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motorsportbarbie13 · 6 months ago

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A Package Deal - Part 6 (the finale)

Our time has come, this labor of love is *finished* (at least for now, i could probably be convinced to return to these loves soon)

warnings: none pairing: lando x singlemom!reader word count: 2k words

- A Package Deal - A Package Deal - Part 2 - A Package Deal - Part 3 - A Package Deal - Part 4 - A Package Deal - Part 5 - Master List

yourusername (private) posted

yourusername cold but happy carlossainz still can't believe you convinced Lando to spend Christmas in the cold. >>>yourusername oh it wasn't me! Stella said she wanted to learn how to ski, next thing I know he's booking a 2 week trip to Switzerland! >>>landonorris what my girl wants, my girl gets. 🤷🏻

Christmas, 2025 "Momma, are you sure Santa knows to bring my presents here this year and to not leave them at home?" The concern etched on Stella's face has you grinning into your wine glass.

"Yes, my darling." You assure her, patting her head as she snuggles deeper into Lando's side. "I wrote him a letter weeks ago, remember? You were with me when we mailed it! When you wake up tomorrow morning, all of your presents will be underneath that tree right over there."

This had been Stella's number one concern ever since Lando had announced that he'd booked a house at one of the most exclusive resorts in Gstaad, Switzerland for the Christmas holiday. You had spent a significant amount of time since discussing the fact that yes, Santa did know she wasn't going to be at home this year and yes, he would be able to deliver her presents here instead.

You had been in the mountain town for a few days now, spending nearly every waking moment on the slopes. It was beginning to feel routine, the way you all woke up around the same time and had breakfast together before getting your snow gear on and heading out onto the mountain. You had enrolled Stella in ski school that first day, despite Lando's protests that he could absolutely teach her to ski by himself, and she was thriving. It took a Herculean effort to get her off of her skis every evening but you were happy Stella was having fun.

Today you had managed to get Stella off the mountain early in order to go to dinner with Max and Pietra, who were also staying at the resort for Christmas. Max's initial reservations about Lando dating a single mom had long since evaporated into thin air, after he had seen how much both Stella and Lando adored each other this year. By the middle of the summer, you and Pietra had also become much closer as well, so you enjoyed traveling with Lando's friends who you now considered yours as well.

There was a crackling fire in the huge fireplace that took up most of the external wall of the large four bedroom chalet-style home and above the fireplace, Elf played on the tv. Stella was snuggled up between you and Lando, her head buried underneath Lando's arm, while her feet were stretched across your lap. Lando's arm is flung over the side of the couch, his fingers tangled in yours as his thumb brushes soft circles over the back of your hand. After a few days with a lot of activity, it felt nice to finally spend the evening relaxing in the quiet of your own space.

As the credits to Elf begin to roll, you tap Stella's feet, a signal that it's time to get moving. "Come on, baby girl, it's time for bed. Go brush your teeth and then I'll be in to read more of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and tuck you in, okay? The sooner you get to sleep, the faster Santa comes!"

Stella stretches out her legs and whines, sounding a lot like a cat after it wakes up from a long nap. "I want Dad to tuck me in tonight."

The entire world goes still as you suck in a breath at the name she just used for the very first time. On the other side of the couch, you see Lando freeze too, gaze snapping straight to you as his fingers tighten around yours. The request has your heart squeezing in your chest, a response to her question simply unable to form in your brain.

Stella senses the mood shift in the room and glances up first at you and then over at Lando. "What? Can't Daddy tuck me in just this once?"

Daddy.

Lando's stomach does a somersault up into his throat as he grips onto your hand for reassurance. Had she just...

It really shouldn't have been a surprise, he'd realize later once Stella was fast asleep and you were curled up in his arms in your shared bed. Ever since Silverstone back in July, Lando had practically moved in to your house in all but name. He'd decided to rent out his Monaco apartment to one of the new rookie drivers next season, choosing to remain full time in England where you were. The teachers and parents at school all knew him not as Lando Norris, Formula 1 driver but as the man that often picked up Stella from school whenever he was able to. Stella's teacher had even begun including him on her weekly email newsletters she always sent out on Friday afternoons. He was as ingratiated into this family as both you and Stella were.

But hearing her call him dad for the first time? The new title did something to Lando's heart that he wasn't sure he'd ever recover from.

Emotion claws at his throat as he struggles to find the simple words to answer her request.

"Of course he can, honey." You whisper, seeing the shock and adoration sit heavy on Lando's face. Your own voice is with thick with emotion too. "Do you need help finding some jammies to change into?" You ask as Stella slowly gets up from her little nest between you and Lando.

"Dad can help me." She says with a shrug, as if the name is the most natural thing in the world.

Lando moves to get off the couch as Stella pads down the hallway, the brand new teddy bear she had conned him into buying at a shop today tucked into the crook of her elbow. He squeezes your shoulder as you look up at him, brilliant smile stretching over your face.

"You okay?" You ask as he rounds the couch, following behind Stella, dazed look still on his face.

Lando rubs at the back of his neck, stopping for a moment before turning back to you. His eyes shimmer with tears as he glances behind him and then back at you. "I think so...is...is that okay with you? Her calling me..." He pauses, trying to work his mouth around the next word, "dad like that?"

You're surprised to see concern flit across his face, like you could possibly be upset at what had just happened. "Lando." You murmur, rising from the couch to stand in front of him. You slip your arms around his neck, pulling him in for a kiss. His lips are warm despite the fact that his kiss is hesitant at first. He quickly reads the emotion you pour into him though: confidence, love, desire. All of it positive and he knows without needing to hear anything vocalized that you're just happy about his new title as he is.

You tuck your head into his neck, nuzzling at the warm spot you love so much. "She loves you so much and so do I. You're the best thing that could have ever happened to us, Lando Norris."

Lando chuckles. "I think it's the opposite way around, my love. You two are the best thing that could have ever happened to me."

"DAAAAAAD" From the end of the hall, Stella's little voice calls out and you both can't help the laugh that pulls you apart. "I'm waaaaaaiting!!! Stop kissing Momma and come read to me!" She demands.

"The Princess awaits." Lando mutters before giving you one last peck on the cheek and turning away to walk down the hall towards Stella's room.

Over an hour later and you're 2 glasses of wine deeper than you were when Lando left you, still sitting alone on the couch. You're beginning to think he's fallen asleep putting Stella to bed only because you've done the same thing countless amounts of times over the years when you hear the door to her room whisper open.

"You were in there a long time." You murmur as Lando sits down on the couch before he pulls you into his lap. You set the wine glass down on the side table next to you so you can wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer to you.

"Stella and I had some things to discuss." He says lightly.

Lando's body relaxes as he tucks his head into your neck. If there's one thing you adore about your boyfriend you'll adore until the ends of time it's how affectionate he is. He's always touching you when you're near and he never gives half-hearted hugs, they're something he pours his full body into. The same goes with cuddling, it's never halfway with Lando when it comes to physical affection and you simply cannot ever get enough.

"Oh?" You laugh, grinning at him. "And what are you two plotting now?"

Lando shifts, glancing away as if he's nervous to answer your question. "Stella calling me dad just had me thinking about things..."

You lift an eyebrow. "Things?"

"Yeah" Lando nods. He takes a deep breath and pulls you closer into his chest. "I just got to thinking and maybe it’s time we make things official."

"What are you talking about?" Confusion has you pulling away from him so you can look at him. There's a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth and you have to resist the urge to kiss him, despite the fact that you are fully lost as to what he's talking about. "You’ve been calling me your girlfriend for months now?"

