#and if hes sometimes masking about how he feels and is

[bread-crum206]

A Game of Hearts

Chapter six: In the Quiet of the Storm

Summary: Y/N’s father is a VIP for the games, he makes a deal with the Frontman that if he marries his only daughter that he will continue to sponsor the games. However, Y/N is not fond of this decision as she loathes the games and in turn, loathes the Frontman as well. Will she grow to love him? Will he let his walls down?

Pt 1 Pt 2 P t 3 P t 4 Pt 5 Pt 6 Pt 7 Pt 8 Pt 9 Pt 10

The night air felt heavy, like it was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. The rain was coming down in thick sheets, but instead of offering any comfort, the sound of it pounding against the windows only seemed to highlight the emptiness of the sitting room. You stood there, staring out at the sprawling ocean, your thoughts just as clouded as the sky outside.

It had been a day since the games began. One. One day. The moment that loud, obnoxious and robotic voice blared across the compound, it felt like everything else in the world just… stopped. The strange, suffocating tension between you and him had taken a backseat to the madness that had already started. And yet, you couldn’t help but find your thoughts drifting back to him, over and over. It seemed that he was the only thing you could think about sometimes.

The whole day had been consumed by the task of redesigning the VIP room. You’d tried to throw yourself into it, tried to use it as a distraction, but the room’s original design—gold and black jungle motifs with naked models in every corner—felt like a grotesque reminder of everything wrong with this place. You had to change it. You had to. But how could you make it feel… right? And more than that, how could you do it without drawing attention to yourself?

———————

It was late now. Hours had passed since you’d last seen him, and yet, you couldn’t shake the feeling of him lingering in the air. Everything felt like it was on the edge of shifting. But what? You didn’t know.

The sound of the door creaking open behind you snapped you out of your thoughts. You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. You could feel him.

“You’re still up,” his voice was low, rougher than usual, like he’d been carrying the weight of the world all day. But you didn’t answer him right away. The air between you both was thick with something unspoken, and the last thing you wanted was to break the silence.

When you did finally speak, your words came out without thinking. “I couldn’t sleep.”

It wasn’t just the rain, or the work. It wasn’t even the games. You just felt… restless. Like everything in this place was slowly swallowing you up, and you couldn’t escape it, no matter how hard you tried.

His boots clicked against the floor, a soft, deliberate sound as he approached. When you finally turned to face him, you met his gaze—those cold, unreadable eyes. They hadn’t changed since you first met him, but you could swear there was something different about the way he looked at you now. It wasn’t softness, but maybe something like… exhaustion? A weariness that didn’t belong to the mask he wore so carefully.

“You’ve been quieter than usual,” you said, your voice steady but tinged with something you couldn’t place. You weren’t sure if it was concern or frustration. It felt like both.

“I have my reasons,” he replied, the words curt, but there was an undercurrent of something else in them. Something that made you want to press further, but you didn’t. Not yet.

You could feel the heat rise in your cheeks as you hesitated. “Is it because of that night?” The words tumbled out before you could stop them, and immediately, you regretted it. It had only been a few days since that awkward exchange by the window, and you still weren’t sure what to make of it.

For a brief moment, his eyes softened, just enough for you to catch it before the walls slammed back into place. The mask fell over his face like a curtain. “That night was… unnecessary,” he said, his voice low, tight.

You wanted to argue. You wanted to say that everything about this was unnecessary, this marriage, this life, this twisted game you both were stuck in. But instead, you swallowed the words. Silence filled the space between you.

“I don’t know how to do this, you barely speak to me, I don't even know your name!” You didn’t know what else to say, your voice was barely above a whisper. It wasn’t just the two of you, it was everything. The games. The VIP room you were redesigning, trying to make something decent out of the mess you’d been handed. The loneliness that was starting to settle in, creeping up on you every time you thought about what was happening outside.

He took a step closer, and this time, you didn’t look away. You noticed the exhaustion in his posture, how the usual rigidness in his stance had softened just a little. His eyes, usually so guarded, seemed… worn. Tired. “Neither do I,” he admitted quietly, his voice rough, like admitting it hurt. “But I don’t have a choice.”

The words hit you harder than you expected. You had always known, in some way, that neither of you had a choice in this. But hearing him say it so plainly, so quietly, made it feel real. Too real.

“You don’t have to keep doing this alone,” you said, your voice barely audible, but there was an honesty in it that surprised even you.

He stared at you for what felt like an eternity, his gaze flicking over your face like he was trying to figure you out, trying to understand what you meant. Finally, he spoke, his voice gruff. “I’m not doing this alone.”

Before you could process what he meant, his fingers brushed lightly against your arm. It was so quick, you almost wondered if you imagined it. But the shock of it was real—his touch sent a jolt of warmth through your body, like a bridge snapping into place between you.

For a split second, the distance between you seemed to vanish. It was a fleeting moment, but it was there. And then, just as quickly as it came, it was gone. He pulled his hand back, his usual indifference sliding back into place. “I should go,” he said, his voice cold once more.

You nodded, but before he could leave, your voice broke the silence. “Wait.”

He paused but didn’t turn around.

“You… you don’t have to be alone, either,” you said, your voice shaking now, unsure whether you meant it for him or for yourself. “I don’t want you to be.”

There was a long, agonizing silence. He didn’t move, didn’t speak. You could feel his presence like a weight in the room, but there was something about it—something vulnerable in the way he stood there, even with his back to you.

When he finally spoke, his words were barely above a whisper. “I don’t know how to be anything else.”

And with that, he was gone. The door clicked softly behind him, leaving you standing alone, the rain still pounding against the windows.

———————

This is chapter six! Let me know how you like it! I have more ready!! :)

Tag list:

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[trustmypoison]

SVT personalities

Requested? Yes!

Request: ‘Ot13 personality. E.g. how do YOU see them and think they're like‘ and ‘Can you write about who in svt in your opinion is the most similar to their on screen persona vs the most different and in what way? What do you think are some of thei shadow sides we don't see often?’

A/N: obligatory ‘this is just my opinion and I don’t know any of them personally’ warning. I could be wrong!!

Seungcheol

Very much the dad of the group, I don’t think that that is just for the cameras. I think he’s far more serious than we might see on camera - I think he’d have to be to keep the ship that is svt afloat. I think he does this with a ton of stubbornness. This can be both a good thing and a bad thing - a good thing because he’ll stubbornly stand up to the company on behalf of his members, but it could be a bad thing because that stubbornness might be turned towards his group members sometimes. I think he might have more of an ego than he lets on, but nothing like how he’s written in a lot of fanfic sometimes. 

Jeonghan

Mischievous as he is, I think a lot of the time, it is a mask. He likes a good laugh and causing a little chaos, but I think privately, he’d be pretty lowkey. I think this is based on personality as well as being one of the oldest, but I think he’d have a hard time letting people in with any sort of seriousness out of fear of being a burden to others. I think he might feel misunderstood a lot of the time, even by the people that he’s closest to. 

Joshua

Gentlemanly? Yes. Surprisingly chaotic? Yes. Shockingly stubborn? I think so! I think he kind of does what he wants sometimes, and it might cause some friction. I actually think he might have more of a temper than anyone recognizes. Don’t get me wrong, I think in conflict, he’d really try to be patient and listen, but he might feel pretty confident that he’s right and will get frustrated when someone doesn’t see it that way. I think he does care about those around him, but he might not always be the best at showing it. 

Jun

I really think he’s pretty spacey, to be honest. He’s a born entertainer, no doubt. But when he’s not entertaining, he seems a little checked out. There’s no way of knowing why, but I have my theories. It could just be his personality to be lost in his own head. Or he’s just sort of introverted when he’s amongst others, and it’s not his turn to be the center of attention. I think he has a lot of duality, though. When he’s trying to entertain someone, he sort of becomes a different person. 

Hoshi

I think he also has a lot more duality than anyone ever gives him credit for. For sure, he’s loud and excitable and affectionate. I think all of that is very true and not really an act. But I think he can be the most serious of all the members, really. And I don’t think this is just regarding work. I think he’d actually be one of the most caring of all of them and would not do anything to disguise it. I think the shadow side to this is simply that he just doesn’t get credit for how much others lean on him. 

Wonwoo

I think he’s actually pretty genuine as far as the Wonwoo we get to see. He is pretty reserved and lets others take the spotlight most of the time, but when it’s his turn, he knows how to turn on the charm. But… I sometimes wonder if he really likes his job? Like, I think he finds it rewarding most of the time, and he’s surely very talented, but sometimes he’s so stoic about it that I wonder if he really likes it all the time. 

Woozi

Okay. I think he’d be far more light-hearted if he didn’t carry so much burden in the group. You see snippets of that light-hearted attitude when he gets to just sit back and watch the others have a good time. As passionate as he is about what he does, I wonder if he’d be happier to do this more casually or without the pressures of being one of the primary visionaries for the group. I really worry about him, actually. 

DK

I think he’s the goofball that we all see. That’s not an act, and I don’t think he’s hamming it up for the camera like 90% of the time. In my mind, he is the sunshine personified that we all think he is. He seems incredibly caring and thoughtful, a mood-maker in the group. I’ve mentioned this before, but if there is a downside, it’s that he has a hard time being serious about something because he’d rather lift moods instead of dealing with bad ones. 

Mingyu

I think he’s also pretty genuine. Wants to play the big, tough guy, but we all recognize that he’s actually a total baby. Incredibly caring and thoughtful. If there is a hidden side, I think it’s that he’s far more intelligent than he gets credit for. I think he fills the niche of dumb jock (affectionate) in the group, and there’s not a lot of room for him to show that he has a lot more underneath the surface. 

Minghao

He does not seem to let others in when it comes to work. He’s there for work. But I think this is because he’s just intensely private. Even amongst people in his daily life, I think he’d have a hard time letting people in. I think privately, with close friends or family, he’s much more light-hearted than we ever get to see, though. He might even be pretty soft about the people close to him, but we’ll never know. 

Seungkwan

I think he thinks the world of those around him, so no one should take any of his side eyes or attitude seriously. I think behind all of that, he’s very soft and affectionate with his members. I don’t think any of that is surprising. But I do think he is beyond stubborn and likes to be right more than the average person. He has hills he would die on, and his stubbornness might put a wedge between him and others sometimes. 

Vernon

I think that 90% of the time, he’s a total loner who would prefer to be in his own head. But this is a hill I would die on. Being a loner doesn’t mean he’s inattentive!! As someone who is sort of a loner, please trust me, you notice a lot about others. I think he’s quietly very caring about those around him, though he’s pretty discreet about it most of the time. I think he’s another one that intensely values privacy and doing his own thing. 

Chan

I think he’s pretty reserved when he’s not on stage. That might surprise some people, but what I mean is that he is really good at chitchat, and it takes some serious time to get beyond the chitchat with him. When he does get comfortable with someone enough to let them in, I think he’d be very sweet and committed. I also think he’d have a bit of an ego. Nothing crazy, but he knows he’s good at his job and knows he’s attractive. 

[ofbatsandballads]

Hi Rae. Who gave you permission to snap my heart in two at midnight? No, really, this has me going insane so have my ranting under the cut:

He's not normal. Not someone you should be happy to see. […] But you are– everytime he drags his weary body to your window– you're happy. You smile, welcome him inside like he has a place there.

