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kanaria-a · 18 days ago

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❝Ah, a moment's ballad still remains distinctly. Surely I'm not lonely!❞

In which, you’ve fallen to a sleep spell, and only a kiss can wake you…(part one)

ft. Riddle Rosehearts, Ace Trappola & Deuce Spade, Trey Clover, Cater Diamond

$RIDDLE —

There is a garden, hidden deep in the heart of Night Raven College. Not one marked on any map, nor spoken of in corridors. It exists only in the spaces between rules, in the corners of ancient tomes and whispered stories. And at its center, there you lie—still as marble, quiet as stars, untouched by time. Sleeping. Cursed. Your slumber is the stuff of legend now, woven into the fabric of school gossip and mystery. Some say you offended a fae spirit during a duel. Others claim you found an ancient relic in the library’s forbidden section and dared to read it aloud. But the truth—what little of it Riddle Rosehearts knows—sits heavy on his heart. You had been his friend. Perhaps more. Perhaps far more than he’d ever let himself say aloud. And now, you are lost to a silence that cannot be broken by sound or will. Except, they say, by love’s kiss. Riddle had scoffed at that, once. He did not believe in things as fickle and irrational as fairytale magic. But belief, like rules, can be bent—especially when it is you lying behind a veil of enchantment, your chest rising and falling with the slow rhythm of a dream you cannot escape. He stands beside you now. The air in the garden is warm and perfumed with roses, though no breeze stirs their petals. The sky above is suspended in eternal dusk, as if the world itself is waiting. Riddle brushes a stray leaf from your hair, his fingers hovering just above your skin. "You always did find trouble where no one else thought to look," he murmurs, voice low. He’s not even sure why he’s here, not fully. This place—it isn’t part of his routine, his order, his system. But something inside him has drawn him to you over and over. He’s come in the early morning when dew clung to the hedges, and late at night when moonlight glinted on your lashes. He’s spoken to you, softly, when no one else could hear. He’s apologized for not being able to protect you, even though you never asked him to. And now… now, there is nothing left to say. Except— “I don’t believe in fairy tales,” he says, and his voice wavers for the first time. But his heart does.

Perhaps it always has, beneath the layers of discipline and decree. Riddle leans closer. His breath catches. You lie still, serene, your features relaxed in a way he’s never quite seen before. Peaceful. Unreachable. He knows the stories. He knows what must be done. It is absurd. Sentimental. Entirely irrational. But he leans in anyway. His lips brush yours—a whisper, no more than a thought given shape. It lasts only a second, barely that. And when he pulls away, he holds his breath, waiting for disappointment to settle like dust. Nothing happens. And then— You stir. Your eyelids flutter. Your fingers twitch, slow and unsure, as though remembering the sensation of movement. A quiet sound escapes your throat, hoarse with disuse. Riddle’s heart stutters. You blink once, then again, and your gaze—unfocused, hazy—finds him. He is frozen, afraid to speak. Afraid to hope. “…Riddle?” Your voice is soft, confused. “Is it morning already?” The sound of your name—your voice—nearly undoes him. He exhales shakily. “You— You’re awake.” You sit up slowly, looking around the unfamiliar garden. Then your eyes return to him, narrowing slightly. “Wait. How long was I asleep?” He clears his throat. “Long enough for Grim to be considered punctual by comparison.” You stare at him. He glances aside, red blooming across his cheeks. “You were cursed. A magical slumber. We tried everything. And… I…” You tilt your head, amused despite the fog still lifting from your mind. “You kissed me, didn’t you?” His shoulders stiffen. “It was necessary! The spell required a— I mean, they said— It was the only option remaining.” You smile, teasing. “So you do believe in fairy tales now.” Riddle looks deeply scandalized. “Absolutely not.” You raise an eyebrow. “You did just kiss a sleeping person in a magical garden.” He falters. “I— That is— The logic behind the curse’s mechanics was—” You touch his hand, gently. He stops. The garden is still, but warmer now. The scent of roses sharpens, blooming with life. Time has begun to move again. “I’m glad it was you,” you say quietly. Riddle looks at you, truly looks, and you see it—the worry that never left him, the guilt he buried beneath rules, the affection he dared not name. He bows his head, voice soft. “So am I.” The rules can wait. Logic can rest. For now, in this garden of suspended time, there is only the truth neither of you needs to speak aloud.

$ACE & DEUCE —

In hindsight, letting Ace and Deuce mess around with alchemy supplies was a bad idea. But you were tired, the classroom was warm, and they swore it was “just a simple energy potion.” Now you’re unconscious. Face-down on a beanbag in the Ramshackle common room, snoring lightly. Peaceful. Too peaceful. “…Okay,” Ace says, standing over your motionless body, “so this is maybe a little worse than last time.” “A little?!” Deuce hisses. “You said you read the label!” “I did! Mostly!” Deuce grabs the empty flask from the floor and squints at it. “This is in cursive.” “Cursive is readable!” “Not if it’s in ancient Briar Valley incantation script, Ace!” Ace groans, kneeling beside you. “Okay, okay, but this is fixable. They’re not dead.” You snore in response. “See?” he says, poking your cheek gently. “Just asleep.” “Magically asleep,” Deuce corrects, nervously pacing now. “You know what that means, right? Magical slumber? That’s classic fairytale territory. We need a cure.” Ace snaps his fingers. “Right! In those old books, the prince always wakes them up with a kiss.” Deuce blinks. “Seriously? That’s your plan?” Ace shrugs. “Hey, it works in the stories.” “That’s fiction, Ace!” “Yeah, but they also didn’t believe in magic carpets and ghost cats either, and here we are.” You twitch slightly. A flower petal, dislodged from your hair, floats gently to the floor. Deuce pales. “Okay. Okay, say you’re right. Let’s say—just theoretically—that’s the cure. Then… who’s gonna do it?” Ace turns to him, smirking. “You offering, Spade?” “What?! No! I mean—should I?” Ace raises an eyebrow. “You want to?” Deuce sputters. “I mean, I don’t not want to, but I don’t want to steal your chance—wait, do you want to?” Ace scratches the back of his head, suddenly less smug. “Well, I mean… we’re all kinda close, right? I wouldn’t mind…” They both glance at you. Still out cold. Deuce folds his arms. “Maybe we flip a coin.” “A coin? Really?” “Rock, paper, scissors?” Ace sighs. “This is so dumb.” They both look at you again. You do not react. “…They’re kinda cute like this,” Deuce says quietly. “Yeah,” Ace mutters. “Peaceful. Not yelling at us for once.” “Probably dreaming of doing it, though.” Ace snorts. “Yeah. With a megaphone.” Another pause. “…So,” Deuce says. “What if we both… y’know…” “What, kiss at the same time?” Ace blinks. “That’s weird, dude.” “Well, it’s weirder to argue while they’re still cursed!” “I’m just saying, we need a plan!” A long beat. “Okay,” Ace says finally. “Rock, paper, scissors. Best of one. Winner wakes ‘em up.” Deuce nods. They square up. “Rock… paper… scissors—shoot!” Deuce throws paper. Ace throws scissors. He freezes. “Oh.” “Guess you’re up,” Deuce says, sounding both nervous and vaguely disappointed. Ace glances at you. Then back at Deuce. “…Wanna… do it together?” Deuce stares. Ace scratches his cheek. “I mean, it’s not like they’re gonna remember who did it. Right? Just a little, tiny, barely-there kiss. Bam, they wake up, yell at us, we all move on.” Deuce blushes. “O-Okay. Just—just once. And quick!” They kneel beside you. Ace nudges your shoulder gently. “Okay, partner. Time to rise and shine…” You feel two nervous presences hovering very close. Something brushes your forehead. It’s warm. Awkward. A little clumsy. And then— A jolt. Like a thread snapping back into place. Your eyes flutter open. Two faces are hovering inches above yours. “…Why are you both red?” you croak. Deuce immediately falls backward. Ace tries to play it cool. “Ah! You’re awake! Just like I said would happen!” You sit up slowly. “What… happened?” “Great news,” Ace says, inching away, “you were totally fine! Just a mild alchemy nap!” “Magically-induced slumber,” Deuce corrects, still flat on the floor. “We may have kissed you.” Ace elbows him. “May have?! We definitely saved the day, thank you very much!” You stare at them. Slowly. “So you cursed me… then kissed me to fix it.” “To be fair,” Ace says brightly, “only one of those was on purpose.” You throw a pillow at him. He deserves it. Deuce hides behind a beanbag.

But even as you grumble, rubbing sleep from your eyes, you catch the worried glances they sneak you. The relief they aren’t even trying to hide. “…Thanks,” you mutter, finally. They blink. Ace grins. “Anytime, Sleeping Beauty.” You throw another pillow. They both deserve that one too.

$CATER DIAMOND —

In your defense, you didn’t mean to fall asleep mid-spell. In Cater’s defense, he didn’t mean for the spell to hit you. …Okay, maybe someone was a little too focused on getting the perfect angle for his Magicam story to notice the warning on the incantation scroll labeled “Do Not Cast Without Full Concentration or You Might Put Someone Into a Hundred-Year Nap.” But the lighting was really good. Now, you’re slumped on the dorm couch like a mannequin in a dream, arms folded, expression serene, completely and utterly out cold. And Cater is panicking. “Okay, okay, stay calm, me,” he mutters, pacing in frantic circles, ring-laden fingers tangled in his hair. “They’re just napping. Probably. Power nap vibes, right? Just a quick snooze! Haha! Please wake up...” You don’t move. You don’t even twitch. He kneels beside you and pokes your cheek gently. “Hey, sunshine… if you wake up now, I’ll delete that cursed pic I caught of you with whipped cream on your nose. Deal?” Silence. Cater freezes. “…You love bribery. That always works.” Nothing. “Oh no oh no oh no—okay, time for damage control.” He whips out his phone and furiously scrolls through a few bookmarked resources, muttering under his breath. “Sleep curse… Briar Valley enchantment, blah blah blah… Oh, here it is! Classic reversal spell: ‘Can only be undone by a kiss from someone with genuine feelings for the victim.’” He stares at the screen. Then stares at you. Then back at the screen. “…Well, that’s awkward.” He stands and paces again, eyes wild. “I mean… what even counts as genuine feelings?! Like, does respect count? Friendly affection? I like them, okay? They’re cute! But is that enough? I’m not, like, writing sonnets over here!” You, tragically, do not respond. He crouches beside you again, more carefully this time. Brushes a bit of lint from your collar. “…You know,” he murmurs, quieter now, “you’re usually the one talking sense into me. Or teasing me when I go overboard. Or calling me out when I’m two filters deep into a selfie spiral.” He chuckles, the sound soft and nervous. “Now you’re just… quiet.” His fingers hesitate near your hand, then wrap gently around it. “I don’t really do real feelings. Too messy, too clingy, too scary, right? But with you… it’s never felt like that. Just easy.” Your breathing is steady. Peaceful. Beautifully annoying in how unbothered it is. “I’m probably overthinking this. But,” he pauses, biting his lip, “if you were awake, you’d definitely be roasting me for dragging it out.” He leans forward slowly. “Okay,” he whispers. “One kiss. For magic. Not because I want to. Just for spell-breaking purposes. Purely practical.” He kisses you—soft and quick, more like a promise than a declaration. And just like that—your eyes flutter open. “…Did you just kiss me?” you croak, voice raspy with sleep. Cater jerks back so fast he nearly falls over the coffee table. “I—NO—I mean—YES—but also—HI! You’re awake!!” You blink, disoriented. “Why do I taste strawberry lip balm?” “No clue!” he says too quickly. “Definitely not mine!” You sit up slowly, rubbing your eyes. “What happened?” “Okay, so… there may have been a teeny, tiny spell accident. But good news!” He flashes jazz hands. “I fixed it!” “With your mouth?” “Do not phrase it like that.” You give him a long, flat look. “Did you read the instructions after the spell hit me?” He winces. “...Define ‘after.’” You groan and flop backward onto the couch again. He leans over you, grinning now that the panic has worn off. “Hey, silver lining—you got some beauty sleep, I got a whole fairytale moment, and nobody’s cursed anymore.” You narrow your eyes. “Cater.” “Yeah?” “Did you take a selfie while I was unconscious?” He grins wider. “Delete it.” “Rude! I looked amazing in that lighting!” “Delete it.” He sighs dramatically but holds his phone up in surrender. “Fine, fine. Guess I’ll just treasure the memory instead.” You throw a pillow at him. He dodges. But he’s still smiling. And for once, there’s no filter needed.