He chuckles, shaking his head. "No, I mean official official. With this." Lando lifts his hips off the couch and pulls out a black velvet box from his pocket. For the second time that night, your heart stalls in your chest, world tilting a bit on its axis.

"Lan." You whisper before sucking in a breath as he opens the top of the ring box. Nestled in the black velvet sits the most gorgeous ring you'd ever laid eyes on. It's simple and perfect and something you would have picked out on your own had you been let loose in a jewelry store.

"Marry me, baby." Lando's voice is thick, anxiety and nerves evident in every syllable that comes out of his mouth. "I never want to go back to a world where you and Stella aren't in my life. Stella sees me as her dad, I hope you can see me as your husband and father of the rest of our babies one day. I love you so much l. Spend the rest of your life with me?

It's a wonder the sound of your heart clattering against your ribcage doesn't wake Stella up it's so loud. Blood rushes past your ears so loudly, the sounds of the house are muffled for a moment and all you can do is stare at Lando. He doesn't move, a look of anxiety and love and hundreds of other emotions sitting so plainly on his face you can barely form a thought.

"Of course. Oh my god. Of course." Your right hand finds his cheek and you frame his face with your hand as he takes your left hand before slipping the ring on your finger. A perfect fit.

"Yeah?" A wash of relief crashes over Lando because for a moment he thought you were about to reject him.

When he had finished reading a chapter of Stella's book to her, he had as casually as he could brought up the idea of them being a family for real next year. Stella had been a bit confused, asking him if the weren't already a real family but Lando had quickly explained he meant he wanted to marry you but only if Stella thought that was a good idea because she was part of their family too and what she thought mattered to him just as much as what you thought.

You nod, laughing through your tears before crashing your lips to his in a heated kiss. "Yeah." You mutter against his mouth.

"I was going to do this tomorrow morning" Lando pulls away, glancing down at your hand that's still captured between his. "But it just felt right tonight. Stella was so excited, she started asking what kind of dress she’d get to wear at the wedding."

"Oh Lando." You coo before you allow him to lay you down on the couch, kissing you as he goes.

yourusername (private) posted

123 likes liked by BFFSarah, CarlosSainz, yourdad, and others yourusername mrs. norris has a nice ring to it, doesn't it? 😘 BFFSarah OH. MY. GOD. I'm sobbing. Bestie. I love you. I love him. I love Stella. I'm so happy for you!!! >>>yourusername ❤️❤️❤️ thank you babes >>>BFFSarah sorry, back again to tell you holy SHIT that ring!! @/landonorris you did good!! >>>landonorris why thank you! ☺️

landonorris posted

1,098,874 likes liked by yourusername, mclaren, zakbrownceo, and others landonorris santa can't compete with my present this year zakbrownceo congratulations to both of you!!! we'll have to throw a little party when you're back in the new year! >>>yourusername thanks zak!! you are too good to us! user009 the gold digger got what she wanted...how long til she's knocked up with baby number 2? gotta get that bag somehow... >>>user221 seriously. bro fell for the oldest trick in the book. fucking gross. >>>user223 hey so this is a fucking WILD thing to say about someone you don't even know so publicly. JESUS. user928 OH MY GOD THEY'RE ENGAGED user230 we're going to get dad lando content FOREVER >>>user929 the way i live for stella/lando content and now we get even MORE??? Yes please!!!

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eglerieth · 2 years ago

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Some of y’all are not appreciating Bilbo Baggins enough. I am here to remedy that. This guy has:

• somehow managed to establish himself as a respectable, staid hobbit by the time he was fifty, despite being both a grandson of Bullroarer Took and the Shire champion of pretty much every aiming-game known to hobbitkind

• had an in-depth debate on pleasantries with a random guy passing by in the street, who turned out to be GANDALF

• collapsed in front of his own fire shaking and muttering “struck by lightning” over and over again in response to hearing about dragons and danger

• mind you, this was after he screamed loud enough to startle a roomful of Dwarves

• signed up for a dangerous quest completely outside of his league out of spite

• when told to scout out a mysterious light, saw some trolls, and instead of reporting back with the information, decided to PICK THE TROLLS POCKET

• arrived in Rivendell for the first time and said it “smelled like elves”

• upon meeting a strange creature that visibly wanted to eat him, he decided to play a riddle game with him- and guessed pretty much every one, and made up his own riddles, afraid and alone, that not only were good and full of linguistic puns, but actually stumped the other guy- AND THEN CHEATED AND WON WITH A QUESTION

• showed mercy to said strange creature who wanted to kill him, and was now standing between him and freedom

• eavesdropped on the dwarves arguing over whether to try to save him, then popped up casually smack in the middle of them just as they were debating

• somehow managed to sleep like a log at the really really high eyrie full of wild predators

• found himself in a bad situation, said eff it, and turned around and antagonized and fought off an insane amount of man eating spiders, like enough of them that fifty was a small portion, by singing at them with incredibly complex and punny insulting songs composed on the spot, while simultaneously slaying them in multitudes despite having zero combat training. Seriously, we don’t discuss enough how epic the spider scene is.

• broke a company of dwarves out of the very secure prison of the Elvenking by inventing white water rafting with barrels

• charmed his way out of being eaten by a dragon

• stole the frickin Arkenstone from the guys who employed him, one of whom was a king

• took part in an epic battle, only to be knocked out in the first ten minutes and miss the entire thing

• was named elf-friend by the guy who’s prisoners he sprung

• wrote his own autobiography, complete with all the narrative recognition of his own heroics

• spent 60 years writing said autobiography

• taught his lower class neighbor’s kid how to read

• taught his nephew Elvish- not only Sindarin, but Quenya too

• spent decades telling his cousins his own story as fairy tales, complete with character impressions accurate enough that one of them was able to fool a servant of the Enemy with a second hand impression

• used the One Ring of Power to hide from his neighbors

• planned an elaborate feast with multiple social faux pas to mess with his neighbors, complete with a purposefully bewildering speech and culminating in him vanishing into thin air in front of everyone

• left his cousins and neighbors very unsubtle passive aggressive gifts in his will

• settled into Rivendell, randomly befriended the heir to the throne of like half of Middle Earth, and apparently spent his time writing very personal poems about his hosts and reciting them to crowds of elves

• after being invited to a Council of basically every major kingdom in the continent, spent a quarter of the time reciting vague poems about his friends, a quarter of the time telling anyone who would listen about his heroic past, and half the time interrupting to ask when lunch would be

• volunteered to bring the ring to Mordor

• became one of only four or five mortals in history to live in Valinor

Seriously, Bilbo Baggins may well be the most chaotic, insane person in the entire legendarium, and that includes the likes of people like Finrod “bit a werewolf to death to save the life of guy who he just met and gave up his kingdom for” Felagund.

#eglerieth #tolkien #lotr #silmarillion #lord of the rings #hobbits #the hobbit #bilbo baggins #bilbo

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elronds-meleth-nin · 9 months ago

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A Brush With...Kindness?

This idea came up in a discussion with @bigblissandlove1, so credit to you, my dear friend!! Thank you for being okay with me writing it! ILYSM! Thank you for screaming over both versions of Adar with meeee 💖💖💖💖💖💖💖 Also holy shit, this was supposed to be like...2000 words and ended up as almost 12000. 💀

Cross-posted to AO3 here.

~*~

Adar (RoP) x Reader

[A/N: This has smut, so 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI!!!]

