "Just some dumb prank Sean likes pullin'."
Charles glanced upwards. He supposed if anyone was scrawny enough to climb the poor thing that high that it would be the loud-mouthed Irishman. The only other likely candidate would be Jack, and Charles was sure the five year-old had more manners than that. He hope the red-headed little bastard at least ended up covered in sap for his troubles.
"Any young lady," Micah said, with mocking emphasis on 'lady' that made Charles' hand twitch with the desire to bury itself in the man's scraggly cheek, "Who gets caught under the mistletoe ain't allowed to leave until an eligible gentleman bestows her a kiss. Bad luck if she tries to leave. I'm just trying to do poor Miss Jones here a favor."
"Well, then, Micah," a voice drawled from down the path. "Seems to me you're not qualified, in that case."
Charles glanced to the side, relief filling his chest when he spied Arthur Morgan—the gang's most reliable enforcer, and someone senior enough to send Micah on his way with his rattling tail tucked between his legs—coming up the trail. A frosting of snow had collected on the brim of his black leather hat, a similar dusting glittering along the shoulders of his blue shotgun coat.
This work was inspired by the statue of THRANDUIL™, THE WOODLAND KING.
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I have a general idea that Thranduil’s mount is an Irish elk.
But in my comic, the one interacting with Thranduil is a moose—mainly because I find moose faces quite funny, and they work better for the shift from comedy to tragedy.
How They Flirt With You {Thranduil, Legolas, Haldir}
These characters are part of a request - honestly, I should had written them earlier but better now than never!
⇢ ˗ˏˋThranduil
Flirting, to Thranduil, is not some casual amusement. It is warfare in silk and gold. He doesn’t pursue. He doesn’t woo. He reigns, and waits for you to falter first.
His presence is overwhelming. All poise and control, the kind that dares you to come closer even as it warns you not to.
He doesn’t lower himself to ask if you’re drawn to him. He knows you are. You wouldn’t dare approach otherwise.
“You’ve been watching me. Tell me — was it awe or envy that froze you in place?”
He speaks like frost biting the edge of a blade — cold, gleaming, beautiful. Every word is chosen. Every pause calculated. And you can feel it: he is testing you.
Thranduil’s compliments are puzzles — double-edged, laced with both flattery and warning.
He praises your mind, but questions your intent.
He notes your beauty, but wonders how long it will last.
He enjoys your presence, but reminds you how easily he could dismiss it.
“You are… intriguing. Like a flame in a glass vessel—delicate, flickering, easy to extinguish.”
His words stay with you long after he’s gone. You’ll lie awake, wondering — was that affection… or a warning?
He doesn’t need to touch you to seduce you. He simply exists near you and that is enough to set your skin aflame.
He walks past so close your sleeve brushes his but he does not glance your way.
He leans near to speak and you catch the cool scent of something ancient, something wild but he pulls back before your breath steadies.
His fingers pause near yours — not quite touching — and then withdraw with maddening restraint.
“You flinch so easily. And yet… I haven’t even begun.”
You ache for his touch. He lets you ache.
Thranduil flirts by giving you nothing. And in that nothing, you crave everything.
He answers questions with questions.
He leaves you suspended between offense and flattery.
He silences you with a single, steady gaze and the unbearable knowledge that he knows what you were about to say.
“You think I am toying with you. How strange. I was merely watching how long it would take before you broke the silence.”
Even when he says nothing, he’s winning. You speak to fill the space and he watches, amused, listening for the cracks.
If you earn something real — his interest, his time, his trust — his demeanor shifts so slightly that only the most observant would notice.
His wit still bites, but there’s a shadow of softness in it now.
He does not smile but his voice lowers, as if the words are only for you.
He lingers longer than he must. His silences stretch not with condescension, but contemplation.
“I do not often stay where I am not needed. Yet here I am. Still. Curious, isn’t it?”
And in that stillness, he gives you the closest thing to a confession Thranduil will ever offer.
⇢ ˗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.
If anyone is interested, feel free to request headcanons/scenarios or drabbles - I’m open to them!