$TREY —

The kitchen is quiet now, save for the distant ticking of the Heartslabyul clock tower and the occasional hum of an enchanted tea kettle keeping itself warm. Trey hadn’t planned to spend his evening here, but after what happened—after you fell into that unnatural sleep—he couldn’t bear to sit still in his room. Not while you were still lying there in the lounge, unmoving, untouched by sound, sunlight, or reason. He’s not sure when it happened. One minute you were taste-testing an experimental tart recipe, and the next, your fingers loosened around the teacup, your body slumping gently, as though someone had simply whispered “rest” into your ear and you’d obeyed without resistance. The spell was instantaneous. Gentle. Silent. And wholly unplanned. Trey had called for help, of course. Checked the label on the spice blend he used, flipped through several enchanted cookbooks, even sent a long and slightly frantic message to Professor Crewel. It was Grim, of all people, who casually muttered the phrase *“like Sleeping Beauty or whatever”*—and the idea clicked into place with an uneasy sense of inevitability. A sleep spell tied to emotional resonance. Romantic in nature. Only reversible through a kiss. A sincere one. Trey hadn’t believed it at first. But then he looked at you again. The stillness of your expression. The fragile fall of your hair against the velvet cushion. The tiny furrow in your brow, like you were on the edge of waking. Waiting. He hadn’t intended to be the one. Surely someone else—someone you actually thought of that way—should do it. He wasn’t oblivious to your friendships, your laughter, the way you spoke with others. You were close. But not… not like that. Were you? He had never asked himself, never let himself dwell too long on the possibility. He was older. He was busy. He told himself you simply appreciated his baking, his steadiness, the small comforts he provided. That your fondness was the same as anyone’s—a warmth for someone reliable. Not a yearning. Not something *his* to answer. But when no one else stepped forward, when no one else *could*, he found himself leaning over you in that too-still room. He’d hesitated. He always did when it came to things that mattered. The kiss had been gentle. A moment of reverence more than romance. Just a press of hope. And then you’d stirred. You’d blinked, breathing slowly, asking in a hoarse voice what happened. He didn’t tell you everything. Not then. You were still waking. Still fragile from magic’s grip. But now—now he is here, in the kitchen, hands dusted with flour, staring down at another tart crust and wondering why the shape of your sleeping face keeps returning to his thoughts. The door creaks. He looks up. It’s you. Awake. Dressed in soft night clothes, hair slightly mussed, standing there with your arms crossed like you’re unsure if you’ve intruded. “Couldn’t sleep?” he asks. You nod. “Neither could I,” he admits. You step further inside. He gestures to the second stool. “I didn’t expect to see you on your feet so soon.” “Neither did I,” you reply with a faint smile. You watch him work for a moment, hands moving automatically as he presses a neat edge into the crust. “I remember it,” you say. “The kiss.” His hands pause. The kitchen stills. He doesn’t look up. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “It wasn’t meant to be mine.” “But it worked,” you say. He nods. “That doesn’t mean it should’ve.” You hesitate. Then—softly—you say, “You really didn’t know, did you?” He finally meets your gaze. “Know what?” “That I’ve liked you for a while now.” There’s no drama in your voice. No teasing. Just honesty, placed gently between the two of you like a dish left to cool. Trey sets the dough aside. Wipes his hands on a towel. “I didn’t,” he admits. “I never assumed. You… you’re kind to everyone.” His breath catches. He looks down for a moment, as if grounding himself, then up again. His expression is unreadable. Then, slowly, warm.

“I suppose I owe Grim a thank-you,” he murmurs. You arch a brow. “For cursing me?” He chuckles. “For waking me up, actually.” You smile. And this time, it’s you who closes the space between you—no magic required.

WHY ARE THERE NO REQQQQS

#mx kanaria-vespa #disney twisted wonderland #twst x reader #twst #twisted wonderland x reader #twst wonderland #twst riddle #riddle rosehearts x reader #sleeping beauty au #twst trey #trey clover #trey clover x reader #ace trapolla x reader #deuce spade x reader #cater diamond x reader #do i look like a real boy papa

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robo-milky · 5 months ago

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Dynamic Swap 1: What if Rook fell first?

Now Cloche is the one who’s nonchalant! Rook would still run from her, but not out of fear (yippee?)

I love my expressive and confident Rooks out there… bUT I WILL FOREVER HC THAT ROOK FINDING HIMSELF FALLING DEEPLY IS A VULNERABILITY TO HIDE AND HIM GETTING NERVOUS LIKE HE’D WITH NEIGE (just a tad)

[Ramble]

• How Rook would’ve caught feels for Cloche is by being there to observe the small glimpses of herself when she thinks she’s alone. Like a glacier melting, Cloche warms up to let the little smiles turn the corners of her lips or exhale too heavily to be anything else but frustration. Rook knows that if he reaches out, Cloche will revert back after unwinding, so he’d rather bask in her presence from afar. Rook also feels special for being the only one to read her so accurately and understand her true intentions (as opposed to Cloche freaking Rook out because she figured him out and he couldn’t read her back.)

• Instead of the first encounter where feral! Cloche attacks Rook in the school forest, Cloche calls Rook out for being “voyeuristic” when he was there, hidden behind a wall, and watching the whole time she was roughed up by bullies. Cloche didn’t know it was the Vice Dormleader of Pomefiore she was calling out to, but was vaguely aware that the presence of a master remained even as she was left alone. Instead of Rook’s usual dismissals of scathing remarks to his character, this one from Cloche makes him reflect just a little. After all, he’s never once stepped in once to help, having seen that Cloche took all the pushing and shoving just fine.

• Now, he slips little treats for her where he goes. Sometimes it’s a 50 Thaumark bill, or a new handkerchief that could replace the one Cloche just lost. Rook knows that Cloche will pocket them, and if anyone tries to harass her over it, he’ll swoop in gaslight them that the lost item was originally Cloche’ and she must have dropped it herself. Before Cloche would even realize Rook helped her, he’s gone.

• Similar to how he’d write Neige poems and letters, Rook would send them to Cloche too. To be inconspicuous, Rook signs each letter with “H”.

• Rook is partially accepting of this crush, yet is also in denial, waiting for it to pass soon. All this excitement and giddiness might just make him spill something he might regret.

• Since Cloche doesn’t idolize Rook in this AU, unfortunately she’d think of him of a sucker that’s overly sentimental. She’s more indifferent to Rook than trying to avoid him.

#this idea has taken me by storm #cat scratches 🌸#oc: cloche🎊#rookloche #twisted wonderland #twst #twst oc #twst ocs #rook hunt #twst rook #twst prefect #twst yuu #twst yume #rook hunt x oc

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4mrplumi · 5 months ago

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ZERO (ii): SCAVENGERY . (ms/prev/next)

-> plot synopsis - you don't think you're as odd and horrifying as the news makes you out to be. but you have never much cared for the validation of others, and certainly not theirs.

-> batfamily x serial killer reader. playlist (wip) ask 2b added to taglist

-> tw; gn reader, toxic relationships, fem love interest, unhealthy coping mechanisms, obsessive compulsive disorder, paranoia, murder, sociopathic tendencies, full on master list.

> a/n; this entry is skippable! while ive done work to establish the laws and details for the insert and the world around them, the batfamily moments one would look for scattered across. the prologue is planned for this world building exactly, and the next part will be focused on the family.

you have to be prepared. profiled. planned. not paranoid. you are not paranoid.

plans upon plans, plots behind plots, ploys behind ploys. by sixteen, you had your entire life planned out, exactly what you'd do, what you’d do if that didn’t work out, and another two back up plans just in case. you were prepared for yourself to get moved around like this too, driving into the third option you’d laid for your life. with its own backup plans, own what if’s and what not’s, probables and situations.

order. organisation. prepared.

it only makes you a little sick to see your behaviour mirrored on the man of the house, with his contingencies and protocols. but you’re not that stuck up, surely. you do it only out of resentment, you're nothing like him. he and your family are unable to save the scraps they've left, you have to do this to make up for the mess they've created.

you make sure none of your outings, meeting areas, contact lists or even the names you sign on grocery bills are the same. you can’t let any common clue stick out, whether it’s in your civilian life, or under the duty you’ve taken up. even though you’re relatively low on their radar right now, studying the world’s greatest detective’s tactics and those of his rogues has taught you that a frayed past never does anyone any good. it was a backup plan, a just in case, in the event you gained too much unwanted attention.

you want your family out of your business. it’s funny how the teenage, "i’m my own person" phase has so morbidly warped in your life. but you mean it. you don’t trust them with their rules, and will not risk anything trying to correct their errors and making yourself a target. they can live in oblivion, but you won't let them intrude. you don’t trust them.

to ensure your “friends”, as you have termed them, stay similarly in line, you make sure they update you on everything. no detail of common interest is hidden, because everything is common, aligned, on your principles and clues. everything must be known, not because you are paranoid. you check in on them, their health, their whereabouts, their families. they’re in debt, with not much space to refuse, taking the burner phones you force into their hands wearily. but sentimental isn’t the best word to use for you.

you are concerned for the wellbeing of your accomplices only to the extent that they remain in your line of work, alive. yes, you will feed their families and see to their wounds, but only and only to tip the scales of their debts towards you. it’s the exact reason why you make sure the work you put on them isn’t too much, so that there's a low chance that scale could be imbalanced, this time, against your favour. they need to remain in your control, to propel your movements and wipe out the instance of a snitch, a tattle tale.

in a way, with much reluctance, this is a trait you’ve picked up from the batman. you’ve learnt that his training comprises many different things, how to stop a man from running, how to disarm their guns, how to keep them from fleeing. but never how to kill.

of course, you don’t do as much fighting as he does, but you’ve taken the liberty to curve his ways to suit you. you’ll teach the people who work for you how to figure out plots, hidden intentions, the next move and the one after that. but never your next move.

you’ve wondered morbidly, only once, if he’d be proud of you, if your skills were somewhere more suitable, per say. but you have no intentions to change your ways for his peace of mind. you do not care for his pride.

you’ve made of yourself an independent dependant, unreliable. you'd caught on early that having expectations from others and expectations on yourself was an unnecessary burden. your first year in the manor was terrible, and it has improved only out of your isolation, your distrust.

you trusted just about no one, and made sure no one trusted you. no debt, no obligation.

you had to know everything, but not because you were paranoid.

there are only five people out of the handful you keep, allowed into your inner circle. people to confide in and accompany you when you need a plus one. they’re the easiest to keep in line, students or workers, and of course, her. your ‘girlfriend’ who too was a device for your plotting.

however, with her drawling voice and less than weary affections, you need to remind her of it often. you’ve heard very little endearment from people in your life; called “kid” or “doll” by the people in your childhood, your proper legal name by your ‘family’, and a plethora of less pleasant things by self-proclaimed rivals in school and on the streets.

so when she takes to calling you angel, you pause from smacking her hand away from curling in your hair. in an attempt to decipher her intentions, knowing damn well she did all this to gain your favour (you would not so kindly give it), you think upon it. for more hours than considered normal.

is she calling you inhumane? damian had said the same thing to you once, coming across your little hobby in the greenhouse once. is she calling you frightening? you were kinder to her than the others, just by a sliver. dick grayson had looked at you with weariness once, perhaps seeing the hint of a familiar scowl on you. or is she genuinely, as genuine as the glorified scum of your accomplices get, being genuine? an angel… you.

you don’t dwell on it any longer after that, pushing her hand aside and her legs off off of yours, leaving. you were not weak, and if that was what she was trying from you, it would not work. you were not weak, and not ashamed to show that you weren’t. people deserve to know their faults. and you’re no exception.

you did not ever, ever hide your disappointment nor disgust. damian wayne was scorned out loud for his empathy, dick grayson scowled at for his sensitivity and tim drake hissed at for his distance. jason todd for his dramatics, but not to his face, and duke for his concerns.

you judged, as an interrupting scoff that broke their peace, and did none of it for fun. you did not gain anything by irritating your brothers, nor did you hope to lose anything. you were speaking your mind, what they deserved to know.

if they resented you for it, fine! you couldn't care less, since you didn’t owe each other anything for it. you wanted them out of the way, and needed none of their kindness. you are unbothered.

you are not paranoid, but you can always be more prepared.

> a/n; i hope i’ve made a good effort to build on the mindset here. i had to rewrite this whole chapter cus the styles weren’t matching up (- - ;;) the prologues are super just set ins. plot starts from ch1 that i'm hoping to get out before my exams.

i’m incredibly happy that people are finding interest in this!! however, i need opinions on the relationship dynamics you think would be visible with the “friends”. i will expand on it maybe in a drabble? even though this is something i’m writing, i think it's important to know what kind of thoughts my sentences create. this means valid criticism on the writing is also appreciated (just please don’t be mean).

thank you for reading!!

taglist: @boredselkie @shirp-collector-of-fixations @randomlyappearingartist @bat1212 @maicenitas @xjesterxjacksx @heartjwonie @lucienneb1ue @vikkus-main @adornedlace @cuntiesweet @minorlyatfall @staarflowerr

#saria 💤 says #'25 run: scavengery #yandere batfamily #batfam x reader #batfamily x reader #yandere batfam x reader #x male reader #x gn reader #yandere x reader #batfam x villain reader

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annie0116 · 3 months ago

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Minthara's Sudden Motherhood — A Narrative Concern in Patch 8

“To find a home… for myself… and my child.” “Murdering Orin… raising my daughter…” These two new lines in Patch 8 raise questions that go far beyond simple surprise.

Minthara was already a fully realized character in Baldur's Gate 3. She was cold, ambitious, loyal to power and ideals, and slowly opened up only through earned trust. Her development throughout the story was already complex and compelling. This is why the new dialogue introduced in Patch 8 was such a shock.

In this patch, two new lines were added to her Speak With Dead dialogue:

“To find a home… for myself… and my child.” “Murdering Orin… raising my daughter…”

These lines suggest that Minthara has a daughter—something never previously mentioned in the game. This revelation appears with no prior narrative setup: – Not in the main story, – Not in side quests, – Not in companion or romance dialogues.

Even for players who built deep relationships with Minthara, she never once references a child. The information arrives without buildup, reflection, or thematic support. It feels disconnected—and inconsistent.

🧠 Context & Trigger Conditions

These lines only appear under very specific, emotionally charged circumstances:

You must erase Minthara's identity (via Questioner Jasin and Sumera or directly),

Kill her,

Then cast Speak With Dead.

Only after all of that does the line about her being a mother appear. This raises a deeper concern:

Why is such important information only available after you erase and destroy her?

If this was a conscious narrative choice, it feels less like organic storytelling—and more like emotional manipulation.

⚠️ Possibly Accidental Content?

There’s evidence that this content may have been unintended. As of December 2023, datamined triggers showed that these lines were linked to:

ORI_Minthara_State_ChildIsPlayers

ORI_Minthara_State_ChildIsSomeoneElses

These flags were never attached to active quests or content and seem to have been cut. There are no journal entries, no follow-up quests, no reactions from the player character—nothing.

This suggests old content may have been reintroduced by mistake, or hastily added without support.

🧩 Two Possible Interpretations

❌ If Minthara does have a daughter:

It contradicts her character. She’s cautious but honest with those she trusts.