The way I’m already screaming “because he does have a place there!” before we’ve even hit the end. Something about Jason not being able to accept love not because other people are liars or insincere but because he can’t comprehend why anyone would love him is so heartbreakingly in character.

It's not like he can offer the same back or return the favors you so freely give. He wants to– at least he thinks he does– he just gets stuck when it comes to what to do with you.

Reciprocity—tit for tat, an eye for an eye—being so ingrained in his perception of the world and of himself that he can’t realize he doesn’t have to return the favor, that he can just accept the kindness for what it is, makes me want to cry. Thanks.

shocked to stillness each time your hands don't bring a wave of hurt to his skin.

Stray dog coded Jason who doesn’t know what to do when touch doesn’t hurt is so dear to me. I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again: your characterization of him is golden.

He adores you. He won't admit it to anyone, not even to himself most of the time. But he does.

Jason who loves so deeply, so completely that it could destroy him. Jason who has spent both of his lives just trying to stay above water, running from anything that could harm him. Jason who was killed because he loved so fiercely. Just…him finding himself loving someone that much again and sort of bluescreening on what that means for him.

There is no happy ending when all he can offer is fleeting comforts and one word answers. He doesn't deserve your patience, your endless willingness to understand and wait for him to figure himself out.

The absolute overpowering emotion of needing to drill it into his head with love and kindness and care that there is a happy ending with all of that actually. And that he does deserve good things and patience and love. I just know loving him would be so frustrating sometimes but that each time it would just make you want to stick around more.

If he knew how, he'd ask if you were really okay with who he is, what he does, how he acts. Your eagerness to make him feel like he does fit into any place in your life makes him wonder if it's all just a mask. If you're just waiting for him to be at his worst to reveal that it's all a lie– that he's truly and devastatingly unwanted.

So this whole paragraph took me out but that last line destroyed me. The phrase “truly and devastatingly unwanted” is going to live rent free in my head for a while now.

it's just that the store was out and he was bleeding too heavily through his suit to stop at anywhere else.

I recently read a piece of Jason meta that said that he would accept any and all harm or mistreatment just to get the companionship and love he craves and this really speaks to that because why are you picking up ice cream when you’re bleeding out??? Oh, it’s because he thinks he’s unworthy of basic human decency if he has nothing to offer.

You're just too good. Everything Jason isn't. He feels like he's dragging you down with him when you offer to keep emergency weapons for him hidden in your apartment. He's definitely staining everything you are with his greedy hands when you start keeping extra first aid kits in your closet.

Clawing at the walls while screaming “they do it because they love you!!!” I love reading this from the perspective of his partner because it’s just sitting here listening to the internal monologue of man that is confidently incorrect. Your description of him being an unreliable narrator is spot on.

And when you clean out a drawer in your dresser for him to keep clothes in, when you stock your cupboards with all his preferred foods, fill your shelves with his favorite books, and play the songs he loves to hum along to, he selfishly lets himself believe you might want this forever too. You do.

One of my favorite things about how you write Jason is that he always, without fail, breaks at the end just a little bit. The sustained love and care and kindness always manages to get the tiniest foothold in his soul, like a flower growing through a crack in concrete. Even when he thinks he’s being selfish or delusional or blindly hopeful. It’s so true to what loving someone like him would be like—slow and gradual and hard fought, but resolute and unflinching.

So yeah, in short I love this with my entire being and I will be sending you the bill for my therapy (please never stop writing).

If He Could

Jason is an unreliable narrator ~1k words

Jason's no good for you. He's too brash, too rough, too easily pulled away to defend the streets of Gotham. He's a liability in your life, a dark stain in the otherwise perfect fabric of your reality. He's all the worst of shadowed alleys and tortured corners of decaying apartments.

He's quick to pull a weapon, even quicker to throw a punch. He doesn't quite remember how to make his smile look natural, how to stand without his shoulders tense and ready to dodge whatever comes his way. He's not normal. Not someone you should be happy to see.

But you are– everytime he drags his weary body to your window– you're happy. You smile, welcome him inside like he has a place there.

And he doesn't know what to do with it. Doesn't know how he should react to your bright eyes and soft touches and fond words. It's not like he can offer the same back or return the favors you so freely give. He wants to– at least he thinks he does– he just gets stuck when it comes to what to do with you.

He knows he shouldn't tense up at your reassuring pats to his arms– but he freezes, shocked to stillness each time your hands don't bring a wave of hurt to his skin. He knows he shouldn't be so quiet when you ramble about your day, but he can't find the words to describe just how much he does care about every mundane fact you share with him.

And oh, does he care. Too much even. Cares in a way that scares him off the grid for days at a time, only to sheepishly find his way back to your fire escape with a tub of melting ice cream or cooling coffee and a half-baked excuse on his tongue.

He adores you. He won't admit it to anyone, not even to himself most of the time. But he does. It's you who he wants to come back to when his feet ache and his eyes strain to make out words and figures. It's you who makes him feel not so heavy when the sun starts to rise over the tired, crumbling buildings he knows better than his own skin.

He has a portion of his heart and mind set aside just for you. But Jason can't tell you that. The more he relents to you (because he can never say no when you ask), the more he threatens to ruin you. He's a slow rot, a plague that sets into the very marrow of your bones.

But you don't see it. He doesn't want you to, but you should. You should understand that by carving out a place for him besides you, you are going to destroy yourself from the inside out.

There is no happy ending when all he can offer is fleeting comforts and one word answers. He doesn't deserve your patience, your endless willingness to understand and wait for him to figure himself out.

It's not fair to you– to either of you. But he always ends up back in your living room, always ends up with his hands curling into fists as you graciously take whatever food or trinket he's brought to try and win your continued affections.

He secretly believes he must be the most selfish person in the world when he leans into your warm hugs, when he passes out on your couch after your semi-regular movie nights. (He tries not to linger on what it means when he sleeps better on your old, worn furniture than his own bed)

It's cruel of him to lead you on like this. It's cruel of him to set himself up for heartbreak. You'll learn that he's not worth your time soon enough. But, for now, he can't help but bask in the way you offer to stitch the tears in his clothes, the way you so excitedly ask him to try every new recipe you've made.

If he knew how, he'd ask if you were really okay with who he is, what he does, how he acts. Your eagerness to make him feel like he does fit into any place in your life makes him wonder if it's all just a mask. If you're just waiting for him to be at his worst to reveal that it's all a lie– that he's truly and devastatingly unwanted.

Those words still haven't come from either of your lips– don't come– even when he messes up and brings you the wrong flavor of ice cream. (It's not that he forget what you liked– it's just that the store was out and he was bleeding too heavily through his suit to stop at anywhere else)

The words don't even come when he doesn't tell you why he disappeared for over a month this time. (Someone got too close to his identity– to you. He had to track down everyone involved before he could even think of resting or seeing you again)

Jason wants to have the right words, wants to do the right thing, and make you laugh and watch your eyes light up because of something he did. He wants to hug you back in a way that makes you feel safe and needed and wanted above all else. He wants to. He just doesn't deserve to give you that, even if he knew how to do it.

You're just too good. Everything Jason isn't. He feels like he's dragging you down with him when you offer to keep emergency weapons for him hidden in your apartment. He's definitely staining everything you are with his greedy hands when you start keeping extra first aid kits in your closet.

But for the life of him, he can't stop. Can't stop his familiar trek to your windowsill. Can't stop craving the hugs you offer, the conversations you share.

He wants this forever. He wants to keep this– you– whatever this is, in between his fingers and never let go. (He could if you'd just let him) You would.

And when you clean out a drawer in your dresser for him to keep clothes in, when you stock your cupboards with all his preferred foods, fill your shelves with his favorite books, and play the songs he loves to hum along to, he selfishly lets himself believe you might want this forever too. You do.

[earthlybeam]

I saw a post about Thranduil disability due to his scar (can’t find it 😭) makes me wonder how he’ll approach it with a partner? Scars are such a deep delicate piece of one self and he use some kind of magic to hide it I suppose he is self conscious about it? It’s too sad! And apparently elves only love once that also mean boy is stuck in the past forever 😭

In the context below, I am sharing a headcanon about Scar (my personal opinion). Than Answer your question in How might he approach his partner regarding his scar?. Lastly how his partner discovered his scar for first time.

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Thranduil Version below. (Your his partner)

🍷𝓣𝓱𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓾𝓲𝓵

Headcanons on Thranduil’s Scar (A Personal headcanon of mine)

𐂂 Constant Soreness and Sensitivity The scarred side of Thranduil’s face remains perpetually sore and sensitive to the touch. His skin feels like it’s still healing, even after centuries. The scar tissue is more prone to reacting to changes in weather or pressure. The sensation can range from dull aching to sharp discomfort, especially in moments of physical stress or emotional strain. Often, he will gently press his left hand against his cheek or forehead, as if trying to soothe the constant irritation. This act becomes subconscious, a private coping mechanism he does when he thinks no one is watching.

𐂂 Cool Damp Cloth to Ease the Burn Sometimes, the scar feels like it’s burning up, especially on hot days or when he’s been using his magic extensively. Thranduil will often apply a cool damp cloth to his left cheek or forehead to alleviate the sensation of heat. The cloth is more than just for comfort; it helps momentarily distract him from the constant reminder of the pain he’s learned to live with. This is one of his more private moments of self-care, something that might happen behind closed doors when he’s alone or when he feels the need to quiet the discomfort.

𐂂 Blindness in the Left Eye Thranduil’s left eye is permanently blinded, a painful reminder of the battle with the Fire Drakes. He keeps the blindness hidden through elven glamour magic, creating the illusion of a normal appearance, but the loss of vision is always present in his awareness. He consciously angles his head to ensure that he’s constantly aware of his surroundings, making sure that people stand on his right side where he can see them with his only functional eye. This is not an overt action but more of a natural positioning habit he’s developed over centuries. Thranduil has grown hyper-aware of sounds and other stimuli from his left side, his sense of hearing and intuition becoming stronger to compensate for his blind spot. He trusts his senses more than most might expect.

𐂂 Magical Glamour is Exhausting Maintaining the glamour magic that hides the scar and his blindness is tiring. The magic is subtle but constant, and after long periods of exertion or emotional turmoil, Thranduil will feel the strain. Occasionally, the glamour flickers or weakens, especially when his emotions are stirred or when he’s exhausted. Thranduil tends to avoid using his magic excessively in public settings, fearing that someone might notice the flicker in his disguise. This causes him to retreat even more into solitude, especially when he feels vulnerable.

𐂂 Increased Sensitivity to Pain Thranduil experiences sudden, sharp bursts of pain from his scar, particularly during moments of heightened emotional intensity. When he’s angry or distressed, the scar seems to flare up, sending sharp jolts of pain through his face. These episodes can catch him off guard, making him appear more agitated or distant than he actually is. He hides this pain behind a mask of regal composure, but in private moments, his discomfort becomes almost unbearable, especially if someone brings up the past or the cause of the injury.

𐂂 Emotional Distance and Wariness Thranduil’s scar creates emotional distance between him and others. His insecurities about the disfigurement make him wary of anyone getting too close. He is protective of his face and will recoil if someone tries to touch it, even if it’s a gesture of affection.