Warnings: Mentions of violence (not discussed in detail), blood, bloodplay, threats, knives, swords, Adar in the winter, both soft!Adar and stabby!Adar, interspecies sex, Uruk/Human sex, unprotected sex, oral sex (female receiving), angst, much yearning, nudity, I feel like I'm forgetting something but I have no idea what because holy fuck this is almost 12000 words.

~*~

I knew his face from the moment he and his Uruks flooded into our village. Pillaging and looting where they could, murdering those who fought, the Uruks caused havoc. He strode in with them, looking as serene as the Elf I'd mistaken him for when I was a child.

How lucky I'd been that he'd chosen peace all those years ago. My father was a trader who traveled between Lindon, Eregion, and several villages inhabited by Men. Between the last of those villages and the borders of Eregion, we'd stopped to make camp for the night.

While my father set up our tent and tended to the horse, he asked me to gather some small sticks for the fire. I set off to do so, but in my quest for kindling, I ended up farther away from him than I'd intended with an armload of sticks large enough to make me stagger. Just as I'd begun to turn back, there was a small rustling from behind a bush a few feet away. I turned just in time to see a figure rising to his feet.

Tall, intimidating, covered in dark, aging armor, with scars on his face stood an Ellon. I let out a small, childish sigh of relief. I'd been afraid it might be a bear or an Orc or something fearsome, but it occurred to me that the presence of an Elf must mean that we were close to Eregion.

"You should not wander alone, little one. There are Uruks lurking in this forest," he said, and I noted that he sounded strange. Most Elves had voices that flowed like silvery musical notes, but his was raspy and low, as if he'd screamed for so long that he'd hurt his throat. Maybe he was a soldier, I'd thought. After all, they shout orders all the time.

"I'm not alone," I said lifting my chin as proudly as only a child could. "My father is not far from here."

He did not look convinced, yet still he offered me a smile.

"Perhaps, then, my lady, I could help you with your load?" He asked, and as I'd never been called 'my lady' before, I was not eager to disabuse him of the notion. He relieved me of my bundle of sticks, and together we began to walk back toward the camp my father had set up. After a few moments of comfortable quiet, I posed a question.

"What is an Uruk? I've never heard of one before. The word sounds sort of like 'Orc' if you say it too quickly..." I mused, and a small smile tugged at his lips. Vaguely, I wondered if his scars hurt him, but I did not think it polite to ask. At ten years old, my father had taught me manners enough to know that if a person wanted to talk about something like that, they should be the ones to bring it up.

"An Uruk is the correct name for an Orc," the Ellon said. "The words became...confused long ago. Not many remember their real name."

Oh. Well, that made sense.

"There are two people who know, now," I said smiling up at him, and he looked at me with raised eyebrows.

"That is kind of you, my lady, but you must not use that name around the Elves. They do not take kindly to having their mistakes paraded before them," he said, and that confused me.

"But...you are–"

The crunching steps of heavy boots in the underbrush startled me, but instead of an Uruk appearing from the trees, it was just my father.

"There you are! I told you not to go too far," he said striding up to me and wrapping me in his arms. He placed a kiss atop my head and only then did he turn his gaze upon my companion. Straightening, he glared suspiciously at my new friend. "Who are you? I've never seen Elvish armor quite like that."

His tone was less than kind, and, remembering my manners, I spoke up on my friend's behalf.

"Be nice, papa! He was helping me," I said. My new friend shifted the bundle of sticks to one arm, and placed his hand over his heart, inclining his head in a respectful bow.

"I intended her no harm, sir. There are many perils in this part of the forest and I wished to ensure she would not encounter danger," he explained. "Besides, a bundle this large was certainly more than a lady of her status should have to bear."

He offered me an exaggerated, deferential bow that drew a giggle from my lips. After a mere moment's hesitation, my father invited him to our camp to keep warm, since the woods grew quite cold at night. Looking back, it was obvious that he was incredibly patient with my childish questions as the three of us settled in to pass the night. Our evening meal stretched easily between three mouths, even though our new friend said that he did not wish to diminish our supply of food. We could not simply let him starve.

I woke in the middle of the night to low, whispered voices at the treeline. Carefully, I peeked through the flaps of my tent and saw two shadowed figures around the flickers of a small lamp. One stood tall, and the other hunched over.

With my father still slumbering soundly in his bedroll, I made a decision of which he surely would have disapproved. As quietly as I could, I slipped out, sneaking through the shadows of the trees until I could just make out the face of the taller person in the lamplight.

Our Ellon friend? What was he doing out here? Shifting slightly, I caught sight of the second person and–

I nearly tripped over myself to get back to my tent. He'd been speaking in a strange rasping, mean-sounding language to an Orc - or, an Uruk, as he'd called them.

I wasn't frightened of him, despite what I'd seen. Curiosity still reigned in my mind, but I still did not relish the thought of being caught eavesdropping. The next morning, I rose quite early, only to find that our guest was already gone.

"Don't look so distressed, love," my father called from his seat beside the fire. "He left this for you along with his apologies for leaving before you woke. He said his children needed him."

He held out a small piece of dark metal. It had clearly come from his armor. Carved within it was a set of stars, inlaid with some other tarnished metal.

"He said it was the symbol of the Noldorin Kings. He thought you might appreciate it and that it might serve to remind you of the conversation the two of you had," my father explained, though he looked a bit puzzled. "What conversation did he mean, if I may ask?"

As I looked at the small metal piece, it occurred to me that if he had not told my father, then perhaps there was a reason. My father might react poorly to the word 'Uruk' like our friend said the Elves would, simply because he worked so closely with them.

"He said it was dangerous to walk alone," I said, and though it wasn't a lie, it was not the whole truth, either. I'd never had reason to lie to my father before, and I hoped I would never need to again.

That night after we rode into Eregion and settled into our chambers, by candlelight I found the second symbol. Carved onto the back of the item he'd given me, there was what looked like a three-pronged shape. A tool perhaps? A maker's mark?

I wouldn't see that shape again until many years later when Lord Adar took our village. The armor piece which I'd turned into a necklace years before hung around my neck, almost burning beneath the bodice of my dress even as I averted my eyes from our new lord's.

When the morning came, we were all herded into a line leading to the steps of the tavern from which Adar was currently ruling over us. Those who refused to swear loyalty to him were summarily killed by the Uruks guarding us. When my own turn came, I dropped to my knees as all those before me had done.

Strangely, though, even as I looked up at him, I still couldn't find it within me to be afraid of him. Of death? Naturally, I was frightened, but I could not muster the same feeling regarding the Uruk lord. His eyes met mine, and his lips parted as if he recognized me.

An old man grasped my hair roughly, forcing my head down into a more subservient position.

"Do you swear allegiance to Adar, Lord Father of the Uruks?" He asked, but before I could answer either way, his tight grasp on my hair was suddenly released. "M-My lord?"

"She has already sworn for me," Adar rasped above me, and I tried not to look confused as he urged me to my feet. He reached toward me, and to my astonishment, his fingertips brushed against the pendant that had come loose from beneath the top of my dress. The one he'd given me years ago. The back with the three-pronged carving was visible because the chain had twisted. "She already wears my mark. You will not brand her, is that understood?"

"Yes, my lord," the grumpy old man said, but I could look nowhere save into the same green eyes I'd seen all those years before. I couldn't help but think about how beautiful they were.

"I shall see to the rest tomorrow, Waldreg. See that they're fed and have a place to sleep," Adar ordered. Grasping my elbow, the Lord Father of the Uruks led me away from the crowd. Once we were safely inside one of the ruined buildings, he clasped my upper arms and looked into my eyes. "I thought I told you it was dangerous to wander alone, my lady."