A child would be too important to remain hidden—especially in a romance route.

Her main trait is ambition. If her greatest goal was her daughter, why is it never explored?

✔️ If she does not have a daughter:

Then this was metaphor, broken flag dialogue, or discarded narrative fragments.

Her arc—built on regret, survival, and earned connection—remains consistent.

It keeps her emotional development intact without contradictions.

⏳ Why This Matters

Had this content been added early in the game’s lifecycle, it might've been seen as expansion. But Patch 8 arrived almost two years after release, right before the definitive edition. This doesn't feel like natural development. It feels like a rewrite.

This isn't about resisting growth. It's about protecting what was already carefully built.

Minthara was already complex. Already compelling. Already complete.

She didn't need a child to be meaningful. She needed a story that believed in her as she was.

💬 A Personal Closing Note

I don't believe Minthara ever needed to be softened.

Her strength lies in how guarded she is with strangers and how unwavering she becomes with those she trusts. She shows vulnerability in her own way—quiet, private, and deeply earned. The contrast—from enemy to someone she could trust—or even love—was already powerful without extra sentimentality.

She didn't need fixing. She was already enough.

#minthara #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 #larian studios #video game writing #BG3Discussion #bg3 lore #patch 8

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e-evangeline · 3 months ago

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𝐴𝑛 𝐸𝑙𝑒𝑔𝑦 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑅𝑒𝑏𝑖𝑟𝑡ℎ

Tomura Shigaraki x Reader.

part 1, wc: 1k+

Synopsis: “The last thing you were expecting to see tonight was him. Caked in mud and stumbling down your hallway. Tomura Shigaraki. The headstone you’d been visiting and writing your Plath-esque, teenage rage poetry beside at Kamino Graveyard. More importantly, he’s supposed to be dead.”

Contents: Lisa Frankenstein!AU, Tomura Shigaraki x Reader, AFAB reader, romance, fluff, references to gothic literature, death (and resurrection), non-sexual intimacy, sexual tension, explicit language, mutual pining, idiots in love, happy ending, multiple parts! more tags to be added…(do not have to have seen the movie)

A/N: I hope you enjoy this first chapter. I will be cross-posting on ao3 once I sort my account out. I will update when that is done.

It started around 3 months ago. Moving to a new city to live with your father’s new wife and step-daughter, isn’t the easiest of changes. Let alone for an 18 year old entering her final year of high-school, and now at a new state school where the other kids already have their cliques. If anything, it was more of a pain for you rather than a haunting sentimentality for your old life that has made it difficult to adjust.

Instead of making friends with people you’d soon forget about in a couple weeks as you walk across the graduation stage, you had decided to fill up the remaining time that the typical students were using to socialise and organise weekend karaoke events with friends to do what you do best. Write.

It was late winter, that time where spring is on the horizon and where the fog hangs a little too low and where the dew in the air attaches itself to your hair, dampening and making it flatten against your scalp. You’d been walking home from your class’s mandatory meeting to discuss their fundraiser for the spring festival when you took an accidental detour, stumbling upon a pair of rusting gates that read ‘Kamino Ward Cemetery’.

Despite its creepy appearance, something about the chill and foggy atmosphere encouraged you to enter. To your left, you could see a small crypt that you could only assume housed some upper-middle class egoist who must have thought they were better than the rest of Kamino city’s dwellers. To your right, a few miscellaneous graves of varying sizes whose names were mostly hidden from the neglect of the land’s upkeep and age. You had almost missed it, but somewhere further back you saw a lone grave anyone could have easily missed if they didn’t do a double take. Stepping on a branch, the snap filled the silence as you approached it. Getting closer, the small light seeping through the fog began to dissipate slowly till you were craning your neck up at what you now realised was a much larger, much more gothic style grave with a man’s head sculpted of stone at the top of it. You gripped the branches and leaves obscuring the lettering. Then tracing your eyes over the slab, half lidded and bored, it read:

“Here lies, a young man who deserved more than what he got out of life … Tomura Shigaraki”.

—

From that day on, you’d been a frequent visitor of the man you’d found to be only a couple years older than yourself at the time of his death. You had always been one to have a morbid curiosity and interest in the macabre, so after school every other day you would bring your writing tools to this neglected field of corpses for a couple hours until you started getting ‘where are you?’ texts from your sister. There was something about this dead man though, that interested you, like you were Heathcliff and he were Catherine. You had began to picture the life of some done and dusted guy, talking to that stone head you couldn’t tell anyone you thought was handsome for fear of being locked up in some run-down loony bin. You’re sure if your dad’s overbearing wife found out you were just hanging about graveyards alone for fun like a creep, she’d bust a pretty nail or two and admit you anyway.

“You don’t get it Tomura, well maybe you do, or did, how would I know. My step-sister is being a real cunt lately, she keeps trying to get me to go to these sport rallies with her uppity-douche of a boyfriend who I’m pretty sure doesn’t even know the difference between a Jane Austen novel and a Charlotte Brontë novel!”

Flipping a page in your notebook and lowering your voice to a smaller octave, you mutter: “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Everyone and everything irritates me. My dad says he’s worried about me but he’s leaving with his wife to go on a weekend trip to Okinawa… does that sound selfish of me?”.

The temperature is lowering and the sun is starting to set, you sigh and look up one last time at his grave. “I wish you weren’t so dead Tomura. I feel you’d have understood me. I’d have liked to have someone to complain about with who also seems to have been a troubled loser…ahh, no you weren’t a loser… I’m sure of it”.

—

‘These new cotton pyjamas are really soft’ you think as you lounge on the living room sofa. Being home alone, you get to be a slob for a couple days because as well as the newly wed couple going away for a few days, your sister is at some university party with her friends. To make the most out of this opportunity, you’ve acquired an array of unhealthy food: a can of cola, a bag of sweet and salty popcorn, sour gummies, and for good measure a slice of a brownie with ice-cream. You’re not going to eat all of it, but the ability to indulge and not be reprimanded by the diet infested brain of your new mother is appealing and gives you a sense of evil satisfaction. This TV channel you found is reprising a bunch of David Lynch movies, tonight’s showing is Eraserhead. A true classic. So you’re going to do absolutely nothing but enjoy the simple pleasures in life for tonight.

The rain has been picking up outside for the past half hour, and the lamp at the side of the sofa is imbuing the room with a warm cosy glow. You’re half way through the movie, comfortable with a blanket up to your chin when you hear a small thud… and then another, but with more umph the second time around. You pick up the remote and pause the TV, slowly moving your feet as the blanket falls to the floor. It’s coming from the door. Another thud. You’re all but about to reach for the landline on the wall when the door comes crashing open and swinging hard against the wall when a large blur stumbles into the hallway.

The blur begins to steady itself and you’ve already got that weird pole thing people have next to their fireplaces in hand read to swing like you’re in a game of baseball, when that same blur turns to your direction and is not a blur at all. But a man. A man you know all too well. He’s staring at you with a look on his face you can’t quite discern.

The last thing you were expecting to see tonight was him. Caked in mud and stumbling down your hallway. The headstone you’d been writing your Plath-esque wanna be poetry beside at Kamino Graveyard. More importantly, he’s supposed to be dead. It’s Tomura Shigaraki. And he’s… alive?

—> Part 2

(Now on ao3, user id is in pinned)

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emmg · 5 months ago

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Sleep Inside the Cold of You

Rook returns. Again and again. He never minds the waiting—he is patient, inexhaustibly so—but she no longer stays. Not like before. Not like she used to.

Inspired by my sister-wife @aldisobey's unfinished WIP. This is all thanks to you, babe, and entirely for you. Lich Emmrich x Rook, reincarnation trope, but make it unsettling.

Originally meant to be a one-shot, but, as usual, I have thoughts, so now it’s a three-parter. Tee-freaking-hee.

Read below or on AO3

It is one thing to glimpse oneself in a mirror. Quite another to find one's image cast in stone, immutable, reduced to the palm of a hand. She turns the miniature effigy between her fingers, its cold surface absorbing none of her warmth. The craftsmanship is grotesquely precise, almost leering in its accuracy: her nose, her mouth, the exact tilt of her head. But the hair is wrong. Longer, heavier. As if it belongs to someone else.

The altar is unremarkable, small, its presence more insidious for the lack of ceremony. It does not gleam, does not command reverence. And yet, it is untouched. Pristine in a way that feels unnatural, as though the dust that settles upon all things has simply chosen to ignore it. As though it has existed under glass until this very moment, preserved in some invisible stasis, waiting for her eyes to find it.

There are other things. She moves through them quickly, with the detached efficiency of someone rifling through a stranger’s pockets. A gold coin, soft with age, warmed by her skin as it glides between her knuckles, a magician’s trick, cheap in its ease. A dagger, slight, dainty almost, its sickly blue blade neither metal nor anything she can name, its edge humming with something that makes her fingers hesitate before they close around the hilt. At the altar’s periphery, a cloth pouch. She lifts it, inhales. Peppermint. Lemon verbena. Oregano. Licorice root. Rivaini. A blend for settling the stomach. Or dulling the mind.

"I know you do not like her, and she does not like you in turn, and, frankly, I am beginning to sympathize with the sentiment. Her sentiment, mind you. Nevertheless, we must proceed this way. If you would be so kind?" the creature mutters. He says it all—to the Necropolis? Yes, it appears so. He speaks to it as one does to a stubborn dog, half-scolding, half-affectionate.

She supposes he is a man, judging by the voice, at least. It is difficult to be certain when all that remains of him is bone. No flesh, no pretense of life, only the stark architecture of a skeleton, ribs gilded, skull crowned. His gestures, though economical, have a certain fluidity to them, an old-world elegance that makes his impatience seem almost indulgent.

He lifts his staff—an ornate thing, absurdly baroque—and taps it against the stone. The Necropolis rumbles in response, shifting, sighing, its bricks slithering apart like something that has only just woken.

"Ah," he breathes, pleased, though the sound is weightless, without lungs to carry it. "Much better."

For a moment, he stands still, head inclined, as if listening to some distant music, some hidden frequency woven into the stone. Then, with a quiet sort of amusement, he says, "It is quite hopeless, my darling. Time and time and time again, I attempt to reconcile the two of you, to soften this little enmity, to foster, if not warmth, at least civility." A flick of his fingers, graceful, dismissive. "And yet..."

He beckons, and she obeys, not quite knowing why. As she steps forward, his wrapped hand—those long, tapered fingers swathed in fabric, hiding whatever remains beneath—settles at the small of her back. A light touch, barely there, but with a certainty that suggests he has done this before. Many times.

Through the threshold he guides her, chattering all the while. "And time and time again, you bicker," he muses, half to himself. "I fear you will never learn to get along."

The walls shift behind them, a deep, seismic sigh, stone sliding over stone. The passage is gone. His hand lingers a moment longer, trembling a little, before it withdraws.

The new room is more inviting. The sort of comfort that feels prepared, orchestrated, like a stage set designed to put the subject at ease. A small table, set up for a luncheon. A silver pot of coffee, steaming faintly. A plate of delicate pastries, dusted with powdered sugar.

He insists she sit. She does. She lifts one of the cakes between her fingers but does not eat it, only holds it. Across from her, the lich—yes, the lich, that is what he told her he is—folds himself into his chair. He crosses one leg over the other, arranges his fingers upon his knee, and watches her, his skull tilting at an angle just thoughtful enough to unsettle.

"All of this," he begins, a vague sweep of his bandaged hand encompassing the room, the table, the carefully constructed charm of the setting, "ought to be to your liking. But if anything displeases you, why, you have only to ask."

She does not look at his skull, nor at the crown resting upon it. She does not want to think about the empty sockets where his eyes should be, about what it means for a thing like him to watch her. Instead, she fixes her gaze on his fingers.

They appear normal, if one does not look too closely. But it is the rings that hold her, that give her something solid to grasp. Emeralds, rubies, clear stones cold as ice, all set in heavy gold, the metal worn smooth by time.

"All of this," she echoes at last, "is displeasing."

A sigh. Long, weary, expelled between bared teeth, though the source of breath remains a mystery. The fingers she cannot stop watching continue their absent rhythm, tips teasing the fabric of the tablecloth, drawing it ever so slightly out of place.

"Oh, please," he implores, the syllables drawn, elongated, touched with a tired fondness. "I beg you." A pause, a shift, his fingers now smoothing the cloth they had only just disturbed. "Must we always begin this way? It is always the same, always. You scowl, you refuse, you insist upon your discontent, but then, inevitably—" His eyes—if they could be called that—flick toward her hands, toward the delicate, untouched pastry. "You eat. You smile." The drumming resumes, faster now. "And then, my love, you die."

A flutter of nausea stirs in her stomach.

His fingers still. “We cannot keep doing this,” he says, and for all his refinement, all his elegance, there is something sore in his voice now, something weary and worn and just barely bruised. “The repeating and the dying alike. The latter, I believe, I may soon correct. But the former…” His thumb cracks as he folds it. “The former, I fear, is entirely up to you.”

She swallows. Her mouth is dry.

"What do you…" She falters, tries again. "We've done this before?"

A slow nod, gentle, patient. “In a manner of speaking.”

She grips the edge of the table. “How many times?”

A deliberation. He lifts his fingers, lowering them one by one, counting, but before he reaches any conclusion, he stops. Sighs. Laughs, a small, intimate thing, something just for her, something that feels oddly familiar. “I cannot say,” he admits, as if confessing to some harmless forgetfulness. “Though this time is rather curious.”

He studies her for a moment longer than necessary, then shifts, leaning slightly to one side, as if examining her from a different angle might yield something new. When it does not, he settles back.