𐂂 The vulnerability of the scar makes him very selective about who is allowed near him physically. Only those he trusts deeply—like Legolas or perhaps his closest advisors—are allowed to approach his left side without triggering his wariness.

𐂂 Physical and Psychological Scar The physical scar is not just a mark of the fire but also a psychological wound. It represents loss—of strength, invulnerability, and the youth he once had. Even after centuries, Thranduil has not fully come to terms with the damage it has done to him. There are moments where the scar represents shame or failure in his eyes. In these rare moments of self-reflection, he might wonder what he could have done differently to avoid the injury. These thoughts are fleeting but haunting.

𐂂 Reluctance to Reveal the Scar Thranduil hides his scar even from his own kin, especially in times when he feels emotionally exposed or when others might question his vulnerabilities. He has mastered the art of maintaining an air of perfection, masking the reality of his injury behind layers of magic and pride. Even in moments of closeness with Legolas, he might be hesitant to fully reveal his scar, especially when Legolas was a child. Over time, Legolas would have likely seen glimpses of the truth, but Thranduil would remain reticent about discussing it unless absolutely necessary.

𐂂 Feeling of Weakness and Humiliation Thranduil’s scar serves as a constant reminder of his mortality. It is one thing for him to be immortal and unyielding in battle, but the scar exposes a weakness, something he cannot erase or change. It stands as proof that even the mightiest elves can fall prey to danger, and this thought haunts him on particularly dark days. The idea of being vulnerable or less-than-perfect can cause him immense humiliation, especially in front of others. He might lash out in anger or act coldly to keep anyone from probing too deeply into his scars, both physical and emotional.

𐂂 Compensatory Behavior in Social Situations In public settings, Thranduil’s movements become more deliberate. He turns his face slightly away from the left side, and if he needs to engage someone in conversation, he’ll usually position them to his right. If forced to interact with someone on his left side, he might unconsciously raise his left hand or arm to shield the scar, a gesture so ingrained in his behavior that he doesn’t realize he’s doing it. This gives an impression of confidence and strength, even though it’s driven by insecurity.

𐂂 A Potent and Healing Drink for thranduil Dorwinion wine is renowned for its strength, so much so that it can intoxicate even Elves—beings known for their exceptional resistance to alcohol. But after the dragon fire incident, Thranduil became accustomed to its effects, using it as a form of solace and numbing comfort. The potent wine became an essential part of his recovery, allowing him to dull the searing pain from the burns and the emotional scars left by the battle with the Fire Drakes. Thranduil drank it frequently during the recovery period, and over time, his tolerance to the wine grew so that it no longer affected him in the usual way. His resistance to the wine’s effects became almost legendary among his people, and he was often seen sipping from his glass without even a hint of inebriation, despite the powerful nature of the drink.

𐂂 Thranduil is often seen with a glass of Dorwinion wine at his side, a habit that traces back to his recovery from the devastating dragon fire scar inflicted by the Fire Drakes. It’s not merely a symbol of indulgence or luxury in the courts of Mirkwood—it is an integral part of Thranduil’s way of managing the constant physical pain from his scar and the emotional weight it carries. The deep burn that left his left side forever scarred remains a source of both soreness and intense sensitivity, flaring up in waves of discomfort. In moments of heightened pain, or when the scar acts up unexpectedly, Dorwinion wine provides him with a way to dull the sensation, allowing him a temporary respite. Over the centuries, he has become so accustomed to the wine’s effects that it no longer intoxicates him in the typical sense, but its warmth and rich flavor soothe him, offering him a momentary escape. The wine became his companion during the long days of recovery after the battle with the Fire Drakes, when it helped to numb both his physical injuries and the deeper wounds to his spirit. Now, it serves as both a comfort and a tool for self-regulation, helping him maintain his stoic façade in public while easing the persistent flare-ups of pain he still faces. Whether in private moments of reflection or in the company of trusted companions, the glass of Dorwinion wine never leaves his side. It is his silent ally in the ongoing battle with his scars, a ritual he clings to—one that has endured through the centuries—and a reminder of how far he has come from the ravages of dragon fire.

𐂂 Trust and Acceptance of Those Who See the Scar There are very few people in Middle-earth who Thranduil would allow to see the truth behind the glamour magic. He has shared his scar with Lady Galadriel, Lord Celeborn and Lord Elrond, trusting them not only with its physical existence but also with the pain and trauma tied to it. His vulnerability is a rare sight, and those who have seen the scar have gained a special place in his heart. Their respect for his journey and his pain likely helps Thranduil to feel less ashamed of his injury, though he never fully abandons his need for secrecy and composure.

𐂂 Elrond’s Continued Care for Thranduil’s Scar: Lord Elrond was one of the few who saw the full extent of Thranduil’s scars immediately after the battle with the Fire Drakes. As a healer, Elrond provided essential aid, using his knowledge to ease the Elven King’s pain and help with his recovery. Thranduil, despite his pride and reluctance to show weakness, trusted Elrond enough to seek his help in those dark days. Even now, centuries later, Elrond continues to send healing herbs and potions to Mirkwood to help manage the pain of Thranduil’s scar. These remedies are carefully crafted to soothe the constant discomfort Thranduil faces, especially during flare-ups. Though Thranduil often maintains a cold, aloof demeanor and refuses to openly acknowledge the depth of his suffering, Elrond understands that it’s a façade. He knows the king’s pride keeps him from seeking help openly, but he has seen the vulnerability behind that mask. Elrond’s gifts of healing aren’t just physical remedies—they are reminders of the bond they share. Thranduil, while distant, accepts them with quiet gratitude, though he rarely lets anyone see the true extent of his reliance on them. The Elven King keeps the potions and herbs close, knowing they bring relief when the pain becomes unbearable. This subtle, ongoing care from Elrond is a silent but powerful expression of trust and friendship, one that Thranduil allows only a very few to see.

𐂂 Galadriel’s Role in Thranduil’s Healing and Glamour Magic In the aftermath of the Fire Drakes’ attack, Lady Galadriel was instrumental in helping Thranduil conceal the scar’s true extent. Recognizing the emotional and physical toll the injury had on him, she used her deep wisdom and mastery of magic to teach Thranduil how to create a glamour spell that would hide the scar from the eyes of others. Galadriel helped him understand the subtlety and precision required to maintain such an illusion, knowing that it would provide him with the appearance of normalcy that he desperately craved. Galadriel’s guidance went beyond just the magical aspects of the glamour. She understood the emotional weight of Thranduil’s scar, and in her way, helped him process the trauma it caused. Her calm, patient nature gave him a sense of security, though Thranduil never fully allowed himself to express the extent of his vulnerability. Despite his reluctance to show weakness, he trusted Galadriel with this intimate aspect of his life, knowing that she would respect his need for privacy. As Thranduil became more adept at controlling the glamour, he felt a deep sense of gratitude toward Galadriel, though he would never openly express it. Her quiet support, both magical and emotional, allowed him to maintain his regal composure while still carrying the burden of his scar. In this rare exchange, Thranduil’s trust in Galadriel grew, cementing her place as one of the few who truly understood the full depth of his pain and the lengths he went to conceal it.

𐂂 Celeborn’s Role in Thranduil’s Healing Journey Though not directly involved in the magical healing like Galadriel, Celeborn played a crucial role in Thranduil’s recovery. His quiet wisdom and steady presence offered Thranduil the emotional balance he needed after the attack. Celeborn provided counsel on perseverance through suffering, understanding the weight of immortality and the scars time can leave. Celeborn’s gentle approach allowed Thranduil to reflect on his trauma without feeling judged. While Celeborn wasn’t overt in his support, his steady, reliable nature helped Thranduil navigate his emotional pain, earning a quiet but deep respect from the elven king over time. He was the grounding force that helped Thranduil find dignity in his suffering and maintain composure during the darkest times.

Would thranduil approach his partner (you) about his scar?

No, Thranduil would never approach his partner personally about the scar. He would keep it hidden, using glamour magic or subtle enchantments to conceal it, never intending to reveal it unless absolutely necessary. His self-consciousness about the scar runs deep, and he would never willingly share such a vulnerable part of himself. If the scar were discovered, it would likely happen accidentally, in a moment where his guard is lowered or his defenses slip. But until that point, Thranduil would ensure it remained a secret, too afraid of how it might change his partner’s perception of him. The dragon fire scar would undoubtedly be a profound source of insecurity for Thranduil, particularly given his deep attachment to his appearance, pride, and the image of immortality and strength he works tirelessly to project. Thranduil is not one to easily reveal his vulnerabilities. He cloaks much of his true self behind an imperious façade, maintaining an aura of stoic authority. To him, the scar represents a painful reminder of past failure—a wound that tarnishes the regal stature he strives to uphold, one that conflicts with the idealized, flawless image elves typically seek to preserve.

𐂂 Thranduil’s Approach in a Romantic Relationship In a romantic relationship, Thranduil would be profoundly guarded, reluctant to share either his physical or emotional scars. His pride and past experiences would make him exceedingly hesitant to open up about his insecurities, particularly regarding the scar from the dragon fire. The thought of his partner seeing the scar—of witnessing a flaw in his otherwise immaculate exterior—would terrify him. He would fear that exposing this vulnerability could unravel the carefully constructed perfection he works so hard to maintain, making him feel exposed and weak.

𐂂 First Approach: Keeping the Scar Hidden From the outset of a relationship, Thranduil would do everything in his power to keep his scar concealed. He would not mention it and would go to great lengths to hide it, using glamour magic or subtle enchantments to cover its visibility. His desire to maintain control over how others perceive him would be paramount. He would avoid allowing his partner to get too close on his left side, positioning himself deliberately so that only his right side was visible. This meticulous avoidance of physical proximity would be an instinctive action to protect himself from emotional exposure. To Thranduil, this secrecy would not be an act of dishonesty, but rather a way of maintaining his image of perfection. The scar is something he feels he must keep hidden, not only for the sake of his pride but to keep his partner from seeing what he perceives as a flaw that could compromise their view of him.

𐂂 When His Partner Discovers the Scar: The moment his partner accidentally discovers the scar would likely occur during an intimate, vulnerable moment. Perhaps they are close, and Thranduil, unable to manage his pain or discomfort, inadvertently lets his guard down. Or maybe in a rare instance, he allows himself to relax just enough for his partner to see the mark—something he’s spent so long hiding. If his partner discovers the scar, Thranduil would likely be immediately shaken, both emotionally and physically. His instincts would compel him to retreat emotionally, fearing that the sight of the scar will prompt judgment or pity. His mind would race with insecurity, and he would likely feel exposed in a way he is unprepared for. To protect himself, he might respond with coldness or a sharp, dismissive remark, masking his vulnerability behind a defensive wall. His emotional withdrawal would be a reflex—a way to regain control over a situation that has threatened to reveal more of him than he is willing to share. In that moment, Thranduil’s self-consciousness would overshadow everything else. His greatest fear—that his partner might see him as flawed or weakened—would take over, leading him to react with an almost instinctive desire to push them away or lash out. How he handles the discovery would depend on the partner’s response, but his initial reaction would be to defend himself, hiding behind his pride and withdrawing from the emotional connection that the discovery forces him to confront.