His voice was infinitely gentler than it had been before.

"I'm not alone," I whispered, "not when I have you."

Looking at me with a mixture of disbelief and something far too soft to be on an Uruk Lord's face, he stepped closer and carefully rested his forehead against mine. The scent of smoke and metal, earth and wood oils surrounded me, and I recognized the scent, faint though it had been, from that day in the woods.

He muttered something in the low, guttural language that the Uruks used, and though I had no idea what he'd said, the sound of it sent my heart racing in my chest.

"I thought I'd never see you again," I admitted in a whisper, and he let out a slow, almost sad sigh.

"I had hoped that you would never have need to," Adar murmured in return. When he spoke again, he sounded almost resigned. "If you wish to leave, I can arrange safe passage for you."

I considered the possibility for a moment. My mother and father were living peacefully in Eregion, thanks to the kindness bestowed upon them by Lord Celebrimbor. I could certainly go there, but...was that what I wanted?

"And...if I wanted to stay?"

Pulling his head back just far enough to look into my eyes, Adar seemed as though he both was and was not surprised at my question.

"You would be allowed to do so, of course, but you must understand that this would be a hard life," he stated. "I cannot offer you any luxuries, not like those found in Elven territory. Mordor is new. We have very little. We have not even completed the construction of our own homes yet. Is that truly the life you want? Barely getting by on scraps of food, sleeping in the ruins of an old building?"

"I can bear it," I reassured him, and he seemed to consider my words as his fingertips once again traced the chain of my necklace.

"I will not make you swear your loyalty, my lady, but I would like your word that if at any point you feel as though this life is intolerable or overwhelming, you will tell me," he murmured as his eyes met mine again. "I would not see your light dimmed by such a place as this."

Gently, I laid my hands over his.

"You have my word, my lord," I murmured, and he nodded his head slowly.

"Then, welcome to Mordor, hiril vuin."

She'd been different since the day they met. Oh, she was likely an average member of her species, but Adar had little personal experience with Humans beyond the occasional interaction. Her openness when she was a child had been endearing, especially since she hadn't thought him frightening or hideous. She'd accepted him as he was without question - even going so far as to protect him from her father's suspicion.

After she'd caught him speaking with Glûg in the middle of the night, ordering his children to leave her and her father be in Black Speech, however, Adar had thought that she'd have told her father what she'd seen...that he would be met with an arrow to the chest upon his return to their camp. Instead, she'd managed to sneak back unnoticed, and he'd taken his leave before she awakened.

Never did he think that one day as a grown woman - a lady - she would be forced to kneel at his feet. Not even with the threat of death looming over her was she afraid of him.

He'd never wanted her fear. When she was a child, he'd savored her curiosity, and now, as an adult, he found that he relished her gentleness and her acceptance. She'd been courteous to all of his children whom she'd encountered, even if such behavior earned scorn from the other Humans in their encampment. She never cowered. She never diminished herself to fit into the dull little boxes that the others of her species so consistently tried to force upon her. She was unique.

And Adar found himself growing ever more intrigued by her.

The winter wind whipped clothing, biting the skin and sinking bone-deep. Like most discomfort, Adar was used to it. He knew every survival method - one did not live for thousands of years without picking up a few helpful practices. His children had followed his example, but it was a bit harder for the Humans among them to find comfort.

Truly, though, the only one he cared about was his lady...his brave, determined lady. He remembered her looking up at him the better part of a year ago when she was forced to the ground before him. Curiosity and recognition was as obvious in her expression as the points on an Elf's ears.

Even after he'd taken their village, she hadn't hated him. She hadn't denied having sworn for him, even though that had been a lie he concocted to keep her safe and unblemished.

Seeing that remnant of his armor hanging from a chain around her neck had inspired more pride and awe in him than he'd felt in an Age. Adar had assumed that even if her father had given it to her, it was so small and insignificant that she wouldn't have bothered to keep track of it. But for her to have turned it into a necklace... The thought still sparked a wave of warmth in the Uruk's heart.

Had their encounter truly been that memorable to her?

As the bitter winter held the camp in its grip, residents and all, Adar walked amongst his children and sworn Human villagers alike, noting those things which were needed most. He turned a corner between rows of tents and half-built houses and paused at the sight of his lady and Glûg discussing the babe in the Uruk's arms. After a few moments, his lady let out a small laugh, and Glûg let out a rasping chuckle before departing with a small bow.

Before he could behave as if he'd been doing anything - anything at all - besides watching them, she turned and Adar's eyes met hers. Approaching without hesitation, she curtsied and greeted him with her customary 'good day, my lord.'

Dropping into his own low bow, Adar offered her his arm.

"Walk with me, if you would, my lady," he murmured, and she looped her arm with his. "How would you characterize the mood amongst your people here?"

They walked a few steps, she considering her answer, and he marveling at how easily they fit together. Having her at his side felt natural, as if that was where she was always meant to be.

"They are under strain, because of the winter temperatures. Perhaps they are a bit more frightened than usual, but nothing too serious," she replied. "They seem to have settled into their new routine along with your children quite well, considering the circumstances."

"And what of your own circumstances? What can I do to ease your burden?" He asked as they reached the door of her shelter.

"I can think of nothing, my lord." Adar did not believe that, but he did not contradict her, choosing instead to accept her invitation inside.

"Allow me, at least," he said as he stepped inside, "to check your supplies. Firewood and the like."

"Of course," she murmured, waving him inside. One of the other ladies who shared her living space had already lit a fire in grate, and as soon as they saw Lord Adar walk inside, they quickly found other places to be.

Pretending to take a cursory view around the room, Adar slyly watched his lady move around, tidying up, even though the messes had clearly been created by the others. That he did not like, but that was a problem for a later date.

"Are you certain there is nothing I can do to improve your situation?" He asked, and she flashed him a smile bright enough to make his heart skip a beat.

"Nothing, whatsoever. I'm quite comfortable here," she said walking to stand with him beside the fire. He took a long, selfish moment to indulge his desire to study her face. When his desire to reach out and touch her grew so strong that he felt he might snap, he drew and released a deep breath.

"Thank you for your indulgence, my lady. I shall leave you in peace."

Adar gave her a small bow before making his way toward the door.

"Oh, wait! Please, my lord," she called, and he turned to face her. She pulled a length of cloth from a bundle, hurrying over to him.

A familiar sense of dread curled in his abdomen. He'd been betrayed before in moments of weakness - seeing her this evening was certainly a weakness. The cloth would make a suitable garrote for a person of her size to use. Steeling himself as she approached, he realized that, though he wouldn't be surprised, her betrayal would hurt more than any other had.

He met her eyes with his as she stood on the tips of her toes to wrap the cloth around his neck...but the constriction he'd been expecting never came. Instead, she tied it carefully, tucking the ends into his armor so they wouldn't flap around in the wind.

Adar's gauntlet-covered fist relaxed as his defensiveness was replaced with confusion. He was certain that he must look as utterly befuddled as he felt, but the little smile that settled upon her lips as she examined her handiwork stole his breath.

"There. That should keep you a little warmer, at least. We cannot have the Lord of Mordor freezing, now can we?" She asked when her fingers finally fell away from the chestplate of his armor. Adar found speech difficult for a long moment. She cared for his comfort?