“You have never before struck your head just as I found you. A tragic little accident." His hand sneaks forth, walking over the table like a many-limbed spider. The touch, when it comes, is the barest brush, his fingers resting just barely over hers. "And now, my darling, you remember nothing at all. I must admit, I am not quite sure what to make of it... Ah, but perhaps it is a blessing in disguise. Fewer explanations. Fewer protests."

She pulls her hand away, pressing it to the back of her head, and—yes, there it is. Wet at first, then merely sticky, her hair clumped together over the spot. Her fingers return red. Blood. Dark, drying, familiar in the way that all wounds are familiar. She stares at it for a moment before wiping her hand against the tablecloth. A beat later, she realizes the impropriety of it, but the lich does not seem to mind.

He retrieves the pastry she has dropped, brushes it off with a peculiar sort of care, then picks up a butter knife, dipping it into the small silver dish beside him. A simple stroke, the press of pale gold against soft layers of cake. The movement is entirely unremarkable, save for the fact that his hands glide with the kind of patience that belongs only to the dead or the deeply in love.

He hands it back to her. She takes it.

"Thank you," she says, though the words feel misplaced, as if they belong to a different scene, a different woman, one with clearer thoughts and cleaner hands.

The room presses in around her, unthreatening, but too warm, too heavy with something she cannot name. A feeling like recognition without memory, like an actor stepping onto a stage and finding that the lines will not come.

She looks down at the pastry, at the soft smear of butter, glossy under the light.

"I…" Her voice is thin, unpleasant. A raw little thing, scraped from the inside of her throat. "I don’t know what to do. Or where I’m supposed to go." She grips the pastry too tightly. The edges break apart in her fingers. "Where was I going?"

Across from her, he clasps his hands together with an air of thoughtful consideration before, unexpectedly, laughing again.

It is a bright, delighted sound, so at odds with everything that it makes her wince, as if she has stepped barefoot onto something sharp.

"You are always some kind of thief or other," he muses, sounding utterly charmed by the notion. "An artifact, a document, a secret slipped from the wrong tongue into the wrong ear... You take it all without asking." He trails off, his voice dwindling into silence, his shoulders lifting and falling, like a thought has caught him mid-step.

He does not move.

For a moment, he is so still that she has the terrible urge to knock on his skull, to see if anything remains inside, or if the light has simply gone out, snuffed by whatever process governs the interior of the dead. Or undead. Whatever he is.

At last, with the methodical precision of an automaton recalling the motions programmed into it long ago, he shifts in his seat. A pause. Just long enough to suggest that the mechanisms within him have clicked into place. When he resumes speaking, the words are almost drowsy, their edges softened by something that might, in another man, be a chuckle. "I have grown accustomed to it. That is why I no longer keep valuables on my person, you know. You have taken so many keys from me over the years…"

Tsk-tsk-tsk.

No tongue, no breath, and still, the sound emerges, as if his voice itself had been shaped by the habit long before the body it once belonged to had crumbled away.

"Opening all those doors…" His voice fades, his gaze drifting past her, unfixed, as if watching something stir not in the room but in some distant, long-dormant corridor of memory. "Doors I locked, doors I never meant to lock, doors that led to other doors—well." He cuts himself off, fingers now idly smoothing a wrinkle on his robes. "At the very least, doors not meant for you."

"All right?" she says, though she does not know what she means by it. She takes a bite of the pastry just to have something to do.

He watches her, his head resting against his knuckles, waiting. "What were you saying?"

"Where was I going?" she says again. "You said you found me. Where was I going?"

"Oh." He waves the question away before it confuses him further. "I do not know. I do not particularly care, dear."

There is no cruelty in his voice, only mild disinterest, the kind one might reserve for a misplaced hat or an unfamiliar name. "Rivain, perhaps? You have always had a particular fondness for the peninsula, but really, who can say? You find your way here, in the end, every single time." He moves as if to feed her another pastry but notices she hasn't even finished the first. "I cannot leave the Necropolis for extended periods of time," he continues, conversational. "So you will forgive me, I hope, for being largely indifferent to what occurs beyond its walls."

The way he speaks makes her want to press her palms against her eyes until the darkness behind them thickens, until the room and the table and him all dissolve into nothing. Not because he evades her; no, evasion would suggest intent, a certain craft. He does not dodge her questions so much as wander away from them, like someone absentmindedly setting down a book mid-sentence, meaning to return, only to drift instead toward some other thought, some other detail that has, for reasons known only to him, taken precedence. He begins to answer—always, he begins—but then, somewhere along the way, he is distracted by something adjacent, something close but not quite the thing she asked.

She opens her eyes to the soft clink of porcelain as he pours her coffee.

"I am so very glad to have you back," he says, pushing the cup towards her. "But alas, duty calls. I must be off."

He gestures lightly, and her gaze follows his hand before she can stop herself. The nightstand. The book. The bed.

She had not noticed them before, and now, suddenly, terribly, they are all she can see.

All of it screams permanence. The quiet arrangement of a life expected to continue here, as though she had been placed back into a long-abandoned routine, the dust carefully wiped away before she could notice its absence.

Her stomach turns.

"I have kept your book," he says, and she has the distinct and terrible sensation that he is offering it as a kindness, as a reassurance. "Though I did replace the bookmark. I seem to have misplaced the last one you were using."

She hardly hears him. The room suddenly feels smaller, the walls closer, the bed waiting.

"Yes, yes, I read the dreadful thing," he admits, raising his hands slightly, as if to preempt some imagined protest. "As far as serials go, this one is worse than usual, but you have your tastes, and I have mine. And they do say that for a couple to share interests—" a small lull, the kind designed to let her sit with the thought before it is completed, "—well, even when they do not align perfectly, it is a kind of communion, is it not?"

Her fingers tighten around the armrest of her chair, but she does not stand. She does not move at all.

Because there is nowhere to go.

Even if she refused—if she pushed back her chair, let the barely-touched pastry fall from her fingers, turned away from the lovely arrangement of the room—there would be nowhere to go. No doors to throw open, no cold night air waiting to swallow her, no streets stretching endlessly beneath her feet, burning and blistering and carrying her somewhere.

She does not know. She simply does not know where she was going before this, before him. What had she been after? What was it she had risked her life to steal? Something valuable, surely, but to whom? For whom? Or was it for herself, for some cause she now cannot recall, for some pay, some favor, some promise that must have seemed worth it at the time?

Nothing.

Nothing, nothing.

Her own home, if she has one, does it look like this? Is it as well-kept, as polished, as quiet? Does it have a bed as soft as the one behind her, the sheets as crisp, folded down as though someone had been expecting her all along?

Nothing.

Nothing, nothing.

She searches the empty corridors of her mind and finds only locked doors, hallways that lead back to where she started, shadows that refuse to take shape. The past does not belong to her.

She watches him rather than listens, his hands moving through the air with a conversational fluency of their own. He is standing now, his staff balanced against his shoulder. He is telling her something, that much is clear. Something about the cold? A bath? Hot water?

It floats past her.

"Rook," he says, with a brightness that suggests he has already called her name once before. "Rook, darling, are you listening?"

"Rook?" she repeats, as if he has handed her an unfamiliar object and she must first turn it over in her hands to understand its shape.

Another sigh. Why must he keep sighing? It is not impatient, not precisely, but weary in a way that suggests repetition, the dull ache of a conversation looped one too many times. "Yes, yes, Rook," he says, gentle but distracted, as if checking an old ledger, confirming figures he already knows by heart. "Your name, dear. We have been over this before."

Have they?

She blurts out, "And yours?"

He flinches, as if she has done him some grievous injury, before answering, "Why, Emmrich, of course."

His voice is soft, wounded, but not with the raw edge of true pain. It is something quieter, something closer to the heart. The wound of a ritual unfulfilled, of an expectation set so carefully only to be, once again, disappointed.

"Why do you ask?" he asks without really asking, already resigned to the absence of an answer. "Why must you always ask?"

"I'm sorry," she says automatically. Not because she understands, not because she means it, but because it is the expected response, the natural reflex when someone’s voice bends and trembles, when something tender is revealed, however briefly. An instinct, an offering. A formality.

The effort exhausts her. Her head hums dully, a persistent ache blooming at the base of her skull, spreading outward in pulses. A pressure, not sharp but thick, like something pressing against the inside of her bones. She should stand. She should move. But the mere thought of it makes her dizzy, and so she stays.

Emmrich reaches out. His fingers brush lightly over the crown of her head.

"Get some rest," he murmurs. "We have time now—so much of it. Take as much as you require."

"Wait," she says, suddenly feeling very desperate. "Wait, Emmrich."

The name jumps from her tongue way too easily, as if it has passed her lips before, though she is quite certain—or at least she thinks she is—that it has not. The familiarity does not soothe her. If anything, it frightens, curling around her like an old coat she does not remember owning but finds, inexplicably, fits her perfectly.

It seems to have the opposite effect on him. He straightens, his grip tightening ever so slightly around his staff, a minute adjustment, but she sees it. There is something almost eager in the way his weight shifts onto the balls of his feet.

"Yes, dear?"

The term of endearment is bright, buoyant—giddy.

Oh, gods. He sounds giddy.

This, more than anything else, terrifies her. That particular shade of delight, effervescent and innocent, does not belong to something like him, something built of silence and stillness, of lacquered bone and linen-wrapped fingers. Excitement is a thing of skin, of blood that rushes, of breath that catches on its way out.

"I don’t want to stay here," she says. Quickly. Bluntly. The words stripped bare, nothing left to cushion them. No ambiguity. No invitation for interpretation.

For a moment, nothing. No reaction, no change in expression—though, of course, he has no expression. The fire flickering in the hollows of his sockets does not waver, does not dim. A flame without air, without fuel, burning purely because it has always burned and always will.

Finally, a response. Not admonishing, not scathing, just faintly, almost delicately, perplexed.

"Well," he says, as if pondering a fascinating thought, not quite confounded, but wondering. "Where else would you go?"

"Not here," she says defensively. Not in a tomb. This, at least, she knows.

"Nonsense," he says mildly, as if she has simply made an impractical request, as if she has asked for dinner at an impossible hour. "You are thinking about it all wrong."

Without warning, his head turns sharply to the side. His entire posture shifts, the fluidity in him suddenly interrupted, redirected.

"Do you hear this?" he asks, though not her, his voice thinning into something remote.

Suddenly, a shift. Not from him, but from the room itself.

And just like that, she ceases to exist for him.

"I really must be off," he mutters, already half-turned. "I will return soon enough, love. Make yourself at ease. Perhaps a bath, as I have said. Yes, that would do. Steam curling, water just shy of scalding… You must warm yourself, I always say, though you never seem to listen."

The wall rearranges at his approach, unbidden. No groaning stone, no violent fracture; just a smooth reordering. The bricks unlace themselves, the mortar loosening. He steps through, unhurried, without a glance back. She thinks she hears him hum, a pleasant little tune, lifting, dipping, wandering without urgency. The Necropolis, ever dutiful, rethreads itself in his wake, bricks knitting back together, smoothing over, restoring the illusion of permanence.

She is left staring at the pastry she abandoned, at the tacky stain of blood drying in the creases of her fingers, at the coffee cooling in its cup, the surface undisturbed, blank as a mirror that refuses to show a reflection.

#dragon age the veilguard #emmrich volkarin #datv #emmrich x rook #emmrook #dragon age #lich emmrich #shortstories #my stupid writing #dragon age fanfiction

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warriorofthought · 9 months ago

Text

The Pendant

Summary: A Pendant holds memories, but can it bring back your happiness?

Word count: 6461

Warnings: Sentimental but practically no one

Adar x Female Elf Reader

Inside the dimly lit tent, Elrond sat tense yet composed, his gaze fixed on the unsettlingly calm Adar. The distant crackle of fires and orcish murmurs filled the night outside, but his thoughts were solely on Galadriel, held captive nearby, as you and two elven guards stood watch behind him.

“You must release her,” Elrond demanded, his voice low but edged with urgency. “This fight is between us. She has no part in it.”

Adar’s lips curled into a bitter smile, his scarred face barely illuminated by the firelight. “No part? She is woven into the very fabric of this world's decay, just like you, Herald. Her light dims as the shadow rises.”

Elrond stepped forward, eyes hardening with resolve. “You may have twisted your own kind, poisoned them with your hatred, but you will not break her spirit.”

Adar stood slowly, leaning closer, his voice a dark whisper. “Spirit does not survive the darkness, Elf. It withers, like everything else.”

The weight of his words hung heavy in the air, but Elrond remained a pillar of strength. “Not her. You underestimate what endures in the light.”

Adar’s eyes narrowed, his smile fading as silence filled the space between them. “Give me the Ring and we can finish Sauron.”

“It would be a foolish act to bring it here,” Elrond replied, his voice serious.

“You are a couturier. More suited to wielding a scroll than a sword,” Adar mocked.

“You’ve never seen me wield either,” Elrond countered.

Your eyes watch both discuss and then Your eyes flicker to your dear friend Galadriel.

Your form is mostly hidden under the cloak.

When she spoke, Adar immediately ordered, “If she speaks again, cut her tongue.”

You and the guards stiffened, hands instinctively moving to your sword handles, a strand of your hair slips from the cloak.

He lets his eyes move back to Elrond.

Elrond watched you intently, silently communicating a warning to keep your composure. His gaze flitted back to Adar, his expression stern and tense, his hands clenching into fists.

Adar leaned on a pole, eyes flickering to you, an amused smirk playing on his lips. “She’s quiet,” he drawled. “A rare quality in these lands.”

Elrond tensed further, anger flickering across his face. “Leave her out of this, Adar.”

Adar's eyes flicker back to Galadriel.

Under the intense gaze of Adar, Galadriel's eyes met his, a storm of defiance and anger burning within them. Adar let out a small chuckle, seemingly satisfied with the reaction.

As Adar walks, a pendant slips out from beneath his clothes, catching your eye.

The pendant, an unusual piece of jewelry, had your curiosity piqued. Adar had turned his attention back to Elrond, seemingly unaware of the item that had slipped out.