(Thranduil’s Reaction to His Partner (you) Discovering His Scar for the First Time) Artwork is https://www.deviantart.com/kapriss-art

The evening sun cast soft beams of light through the delicate curtains of Thranduil’s private chamber, lending the room a quiet warmth. The air was still, save for the occasional rustling of papers on his desk as the Elven King worked through the mountain of tasks that awaited him. His eyes, sharp and unwavering as ever, scanned over the documents laid before him. The endless duties of his kingdom—decisions regarding trade, diplomatic correspondence, matters of defense—all required his attention. His posture was regal, every inch the king, even as he worked through the mundane details of his rule. Thranduil sat at his desk with an air of command, his back straight, shoulders squared. His movements were graceful yet purposeful, as though even in the most private moments, he carried the weight of his crown. He wore a rich, deep green tunic embroidered with intricate silver threads, the soft fabric clinging to his frame with an elegance that was uniquely his. Over his shoulders, a dark, flowing cloak rested, embroidered with the patterns of Mirkwood, its edges catching the fading light of the day. His boots, polished and well-crafted, were placed firmly beneath the desk, his posture impeccable, as though no matter the task, he remained the sovereign of his realm. His long, platinum blonde hair fell in waves over his shoulders, the light catching the strands in a way that made them shimmer with ethereal beauty. Yet, in this private chamber, amidst the solitude of his duties, there was no grandeur in his bearing—just the weight of centuries and the burdens of his people. Even as he reviewed the kingdom’s affairs, there was something weighted in the quiet space between his breaths, something lingering beneath his carefully maintained exterior.

But as the quiet hum of the room settled around him, a sudden, sharp discomfort ran through Thranduil’s left cheek, pulling his focus from his duties. It began as a gentle throb, but it quickly escalated into something far worse—an all-consuming burn. The deep scars from the dragon fire, once hidden beneath layers of glamour magic, flared up violently, sending waves of heat crashing across his face. The fire-like sensation surged with an intensity that was both unbearable and all too familiar. Thranduil’s jaw clenched, his body stiffening for a brief moment. He did not let out a sound, but his eyes narrowed in quiet frustration. He could feel the searing pain radiating from the left side of his face, sharp and jagged like the burns that marred him. His left eye—the one that would never see clearly again—seemed to throb in unison with the scar, an ever-present reminder of the battle with the Fire Drakes.

His hand, almost instinctively, moved to touch the source of the pain. For a moment, he hesitated, a breath catching in his throat. The glamour magic that concealed the scar, the magic he had long relied on, was slipping. It was exhausting, maintaining the illusion. The energy needed to keep the glamour intact had become too much, and the pain, so familiar now, was forcing him to abandon it. He sighed softly and allowed the glamour to fade. For the first time in what felt like ages, the scar was exposed in its full, raw form. The jagged burn marks on his left cheek were a stark contrast to his fair skin, darkened and angry as if the fire still smoldered beneath his flesh. The once regal beauty of his face—unscathed and unmarred—was now forever marked by the cruel legacy of the dragon fire. He could not escape it, no matter how he tried.

His breathing quickened slightly, and a soft hiss escaped him as the heat in his face flared, the burn becoming unbearable. The pain was not new to him, but it always took him off guard in moments like these. Thranduil closed his eyes for a moment, trying to regain control over his body, to quell the urge to grit his teeth and wince. The cool damp cloth on the table beside him seemed like a distant solution, but it was the only one he had. With trembling hands, Thranduil reached for it, his fingers brushing against the fabric, his breath shallow with the intensity of the flare-up. He dipped the cloth into the bowl of cool water, wringing it gently before lifting it to his face.

As the cloth touched his skin, a sharp, involuntary hiss escaped him. The coolness of the cloth made immediate contact with the burn, and while it provided a fleeting moment of relief, the sensation of cold against fire was jarring. His body jerked slightly as the heat clashed with the coolness, the sudden contrast both shocking and relieving. His skin seemed to scream for the comfort of the coolness, but it also rebelled against the harsh interruption. For a few moments, Thranduil remained still, eyes shut tight, the cloth pressed against his cheek. The momentary reprieve was all too brief, as the sensation of heat never fully receded. He could still feel the constant throb in his skin, the tender rawness that would never completely heal. His face, once a symbol of untarnished grace and regality, was now a reminder of battle’s price.

Thranduil let out a deep, controlled breath, trying to ground himself in the moment. He applied more pressure to the cloth, his fingers trembling with the subtle strain. It wasn’t enough to make the pain go away—it never was—but it was enough to bring a momentary distraction, enough to let him endure, if only for a while longer. His chest rose and fell with each measured breath, the rhythmic inhalation and exhalation the only thing that allowed him to focus on something other than the searing, never-ending pain. As he pulled the cloth away, a faint line of tension remained in his face. His left cheek, once again exposed, carried the marks of his past: the scarred skin, the fragile remains of a battle that had taken so much from him. Thranduil sat back, his gaze lingering on the reflection in the polished wood of the desk before him. For a moment, his features softened, though only the barest trace of vulnerability crossed his face. The silent struggle, the constant battle against pain, was something he could not escape—even in his private chambers, surrounded by the protection of his own walls.

Then, without another word, he reached for the goblet of Dorwinion wine resting at his side. The cool glass felt smooth in his hands as he lifted it to his lips, the dark crimson liquid swirling gently within. It was not just a drink; it was his comfort, his ritual. The potent warmth of the wine slid down his throat, bringing with it a small measure of ease. It was a companion to his scars—something that could dull the discomfort, something that could shield him from the weight of it all, even if just for a few fleeting moments. Thranduil placed the goblet of Dorwinion wine back down onto the polished wooden surface of his desk with deliberate care, his long fingers lingering on its stem for a moment. The dimming light of the evening caught the wine’s deep crimson hue, reflecting faintly in the goblet’s rippling surface. His sharp eyes, usually filled with regal authority, softened as they settled on the faint reflection cast back at him from the dark liquid.

The scar, revealed in his private sanctuary now that the exhausting glamour magic had been allowed to fade, marred the perfection of his otherwise flawless face. The jagged lines of burnt, twisted skin that snaked across the left side of his face seemed more pronounced in the distorted surface of the wine. His left eye, blind and clouded, stared back at him, a stark reminder of the dragon fire that had consumed so much—not just his flesh but his pride, his sense of invulnerability, and a piece of his spirit. His fingers clenched the edge of the desk, his breathing slow but measured as he held back the surge of emotion that always threatened to overwhelm him in moments like this. He had long mastered the art of burying his feelings, suppressing them beneath layers of cold detachment and indomitable authority. But here, alone, with no one to see and no one to judge, the weight of the scar pressed upon him. It burned not with physical pain now, though the flare-ups were frequent enough. Instead, it burned with memory—the memory of fire, of searing agony, of the bitter realization that even an elven king was not untouchable.

As he stared at his reflection, a flicker of doubt crossed his face, and his jaw tightened. He hated it. Hated the way it had stolen something from him. Not just his physical perfection but the sense of invincibility he had carried for so long. Thranduil was prideful—too prideful, perhaps—and his scar was an affront to everything he had worked to embody. It made him feel flawed, vulnerable, mortal. The thought of someone seeing him like this—seeing the imperfection, the weakness—tightened the knot in his chest. What would they see? A king who had fallen? A shadow of his former self? He feared that even those closest to him, those who claimed to care for him, might look at him differently if they truly saw him.

His eyes dropped to the wine again, the rippling surface blurring the lines of his reflection, obscuring the scar in fragmented waves. For a brief, irrational moment, he wished the wine could do the same for him in reality—erase the mark entirely, make him whole again, as if the fire had never touched him. But he knew better. The scar would always be there, beneath the glamour, beneath the layers of pride and stoicism. He leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes briefly, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose as if trying to quell the ache that had settled behind his temples. His mind wandered to what the scar truly meant. It was a mark of failure, yes, but it was also a mark of survival. He had endured the fire. He had endured the pain. He had endured the shame of it all. And yet, the weight of it was no less heavy now than it had been centuries ago. A sigh escaped him, soft and low, barely audible in the quiet room. He straightened again, his gaze sharpening as he forced the emotions down once more. The scar would remain hidden, just as it always had, and no one would ever see it—not willingly. He could not bear the thought of revealing it, of sharing that piece of himself, even with someone he trusted. It was his burden, his pain, and his alone. The goblet hovered near Thranduil’s lips, the deep crimson wine catching the fading evening light as he took another slow sip. His eyes, distant and unfocused, remained fixed on the swirling liquid within, his thoughts drifting through the labyrinth of his insecurities. He was lost in a tide of memories—of fire and pain, of failure and survival—and so consumed by the weight of them that he didn’t notice the soft creak of the door opening, nor the quiet footsteps that followed.

You stepped into the room, your intention simply to see Thranduil, as you had not seen much of him throughout the day. It was not unusual for you, as his partner, to enter his chambers unannounced. Thranduil often became so immersed in the weight of his duties that he lost track of time, and you had made it a habit to check on him, to offer him solace in the quiet moments he rarely allowed himself. The chamber was dimly lit, bathed in the soft glow of the fading evening light streaming through the tall windows. Your steps were light, almost soundless, as you moved closer. At first, the sight of him seemed as familiar as ever—Thranduil seated at his desk, the very image of quiet authority. He sat with his back straight, his long platinum blonde hair cascading over his shoulders, his usual air of command emanating from his every movement. But there was something different now, something that made you slow your steps. His posture, while still upright, lacked its usual unyielding confidence. His shoulders seemed slightly tense, his head tilted downward as though weighed by unseen burdens.

It was a rare thing to see him like this. Here, in the privacy of his chambers, Thranduil allowed himself to shed the unrelenting mask of perfection he wore before others. But tonight, there was something more—a vulnerability in the way his fingers lingered at the goblet of wine, the faint lines of exhaustion that even the soft glow of the room couldn’t hide. As your eyes adjusted further to the low light, they fell to his face—his left side—and you froze mid-step. The glamour that he so carefully maintained, the magic that concealed his deepest insecurity, was gone. In its place was the raw, unguarded truth of the dragon fire’s mark. The scar you had never known existed marred his otherwise flawless features, jagged and stark against his pale skin. The burn lines crawled over his cheek and forehead, reaching dangerously close to his eye, the milky haze of blindness on that side painfully apparent. Your breath caught in your throat, not from revulsion, but from the sheer weight of the vulnerability before you. This was a side of Thranduil you had never seen—a side he had clearly worked tirelessly to conceal.

He didn’t notice you at first, still lost in his thoughts, the weight of his duties pressing down on him. But then, as you stepped forward, the soft sound of your movement broke the stillness of the room. The quiet gasp that escaped your lips caught Thranduil off guard, like a pebble disturbing the calm surface of a lake. His head snapped up in an instant, his sharp senses finally registering your presence. His body tensed at once, his fingers tightening around the goblet of Dorwinion wine so forcefully that the thin glass seemed on the verge of cracking. For a moment, he just stared at you, his piercing icy blue eye wide with shock and something deeper—fear. “Y/N—” His voice faltered, his calm and regal demeanor slipping for the first time. He straightened in his chair, almost instinctively, his hand moving to his left cheek, hovering over the scar as though it might disappear at his touch. His fingers lingered, unsure whether to hide or acknowledge the exposed imperfection. “What are you doing here?” he asked, his tone sharper than he intended, an edge of panic hidden beneath his words. The question wasn’t just an inquiry; it was a barrier, a defense.