How was one supposed to tell someone that they'd expected death's shadow only to find kindness instead? How could he possibly explain to someone like her that at the sight of a simple makeshift scarf, he'd coiled himself as tightly as a warrior preparing to be struck without a shield or sword to defend himself? She was so considerate that she would blame herself for unsettling him, he had no doubt.

No, to say nothing would be better. Perhaps...perhaps later.

Lifting her hands gently in his own, he laid soft kisses upon her knuckles. He dared not look away. Not now. This moment was crucial - whether for just him or for them both, he knew not.

"Thank you, dear lady," he breathed, and as his eyes searched hers, he saw what he normally did in her: warmth. However, this time he saw more. There was warmth, yes, but there was also gentleness, protectiveness, and a sort of satisfaction about him not tearing the scarf from his throat - he would never do such a thing. Not when it was from her.

When he finally stepped outside once more, the wind was unable to sink its frozen teeth into his neck. The fabric, worn and discolored with age, was soft, caressing his scarred skin just as he imagined her fingers would if she ever deigned to lower herself and take him as her lover.

Her generosity made him only that much more determined to find some way to make life easier for her. For nearly a week, he was kept too busy to give the matter any serious consideration, but he did have an idea.

While she was occupied, Adar slipped into her shelter. He wished to find a way to repay her for her kindness, thus his goal was to find one of her unfulfilled needs and provide for her. He was already able to ensure that she received enough food and water, and she deserved more than he could ever give her, but he was willing to try.

After a few moments of searching, he noticed the blanket in her little sleeping area. It was thin, full of holes, and practically falling apart. It was the only one he could see.

His heart clenched in his chest. She must be nearly frozen during the night, yet she had still seen fit to give him her scarf? The growing dampness of tears blurred his vision, but he blinked them away. How had she made it through the winter?

At least he could fix this for her.

Picking up the tattered blanket, he strode across the camp to find a replacement. Laying it atop a pile with other bits of cloth that needed to be repurposed, he found a stack of extra blankets. He'd already ensured that all of his children had enough to keep them warm, so one extra would not be missed.

He hastened back to her shelter, closing the door nearly silently behind him, but he quickly realized that he was not alone.

"My lord?" She called from her place beside the cold hearth. She was trying to light a fire with trembling hands. Walking over to her, Adar tucked the blanket beneath his arm and gently coaxed the flint and steel from her cold fingers.

Kneeling briefly, he struck the flint and steel once, twice, and carefully encouraged the flame to grow until a warm glow illuminated the room. When he stood again, he grasped her hands and rubbed them between his palms. He would not be content to leave her until he was certain that she would not freeze in the night.

She looked up at him in wordless wonder, and he knew for certain that his own expression had to be similar.

"Thank you, my lord," she said in barely a whisper, and in reply, he unfolded the blanket he'd brought. Though it was not nearly as soft as someone like her deserved, he knew it would hold the heat much better than her old one. Adar draped it around her shoulders, and, sweet, trusting thing that she was, she made no protest about his proximity, nor did she flinch when the backs of his knuckles caressed her cheek.

She looked from him, to the blanket, and back again. Without warning, she sprang forward, wrapping her arms around his middle, but where he usually expected the bite of a dagger after such an impact, he found only comfort. He realized that she...was embracing him.

He looked down at her, only to find his nose buried in her hair. Her scent! He'd smelled it before, but to have her this close...it was intoxicating. Carefully bracing his hands on her waist, he leaned down a little farther. The tip of his nose brushed against her warm neck, and he could almost smell her pulse racing beneath her skin.

His nose must've been cold, for that small movement was enough to startle her into leaping back. His fëa, dark and fractured as it was, wept at the loss of her, even though she'd only been in contact with him for a moment.

It had been so long since he'd been held like that.

Alarm settled into her expression and she began stammering apologies. Her new blanket slipped from one shoulder, and without a word, Adar stepped toward her and pulled it back into place.

Her voice dropped away as she realized what he was doing. His hands laid lightly upon her shoulders, sliding slowly upward until he was able to cup her cheeks carefully between his scarred fingers. Her eyes, now wide with wonder rather than fear, looked up at him.

"You have done nothing which warrants an apology, my lady," Adar murmured giving her small smile. She was so beautiful, so fragile compared to him. He would risk no injury coming to her. Not even the discomfort of the abating cold; slowly, their breaths became less visible as the fire grew in the hearth. "Why did you not tell me about the state of your blanket?"

"I did not wish to trouble you, my lord," she answered sheepishly. "I had already requested a replacement from the head of the Men in our section, but I was told I'd have to speak with Waldreg. Given my previous encounters with him, I...decided that the cold was preferable."

Disquiet twisted within him. Waldreg was distasteful enough without having caused his lady trouble. He was quite certain he'd tear the little worm of a Man limb from limb with a grin on his lips if he dared harm his lady.

Adar would have to speak with him about that.

"Has he mistreated you?" He tried to keep his tone as steady as possible, but a slight edge still managed to creep in.

"He expressed a few less than polite sentiments, but no more. It is not a crime for him to dislike me, my lord," she said, but her attempt to calm his ire only made him angrier on her behalf. Would she not express her anger even at someone as wretched and cruel as Waldreg?

"In future, come directly to me. You need not be afraid. I would be pleased to assist you, my lady," he promised, and his heart stuttered as she nodded her head.

As soon as he left her shelter, he sought Waldreg. The miserable little rat had much to answer for.

As the winter winds began to wane, I found myself increasingly glad of Lord Adar's kindness. Not shivering through the night was a pleasant change. I'd thought that after our conversation he seemed rather tense, but thus far I had seen no results.

However, as I returned from harvesting a small bunch of mushrooms for the soup that night, a vicelike grip clamped around my arm, tugging me off balance and dragging me into the small, dark alleyway between two repurposed buildings.

A hand covered my mouth just as a knifepoint pressed cold and unyielding against my racing pulse.

"You vicious little bitch," a familiar voice snarled against my ear. "What lies did you tell him? How did you make him hate me?"

I whimpered but dared not move for fear of the sharp steel at my throat.

"'You will not treat my children or those pledged to me with disrespect,' he said. He's had me shoveling shit in the kennels for weeks, and word around camp is that he only came to me after speaking with you!" Waldreg sounded furious, and, indeed, I could detect the lingering scent of the wargs' leavings clinging to my attacker and his clothing. The more agitated he grew, the more his hands shook. Pain pricked my skin, and a hot red tear trickled down my throat staining the neckline of my dress. "What'd you do? Lift your skirt for him? Whisper in those ragged little ears of his? Give me one good reason I shouldn't gut you here and feed you to the wargs."

I began struggling in earnest, but his anger kept his grip tight. Still his hand covered my mouth, preventing any attempts at speech. A cruel laugh trickled across my ears, and he dragged his knife downwards until it rested directly above my heart.

"I thought not." I tried to cringe away, but that accomplished nothing save fueling the cruel old bastard's amusement as tears rolled down my cheeks. "Say goodnight!"

Instead of the bite of a blade, however, I was abruptly released. A gurgling sound came from behind me, and when I turned, I saw Lord Adar's gauntlet-covered hand lifting Waldreg off the ground by his throat. The cold glare on the Uruk's face revealed not a single mite of mercy for the Man thrashing in his grasp.

"My lady, go inside. I will join you in a moment," Adar called, and after a single shocked blink, I rushed off to do as he'd ordered. My basket lay in the mud, entirely forgotten amongst the chaos. A small crowd of Uruks had gathered around to witness Waldreg's demise and jeer at him, but I couldn't stay.