“That pendant…. who gave it to you?” The question lands with a weight that leaves little room for an answer.

The Pendant displays a trio of purple, blue, and green stones, seamlessly arranged and etched with intricate elven runes, exuding an air of mystical elegance.

The moment your voice cut through the tense air, Adar's eyes flickered towards you, his face hardening as he became aware of your attention on the pendant. He quickly shoved it back into his clothes, but the damage was done.

"It is none of your concern," he responded gruffly, his fingers still lingering on his chest, where the pendant was hidden.

"It's a rare elven Pendant and clearly doesn't belong to an Orc. From whom did you took that." You snarl.

It looks like the one you have made centuries ago. Could it be your's?

A brief flash of surprise crossed Adar's face as your words hit their mark. He clenched his jaw, the muscles in his face tensing as he contemplated how to respond.

"It was a... gift," he finally replied, his voice low and guarded. "From an old friend.”

You scoff, about to step forward, but Elrond’s hand catches your arm, grounding you. “Remember, we’re here for Galadriel,” he murmurs, steadying your resolve. With a quiet sigh, you hold back, though the curiosity in your gaze remains sharp.

Adar watched the interplay between you and Elrond, his expression guarded.

"Enough," Elrond said, his voice firm. "We're here to discuss the terms of Galadriel's release. Nothing else.”

Adar's eyes flicked between you and Elrond, his gaze lingering on you both. He took a few steps closer, studying the two of you.

"And what makes you think I'd let my prisoner go so easily?" he said, a hint of challenge in his voice.

Adar continued "You don't have the ring I want. I see no reason to give Galadriel back to you.”

Elrond took a moment to process Adar’s words, his expression hardening with resolve.

"We cannot give you the Ring," he said firmly. "It is not an object to be used for trades and exchanges.”

Adar let out a bitter laugh at that comment.

"Ah, the honorable Elf. Always righteous, even in defeat," he taunted. "But you forget, this War isn't about honor. It's about survival.”

“If you have no intention of setting her free, then grant them a moment for a proper farewell,” you state.

Adar paused his gaze flickering between you and Elrond, weighing your words. After a long moment, he waved a hand dismissively.

"Very well," he said grudgingly. "Let them say their goodbyes.”

———————————————————

You and Elrond exited the shadowy tent, the cool night air a welcome relief from the suffocating atmosphere within.

His face was drawn with concern, eyes cast downward as you walked silently beside him.

With the guards, you made your way away from the Orc camp.

Soon after, you settled into a tent at the elven camp, where Elrond soon walked in.

You sat quietly in the simple elven tent, the silence broken only by the rustle of fabric and the quiet breathing of the guards stationed outside.

As Elrond entered the tent, his usually composed face now lined with tension and worry. He sat down across from you, his eyes meeting yours, a wealth of unspoken thoughts reflected in them.

Elrond glanced at you, a flicker of disappointment in his eyes as he realized you had momentarily lost sight of Galadriel’s plight, distracted by the pendant Adar wore.

His gaze searched yours, revealing his concern. He knew you well enough to notice how your attention had shifted, captivated by the pendant instead of focusing on Galadriel's fate.

"You focused more on the pendant than Galadriel," he said quietly, his voice betraying a hint of frustration.

“Galadriel is safe. You gave her the key along with your farewell kiss, so she’ll be here shortly.”

Elrond let out a surprised huff at your comment, his frustration replaced by a touch of amusement. "You're more confident in my tactics than I am," he replied, a slight smirk playing on his lips.

You slightly chuckle. "You are smart, Elrond. You should have more thrust in yourself.”

Elrond's smirk softened at your words, a hint of warmth in his eyes. "Coming from you, that's quite the compliment," he said, the teasing tone back in his voice. "You've always believed in my abilities more than I have myself.”

The atmosphere between you and Elrond shifted slightly, the tension from earlier melting away in the quiet tent. Elrond leaned back, his gaze softening further as he looked at you.

"Speaking of sharp minds," he said with a touch of wry humor. "You're awfully interested in that pendant.”

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” you reply.

Elrond raised an eyebrow at your denial, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Don't play coy," he replied, his tone a tad playful. "I saw the look on your face when you first saw that pendant.”

"It's like it held some secret, some hidden meaning," he continued, watching your expression closely. "Why were you so intrigued by an orcish pendant, anyway?”

"That’s an Elven Pendant," you nearly spat.

Elrond's eyes widened slightly at your sudden vehemence. He leaned forward, the previous lightheartedness gone from his expression.

"How can you tell?" he asked, an edge in his voice. "And why does it anger you so much?”

"You can't dismiss it as a filthy orc pendant when it's clearly elven," you retort.

Elrond's surprise at your reaction to the pendant slowly morphed into understanding.

"But why does it bother you so much?" he asked, more gently this time. "It's just a piece of metal and jewels. Why does it matter so much to you?”

“It’s more than just a chunk of metal or jewelry. I created it,” you say, a hint of pain in your voice at being reduced to something so simple.

Elrond's eyes went wide with shock, his composure slipping for a brief second, before it returned.

"You made it?" he echoed, disbelief and realization dawning on his face. "You made that pendant?”

"Tell me, are you slow on the uptake or what? I said I did make it, what's so difficult to understand about that?”

Elrond shot you a glare at the blunt jab to his intelligence, but he took a deep breath, collecting himself before replying.

"No, I'm not slow," he said, a hint of annoyance in his voice. "I just can't believe that you, of all people..." he trailed off, his mind still sorting through the implications of your revelation.

"What? Make jewelry. That was centuries ago.”

"I know it was centuries ago," Elrond said, his voice growing more heated. "But you never told me you made jewelry before, and now you're suddenly upset that someone is wearing something you made?"

He stood up, beginning to pace the small space of the tent, his frustration growing with every step.

“Because I gave it to my husband,” you say, frustration creeping into your voice, unaware that you've just revealed something you had intended to keep hidden. The weight of your words lingers in the air, shifting the atmosphere between you.

Elrond's pacing came to an abrupt halt, your words freezing him on the spot.

"Your husband?" he repeated, his voice a mixture of surprise and disbelief. "You were married?"

He turned to look at you, his gaze intense and searching.

“I... What?” you breathe out, struggling to process your own words. A mix of surprise and confusion washes over you, leaving you momentarily speechless.

Elrond stared at you, his mind swirling with questions and realizations.

"You were married," he repeated, a note of incredulity in his voice. "You, the fierce warrior who has been by my side through countless battles and dangers, you never thought to mention having a husband in all that time?”

Your stunned silence confirmed his suspicion. Elrond let out a long breath, his expression shifting from disbelief to something more resembling hurt.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked, his voice quiet but filled with a mix of disappointment and confusion.

Your mind is racing but you don't get a word out.

Elrond sees the turmoil in your eyes, the struggle to find an explanation written all over your face. His expression softens slightly, but there's still a hint of betrayal in his eyes.

"How many years have we known each other? Fought together, bled together, shared meals and tales and laughter?" he asks quietly, still waiting for an answer.

"Almost 1800 years." You answer with a sigh.

Elrond falls silent for a moment, processing the magnitude of that number. 1800 years. More than a millennium of friendship, trust, and adventures together.

"1800 years," he echoes quietly. "And you never thought to mention a husband. Why?”

You look over at the fire.

Elrond's gaze follows yours to the flickering fire in the center of the tent. For a moment, there's a tense silence, filled only by the crackle of the flames.

He takes a deep breath, trying to steady his emotions before inquiring further. “Who was he?”

You exhale softly, lost in thought.

“He was a strong elf, mischievous, but with a kind and gentle heart.”

“He had black hair that always caught the light, shimmering like polished obsidian in the sun.”

Elrond listens intently to your description, his face betraying a mixture of emotions as he pictured the mystery man.

"He sounds like an impressive individual," he says quietly, his eyes still fixed on the fire. "And yet I've never met him, nor have you ever mentioned him before.”

“I had a mission to complete, and before I left, I gave him the necklace as a parting gift. Then I set off from the village. When I returned after the mission, I found the village in ruins, completely destroyed.”

Elrond's expression darkened as you related the tragic tale of your return, destruction and loss where there should have been home and comfort.

"You came back to find everything gone?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

You nod. " I found my parents body, his parents but not him.”

Elrond's expression was grave as he listened to your words. The pain of losing your loved ones was clear in your voice, your eyes distant as you remembered that day.

"You never found him?" he asked softly.

"no, not a glimpse”

Elrond reaches out, a subtle gesture of comfort, his hand gently touching your arm. There's a look of understanding in his eyes, a painful empathy for the loss you've suffered.

"Do you..." he begins, his voice hesitant. "Do you think he survived?”

“That could be possible. He was always stubborn. I suppose it’s possible he simply has amnesia and forgot me or something along those lines. It’s hard to believe he wouldn’t remember.”

A small flicker of hope crossed Elrond's face at your words. The possibility of a loved one lost, but still alive, igniting a spark of optimism.

"It's possible," he said, his voice holding a note of comforting encouragement. "People have survived worse, with their memories intact. And if he's as stubborn as you say, then he may yet be out there, somewhere, waiting to be found."

“It unsettles me to see Adar wearing his pendant,” you say, a knot forming in your stomach. “Every glance at it reminds me of what I’ve lost and the memories I wish I could erase.”

Elrond nodded, his mind returning to the original topic of discussion. The fact that Adar wore the pendant you made was clearly weighing heavily on your mind.

"It must have been a shock to see someone else wearing something so personal," he said quietly, understanding the depth of your emotions.

“I didn’t forget Galadriel, but when it fell from Adar’s clothes, I thought I had lost it for good,” you say, your voice laced with sorrow.

Elrond listened intently, his expression a mixture of sympathy and understanding. He knew you well enough to know that your feelings were complicated and deeply personal.

"I understand," he said softly. "You didn't forget Galadriel, but seeing that pendant brought back memories, emotions long buried.”

"I think you both would have been good friends..”

Elrond gave a small, bittersweet smile at your heartfelt comment. There was a hint of sadness in his eyes as he responded.

"I agree," he said quietly. "If he were still here, I think we would have gotten along well. And Galadriel would have liked him too.”

For a few moments, Elrond and you sat in silence, both lost in your thoughts. The memory of your lost love hung in the air, a poignant reminder of what had been lost.

Finally, Elrond spoke up, his voice soft and gentle.

"Can I ask you something?” You nod.

Elrond looks at you intently, his gaze full of unspoken questions and emotions.

"Why haven't you ever spoken about him?" he asked, his voice gentle but firm. "All the time we've spent together, through battles, feasts, and quiet evenings, you've never once mentioned having a husband, a love who you lost.”

“First of all, you never asked, and second, I don’t want to dwell on it. I searched for centuries and still haven’t found him.”

Elrond listened to your reasons, his expression unreadable as he took in your words.

"I never asked because I never realized," he said quietly. "You're my closest friend, my sister in arms, and yet you've kept this part of your life hidden. I don't blame you for searching, but..." he trailed off, his eyes filled with a mix of understanding and melancholy.

"All those centuries of searching must have been so difficult," he continued. "Did you ever think about giving up? Moving on and finding someone else?”

“Moving on? No, that would feel like a betrayal to his memory and everything we shared.”

Elrond nodded silently, understanding the depth of your loyalty and devotion.

"It must have been lonely, though," he said quietly. "All those years, alone and searching…”

“He could be alive somewhere, still thinking of me, longing for me, and unable to find me. I can’t break the promise we made to each other without knowing for sure that he’s gone.”

Elrond's heart ached at the depth of your devotion to your lost love. The idea that he could still be out there, somewhere, remembering you, aching for you, touched a part of him that understood loss all too well.

"I admire your loyalty," he said softly, his voice filled with both respect and sadness. "But the odds of finding him, after all this time…”

“I don’t want to hear that,” you interrupted, frustration rising in your chest. “It feels like giving up on him, and I can’t do that.”

Elrond fell silent, realizing that his words, though driven by concern, were not what you wanted or needed to hear. He changed tact, his voice softer now.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I just don't want to see you hurt any further. But I can see that your spirit is strong, your hope unbroken. I will not question your path any further.”

A bit later Galadriel walks into the tent.

Galadriel's slender figure appeared in the opening of the tent, her gaze immediately falling on you and Elrond. She looked tired but unharmed, a hint of relief present in her eyes.

Elrond stood up, greeting her with a warm smile, his worry for her evident in his expression.

“So, Elrond’s little farewell kiss actually worked...” you chuckle softly, recalling the key he had given her. It had proven invaluable, enabling her escape when she needed it most.

Elrond shot you a look, his cheeks reddening slightly at your teasing comment. Galadriel chuckled softly, her eyes sparkling with mirth.

"Yes, his little trick came in quite useful," she said, a hint of amused gratitude in her voice.

Elrond rolled his eyes at your playful banter, his cheeks still slightly flushed.

"Well, I'm glad it helped," he said, trying to maintain a hint of dignity. "But let's not make a habit of using my romantic overtures as a tactical maneuver, shall we?”

"Why not?" You slightly giggle amused and make place for Galadriel by the fireplace.

Elrond shot you a mock glare, his lips twisted into a half-smile despite himself.

"Because it's humiliating," he replied, a hint of mock seriousness in his voice. "I have a reputation to maintain as a leader, not a pawn to be used in escape plans."

Galadriel joined you by the fire, a soft laugh escaping her lips.

“You can be both a leader and someone who knows how to share a kiss.”

Elrond stifled a laugh at your impudent remark, his cheeks reddening slightly.

"Is that so? I suppose I might have to start a new strategy, then: using kisses as persuasive tactics in war councils," he said, his tone joking but with a hint of challenge.

You laugh. "Would be a surprise for them.”

Elrond chuckled, his earlier embarrassment giving way to a light-hearted banter.