You took a tentative step forward, your gaze flickering between his eyes and the scar that he so clearly wished to hide. “I—Thranduil, I didn’t mean to intrude,” you murmured softly, your voice a blend of surprise and gentle concern. “I… I just wanted to see you. I hadn’t seen much of you today, and I—” Before you could finish, his head turned away from you, his hand still placed over the left side of his face, as if to shield the scar from view. But it was too late; you had seen it. The defenses he had so carefully constructed, the barriers he had maintained for centuries, had been breached. The mark of dragon fire, the jagged scar that twisted across his skin, was now fully visible, its painful history and the vulnerability it carried laid bare.

“Leave.” The word was sharp, almost harsh, but the tremble in his voice betrayed the storm of emotion beneath. His face hardened, his features slipping into the cold mask he so often used to distance himself from others. But even that mask couldn’t fully hide the raw vulnerability in his eye, the way his hand lingered near his face, as if trying to erase what had already been exposed. “Thranduil…” you said softly, stepping closer despite his command. Your heart ached at the sight of him, at the pain etched not only into his skin but into his very being. “You don’t have to hide this from me.” You didn’t know what drove you to speak those words—perhaps it was the overwhelming tenderness you felt for him in that moment, or the fierce desire to show him that nothing would change how you saw him. “You’re not weak,” you added quietly, as if trying to reassure him, to lift the weight of his insecurities. But the distance between you both still lingered in the air, the tension thick. You could feel the internal battle raging within him, the fear of being truly seen, and yet the quiet ache of needing to be accepted just as he was.

His jaw tightened, his gaze flickering briefly to the reflection in the wine goblet before returning to you. The cold mask of composure slipped further from his face, leaving him vulnerable in ways he wasn’t accustomed to. “You know nothing of what I must do. Of what I must be,” he said, his voice quiet but laced with a tremor of something deeper—fear, pride, and a strain of something raw beneath it all. “This scar… It is not something I wish for you to see. It is not… who I am.” Your eyes softened, heart aching at the depth of his words. Gently, you shook your head, stepping closer. “But it is a part of you,” you whispered, your voice unwavering, full of love and compassion. “And it doesn’t make you any less of the king you are. Or the man I love.” For a long moment, he stood there, still, as though your words were a distant echo he couldn’t quite understand. His hand, still hovering over the scar, fell slowly away, and with it, the wall he had built around himself started to crumble. He exposed the mark fully, not with pride, but with a painful hesitation, his eyes on you—waiting for judgment, waiting for disappointment. But all he found in your gaze was compassion, unwavering and steady. It disarmed him in a way he hadn’t anticipated, a vulnerability he hadn’t allowed himself to acknowledge before. It unsettled him, how open you were with him, how unafraid you were of seeing him as he truly was. It was the opposite of everything he had feared.

“I…” His voice faltered, thick with emotion, words hanging on the edge of his tongue. His pride and his fear fought fiercely, pushing him to retreat, to build his walls once more. He wanted to hide, to erase what you now saw. But then, there was your gaze—gentle, understanding, patient—and it caused him to hesitate. He finally spoke, his voice quieter now, almost broken. “This scar… It is a reminder of my failure. Of the pain I endured. Of the fire that nearly consumed me.” He turned his face slightly, almost ashamed to meet your eyes, his voice heavy with the weight of that painful memory. “It is a weakness I cannot bear for you to see.” You stepped closer, reaching out with a tenderness that filled the space between you. Your hand settled gently over his, still resting on the desk, your touch warm and grounding. “Thranduil,” you murmured softly, your voice full of warmth and quiet strength. “It is not weakness. You survived. You endured. And if this scar is a reminder of anything, it’s of your strength. Not your failure.” You paused, your words softening with even more love. “It’s a battle scar, Thranduil. Everyone has them. And they are unique to each of us. They are part of our story, not our shame. Yours is no different.” At your words, he finally allowed himself to meet your eyes fully. For the first time, he felt seen—not just as a king, but as a man. The fear that had gripped him began to soften, the trembling edges of his pride faltering in the face of your unwavering acceptance. The walls he had spent centuries building, the barriers he had so carefully maintained to protect his heart, began to crack. And in the place of the fear, he found something else—something warm and soft, as though the faintest glimmer of hope was beginning to take root in the cracks of his soul. Your touch, your words, your gaze—they were all he needed. In that moment, with everything laid bare, the deepest parts of him, the parts he had long buried, slowly began to heal.

You drew in a breath, letting the moment settle between you, your voice barely a whisper but full of the weight of your love. “And I love you, Thranduil,” you added, your words steady and unwavering, “beyond what you look like, beyond what scars you carry, beyond the image you’ve carefully crafted. I love you for who you are, for your heart, your strength, your mind, and the kindness you don’t often show.” His heart clenched at your words, emotions swirling in him as the walls finally cracked enough for him to let them in. He wasn’t sure how to process this new vulnerability, this tenderness from you. But in that moment, he realized something: he didn’t have to hide from you. Not anymore.

“Do you mean that?” Thranduil’s voice was soft, almost fragile, as if testing your words, unsure if he could truly believe them. His eyes searched yours, looking for any hint of doubt, of a lie—but all he found was sincerity but now softened by a trace of vulnerability he rarely showed anyone. You nodded gently, brushing your thumb over the back of his hand in a soothing motion. “Every word,” you said, your voice steady, full of warmth and certainty. “You don’t have to hide from me, Thranduil. Not this, not anything. I see you—the real you—and I love you all the same.” For a long moment, he remained silent, his gaze never leaving yours. The weight of your words seemed to hang in the air, filling the space between you. His chest rose and fell slowly, his shoulders tense, yet with every breath, you could see a subtle release—a softening of the guard he had held so tightly for centuries. Finally, with a quiet exhale, he leaned back in his chair, his body relaxing ever so slightly. The scar was still there, as was the pain that came with it, but something had shifted in him. For the first time in a long while, he allowed himself to believe that perhaps, just perhaps, he didn’t have to carry it alone.

You smiled softly, feeling the tiniest flicker of relief in his posture. To reassure him, you took a step closer Before he could gather his thoughts, you gently cupped his face, your thumb brushing over the sharp curve of his jaw, as though trying to memorize the feel of him—every part of him. And then, with a quiet tenderness, you pressed a soft kiss to his forehead, lingering just a moment before pulling away slightly. His eyes fluttered closed, a soft breath escaping him, as though the simplest of gestures had undone something deep within him. You continued your gentle assault of his face with tender kisses, one by one. A light kiss on his cheek, his nose, his chin, each kiss filled with tenderness, each one a reaffirmation of your words. The slight scent of his skin grounding you as your lips traveled to the corner of his mouth. Each kiss was a promise, a reminder that you didn’t care about the scars—inside or out.

As you kissed along his jawline, you paused for a brief moment, your lips hovering above the scar. You were careful, mindful of any pain it might cause him, but you felt the need to show him that it didn’t matter. That the scar didn’t change how you saw him. Slowly, you brushed your lips against the scar’s edge, your kiss soft and reverent, as if you were honoring the pain and strength that it represented. Thranduil’s breath hitched slightly, and you noticed his pointy elf ears turning a deeper shade of red, flushed with a mix of embarrassment and something else—a quiet, unfamiliar vulnerability that stirred in his chest. His usual composed exterior was beginning to crack under your gentle affection, and it was clear he didn’t quite know how to handle it. You loved him, and you loved him fully, with every inch of his being as You smiled up at him, your eyes warm with love. “You’re beautiful, Thranduil,” you whispered, pressing one last, lingering kiss on his scar. “Inside and out.” your voice soft but filled with adoration. A soft flush spread across his face, and for the first time, you saw the true depth of his discomfort—not from your touch, but from the way he was letting you in. His vulnerability, his scar, it all seemed to unnerve him more than he cared to admit. But despite the unease, you saw something else in him too: acceptance. A slowly dawning realization that, perhaps, he could be seen—completely, imperfections and all—and still be loved. After a beat, you pulled back slightly, your lips curling into a playful smile. “You know,” you teased, voice light, “I think it’s kind of sexy.”

Thranduil’s eyes widened slightly, a look of surprise crossing his features, before his lips curled up into the faintest of smirks. His pointy elven ear tips flushed a deeper shade of red, and he leaned in slightly, as if caught off guard by your flirtation. “Sexy, hmm?” he replied, his voice low and teasing, a twinkle of mischief in his eyes. “You’re an unpredictable one, Y/N.” You laughed softly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Well, you are a king, and now I know you’re even more… intriguing than I thought.” Thranduil, still a little flushed but clearly more at ease than before, relaxed further in his chair. The weight of his insecurities, though not gone completely, felt lighter. It was clear that, in this moment, you had done something for him he had not allowed anyone to do in centuries—he was seen, truly seen, and still loved. And that, perhaps, was more than he had ever hoped for.

Thranduil’s gaze flickered to yours, the familiar spark of his regal pride returning as he raised an eyebrow. He almost smirked, but there was something deeper in his eyes now—something more vulnerable, more real. “Is that so?” he asked, his tone light but laced with a hint of amusement. You grinned, leaning in to kiss his cheek once more, this time lingering for a moment longer. “Very much so,” you whispered, your lips brushing against his skin in the softest caress. “But more than that, it’s your strength. You’re the most handsome man I’ve ever known, and nothing could change that.” For a fleeting moment, Thranduil allowed himself to fully appreciate the weight of your words. Though he remained guarded, the walls he had built began to feel less necessary, less suffocating. For the first time in a long while, he allowed himself to believe that maybe—just maybe—he didn’t have to be perfect to be loved. As your words lingered in the air, his cheeks flushed, a faint, almost imperceptible warmth spreading over his skin. His usually proud and composed demeanor faltered for a moment, the tips of his pointed elven ears turning the softest shade of red. The king of Mirkwood, a creature known for his unshakable poise, now stood before you, his pride vulnerable in the gentlest way. He let out a quiet breath, a small, reluctant smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, a smile he rarely showed, but one that made him seem almost… human.

“I… did not expect that,” he murmured, his voice softer now, betraying a vulnerability that had been locked away for centuries. There was a quiet reverence in his expression as he looked at you, the raw honesty in his eyes making him appear more open than he had ever been before. Your heart swelled at the sight of him, knowing you had reached him in a way no one else had. With a soft chuckle, you pressed one final kiss to his cheek. “Well, I think you’re the one who’s full of surprises, my king.” Thranduil’s smile widened, a rare but genuine smile, and the warmth in his eyes lingered, a silent promise that, for the first time, he was letting someone see him fully—and that was enough for him to let go of the walls he had built so high. “Thank you, my starlight,” he whispered, his voice gentle but filled with sincerity. He reached out, his hand brushing softly against your cheek before his fingers traced the line of your jaw with a tender grace. His touch was warm, grounding, as if trying to silently convey just how much you meant to him in that moment. His gaze held yours, filled with both gratitude and something deeper—something more tender.