As terrible as he was, I didn't want to. Trembling, I closed the door after myself and stumbled toward my sleeping space. Quickly wrapping the blanket Adar had given me around my shoulders, I tried to steady my breathing instead of listening to the commotion outside.

I had no idea how long I'd been sitting there when the crowd fell silent and the door finally opened. Terrified that Waldreg had somehow survived and was coming to seek his revenge, I backed into the corner beside the hearth and tried to stay as small as possible.

I had no weapons with which to fight. Hiding would be my only chance to survive, especially if Adar had not been able to stop him.

"My lady?" Adar's voice called gently into the space, though he saw no sign of her. He spotted a small movement from the far side of the hearth. Why was she hiding? Her eyes were wide and fearful, even as he approached.

Suddenly, her assertion about Waldreg expressing 'a few less than polite sentiments, but no more' felt grossly incorrect. If she was this frightened, he must've threatened her.

Adar hoped that she heard him screaming his apologies before his death.

Or...could it be that he'd finally managed to frighten her with his cruelty? That thought sent a bolt of icy dread through him.

Dropping silently to his knees beside her, he unclipped his gauntlet and dropped it beside him. He wouldn't dare touch her while wearing it after it had touched that scum, not without cleaning it first. He offered her his hand, afterwards, and she accepted it without hesitation.

She needed no coaxing to come to him, shuffling over and resting before him on her knees with her blanket still around her shoulders.

"You need not fear, my lady. He will haunt your steps no more," he murmured, and the relieved little sniffle that escaped her had Adar moving closer and gently brushing her tears away with the pads of his thumbs.

His skin was rough, but he was careful. He didn't want to hurt her, or for her to fear him. She had every right to after she'd seen him lifting Waldreg off the ground in the midst of his rage. He certainly would not blame her, but he did not want that. If ever she shrank away from him as she'd tried to do from that contemptible worm earlier, he thought his heart may shatter irreparably.

So, with the most soothing tone he could muster - one he'd not used in over an Age - he placed a gentle kiss upon her brow and spoke.

"You are safe with me, hiril vuin. None shall raise a hand to you again." Carefully, he pulled the edge of the blanket away just far enough to see the small trail of dried blood from where she'd been cut. Regret was as foul upon his tongue as bile.

He should have found them sooner. Moving away only long enough to fetch a pitcher of water and a cloth, Adar sat close to her upon his return. He began to wipe her skin clean in slow, careful strokes, murmuring quiet, earnest praise for how brave she'd been and for trusting him to help her.

She rested her cheek upon his shoulder as he set the cloth aside, prompting him instinctively to wrap his arms around her and brace his chin atop her head.

"Thank you, my lord," she breathed, and he was acutely aware of his own heart racing in his chest. Could she hear its rhythm even with the chestplate of his armor in the way?

As he began to tell her that he'd done no more than his duty, the door to her shelter opened, revealing the three other ladies who shared the small space with her. Adar grated at the interruption, despite their low curtsies as soon as they caught sight of him holding his lady in his arms.

"Sleep elsewhere tonight," he ordered them, and once they'd departed, he let out a tense breath. Speaking then to his lady, he softened his tone once more. "Tomorrow, I shall have you moved to chambers befitting one of your station."

She blinked beautifully up at him, dampness clinging to her lashes like dewdrops in the early morn.

"'My station,' my lord?"

A slow smile stretched his lips.

"Indeed. If you are to serve at the right hand of the Lord of Mordor, you cannot be seen huddling in the corner of a ruined shack."

Her eyes went wide, and her lips parted in a near-silent gasp.

"A-At your right hand?"

He nodded his head in confirmation.

"Assuming that such a thought appeals to you, of course," he said, but the smile that lit up her face told him all that he needed to know about her enthusiasm.

The next morning, I awoke wrapped in Lord Adar's arms and the blanket he'd given me. I should've felt embarrassment, but I could muster no more than a groggy sense that I was exactly where I was meant to be.

As soon as we managed to peel ourselves from the ground, we gathered my meager possessions, and Adar led me to the tavern. He had ruled from there since day one, but I hadn't been aware until that moment that he'd been living there as well. I supposed that his choice made sense. The upper level was where the owner used to live, having the benefit of a bedroom and a small bathing room complete with a claw-foot tub.

"Unless you object, we shall be sharing the bedroom," he explained as we climbed the creaky wooden staircase. "I'm afraid that there was little more than a musty mattress here to begin with, so I'll have a second bedroll brought up today. If there is anything you require once you have settled in, please do not hesitate to tell me."

"Thank you, my lord," I replied, and as I set myself up on one side of the room directly across from his own sleeping area, one of his children called him away to handle a conflict on the other side of the camp.

Late that night, I walked into the small communal area where Lord Adar sat by the fire, gazing into its depths as if it held the answers to all of his questions. Not wishing to disturb his thoughts, I began to move away, but a quiet call of my name in that deliciously raspy voice of his froze me in place.

"Is everything to your satisfaction, my lady?" He called, and I turned to find his gaze already fixed on me.

"Yes, my lord," I murmured, "thank you for allowing me to stay here."

"The pleasure is mine. Come, warm yourself by the fire," he offered, and I dropped to my knees on the furs beside him. We sat in companionable silence for a while with only the crackling of the fire in the grate reaching our ears. "Something troubles you, does it not?"

I nodded my head and he tilted his own beside me.

"Tell me." Despite his soft tone, the command made me bite my lip.

"I...My lord, given the new position with which you have honored me, I believe it..." I stumbled over the words, eventually taking a deep breath to compose myself. "Would it not be inappropriate for me to continue in this particular role without having sworn my loyalty to you?"

The question came out in a breathless rush, but Adar either did not notice over the hissing of the fire or he was too polite to comment upon it.

"So far as all the others are concerned, you did so before we ever took your village." His eyes skimmed the length of my face as he spoke. "As you will recall, I promised you that I would not force you to do so."

"And you have kept to your word," I began. "I have not felt coerced. I offer my loyalty to you freely."

Adar sat up straighter and drew in a sharp breath.

"You only need do so if you truly wish for us to be bound," he said placing his hand softly atop mine where it rested amongst the furs. His eyes searched mine as if trying to determine whether I was serious.

"I'm certain, my lord," I said, and he, apparently finding what he was looking for, gave a solemn nod of his head.

"Very well. As with your kin, Black Speech is not a language known to you, thus I will not require your vow in that tongue," he murmured, and I couldn't stop the question that fell from my lips.

"Would it be possible to learn at some point?"

Adar smiled, a mix of pride and surprise playing across his features in the glowing, flickering light of the fire.

"I shall teach you personally, hiril vuin," he promised, and his expression became more serious. "Have you ever sworn loyalty to another?"

"No, my lord."

"Do you recall the words being spoken during the oaths of fealty given by your people?"

"Yes, my lord." I bowed my head, intending to show my respect in that manner, but warm, gentle fingers grasped my chin and lifted my head back up. Adar's gaze met my own, and unless the firelight was deceiving me, I saw a soft sort of affection swimming in his eyes as he looked at me.

"Before all else, I wish you to swear that you will never bow to me unless I explicitly give you the order to do so," he rasped as his thumb brushed over my lower lip.

"I swear it, my lord. I will not bow to you unless you give me the order to do so." Having extracted that promise, he seemed satisfied to allow me to continue as I had been. His fingers fell away from my chin only to grasp my own and lay them atop his chest where beneath his heart lay beating. "I hereby swear my allegiance to you, Adar, Lord-Father of the Uruks, founder of the land of Mordor...and protector of mortal children silly enough to wander the forest alone. This I pledge from now until the last breath leaves my body."