"Yes, it certainly would," he agreed, "imagine a council of hardened warriors being left with a bunch of blushing fools after a particularly effective...tactical kiss.”

The image of a bunch of flustered warriors stammering and blushing after witnessing a strategic kiss was too much. All three of you shared a hearty laugh, the tension of the day momentarily forgotten in the warmth of the fire and friendly banter.

————————————————————

A few days later, you slip away from the elven camp, moving quietly into the orc camp undetected. You make your way into Adar’s tent, finding it empty. As your eyes scan the space, they land on the pendant, and you reach for it, studying its details closely.

The familiar sight of the pendant lying innocently on a small table sent a wave of emotions through you. The delicate craftsmanship, the intricate patterns, all spoke of a past you longed for and a love that still echoed in your heart.

You picked up the pendant, cradling it carefully in your hands. The cool touch of the metal against your skin felt strangely familiar, as if it was your own heartbeat against your fingertips.

"the same metal and stones.”

You turn the pendant over, your eyes going over every detail. The metal, the setting, the stones - they were all so familiar, so deeply ingrained in your memory.

"The same," you murmur softly, your voice filled with a mixture of wonder and nostalgia. "As if not a day has passed since I made it.”

Before you can react, a hand seizes your hair, and a dagger presses against your throat. Adar's gaze roams over you, assessing your presence.

Your heart jumps into your throat as you feel Adar's hand grip your hair, pulling you back against his chest. The cold steel of the dagger against your skin sends a shiver down your spine. You had been so focused on the pendant that you didn't hear him enter.

"What are you doing in my tent?" Adar's voice is low and dangerous, his breath hot against your ear. He tightens his grip on your hair, the dagger's edge digging slightly into your skin.

"aren't you seeing what I'm doing?”

"Yes, I am seeing what you are doing," Adar replies, his voice cold and menacing. He gives your hair a sharp tug, forcing you to look up at him. "You're sneaking around in my tent without permission.”

Your eyes meet his. "That's true..”

Adar's gaze locks onto yours, his expression a mix of curiosity and malice. He leans in closer, his breath hot against your skin as he speaks.

"And why, pray tell, are you sneaking around in here, looking at my things?”

"The pendant is mine.”

Adar's eyes narrow at your assertion, his grip on you tightening. He gazes down at the pendant in your hand, then up at your face, suspicion in his gaze.

"You're claiming ownership of this pendant?" he asks, his voice low and dangerous.

“I am. I crafted it myself,” you reply, standing your ground despite the danger.

Adar's eyes widen slightly at your declaration, disbelief and intrigue flickering across his face. He gazes down at the pendant clutched in your fingers, the realization of your connection to it sinking in.

"You...made it?" he asks, his tone laced with a hint of surprise.

You draw your dagger, but Adar is quicker, forcing you to your knees and disarming you with ease. The sudden shift catches you off guard, and a startled gasp escapes your lips as your dagger clatters to the floor.

The pendant, once clutched tightly in your hand, tumbles onto the pillow, its fragile presence contrasting sharply with the tense power struggle unfolding between you.

Adar stands over you, his tall figure imposing in the dim light of the tent. He looks down at you, a mixture of anger and interest in his eyes.

"You have quite the nerve," he murmurs, his voice low and dangerous. "Sneaking into my tent, trying to claim a pendant as your own, and then pulling a blade on me?”

Adar watches you closely, his eyes taking in every detail of your expression. He can see the frustration in your eyes, the anger and defiance in your body language.

He crouches down next to you, his hand reaching out to grab your chin, forcing you to look at him.

"Look at me," Adar commands, his voice firm and authoritative. "You're in my tent, you tried to steal from me, and then you attempted to attack me. And all because of a pendant you say you made.”

“Hold it to the fire, and the inscription will become visible.”

Adar's eyes narrow as you mention the lettering, his interest piqued. He releases your chin, his gaze flickering to the pendant on the pillow.

"And what does this lettering say?" he asks, his voice suddenly intense.

“In the quiet whisper of the wind through the trees, you may find what my heart dares not speak aloud,” you reply, feeling Adar’s heart lift slightly as he recognizes the words he once heard centuries ago.

As your words float through the tent, Adar's eyes widen, a flicker of recognition passing over his face. The inscription, the words you uttered, hold a significance that can't be denied. It triggers something in him, a memory, a feeling he thought long buried.

Adar's gaze remains fixed on you, his expression cautious, as he holds the pendant over the fire. The metal warms against the flames, and slowly, the familiar lettering begins to become visible.

With each flicker of the fire, the words he once thought forgotten are slowly revealed.

Adar's breath hitches in his throat as he stares at the now-visible lettering, his hand beginning to shake slightly. The sight of the words, written by your own hand, stirs something deep within him, memories and emotions long suppressed bubbling to the surface.

“The pendant isn’t yours,” you declare.

Adar's gaze snaps from the pendant, back to you. There's a flicker of anger in his eyes, as if your words have somehow insulted him.

"And it doesn't belong to you either," he says, his voice quiet but tinged with irritation.

He holds the pendant up in front of your face, the letters now fully visible against the metal's surface.

"This pendant was made centuries ago, yet you claim to be its creator," he says, his voice laced with a strange mixture of curiosity and doubt. "How can I be sure you're telling the truth?”

Adar's gaze roams over your form, taking in every feature, every detail. There's a hint of recognition in his eyes, as if something about you seems both familiar and unfamiliar at the same time.

His eyes linger on your features - your hair, your beautiful eyes, your elvish ears, your pale skin, your cherry-red lips. Something about your look triggers a memory, a feeling he can't quite place.

He reaches out, his fingertips lightly tracing the edge of your ear. The touch is almost tender, his fingers exploring the shape, the texture, as if trying to confirm his own suspicions.

Adar's touch causes your ear to twitch slightly, a small reaction that doesn't escape his notice. A hint of a smile touches his lips, as if he finds this small detail somehow endearing.

He continues to explore, his fingers tracing over your cheek, your jaw, as if committing every feature to memory.

"You look so familiar.." he murmurs, his voice betraying curiosity and a hint of wonder.

As he studies your face, his gaze intent, he slowly circles around you.

"Very familiar.." he repeats, his voice quieter now, as if he's speaking more to himself than to you.

His eyes roam over your hair, your ears, your slender neck, and a frown of concentration forms on his face. Something about you is stirring memories, awakening something in his heart he thought long dead.

He stops in front of you once again, his eyes boring into yours. The expression on his face is a mix of confusion and realization, as if the pieces of a puzzle are slowly falling into place.

"Who.. Who are you?" he asks softly, his voice holding a tremble of uncertainty.

“Y/n”

Adar's eyes widen ever so slightly as you give your name, your simple answer triggering something within him.

"Y/n.." he repeats, your name rolling off his tongue like a long-forgotten melody. The sound of it seems to ignite something deep within him, stirring memories and feelings he'd thought lost to time.

"the pendant, how did it get into your hands?”

Adar's expression hardens at your question, his jaw clenching as if you've hit a nerve.

"That's none of your business," he snaps, his voice sharp. "It belongs to me, and I don't have to explain its origins to you.”

“It belonged to my husband,” you snap.

Adar's eyes narrow, his anger tinged with a hint of curiosity.

“Your husband?” he echoes, disbelief evident in his voice. “You’re claiming this pendant was his?”

“Yes, I gave it to him before I set out on a mission,” you assert firmly.

What neither of you realize is that this moment resonates with a deeper connection, Adar had received a pendant from his own beloved before she embarked on her journey, but neither of you recognizes the shared history that binds you.

As your words sink in, the realization of their significance hits Adar like a ton of bricks. The way you describe giving the pendant to your husband, just as he had received a similar piece from his own loved one, sets something off in his mind.

His eyes widen as the pieces of the puzzle start falling into place.

"Who.. What was your husband's name?" he asks, his voice suddenly shaky.

“Sytal”

Adar's heart seems to skip a beat as you say your husband's name.

"Sytal..." he repeats, the name rolling off his tongue like a long-lost song. Memories, feelings, and realization swirl in his eyes, the connection becoming more apparent with each word you utter.

He takes a step closer to you, his gaze intense, studying your face with an almost desperate look.

"Describe him, your husband," he demands, his voice taut with emotion.

You frown slightly.

“He had black hair that shimmered in the sunlight, and a scar on his right ear from when my arrow grazed him. His mind was sharp, a true warrior like me... Mischievous, gentle, and kind.”

A wave of nostalgia washes over you as you remember the moments you shared, each memory a bittersweet reminder of what you’ve lost.

As you describe your husband, Adar listens intently, his expression becoming more and more captivated.

Each trait you mention ignites a memory within him, each word drawing pictures in his mind's eye. The description of the scar on your husband's ear, the one caused by your own arrow, hits him hard, awakening an ache in his heart.

"I have been searching for him, since centuries and now you have his pendant.."

Adar's eyes flicker with a mixture of guilt, anger, and confusion. The realization that the pendant he has cherished for centuries belonged to your husband - the same man you have been searching for - creates a maelstrom of emotions in his chest.

His grip on the pendant tightens, his knuckles turning white as his own memories of his loved one flood his mind.

"Who gave it to you?" You ask again.

Adar hesitates for a moment, his mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. Reluctantly, he speaks again, his voice low and heavy.

"A female. A Warrior," he begins, his words slow and measured as if the memory is painful to recall. "She gave it to me before she left on a dangerous mission. She said she would return.”

You slowly stand up from your kneeling position.

"Do you have her name or a nickname?”

As you rise to your feet, Adar tracks your movements closely, his eyes wary and conflicted. At your question, he falters for a moment, as if the memory stings.

“Her nickname...” he begins, his voice rough with emotion. “I called her... moonshine... She adored it.”

“Because she lit up like the moon whenever she saw you, right?” you add, a knowing smile tugging at your lips.

Adar's eyes widen slightly, your words hitting him with an unexpected force. It's like you had read his mind, like you know the very thoughts he had harbored in his heart.

"Yes.. that's exactly why.." he responds, his voice barely louder than a whisper.

You look at him and move closer. You know it's a bold move but you cub his face and look at his right pointed ear, having a hunch.

As you approach him, Adar tenses slightly, unsure of your intentions. But your touch is surprisingly gentle, your gaze focused on his ear.

He doesn't pull away, instead he allows you to inspect his ear, his heart hammering against his chest.

The sight of the healed but unmistakable scar on Adar's ear makes your blood run cold. It's the same scar you had inflicted on your husband, a mark as unique as a fingerprint.

"The scar.." you murmur, your voice tight with emotion. "It's the same..”

You meet Adar's eyes. "Who destroyed our village, my love. Who killed our parents? Who was the one that took you away from me?”

Your words strike Adar like a dagger to his heart. They're filled with a mix of anger, accusation, but also love and sorrow.

His eyes widen as he realizes the truth you're hinting at, the words catching in his throat.

"How... How do you know-”

"You are my Sytal.."

Adar's eyes are wide and disbelieving, his mind struggling to process the truth that's crashing down around him. He looks at you, really looks at you, truly seeing you for the first time.

Your eyes, the color of which he could never forget. The way you hold yourself, the familiar curve of your lips... it all resonates with him so deeply, it's like a part of his soul that's been lost is finally being returned.

But alongside the realization, there's a deep well of guilt and self-loathing.

"You were once an elf, right? Centuries ago?"

Adar nods slowly, his expression still one of shock and disbelief.

"Yes... I was once an elf. Before..." he hesitates, swallowing the lump in his throat. "Before I was made like I am now.”

"and your elven name, do you remember it..”

Adar's eyes flicker as he calls upon the distant memories of his past life. It's been centuries since he's dwelt on them, and it takes him a moment to retrieve the name he once held before he was... changed.

"My elven name..." he murmurs, the syllables of his long-forgotten name coming to his lips. "It was Sytal.”

"You are him.. you're really him..”

Adar nods slowly, a mix of guilt and heartbreak etched on his face.

"Yes..." he whispers, his voice heavy with sorrow. "I am... I am him."

The weight of realization settles between you, the truth of your identities and shared past crashing over you both. Emotions churn through you, too overwhelming to bear. Your vision blurs, and before you can steady yourself, everything fades to black.

Adar’s eyes widen as you sway unsteadily, then collapse. Reacting instantly, he lunges forward, catching you before you hit the ground. His arms wrap protectively around you, and he gently lowers you, his hands cradling your head in his lap.

“No... no, no...” he murmurs, his voice filled with panic and regret. He strokes your hair, his heart racing as he gazes down at your unconscious face. Emotions he had buried for decades now break free, shock, guilt, worry, and an ache he can barely contain. The memory of who you were to him, who you still are, pierces through him, raw and real.

“I’m sorry… I’m so, so sorry,” he whispers, his voice cracking as he studies your face, taking in every familiar line and feature. Trembling, he lifts a hand to your cheek, his fingers brushing tenderly over your skin, as if hoping this touch could somehow bridge the years of separation, the pain he’s caused.

As he holds you, you stir slightly, a faint movement that sends a flicker of hope into his eyes. He cradles you closer, his hand cupping your face with a gentleness that belies his strength.

“Y/n...” he whispers, his voice soft and aching. “Can you hear me?”

As your eyes flutter open, Adar’s face comes into focus above you, his features softened by worry and a tenderness you recognize but thought you’d never see again. His hand rests against your cheek, as if assuring himself that you’re real, here, beside him.

“Y/n,” he breathes, barely above a whisper. You smile faintly, grounding yourself in his presence, and your gaze drifts down to something glinting at his chest, the pendant.

“You kept it?” you murmur, surprise and warmth mingling in your voice.

Adar’s expression falters, and he glances away, shame flickering across his face. “It was all I had left of you,” he admits, voice thick with regret. “But you… you’re unchanged, as beautiful as the day I last saw you. And I.." He hesitates, looking down at himself, the scars and hardened edges from years in darkness weighing heavily on him. “I don’t know if I’m the man you gave it to anymore.”