You smiled, the warmth in your chest growing, and without a word, you let your body respond to his quiet request. Thranduil shifted slightly in his chair, and with a subtle motion, he guided you into his arms. He didn’t speak it, but his eyes and gentle touch made it clear—he wanted to feel your presence close, to have your warmth as a source of comfort and solace after the weight of what he had shared. As you shifted, moving to straddle him, you saw his posture relax even more, as if your closeness was the balm he needed for the rawness he had just exposed. He let out a quiet sigh of relief, the tension melting from his shoulders as you settled against him, your body fitting into his with a natural ease. His hands gently cradled your back, pulling you closer, his touch more tender than commanding, as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, breathing in the calmness you provided.

For a long moment, the world outside of the two of you faded, and Thranduil simply held you, the king of Mirkwood becoming something more human in your arms. There was no need for words now—only the comforting rhythm of your breathing and the silent understanding between you both. You didn’t say anything. You simply let him feel the love and warmth he had so carefully hidden away, offering him the solace he needed without judgment, without question. And as he held you closer, Thranduil allowed himself to melt into the comfort of your embrace, a quiet whisper escaping his lips, “I never want to let go of this.”

[salty-an-disco]

OK– so this is gonna be the last time I have to do a full line up to my guys, right? Right?

seriously tho, very proud of this piece and how far my designs have come, and this will probably be the main look I'll settle with for all my voices.

Full line up and some design notes + headcanons under the cut:

and here's the first ever sketches for comparison:

Hero: didn't change much from my original sketch, but I certainly got a lot better at drawing his body type. Sparrow; general shape is a square with rounded edges. Reliable and strong, but still soft. He wears that red shirt I sometimes draw him in under the leather armor, and the feathers on his helmet are fake, his real ones is brown like the rest of him (how does it stay perfectly hidden in the helmet? ✨Magic✨). He/Him.

Contrarian: Changed a LOT from the original sketch, and got details added to him a lot as I drew him. Hummingbird; tall and lanky silhouette, mainly broken by their hair and wings. They start off with a different color palette in the construct, that becomes faded out in Strange Beginnings, and finally, gets a lot more colorful as they develop outside. They/He.

Cheated: also changed a lot, as I struggled a bit with properly conveying his shape language. Seagull; sharp lines with lots of pointed bits in his design (mainly triangles and losangles); overall look is somewhat asymmetrical to add to the 'patched up' feel. Detachable arm, and more limbs could be too, but she's trying to be careful with her own body. She/He.

Skeptic: the general vibe of his final look was there in the initial sketch, but how I decided to convey it changed a lot. Hawk; the only things his wears is his hat, gloves, scarf (and sometimes a waist purse), with the feathers around his chest and tail giving the impression of a suit/coat. The feather on his hat is one of his own, he has a similar feather poking out of his head that gets hidden by the hat (*points* bald). He/Him

Smitten: design didn't technically change from how I initially drew him, just the way I draw it that evolved. Macaw (pink macaws don't exist?They do with the power of belief!!); all round edges and soft lines, giving him an approachable and harmless appearance despite his size. Has the most human face out of everyone here. He/Him, but won't complain if you use other pronouns too (especially she/her, it's a lovely pronoun set <3)

Stubborn: almost didn't change at all from my earlier designs. Mainly exaggerated his features and shapes a bit more. Ostritch. Big and bold lines for a large square as the general shape. Ear tufts looking more like horns, and his fluffy wings help break the pattern a lil bit. Gave him a cat face cuz I thought it'd be cute and the shape works well with his ear tufts. He/Him (but in a lesbian way).

Broken: Also didn't change all that much. Small and unobtrusive, their general shape is smth of a slouched square, and the head is shaped like a teardrop. Pigeon; takes the most from The Long Quiet in terms of general traits, tho much more worn down. The sack-as-cloak is supposed to invoke the look of an abandoned pet. Some of their feathers grow back with time, and they forgone the sack to get some actual clothes, but it's a long way till then. They/Them.

Opportunist: Gave me the most trouble designing, but once I had the initial doodle down, designing him went a lot smoother lol. Magpie; car salesman attire. The always-loose tie is supposed to look like a snake's tongue, and his head shape is kinda like that of a scorpion's tail. He does have an actual scorpion tail, but that remains hidden in case of emergency. Face looks like a porcelain mask despite being an actual face. He/Him (also occasionally use Ey/Em too).

Hunted: Changed the most out of all my designs, getting a full rework at some point. A hybrid between hare, deer, and quail; prey animals, while Beast has more predator traits. Has no depth perception like a lot of prey, and its stance makes it look smaller than it is (it's about as tall as Cold). It/Its.

Paranoid: The initial sketch is pretty incomplete, but the general idea is there. Loon; big eyes and uneven feathers to give her a 'frazzled' look. Feathers always falling out looking like she's always sweating bullets. Cloak covers overpreened wings and most of her markings. Fun fact: the exposed brain was initially visualized as just a bald spot, but since it looked like a brain, I just rolled with it. She/Her.

Cold: Pretty much had the general idea for his design nailed down since the initial sketch lol. Owl; another lanky and tall dude, tho more retangular with almost nothing to break the pattern but the little hair strand. Head also shaped after water, but while broken is a teardrop, for him I visualized raindrops. Has an X scar on the chest just under the X pendant on the cloak. Any pronouns.

[toberkus]

random wade rambles/headcanons coz im mentally ill and might be him (jokingly)

Hey so this is completely self indulgent and my own little spin on the dickhead redsuit Wade coz ya erm dont take this too seriously I am but a nerdy author with brainrot ya - Wade totally says chat (made a whole blog about this) basically he just refers to us, the audience as chat sometimes as if hes some livestreamer - Wade def refers to himself in the 3rd person at random (this also happens in the movie) prolly does it coz he knows hes in a story and is being written and sometimes js kinda feels disconnected from himself as a character for a moment - He changes his tone of voice A LOT, (based loosely off of the VA in the deadpool game and also how I talk irl lol) and sometimes does poorly done fake accents like british accents or etc, or in general just changes the tone of his voice to over-accentuate emotions - Changes his tone of voice but also has moments where hes js completely monotone, or a mock monotone. Again based loosely off the VA in the deadpool game (plus how I talk) mainly does this when hes bored or js :/ and starts acting super bummed coz hes a spontaneous mood swinging fuck

HATES getting talked over pitied and babied in any way. He just doesnt like being treated as a child which people tend to do because of his erratic personality and he fucking loathes it, it just makes him feel stupid and he knows hes stupid but he doesnt like hearing it from others

Woah the bullet points thing suddenly started working what the freak

I know in one of the comics Wade said he actually hates anime but I'm gonna pretend that never happened because being an anime lover suits his personality, hes chronically online and a nerd sooo

speaking of chronically online this guy definitely falls for ragebait online because he gets so pissed at it even though he knows its ragebait and at the same time posts his own ragebait

Deadpool doesnt mask he stopped trying ages ago, the deadpool 3 toupe phase was the most amount of neurodivergent masking he ever did and god never again bro

canonically reads fucking fanfiction this isnt even a headcanon this is truth like he literally talks about it in comics

if he had to pick between hello kitty and unicorns he would kiss that kitty goodbye and ride off on his horsey

lowkey gets pissed at himself when his space is too dirty and suddenly starts fucking cleaning his shit while playing some video essay about some obscure niche shit and and then within like a day his space goes back to being a mess but he doesnt give a fuck as long as its not that overbearing mess it was before

Works out because if he doesnt he feels like hes not doing enough and wants to compensate for the fact that he literally looks like a melted cheese pizza

creative vocabulary comes from being chronically online and reading.. also from videogame dialogue and other medias hes consumed that just stick to his brain

if it wasnt for his healing factor he would be fainting from low iron.. if anything hes already more manic than usual due to his lack of sleep. He relies on his healing factor too much (we also know this coz he literally did not know how to fight at all and his healing factor was compensating for that and bro didn't even realize until his healing factor was permanently gone, comics)

he just honestly forgets to take care of himself and shit slips his mind a fuck ton because stuff like that isn't prioritized to him.

anyways yea thats all for now hes just a huge wackjob

[talkativeanxiousturtle]

I wrote this a while ago but didn't know if it was worth posting. Found it in my notes and it made me feel sick. We'll see. Johnlock angst, trigger warning for death.

Tick, tick, tick, tick.

"It's alright! I can fix this, I will fix this, just, give me a second, I need to...."

"Sherlock..."

"SHUT UP! I just need to go to my mind palace, just shut up..."

Tick, tick, tick, tick.

"Sherlock..."

"JOHN! What don't you get in 'shut up'?! Stop distracting me!"

"Sherlock!"

"I'M RUNNING OUT OF TIME!"

"... There is no more time. We're done."

Sherlock looks around, and his shoulders drop, letting the weight of the world slide off.

"No... I can still... I can..."

"Even if you found the code now, we can't access the panel anymore. It's over, Sherlock. The game is over."

John puts a hand on Sherlock, and he's not mad. He smiles at him. After the worst mistake of his life, Sherlock gets a smile as punishment.

"John... I'm sorry."

"Sorry? You never apologize. Why start now?"

"Because! Usually..."

He sighs, and lets himself fall to the floor. Rock bottoms are comfortable to him. Familiar.

"... Usually, the mistake isn't so bad, or, I have time to... Fix it..."

"Maybe. But not always."

"What?"

"Not always, Sherlock!"

John laughs. It's the best sound Sherlock has ever heard, when knowing he's about to die.

"Sometimes, you say something, or do something, to our clients, and you just... You never apologize. And you never fix it. You never see those people again."

"Doesn't matter."

"What? Your mistake?"

"No. Them. Besides, one would argue that by fixing whatever problem they came to me for, I fixed my own blunder times a thousand."

Sherlock knows John. He knows John wants to say something to that.

Tick, tick, tick, tick.

He knows John won't waste their time bickering. 

John laughs.

"Alright, Sherlock."

They sigh, and there's silence, as they sit next to each other, waiting for the room to swallow them whole. They're going to be crushed. Mashed into each other. Their bodies, if they're ever found, are going to be indistinguishable, a gruesome mix of blood and gore. Inextricable. Sherlock finds the thought oddly comforting.

"I love you."

Sherlock didn't expect John to waste their time lying.

"What?"

"I love you, Sherlock. I have, for a while. Maybe since the start."

He shrugs, with a casualness that's heartbreaking, in context.

"Since we're gonna die, I just thought I'd let you know. You don't have to say anything, I know you don't..."

John looks at him, and even now, there's hope in his eyes. Sherlock isn't about to waste this. What use are masks when the mascarade is over?

"I love you too."

"No, I mean..."

"I know how you mean. And I love you too."

There's a silence, as they both stare each other down.

May the stages of grief begin.

-----

Denial.

"Wh-what? No!..."

"Yes, John."

"No! No you don't... You don't love me! I mean... M-maybe you do, but you're not... In love with me! Sherlock!"

Sherlock sighs. Weary.

"I am, John. I tried hard not to be. To pretend otherwise. But I am."

"But... But..."

John looks angry. Perhaps he will waste their time with bickering after all.

----

Anger.

"But why!"

He finally explodes. Sherlock is confused.

"Why what?"

"Why... Why... Why didn't you say anything!"

"Why didn't you?" 