Adar listened with something akin to wonder in his eyes, and when I finished, his gaze strayed down to my lips. But...something seemed off.

"Is...something amiss, my lord? I could always use different words, if you prefer...?"

He shook his head quietly.

"There was no fault in your diction."

"Then...what troubles you?" I asked, unconsciously repeating his own words from earlier. He shifted before me, as if he was bothered by what he was about to say. Regretful, perhaps?

"An oath means little on its own," Adar murmured unsheathing a small knife that he'd apparently concealed upon his person. "Only blood can bind."

Whose blood did he mean? Did he want me to use it on myself? Did he wish to use it on me? Or did he want me to use it on us both?

An idea struck me, and I grasped my necklace in the palm of my left hand. Carefully, I set his knife aside, guiding his gauntlet-covered hand over mine. Looking into his eyes, I felt the unyielding metal dig into the soft skin of my hand. Without warning, I squeezed his hand, which in turn forced the sharp, ancient metal deep enough into my skin to draw blood. As comprehension dawned in his eyes, his pupils dilated, and something resembling hunger turned his gaze into a blazing flame boring into me.

His hand released mine long enough for the pendant to fall from my grasp, and when he turned my palm upwards, twin gashes welled with blood. Swallowing heavily, Adar lifted my hand, and as his lips met crimson, his eyes sought mine.

A gasp tumbled from my throat as his tongue lapped slowly at my skin, just barely grazing the inner edges of the two weeping cuts. It stung, of course, but the pain combined with such a ravenous stare from the Uruk lord sent a wave of heat rushing between my legs.

A breathy, wanton whimper escaped me, and in a blink, I found myself on my back atop the furs with my lord straddling my hips. He pressed my bleeding palm against his cheek, and, bracing his free hand on the floor beside my head, Adar placed a line of fiery kisses along the column of my throat from hollow to chin with his blood-drenched lips.

I'd wanted him to look at me like this, to touch me and desire me like this, from the moment we were reunited, and now that he was, it was as though my very soul had been lit aflame. I wanted everything he wished to give me, and then some.

Before his mouth had the chance to claim mine, however, there was a rough knock on the door. Adar pulled back a few inches, and we stared into each other's eyes, panting together as reality sank back in and a second knock sounded.

"I think you ought to retire for the night, my lady," he rasped laying a final kiss upon my palm before getting to his feet. My blood was a dark red streak upon his face, but he seemed not to care. He called for whoever was at the door to wait a moment, taking the time to help me to my feet and bidding me goodnight before seeing to our caller. His lips were still the deep red shade of the life flowing through my mortal veins.

I hurried up the stairs to our shared sleeping space before I could see who'd interrupted us. With a quick glance into the cracked fragment of a mirror stowed in the corner of the room, I saw a sloppy, red trail where Adar's lips had been.

I didn't bother to clean it off before I crawled into my bedroll, choosing instead to slip my fingers beneath my smallclothes as I recalled the feeling of him doing as he wished with me. With a broken, muffled whine of his name against my blanket, I found completion, but a part of me wondered how much more satisfying it would have been had his fingers been in place of mine.

The next fortnight felt as though it was a specialized form of torture. Adar seemed to be called away by a never-ending series of problems that required solutions. Often his day began earlier than I awoke and ended long after I'd retired to bed. Ensuring I'd completed every task he'd left for me was the least I could do considering how busy his own position kept him.

Occasionally, we did still manage to sneak a meal or a short conversation with one another, but we had yet to discuss what had happened the night I pledged myself to him. Almost every night, the memory of the hunger in his eyes drove me to desperation, haunting my dreams and forcing me to muffle my cries as I tended to my own burning desire.

One of the few times he returned before I fell asleep, I'd just whimpered his name into my pillow. As he ascended the staircase, I heard his footsteps, and I tried to muffle my shame as it was too late to stop entirely. The fear of discovery lanced through me as I heard him approach the door. I tried to steady my breathing, and hoped that in the low lighting, he would not notice how disheveled I looked.

Either I was successful, or he was in a sadistic mood, because he sidled over to his own bedroll and began stripping down. I'd seen him without the armor before, but when he shucked off his upper garments, the sight of his scarred, toned torso was enough to make me bite my tongue to stifle a gasp.

The outline of his masculinity in his trousers as he laid his clothing in a neat pile sent a fresh wave of wetness soaking my inner thighs. Oh, how was I meant to sleep after seeing...that?

Adar laid down, and just when I thought he'd fallen asleep, his voice broke through the silence.

"Sweet dreams, my lady." I could hear the teasing smile in his voice.

Oh. My cheeks burned at the realization that he'd likely heard me.

"...Good night, my lord," I murmured, hating how shaky I sounded.

Spring changed very few things in Mordor, save the temperatures, yet with each passing day, Adar's lady seemed to smile just a little wider.

He wanted to give her more reasons to do so, however. It was not enough that they had been living in close quarters since that night in her shelter. It was not enough that he'd made her smile and laugh before. Adar needed to do it again.

But more than that, he needed to hear those things which it was not at all civilized to consider. It was not enough that he had tasted her blood and her skin and her racing pulse. He'd heard her make beautiful, pleasure-filled sounds when she thought he was out of earshot or asleep. But it was never enough. He needed to hear her moan his name, to see her arch her back beneath him in the throes of ecstasy. He needed her.

Teasing her had been as much a torture for him as it likely was for her. Adar had become addicted to pain in one form or another over the millennia, and the mental strain of denying himself the pleasure of her touch was not unfamiliar, but it was forcing him to a breaking point, nonetheless. He knew that he would likely snap as he had when she'd sworn him her loyalty. That rush had been like a dam releasing an unstoppable flood, his hunger turning him into a ravenous beast.

She hadn't minded, as he thought she might. She'd enjoyed it. The sight of her lying beneath him panting as her blood practically dripped from his lips made him achingly hard each time he dwelled upon the memory for too long.

Still, she deserved better. Better than him, better than a moment of animalistic need. He found himself wondering about how best to give her all of himself.

Adar supposed that was how he'd ended up in the doorway of the small bathing room. The claw-footed tub was filled with steaming water as he'd ordered, and relaxing within it was his lady. She'd deserved a moment of peace after having completed every single task he'd given her with such dedication. It was a small reward, hardly as much as she deserved, but at the moment, it was all he could give.

He tried not to allow his gaze to drop beneath the water's surface, but his restraint was weak after the last two weeks of self-imposed denial. Truly, he intended merely to check that she was well, but the temptation of seeing her soft skin dripping with hot water was too great. The Lord of Mordor lingered in the doorway just long enough to feel his lower garments grow tight, and for her eyes to meet his as his lust clawed at his restraint.

As a moth drawn to a flame, he found himself walking slowly into the room, summoned by her curious gaze. The hot water reached her collarbones, and Adar felt the urge rising within him to claim her.

He knelt beside the tub, his face mere inches from her own, and removed his armor, gauntlet and all. He rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, and dipped a washcloth into the hot water. The back of his hand brushed against the swell of her breast, and they both let out quiet gasps.

Still, Adar refused to look down into the depths of the sage blossom oil scented water. Wringing the washcloth out until it was just wet enough for him to clean his face, he began to do so, only for his lady to take it from his hands. With her breasts pressed up against the side of the tub, her soft, gentle fingers held his head in place as she carefully wiped away the grime.