You tighten your hold on his hand, your voice gentle yet resolute. “Adar, you kept that pendant because you never let go of who you were. And I haven’t, either. You’re still the man I loved, no matter what time and the world tried to do to us.”

A tear slips down his cheek as he looks at you, both surprised and touched by your words. “But… you deserve more than this broken shell,” he whispers, the insecurity in his voice breaking your heart.

“Then let’s be whole together,” you say, reaching up to stroke his face, your thumb tracing a gentle line over the scarred skin. “I spent lifetimes longing to find you again. Nothing else matters to me now. Nothing.”

At this, his composure finally crumbles. With a soft, trembling breath, he pulls you into his arms, holding you as if anchoring himself in the storm of emotions. “I never stopped loving you,” he murmurs, his voice a mixture of awe and relief. “I never will.”

He leans in, his lips brushing yours in a kiss that feels like a promise, a reconciliation, a homecoming. The weight of all those years, all the missed moments, falls away.

When you pull back, you’re both smiling, a shared, quiet joy that speaks of acceptance, of strength, and of an unbreakable bond. You rise together, hand in hand, stepping out of the tent into the fresh light of dawn. The path ahead may still be unknown, but it’s one you’ll walk side by side, as elf and orc, bound by a love that time and trials could never sever.

#adar #adar rings of power #Adar #adar x reader #rings of power #elf reader #dark elf #orc #happiness #happy ending au #adar fanfic #adar x you #adar x oc #Adar x y/n #love #rings of power s2 #trop x reader

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sorentymn · 4 months ago

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“I too, missed you dearly.”

✤ Summary: The captain of the guard returns from his week-long border patrol, and they reunite. ✤ Content: One-shot, pre-established relationship, it's literally romantic porn ✤ Rating: 18+ sexual content ✤ A/N: I remember my obsession with Thranduil every now and then, and this manifested, I guess...enjoy!

He learned that the ever-elusive sovereign of the Silvan Elves is a creature of many delightful secrets, and he was privileged enough to be let into the furthest, most intimate reaches. When they began breaching the boundary so sacred, it was a silent agreement that they would never voice the nature of their union. Not because of its impropriety but to keep these affections as far away from the echoes of the late tári.

The all-encumbering silence extended to their every moment. When the torches were lit, he would become a shadow, slithering and winding behind the cavernous palace all the way to his king.

Arendil’s sentiment would be hidden from the world except for him, whose glacial gaze would penetrate his armour, secrets, and soul. Thranduil alone reigns over him. Of this, he is often reminded in the suspended moments as he slips through the secret door to his chambers.

Thranduil would often be found resting in the arched nook cradled by wild vines. He is now surrounded by manuscripts, books and even illustrations so precious only few eyes have seen. Draped in his rich crimson robe bearing delicate embroideries, he looked no different from the intricate paintings he loved. Arendil couldn’t help but delay his arrival, opting to lean against the archway, smiling at the sight of his king so at peace. Only short moments pass before the king breaks the silence.

“One must be privy to their weaknesses”

Knowing his queue, Arendil detached himself from one of the twined columns and took idle steps closer. A grin was barely kept at bay.

“Aran Meletyalda” He bowed gracefully at his lounging king, who did not part his gaze from the large book in his arm. The mere sight of him stirred a pleasant bloom deep in his stomach. It’d been days since he’d seen Thranduil last, and to find him so at ease, unburdened by courtly duties draped in his most comfortable robes, felt so domestic. There’s a handsomeness to him that’s wholly different out of his extravagant attire. He could simply be Thranduil and not his title or legacy.

“How do you mean?” Arendil lowered himself onto the half steps that led up to the nook and sat with his forearms folded atop a large cushion where Thranduil’s legs lay crossed. His fingers glided against the ivory whites of Thranduil’s ankle, a subtle greeting. To this touch, the elven king spared him a soft look from the edge of his eyes that did not match the rest of his face, which remained lifeless.

“I heard you before you reached the door” To anyone that might’ve been a scolding, but the faintest give in his tone is something Arendil understood well. They often started this way due to rigid elven traditions for social stratum. Regardless of the intimacy they enjoyed in private, it takes some time to completely shed their identities outside of one another.

Thranduil’s index finger glided against the side of the page like he was considering if he wanted to continue reading but he won’t, decades of observing and protecting him meant he’d catalogued Thranduil’s many traits, one being the need to create an illusion of passiveness even if the truth could not be further opposite.

“Perhaps you should join the patrols, I’m certain your keen hearing would be useful for hunting those wretched spiders your highness” This drew a pleased rumble from the elven king who promptly closed his book, set the large thing aside him and leaned further into his back cushions arms spread wide like he’d just been told something quite wonderful. The king delighted in exchanges like this, a wit that sought to entertain, a trait unique to his captain.

“If all my efforts are spent on spiders, who will make sure a certain disobedient captain won’t sneak into my chambers?” Thranduil ran his fingers through a weft of his hair, smiling at his busy hand rather than the actual recipient.

“Is it disobedience if I’m welcomed?” Arendil said with a mischievous look.

“When did you learn to be so impertinent, my dear?”

“I think you encourage me, your highness”

“To accuse me of such a thing” Thranduil feigned exasperation as he reached for his goblet nearby, taking a leisurely sip without parting his gaze from the captain at his feet. Arendil decided to indulge himself a little and lowered his lips to the skin at Thranduil’s ankle, placing a chaste kiss there, and the two continued to stare at one another silently tuning their disjointed familiarity.

“How was your week, your highness?” Despite his intimate knowledge of Thranduil’s unending agenda, he asked, nevertheless having missed being involved in every aspect of his day after a week on border duties. But it seemed the king wasn’t keen on launching into a detailed conversation just yet.

“Utterly dull; it stands to be improved by a certain captain resurfacing, however.” Thranduil pointed his gaze at the elf at his feet, and he wondered when the room suddenly got hotter. That's the mystery; how is it that those ice-capped gaze could elicit such an opposite effect?

“Can it now?” Arendil broke into another full grin as Thranduil’s legs unfolded, the right side that Arendil had been caressing inched closer. The fold of fabric that previously covered Thranduil’s right leg was caught in the rifts of silk pooled against the pillow, revealing more of his leg as he moved. The exposed stretch of skin and defined muscles captivated Arendil in an instant, and the captain, without missing a beat, leaned to brush the tip of his nose along the length of his shin, then his lips left hot trails in its wake.

Thranduil’s resolve finally crumbled; he broke into a full smile at such a doting act.

“You’re certainly compelling so far” Arendil’s eyes peered up momentarily between kisses, and what a sight, his king seemed content, more than that he dares say.

“I always endeavour to please”

“Mm- but I think you could do better” At this, Arendil paused his efforts. Thranduil patted his lap, and that was the signal he needed. He moved to stand, removing his boots and the double swords at his hip, letting them fall to the floor inelegantly, which made Thranduil’s brow twitch. He was given a softly pointed look, something resembling a tutor’s reprimand, but he couldn’t care less about decorum now.

The thrill of placing oneself firmly in that unspoken place only he and the highest order in the land now share is far sweeter. Like a stalking feline, he crawled on all fours up to bracket his arms between Thranduil’s head, careful to avoid his cascaded white hair that looked like moonlit rivers spread out so distinctly against velvety cushions.

Arendil finally settled straddling Thranduil’s lap, and that familiar pressure brought a spark to the king’s frigid blues, the same sparkle that would appear when he decided he would do something unspeakable to his captain during their coupling.

Arendil pretended not to notice this as he leaned in and brushed his lips against the king’s plush ones he’d been thinking about every hour he was sent away. The king immediately reciprocated with a long expulsion of his breath like he’d been waiting for this moment since the captain came through the door, and they were locked in something deeply passionate. Their lips conveyed more to one another than their words struggled to achieve.

Arendil made a soft sound deep in his throat out of sheer happiness at that familiar scent of wood mist and exotic tonics. The lustrous feel of his hair between the gaps of his calloused fingers as he mindlessly combed through them. The warmth of his skin against his own is the sweetest reminder that he is home.

“Is that better?” Arendil breathed against Thranduil’s temple, and after a stretch of silence, Thranduil trailed his nimble fingers against the laces at his captain’s thighs. He will need to find a discreet way to reward whoever decided they needed to be laced up this way; it's so very appetising. But the king did not stop there, he made his way up the back of his captain’s thighs, finally planting themselves firmly around his arse.

“Not quite” You could always count on him to be more honest through his touches than his words. Arendil chuckled softly at the suggestion and ground his hips down gently, and he could feel the king’s breath hitch. “That’s unacceptable, allow me-” Arendil’s voice dripped honey as he, ever dutiful, pried himself from Thranduil. As he made his way lower down the king’s middle, his shirt was thrown off, revealing rippling muscles brutally defined from centuries of service with a leanness present in all high elves.

Thranduil always delighted in the sight, even before their trysts. There had been times they’d had to stop along rivers to camp during long journeys, and well- Arendil was not always disciplined about keeping his garbs fastened when he thought none could see him. The king has his many dirty secrets and all-seeing eyes, literally.

The devotion in his captain’s eyes made Thranduil feel trapped in his rich silks, which was saying something as their only intended purpose was to be for lounging, hardly for modesty. His hands moved to unfasten the front panels, finally giving the younger elf a view he so missed. The king’s sheer size sprawled beneath him always felt like he’d conquered a great force. Like himself, the king was also honed by battle, evident in the sculpted perfection no less captivating than everything else about him. Sometimes, Arendil found himself breathless at the sight of him; how could it be that they were created by the same gods?

Arendil now rests his cheek against his king’s bulge, growing harder beneath him. Not once did he turn his gaze away from Thranduil as his teeth caught the hem of his loosely wrapped pants, dragging them down to finally reveal the length of him. As it sprang free to rest heavily against the edge of his lips, the captain broke into a sickeningly sweet smile as he whispered against his tip.

“I have been thinking about this” His warm hand took hold of Thranduil’s girth, and the king beneath him sucked the inner corner of his lips unknowingly communicating what’s on his mind.

“About me taking your mouth, Arendil?” The way his king rolled the ‘r’ in his name, a way distinct to him made his cock twitch and only then did he notice how hard he’d been, so distracted by his lover to notice his own need. His hot tongue dragged from the base impossibly slow, which made Thranduil gasp. The warmth of his lips and his breath was nothing compared to the toe-curling intensity of that first lick. When Arendil opened his mouth again, the king traced the tip of his thumb adoringly along his reddened bottom lip, gathering the collected spit to bring it back to his mouth.

“About you taking everything”, Arendil said between rounds, and the king’s eyes flashed at that candid confession but quickly succumbed the minute the captain took his entire length into his mouth without warning. So much for pacing, having Thranduil's full cock deep in his mouth always felt too enticing to resist. Thranduil’s restraint is famed amongst his enemies and subjects alike; few have seen him fall prey to his own emotions, so when he manages to make the king himself moan, it’s a kind of pride that intoxicates him.

He bobbed at an even pace, skillfully working his fingers as he went, mimicking the movements that’d pleased him time and time again. It was tamed at first, but then it grew increasingly debauched, the wetness smeared past the edge of his lips. His eyes fluttered every time he’d take Thranduil as far down his throat as he could, and what once were faint sighs from Thranduil began to materialise into deep moans that echoed off the vined walls.

“That’s it- fuck” That was another delightful thing. Thranduil, ever eloquent, would turn to cruder words when he was getting sucked. He threw his head back now, determined to keep himself intact as Arendil worked his wonderful mouth all over him. His fingers were now laced between his captain’s ink black strands, gripping to keep himself from thrusting up into his throat.

“Arendil", He gritted.

“Mm?” He hummed to respond, seeing no reason to pause and how attractive that was it tore yet another thread of Thranduil’s attempt to keep this somewhat paced. He tugged his captain’s hair to remove the man from his cock and that was met with a small frown. The king remedied this with a hungry, open-mouthed kiss, tasting himself on the younger elf’s tongue. The intensity of it turned his captain pliable once more, and he obediently followed when Thranduil slipped from beneath him to stand, letting what remained of his robe fall to the floor.

He lifted Arendil from the bed, carrying him wrapped around his hip and off they went. The starved kisses continued as Thranduil blindly meandered along the columns to his bedroom. The captain was thrown onto the bed, and his king moved quickly to pull off his pants. Thranduil was suddenly so impatient that it made him chuckle.

“Did your high-”

“Call me by my name” Arendil stared at him, amused at first, not immediately complying. Thranduil liked being referred to by his name, but it always felt all too much to his captain. Only in the intense throes of passion did all his sense of propriety fall away. But, since he asked so very nicely in that needy look on his usually unreadable face. Arendil sat back, slowly dragging seconds out, making sure the king could see every lithe movement. He then spreads his legs open. His free hand then slid from the base of his neck to his own leaking cock as he said-

“Did you miss me, Thranduil?” Something snapped at the last syllable because the king immediately pounced onto the bed in between his legs. Strong hands folded his captain’s legs up to his chest, which drew a surprised yelp. Thranduil sucked and kissed the inner corners of his thighs so much he thought they might bruise, but before he could make another smart remark. Thranduil smirked, a milisecond warning of an impending attack, and then a moan erupted from his captain when he felt his wet tongue glide over his entrance.

“I don’t know, you tell me.” His king feasted upon him like someone starved, like the taste of his skin was his lifeline. His thumbs part the cleft of his arse so taught to further open him. Obscene sounds come in rapid succession the deeper he went. His tongue is now inside of him, prodding and swirling. He felt soaked digits inch closer to his entrance and was surprised how Thranduil managed to lubricate them without him noticing. Had he been anticipating this, he saw no ointment on the bed when they came bursting in through the door. But his thoughts were interrupted when a finger glided into him, pumping slowly as his tongue continued to ravish what it could reach.