Sherlock's counter accusation is enough to catch John off guard. 

"I... Because, I..."

"Because you were scared."

Sherlock's tone is cold, implacable truth.

"I was."

"And so was I."

"And so were you."

Silence. No, not silence. Tick, tick, tick, tick.

"... We're really two idiots, aren't we?"

Sherlock laughs, because it's true. They are. And he'd rather hear John laugh than cry.

----

Bargaining.

"Well, then."

John gets up. Slaps his knee. It's about to be too small in here to do either of those things. He looks at Sherlock, beckons him with a nod. Sherlock hesitates and gets up. John pulls him closer, and Sherlock swears that this will be enough to make time stop, to delay the inevitable.

John kisses him.

Sherlock eventually backs away, stunned.

"What? What's got you so wide eyed?"

"I... You... Kissed me."

"Yes, I did."

John smiles. He kisses Sherlock's hand.

"It's my last chance to. I'll take as many seconds as I can get."

Sherlock breathes again. He shakes his head.

"We... We have to get out of here."

"Sherlock..."

John watches, as Sherlock paces along the narrow corridor, trying to get his thoughts in order.

"We have to get out of here, John. I have to figure this out."

"Sherlock... Sherlock!"

This time, John isn't as patient. He pulls Sherlock by the wrist, and kisses him again. Puts a hand on his cheek. Looks at him, sorrowful.

"It's over, okay? It's over. Let's just... Make use of the time we still have."

"But... If we get out of here, I... I could..."

"I know. I know what we could be. Could have been. But it's too late for that. Let's just... Take what we can, while we can."

He pulls him closer. Sherlock feels himself die in that moment, even if the walls haven't crushed them yet.

-----

Depression.

Sherlock falls into John's embrace, and the men are too close to pretend the other isn't crying. Their tears mix on their cheeks, and Sherlock feels John's leg trembling against his. He's scared.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

"Don't be."

"I am, John. For everything. For not getting us out, for bringing you here, for never saying anything earlier..."

"Don't apologize, it isn't like you."

He kisses his neck as he says this.

"And I love you."

Sherlock wants to cry so badly. But it isn't like him. And John loves him. He'll give John as much of what he loves as he can.

-----

Acceptance.

"There isn't enough time."

"Even for a quick one?"

The two men laugh at the whispered joke from Sherlock. The detective knows it's unlike him, but by God, is John's laugh addicting. And caving to addiction is very much like him. 

"Sherlock..."

Their bodies are pressed against each other now, and it's pleasant, not that they have a choice. Sherlock felt the breath John took to say the word against his own ribs.

"Get your hands off of me!"

"Well, it's not like there's ample room to move about, John."

"Sod off, you know what I meant."

Oh, he knows. But he won't die without feeling John's package, not when he has the option to do so. It's not so much that the context is conductive to that sort of mood, or even that this half-measure press over the jeans is anywhere close to what Sherlock really wants, really craves, but the little endorphins he gets from it help. You know, with acceptance. Of what's to come.

There's a moment of silence, as they gently kiss each other, as John ravages Sherlock's neck, as Sherlock tries not to be bitter, or think of what ifs. It's harder than it looks.

"John..."

He hasn't said that name enough in his life. He could've lived forever and still wouldn't have said it enough, really.

"Yes, Sherlock?"

There it is. There's little room to breathe now, let alone speak. Those are his last words, Sherlock knows it. Not that anyone is here to record them. Well, John has always been the only ear that's mattered, anyways. He'd be lost without his blogger.

The Great Sherlock Holmes, about to draw his final breath. A mind so incredible, few even believed in it. But John did. John always did, no matter what. What words will best undo his time on Earth, unravel all that he is and bring to it a satisfying conclusion? What would be enough to summarize him?

Sherlock takes a deep breath, for the last time.

"I love you, John."

So pathetically cliché.

"I know, Sherlock. I could read it in your eyes, in your every word and silence. In your everything. My everything. My amazing."

And how fitting, that the writer's last whisper is so much more eloquent than snotty Holmes could ever hope to be. So much more fulfilling. Sherlock sighs and holds him, and he hopes John knows that Sherlock could read it, as well. In every line of his blog. John's love for Sherlock was so engrossing, the world even fell for it, even started to love Sherlock as well. Every flutter of every heart, every smile on every face caused by Sherlock Holmes' great mind, really was caused by John Watson's greater heart. And Sherlock hopes John knows, no, knows John knows, because he's John, and John knows everything that matters, always has, even when Sherlock was blind.

And their bones start to crack. And it's starting to hurt.

And the detective hopes that his last thought is John's name, because nothing else in that brain of his matters now. Nothing else. That's the flaw of genius, it needs an audience.

The genius holds his audience captive, not with words, but loving arms.

And the soldier holds his allegiance back, with the strength and fervor of a fighter, and the tenderness and care of a healer.

And why would you want to read what happens next?

[donat-senpai]

I’m back with a character from a little-known game. Apologies to everyone who originally came here for Ladybug and to those who left requests in my inbox. I’m completely uncontrollable when it comes to choosing fandoms.

Happy New Year to everyone, and Merry Christmas in advance! 💙

Please don't read this if you are uncomfortable with the yandere! Pairing: Yandere! Solivan Brugmansia x Reader tw: obsessive behaviour, delusional yandere, oppressive atmosphere, descent into madness, aggressive behavior towards the reader (short scene)

"The Perfect You"

Sol sits in a dimly lit room, a blank canvas before him. In the corner of the room, several portraits of his beloved lean against the wall, but none of them feel right. The eyes in each one seem... empty. “This isn’t you,” Sol whispers, discarding yet another sheet. His fingers tremble slightly as he grabs a piece of charcoal and begins again.

He draws, again and again, but the more he works, the more the details start to feel... wrong. Sol stares at the portrait. The shadows beneath the eyes are too deep, the smile on the lips is warped, and the silhouettes in the background—they’re not supposed to be there.

Sol is certain. He didn’t draw them.

---

Sol paces frantically around his studio. He hurriedly moves the painting from the canvas to the corner, adding it to the pile of failed projects, and covers everything with a sheet. He’s happy you decided to visit, but he would’ve appreciated a little more time to prepare.

You flutter into his apartment like a butterfly. Sol drinks in your presence, your gestures, the expressions on your face. He hopes—desperately—that you’ve finally realized how much you need him, just as he needs you. But instead, you casually ask to borrow his study notes, oblivious to the crushing disappointment that sweeps through him. Sol can’t refuse you. He asks you to wait while he retrieves the notebooks.

As he steps away, you glance around his workshop-turned-living space. Your eyes are immediately drawn to the pile of covered canvases in the corner, but you decide against asking about them. Instead, your gaze shifts to the window, where something else catches your attention: a collection of more than ten portraits of yourself, lying on the windowsill.

You’re stunned by the sheer amount of time Sol must have spent on them. But the longer you look, the more unsettling details begin to emerge. Shadows that shouldn’t be there, distortions in your smile, and an uncanny intensity in the way your eyes are drawn.

When Sol returns with a stack of notebooks, he freezes, his expression shifting to fear as he notices the pages in your hands. He studies your face, trying to gauge your reaction, already calculating his next move.

“Is this… how you see me?” you ask, struggling to mask your unease.

A strange excitement flares in Sol’s eyes. “No… not yet. But I’m trying to capture you as you truly are.”

---

Sol begins to notice that each new portrait interacts with him in strange ways. If he stares at them for too long, the shadows on the drawings seem to shift. Sometimes, he swears he can hear you breathing through the canvas.

One night, he wakes abruptly with the unsettling sensation that someone is standing by his bed. For several minutes, he stares at your angelic face, only to watch it slowly twist into a grotesque grimace. You hate him. You despise him.

The nausea hits Sol like a wave. He stumbles out of bed, his breathing ragged, and for the first time in his life, he turns your portrait to face the wall.

---

Sol decides he needs the object of his obsession to complete the perfect portrait. He asks you to pose for him. You agree to be his model without much hesitation, and Sol is convinced this time he’ll succeed.

But every time he begins to paint, a strange feeling washes over him, as if he’s losing something vital. “This doesn’t look like you…” he mutters. “Why? You’re right here in front of me.”

You watch awkwardly as Sol grows increasingly tense and suggest taking a break. Frustrated beyond reason, he snaps. Tossing the canvas aside, he lashes out: “You’re hiding from me! Why can’t you just be real?”

Startled, you start gathering your things to leave. It’s only then that Sol realizes what he’s done. He stops you at the door, dropping to his knees. Tears streak his face as he begs for forgiveness, his trembling hands clutching at your clothes with a desperate grip. Sol has never been more broken, but you don’t listen.

You push him away and walk out.

Sol collapses to the floor, thinking to himself that he’s as good as dead.

---

Since that day, you haven’t answered his calls. He’s tried talking to you at college, but you keep avoiding him, always hiding behind Crowe.

Sol paces in circles around his apartment. He wants to tear his hair out. He wants to kill Crowe. He just wants… for you to love him. As much as he loves you.

He stops abruptly. The blank canvas catches his eye.

Sol decides to try painting you one more time. If you could see yourself through his eyes, you’d understand. You’d forgive him.

---

When Sol wakes up the next morning, his studio is empty. The only thing left is the perfect portrait.

His palm aches. He thinks he should clean the brushes to keep the paint (and blood) from ruining them. Finally, he understands what the previous portraits were missing.

He looks at the painting. Your image on the canvas seems alive. Happy. Only the eyes remain as dark and hollow as they were in the earlier sketches.

The silhouettes behind you move. They whisper to Sol. He listens to them.

He realizes there’s no point in chasing after you when his perfect version of you is already here. Right in front of him.

Now, at last, you can be together.

[violinios]

Dream Sans headcannons!

Some might be not cannon accurate, and it's only my own interpretation of him. Might update sometime. I'll mix angst headcannons with fluffy and some funny ones.

The illusion his aura creates also affects people's smell. Yeah, people's smell. His aura makes other people attracted to him in many ways, and smell is one of them. Each person can feel a different, pleasent smell coming from him, it depends of their personal favorite smell. If their favorite smell is chocolate, they'll feel like Dream smells like chocolate. If someone likes the smells of strawberries, Dream would smell like strawberries to them. The only ones who are actually able to feel his true smell are, obviously, people not affected by his aura. I like to think his aura creates a lot of types of illusions that make people attached to him.

Once he got a (temporary) room for himself, he decorated the ceilling and almost everything he could with star-shaped things. This is because Dream used to sleep with his brother under the stars, looking at the sky at night before going to sleep, and he started to miss this feeling. Of course that sleeping in a bed is way more comfortable than sleeping against a tree, but he still misses his old home. Even if the stars on the ceilling are fake, it stills feels nice and it brings him a feeling of nostalgia. He only wishes he had his brother once again to watch the stars with him...

Dangerous animals become soft around him. Or at least, most of them. Lions, for an example, are pratically kittens when around Dream. Yes, this is also a result of his aura. Wouldn't it be fun if he just came back home to meet his partner with a motherfucking lion following him like a lost puppy?

He's unaware of how harmless or how dangerous things can actual be for mortal beings. He thinks they're way more fragile than they actually are and can be overprotective without noticing. He's barely affected by deseases that affects normal people and can handle more than mortals would physically be able to handle, but he has no idea if some things are deadly or not, and becomes overly worried about normal things such as a cold. It took him some time to realize a tummy ache won't kill his friend...

He has healing tears. His body heals by his own, and he can use magic to heal other people, but this makes him extremelly tired since it demands a lot of his powers. So when healing others, he has to cry and let his tears fall on the bruises instead of using his powers, but it would take more time to heal serious injuries. They would heal a deep cut in a matter of minutes, at least.

He panics around statues. At his first years of freedom from his imprisonment, he thought that the statues were people going through the same situation he went through more than 400 years, stuck in stone and started to react as a result of trauma, trying to free them in any ways he could, yet failling because they weren't real people stuck in stone. It took him some time to realize that, and he tried to tell himself to act more rational when around statues, but still, he feels uneasy when he's around statues of real people. He tries not to react or to be worried, but he keeps trying not to look at them and avoids being near them.

Everyone compares him to an old men when he texts. He likes to use a lot of emojis and uses those "good morning" gifs non ironically. He writes like he's writting a formal letter, like he used to write to his brother when they were young (even though he writes like a formal letter, his writing is definetly not the best... he's not good at writing at all lol. example below.)

Even though he's still tries to mask his own feelings with a positive and cheerful attitude, his behaviour changed a lot. He's less energetic than he was as a child, a bit more shy due to insecurity and less extroverted than before, but still social. He's a bit closed off when it comes to his own feelings, but knows how to handle social situations well and how to handle with other people's emotions. His adult self is less silly and more serious and mature, but still as gentle as ever. He got rid of his childishness, even before becoming an adult, as a result of feeling guilty for the events that happened in Dreamtale, as if he told himself he doesn't deserve a childhood. He prefers to, instead, give a good childhood to the children around him, the childhood he never had, and is more protective of children than adults (but he won't deny them protection too, he just enjoys being a brother/father figure to the young people)

[hellokittyboww]

Just so you know I did just rewatch the show but probably forgot a lot of details haha so if anything in the show contradicts my theory don’t be afraid to call me out haha

Honestly I have a crackpot theory (which idk if anybody else thought of?) and it’s that “Pappy” was their dad or (or their grandfather maybe?) but whoever their father was also the current court jester and their mother? Well I think it was the queen of Runic. Why? Well in “Forget You” Mephisto pulls a crown out of nowhere, specifically the crown of Runic which is either some evil black crystal artifact that helps turn people evil + gives them back crystal magic in the first place and that’s why Praxina returned to being evil OR it’s their family crown.

(Also to note the appearance of the crown. It has both Prax and Meps colors and a dark purple crystal like they have used in the past plus it kinda looks like Gramorrs mask? Hmmm intresting..?)

The rest of my little theory is that basically during their childhood they were raised as royal children in Runic but were not treated as such by other people/nobles (I imagine Prax may have been bullied by other nobles/princesses for not being a “real princess” and they’d why she kinda hates the princesses). Since their mother the current princess/queen has them with the royal jester so they are kinda “illegitimate” children and their dad is a jester so ofc some people will laugh at them.

I imagine that Runic might have been a country/realm that sided with Gramorr and that’s why Mephisto and Praxina work for him or similarly so and this makes more sense for me that Gramorr conquered the kingdom instead of an alliance. Since Mephisto and Praxina were not treated well by the people of that kingdom (or other kingdoms even) they agreed to work with him + I doubt Gramorr actually harmed their parents since they don’t talk about them like they are deceased. (They also don’t show much of a grudge towards him, more like their boss they sometimes smack talk, mainly Mephisto but sometimes Praxina does too and they also did betray him once they had power/ don’t listen to him full and goof off so they don’t fully care for him)

As for the reward that Mephisto asked for in the season finale? Maybe they wanted to be recognized as more legitimate or something so Gramorr may have promised them something along those lines? Like how Praxina was obsessed with the Ephedians “bowing before them” so maybe recognition or this is just what she wants as revenge? (It’s kinda a weak reason but oh well)

As for Prax being a princess but not having a magical outfit? I think she may have not gotten one for some reason and that’s another reason why she got bullied. I think it’s related to the reason she’s more for the destruction/enslavement of Ephidia since I feel she would face more scrutiny from people for being illegitimate/not having a magical dress + the focus on this show is more on women being in power so she would probably be the target for more bullying (it also can added onto by how she says Mephisto is always in her “shadow”)

Mephisto may not have the same amount of hate towards the world because he wasn’t bullied as much/didn’t realize it too much + may have just not cared.

Them also being involved in the royal court makes sense for how Gramorr could find them in the first place since he was also in that circle of society.

Wow that turned out longer than I thought.

TLDR-

Mephisto and Praxina are semi-Illegitimate children of Runic. Their mama was the queen/princess and their papa was the court jester.

(MIGHT COMEBACK TO ADD MORE LATER SINCE IM REAL INVESTED IN THIS AND CAN STILL THINK OF THEORIESSS)

Pappy and The Staff: Thoughts on the Twins' Past

Following up on my previous post,

This scene in Lucky Star was super short and not that meaningful, but it was literally the ONLY time in the show where the twins mentioned something about their past or family (if you don't count the time Mephisto got hit in the head by a lobster crystal monster, and started asking "mommy" when they were going to the merry-go-round or whatever)

So they got a special powerful artifact in their family that is only passed down to the men. mmhh

Which could mean nothing, I know. Maybe it has nothing to do with misogyny, and it's simply a "harmless" family tradition. Maybe the female line in their family also has stuff they pass down, and this was just a regular Praxina moment because for once she couldn't have something her brother had. Which is a very sibling thing to do actually. Also, she was definetly jeaulous in this scene. And maybe a bit mad (hurt??) he didn't tell her about it.

Or maybe not. Who knows.

Plus, Mephisto rubbing salt in the wound, you gotta love him.

Still, this moment is definetly giving "Whoever Pappy was, he liked Mephisto better, and Prax is still bitter about it" vibes.

I think I heard somewhere that Pappy was their uncle (did he just visit sometimes?? did he live with them??? who knows) and if he has the staff, he's probably their mother's brother, or their father's older brother, who didn't have sons. That would make Mephisto the heir of the staff.

Totally unrelated to the original point of this post but that man was definetly the fun uncle (he was a court jester, c'mon) and he DEFINETLY preferred Mephisto over Praxina. Like, 1) the boy was gonna get the staff from him so it's obvious he would want to teach him and spend more time would him, 2) as a court jester, I'm assuming he preferred Mephisto's more bumbling personality, and 3) homegirl Praxina was not happy at all when Mephisto talked about the staff's origins, and she spoke about the man with a lot of disdain (mostly because of his position. which could also be her rejecting her family's "lower" or "unbecoming" status). also she was clearly jeaulous. So definetly not a big fan of him.

We know she's "always been an overachiever", as Mephisto put it in Home Pt1, while being yeeted into the stratosphere by Amaru, so i imagine she was already pretty good at magic when she was younger (good for her age, and better than Mephisto, at the time). And I headcanon she also wanted Pappy's approval at some point, and he... well- didn't care for her that much/as much as Mephisto.

To be fair, Praxina definetly strikes me as being that one child that works really hard to be impressive, but the adults around her are just like "Eh- that's nice. Anyways look at the other one who just did a cartweel and fell face flat into the concrete, omg awwwwww, so adorable and fun".

I don't think she was ever very "socially adept", I mean we saw Forget You!Praxina, and she was a social disaster. Maybe she didn't really know how to connect with people very well or people found her to be too abrasive or difficult to get along with, so she just- convinced herself she didn't need anyone else anyways.

Nothing too dramatic, but it can really shape a child.

And then Gramorr came along and their family went POOF somehow, and suddenly magical ability was all that mattered and not how "likable" or "sociable" you were, and it made her feel validated in a way. Maybe that's why she seems more interested in taking over Ephidea than Mephisto.

Maybe deep down she thinks that she's just naturally "unlikable", so it's easier to be "evil" on purpose, because then at least people have a reason to dislike her. She doesn't want to acknowledge the fear that if she did ever try to be nice, or to genuinely be herself without filters, she isn't sure she would ever good at it or accepted.

Or maybe this is just cause she gives me Azula vibes and I'm trying to project my Azula obssession onto her but whatever. MOMMY ISSUES. And UNCLE ISSUES. FUCK YEAH.

And the opposite goes for Mephisto, who Gramorr seems to have less patience for, despite him seemingly being at an even magical level with his sister.

Because while I think Praxina's struggles and insecurities come from a difficulty in forming connections, I think Mephisto's own issues also stem from comparing or being compared to her in terms of magical ability, cunning and ruthlessness. Which could've come from the parents (though we don't know anything about them or what the family dynamic was like while they were alive), or just one of them, or only started with Gramorr himself.

Honestly, the twins' backstory has got to be one of the most well kept secrets this show has.

Welp- that's it for today, i'm all out of brain power. Super interested to learn more about Ephidea and the twinss

[the-jam-to-the-unicorn]

The question about if they're able to see a psychologist and them giving a lengthy answer why that is not possible and just ... the way they leaned to each other and the looks. The way they said it. What they said. Broke something in me. 💔 The family part crushed the pieces. 💔💔💔

[al-luviec]

something simple to try to get out of art block (it didn't work)

[errorwarblesrr]

I feel like moments like these are important. It solidifies that after everything he has been through in Ocarina of Time and Majora's Mask, he is still a child. In OOT, he really was a child trapped in an adults body.

He doesn't consider himself a grown-up and doesn't really understand what's going on in the Anju and Kafei sidequest. He isn't motivated by the stakes or to help two lovers reunite but rather to just help for the sake of it.

In Great Bay, there are, unfortunately, a bunch of weirdos. He looks at a Zora man weird, but I think rather than just finding him gross, he doesn't get it as seen in the Fish Wish sidequest. He finds them weird, but he doesn't have a full understanding of it. This showcases his innocence in the game.

Along with that, there's also a moment where Sakon the thief tries to take advantage of Link. He talks about Link's sword and how cool it is, gives advice, and compliments the sword again, asking to just see it. It's obviously suspicious to the player, but if Link says yes, Tatl immediately gets hostile and attacks Sakon to drive him away instead of letting Link hand over his sword. If Link says no but tries to talk to him again, Tatl will immediately become hostile at Sakon anyway. I feel like this can show how niave Link can be.

There's also when Link receives a Keaton mask. He doesn't really get the meaning behind it and doesn't think accepting it if it makes sense, but he does it anyway. This doesn't really further any points other than he really is just a niave kid going through the motions.

Point is Majora's Mask highlights how he is still a child at heart. He thinks and acts like one still after Ocrina of Time. He didn't just grow up when he was asleep for 7 years. After everything he's been through, he's still him: a child.

[kaleidochimera]

It's deeply important to me that Loop kind of sucks

[firefl1ezz]

i just. hit s+ rank in splatoon and i never honestly thought this would happen?? am i cool now.. do i get to be a part of the s4? do i get to be watered down to my running joke all the time?

[xiii-e]

//ooc posting: I NEED to find more fun/silly things to do with my two they are Not meant to be all agony all the time I swear- I just have a penchant for the dramatic and they're a little in the torment nexus o(-< but on god they will Have Fun too