“Thranduil, slow down. I’m going-”

“No, do not, that’s an order” He commanded in that charming authoritative tone as he inserted another finger and then another now pumping steadily as he mouth against Arendil’s cock.

“Please your highness-” This only made his fingers move faster, curling and pushing at his prostate. This went on for what felt like an eternity of torture. He felt his eyes well up with uncontrollable pleasure and he looked at his king, face reddened through to his ears, mouth agape wordlessly begging to be fucked and only then did it work. Thranduil's fingers were removed slowly; he wanted his captain to feel the absence of it, and the way he gaped was more than telling.

Thranduil graciously came to hover over his panting captain with a dark look. He lowered onto his forearms, and this menace of an elf, he rolled his hips positioning the tip of his cock at his entrance dragging faint touches there but still refusing to give Arendil sweet absolution.

“Say it”

“Aran, what-”

“Tell me how often I linger in your mind when I’m not there” There was an unexpected vulnerability as he said this. His eyes shone so beautifully, framed by his hair like streams of the most beautiful waterfalls. Arendil felt a tug at his heart so abrupt it almost felt painful. It was achingly honest of Thranduil, and both his hands reached to caress his king’s face.

“I miss you between every breath I take-”, Arendil started, his lips drunkenly kissing Thranduil’s sculpted jaw, reinforcing his words into skin.

“I miss you when I see beauty I could not bring back to you” Thranduil’s smile widened at this, encouraging his captain to keep speaking as he prodded again gently at his entrance.

“I miss you when the stars come, and I lie there alone” He almost couldn’t finish the last word as Thranduil began to push into him, stretching him open as their foreheads touched. The tightness around him almost sucked the air out of his lungs.

“I miss you when I fuck myself-” At this Thranduil moaned and their lips clash. Thranduil sheathed himself in completely, his grip at Arendil's waist so tight it pinched his skin. He drank the captain's half scream at the sudden wave of pleasure that shot deep within him.

Arendil could not quite get used to the girth of him, no matter how many times they’d gone to bed together. There was always that precipice between pain and mind-numbing pleasure, and it stupefied him.

As his lover clutched and dug into his back, Thranduil’s hands grasped at the constructed twines of his headboard and began to thrust. It was hard and rhythmic, like a dance. His sexual prowess had always left Arendil utterly speechless because, like everything about him, it was impeccable. Arendil’s back arched off the bed, combating the eruptions of pleasure, singeing his nerves to dust.

Somewhere between his own outrageously erotic sounds, Arendil managed. “Is this you telling me you miss me?”

Thranduil, unbelievably, chuckled as he hammered himself into his captain, and suddenly, he was flipped. Thranduil’s strength is formidable, and it announces itself at the most unexpected times. While his face remained pressed against the pillow, Thranduil lowered to his ear.

“I too, missed you dearly.”

#thranduil #thranduil x reader #m/m smut #m/m romance #the hobbit #lotr fic #tolkien #jrr tolkien #fanfic

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damianbugs · 2 years ago

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i spoke about this briefly before, and i think i have my thoughts more collected now to develop on it; i feel like comics which show bruce comforting his child self in flashbacks of the wayne murder in crime alley understand the purpose of batman a lot more than the ones that have him talking to his parents.

if you've been keeping up with recent batman comics, then you'll notice a theme of bruce getting the chance to talk to his younger self. the important part though, is that it is not because of time travel or some detached third party force — it's the young bruce in batman's head.

it's the him hidden behind the black door in his mind when he's fighting his nightmares —

Batman Knight Terrors #2, 2023. written by Joshua Williamson.

— and it's the him tucked away in corner of his mind after being drugged and tortured with his greatest fears.

Detective Comics #1075, 2023. written by Ram V.

after experiencing something traumatic, the one bruce sees suffering from it isn't himself, but the young bruce wayne in the alley. because at the end of the day, every hurt circles back to that night, to that boy, that he can't save no matter how hard he tries — because that boy never left the pool of blood he was sitting in.

i think people often attribute the existence of batman as something created for his parents. to avenge them, or to be the symbol that could have saved their life had he existed before, to stop anyone else from being killed in the same way. there's some truth to that, however, to me, the answer is a little more selfish.

i think it has always been for himself, but not the him now, but the him that is still stuck in that alleyway, waiting over his parents dead bodies. batman is a symbol of hope and reformation and justice, but at its core, batman is what saved bruce wayne.

as a result, the panels above have a very different feel to say, this moment when bruce sees an illusion of his parents in Superman/Batman #56, 2009. written by Michael Green and Mike Johnson.

it's an emotional moment for sure, but it didn't quite speak to me the same way this absolutely phenomenal moment did in Batman: Blind Justice, 1989. written by Sam Hamm.

of course this moment is a lot more cynical in how bruce uses batman to cope with his guilt, while the other moments focus on batman providing young bruce with the hope to continue that he isn't alone — the sentiment of batman being the one to pick him up from the floor and lead him away from the scene in a shared motif.

it reminds me of that one discussion that batman is a victims power fantasy. his own fantasy! because bruce has — in order to have a semblance of control over himself — separated himself from this event that it is a completely different child at the scene of the crime. it's this fact that let's him reach down, hold the boy's hand and tell him everything will be okay.

this bruce wayne is a child, his child, gotham's child, thomas and martha wayne's child, an orphan to protect.

batman was made for children like bruce wayne, to stop them from becoming like him and for them to hold onto when it does — because batman is still trying to fix a problem that has an endless hole. he can never reconcile this trauma and let the boy in the alley leave, because that's not what batman was made for.

batman was made to protect the little boy, and in order to do that, he must remain in that alley.

there's still a bruce wayne who had to grow up, who learned to fight and love and lose again and again, a bruce wayne who becomes batman. a batman who then, tries effortlessly to fix problems and save people, who goes out everynight because if he doesn't, then that boy in the alley is left there for nothing.

then there comes a moment where he falls through the cracks and he's face to face with the child who can't leave and can't grow up and knows nothing but loneliness and grief — and batman gets to tell this child that life becomes more than just this alley.

the child is happy, if even for a moment, that batman is there. that's what batman is for.

#okay this got away from me at some point #i just. i care about this ridiculous character a lot #i hope this makes sense. i might have lied when i said i had my thoughts in order #please give the comics mentioned a read!#bruce wayne #dc meta #saki comic talks

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purplekissinger · 1 year ago

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hmm…hey, dear! I saw that your requests are open and I would like to know, can I get a fluffy (if that's possible) Voldemort, but as Voldy and not Tom (I mean with his snake form and not human) and wife fem reader (ambiguous appearance) in which he introduces her to his followers(with the right of him calling her his lady or queen or something like that) and despite the regrets and what everyone thinks, he is really devoted to her (even a little yan ) and the reaction of the diners seeing the way the dark lord treats his lovely wife (who is a magnificent witch, by the way) please? keep this wonderful fanart (https://www.tumblr.com/snake-queen7/730095728446291968?source=share) credits to the original author

Death and the Maiden

“why, I am growing quite sentimental... But look, Harry! My true family returns...”

Hiii anon!! Thanks for such a cool idea :3 Look, there is fluff here, Voldemort being nice with reader and all that, BUT!! I accidentally added some pretty dark themes. Like, really dark. Y/N uhhhhhh revives the Dark Lord, no less than that. There are not many details here, but the description of the ritual is sort of the same as in the fourth book. TW: blood, mention of cuts, morally grey reader, Voldemort and Y/N being a disaster couple.

Oddly enough, the most difficult part was finding the grave of Merope Riddle.

She died as Tom Riddle Sr's lawful wife, you now knew this for sure, because you rummaged through a thousand decayed documents in search of the name of the cemetery in the ground of which her poor bones lay. The archives of the hospital, the morgue, three Confunduses and one Imperio led you to Tottenham Park, to the old cemetery, where the poor were buried at that time, where on a tiny piece of land the unfortunate woman finally found peace. The peace that you were now about to disturb.

“Bone of the mother, taken with respect, you will renew your son!” you said in a whisper. And, looking at the ground that had parted under your feet, you thought that it’s good that they didn’t think of cremating Merope.

***

He has many names and so does Y/N.

“Y/N” — he’s the one who calls you that when no one can hear. This name is for him only, like a password, like a key on a chain hidden under a shirt, like a secret door in a solid wall. “Y/N.” "Tom".

“Mistress of the Riddle Manor” is a little cheesy, but you like it. It was you who persuaded him not to huddle at Malfoy’s, but to take the house that rightfully belonged to him, it was you who remade and altered everything here to your taste, it was you who turned an abandoned mansion into a cozy fortress on the border of the forest, it was you who caught a smile on his lips when he saw a tapestry with the Slytherin coat of arms on the wall. “My lady, you have impeccable taste,” he said then, and you bowed playfully.

“She Who Remained Faithful” is not something anyone among the Death Eaters actually calls you, but Voldemort likes to mention this epithet at meetings to emphasize what they should all strive for. When Bellatrix hears this, there are angry tears in her eyes. You are the eternal employee of the month. If there was an honor roll at Riddle Manor, it would have a full-length photo of you on it.

Newspapers are not so kind. In the headlines of the ‘Daily Prophet’ first pages, you are always “She Who Should Not Be Remembered.” The soft “should not be remembered” looks touching in comparison with the stern “must not be named.”

“You should call my wife “Mistress” or “My lady,” Voldemort says softly, looking around the room. “No other way. Although I do not recommend kissing her hand because it could cost your life”.

The Death Eaters gathered around the table nod uncertainly. You smile slightly, touching his palm under the table. His long boney fingers are cold, but only you know that they are also very, very gentle.

“Perhaps,” he adds thoughtfully, looking sideways at you, “such a kiss should be worth your whole life.”

At the wave of a pale hand, they rise from their seats, take turns approaching you and bowing at a respectful distance, and swear allegiance.

“Thank you for your invaluable help...” Snape says rotely. He is the only one who fully understands the incredible level of witchcraft you achieved by performing the ritual. He is the only one who understands how dangerous the mistress of Riddle Manor is, who has not a single murder to her name, but only one revival of the Dark Lord.

“... and I swear eternal fidelity...” Peter whispers. His small eyes sparkle and he tries not to look at you, but he can’t. Not even the fear of getting Crucio'd stops him.

“...my lady,” Bellatrix spits. In her eyes there is resentment, envy, longing... admiration?..

***

Tom Riddle had no friends. Voldemort neither. But, since you convinced him to do the most risky experiment in the world ever, to change the ritual of “Flesh, Bone and Blood”, then you had to go all the way.

You needed to sneak into Hogsmeade under the cover of darkness, which in itself is not an easy task, slip into the castle, find the Chamber of Secrets and allow Tom to possess you so that with your lips he could say the cherished “Open.” You had to jump into the cold darkness, you had to walk through the damp tunnels, you had to close your eyes when, rustling its scales, a huge creature approached you and, sniffing the air with its terrible nostrils, emited a bubbling hiss, in which any Parseltmouth would recognize the delight of a long-awaited meeting. “Why, you recognise me, after all,” Tom said tenderly, without leaving your body, and your arms wrapped around the thick snake neck. “Well, hello, Susie. Long time no see". A quiet, gentle hiss was the answer. "Thank you. Listen, there's something I really need you to do now...”

In one motion, you knocked over the fogged diamond vial over the cauldron. The blood of Susie the basilisk, the only creature in the world that Tom Riddle had ever considered a friend, turned the potion golden.

“Blood of the friend,” you said, breathing in, “given willingly, you will ressurect your ally!”

You understood Susie perfectly. Knowing Tom meant being willing to do anything for him.

***

“Do you want to celebrate our wedding at the Ministry or at Westminster Abbey?” Voldemort asks casually.

These quiet mornings are just for the two of you. When the fog over Little Hangleton had not yet cleared, and a cool freshness reigned in the garden, you, slowly, hand in hand, walked through the garden, and you proudly showed him the new flower beds, and he listened very carefully and admired both the flowers and you .

“We’re already married, Tom,” you reminded him and with a graceful gesture you raised your left hand, as if to show him a thin ring with an emerald. He quickly grabbed your hand and brought it to his lips.

“No,” he answered seriously. “It was a formality. I want a celebration for all of London, all of England. I want everyone to see you and know whose wife you are”.

Means a lot coming from someone who can throw the Cruciatus curse at any insolent person who dares to even look at you.

“Oh, aren’t you ambitious, my lord,” you laugh, running your finger along his pale cheek. “Is there anything else you might want?”.

“Of course there is,” Voldemort says with no hesitation, but for a brief moment you think that he’s trying to joke. “I want you to wear the crown of England.”

You hide your smile, turning away.

“Then we’d better get married in the London Tower.”

***

The potion hummed impatiently in the cauldron as you hurriedly unbuttoned your shirt with numb fingers. The third ingredient was too easy, a simple task. It has always been with you, from the day you and Tom looked into each other's eyes.

‘Flesh of the beloved!’ you gasped, breaking into a scream, when the dagger made the first cut on your left shoulder, ‘Given lovingly!.. You... will revive!..’ a little bit more, just a little! ‘Your loved one!"

Will is what is important. Intention is what is important. You don’t need to throw your entire arm from shoulder to hand into the cauldron, just a small piece of flesh is enough, which is worth more than thousands of Galleons, more than unicorn blood and basilisk venom. The will and intention of Her-Who-Remained-Faithful.

***

“You are the most precious thing I have,” Voldemort says quietly when the meeting is over and the two of you are sitting by the fireplace, hand in hand, your head on his shoulder. “I never expected to find such a treasure. And now it is not only with me, but also inside of me… Oh, how are you so loyal to me, my lady?”.

“I would throw my heart into the cauldron if necessary,” you say honestly.

“Don’t you ever say that,” he hisses angrily. “for it's mine”.

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