Without a word, he turned his head and kissed her palm where twin scars were already forming. Adar would've preferred that she spill his own blood - that was what he'd originally intended - but since she'd chosen that pain, the least he could do was show the proper amount of reverence for her actions.

"Is there anything you need, Adar?" Her voice was shaky and breathless as it so often was when he caught her off-guard.

"No. This night is for you. Relax as long as you wish," he murmured, but as he stood to leave her in peace, he noted that she tried valiantly to hide her disappointment. Without turning back - if he did, he might do something impulsive - he called over his shoulder, "Patience, my lady, and you shall have all that you desire."

His hardness did not abate until long after they'd settled into their bedrolls and her breathing had evened out in the serenity of sleep.

Adar could not wait much longer. Her sweetness was as a siren's call to him.

Thus, his plan began to form. Once the spring was fully upon them, he approached her as he often did for conversation.

"My lady, I wonder if you might spare me a moment of your time?" He asked, and she smiled joyfully up at him - truly, that should not have made his heart stutter the way it did.

"Of course, my lord. You may have as much of my time as you desire," she replied, and oh, she had no idea what she was offering!

"Do you enjoy riding horses?"

She tilted her head curiously, but the way her smile widened had him mentally congratulating himself for selecting this particular tactic.

"I do, though, it has been quite some time since I've had the opportunity."

"Come," he urged offering her his hand. She didn't hesitate to take it. The feeling of her touch would be seared into his mind for as long as he lived. Drawing her close, he lowered his voice to a whisper. "I intend to steal you away."

Her lips parted in surprise, and just as he was about to apologize for his forthrightness, she squeezed his fingers in hers.

"I could not hope to be stolen by any more worthy." His breath hitched in his chest, and he tamped down the temptation to skip his plan entirely and take her atop his own sleeping furs. No. He'd been alive since before the waking of the world. He could wait a little longer.

"Then, maybe I should play the part...?" Adar suggested with a mischievous smirk. Before she could ask what he meant, he lifted her by the waist, tossed her over his shoulder - an action which tugged a surprised shriek from her lips - and carried her to his horse that way.

"My lord!"

"My lady!" He called back in answer as he felt her gentle, mortal hands lay across the back of his armor. Surely she knew he would never drop her?

Soon, he placed her atop his mount, and she giggled breathlessly at the situation. Her mussed hair and bright eyes lit a spark within his heart, and lower, not that he would admit it to any, save her. Swinging up easily, he settled in behind her, grasping the horse's reins in one hand and bracing the other over the softness of her diaphragm. As close as they were, he was in the perfect position to whisper in her ear.

"Fear not, my lady," he breathed, "you shan't fall."

One of her hands covered his, and he urged their horse forward. For nearly two hours they rode, crossing from ashen, desolate terrain into the gentle rolling grasses of the land beyond Mordor's fiery shadow.

The rhythmic roll of her hips against his became almost hypnotic. The Lord of Mordor he might be, but his restraint was still utterly devastated by her. They dismounted when they reached a meadow peppered with small saplings.

Tying their horse's reins to a sturdy one, Adar offered his lady his hand. The sun was just beginning to glow a gentle orange. It would set soon, and he greatly desired to see his lady bathed in starlight.

"It is no secret that I favor you, my lady," Adar began as they wandered leisurely amongst the blooming flowers, and that was the closest he'd ever come to an admission...to a confession of that nature. "Even the Uruks farthest from the center of our camp know that I...that you are under my protection."

"Indeed. I would say that is true," she agreed, clearly not certain at what point he was driving with his rambling. "I am honored beyond words to have your favor and protection, my lord–"

"Adar. Here - anywhere away from prying eyes and unwelcome ears - you may call me Adar," he corrected gently, and her fingers squeezed his in gratitude. "I brought you here today, because I wish to ask for your counsel."

"You shall always have it, Adar," she assured, "though, I am not certain what advice I could provide that would be wiser than your own. I have very little experience with war and strategy."

He stopped walking and turned to face her - a mistake, because she was almost ethereally encompassed by the warmth of the sunset. He swallowed heavily to recover his voice.

"It is not war about which I require your thoughts," he began, bringing her hand to his ruined lips. "I have lived in shadow for so long, yet recently I have found myself prey to a feeling which I have not experienced in many Ages."

She tilted her head curiously.

"What might that be?"

Adar reached gently toward her with his free hand, cupping her cheek.

"Love," he rasped, looking into her eyes, hoping she would catch the meaning within his words. Admitting that a horrid creature like him had fallen head over heels for a beautiful being like her was tantamount to sacrilege. Yet...in several instances, he believed that he'd seen his own affection reflected in her eyes. Indeed, the moans he'd heard from her would seem to indicate that she desired him.

But it was too much to hope that she could love him. He was certain she desired him, but...love? Could a Human woman truly love an Uruk when the rest of her kind looked down on them in scorn and disgust? Had he been a fool to bring her here?

She stepped closer to him, looking up into his eyes–

Her expression stole his breath. He had not hung the stars in the sky, nor had he wrought treasures like the Silmarils. He had not created even a single thing of beauty. All he'd done was try to give his children a home.

And yet...she looked at him as though he was more worthy of praise than the most virtuous of kings, the most honorable of knights, and the most devoted of husbands. Could it be possible?

Could she...?

"I am afraid that I have little experience with love, Adar, but I will help if I can." As afraid as he might be of losing her, he must speak now or lose her forever.

"In your opinion, who is worthy of love?" He asked, and she let out a small huff of laughter, as if the question was a foolish one. "Have I said something amusing?"

"A bit," she admitted, but she was quick to place her free hand over his heart, "but not in the way you might think. Everyone is worthy of love, even - and, perhaps, most especially - the Lord-Father of the Uruks."

Was he truly so transparent that she could see his fears so easily? Or had she managed to worm her way so far into his heart without his knowledge that it was already a bosom companion to her own?

"...And you have it." His eyes snapped back up to hers - when had he looked away? His hunger and adoration for her rose up in a great wave, consuming him from the inside as he wove his fingers into the hair at the nape of her neck and drew her into a passionate kiss.

He'd dreamed of having her pressed up against him, of drinking her pleasure from her lips.

She moaned into Adar's mouth, and he was struck by the realization that she was so much better than any phantom images that his imagination could conjure. He dragged his lips and teeth to the corner of her jaw, and spoke in a hoarse, rasping whisper.

"I need you as I need air, meleth-nín." He grasped her waist as her arms drew him ever closer. "You steal my breath, yet without you I cannot breathe. Have mercy...Have mercy upon your most devoted servant..."

As the orange sky bled pink, his lips trailed down her neck, savoring those places which had driven him to the edge of madness when he sampled her before the fire. His name escaped her lips on the back of a desperate whine.

"What do you need? Tell me," Adar breathed, and she tilted her head to offer him more of her neck.

"Take me, touch me, please! I'll be good, so good, only for you," she begged, and the sound went straight to the stiffening length between his legs. He would love nothing more than to have her beg for him all night, but this time she would have no need to. Tonight, the beginning of their time as one, he would fulfill her every desire with a minimum of teasing. He'd done too much of that of late.

Her fingers dove into his hair, and a moan poured from his throat, rumbling against her pretty skin.

"Is that what you want? Do you wish to be a good girl for me?" She released a varied stream of yeses and pleas for him to do as he wished with her, and he acceded to her request with a kiss, quelling any doubt she may have had that he would do this for her. He would do anything for her, even unto the destruction of Middle Earth. "Do you wish to be mine?"

"Yes!" Her answer was akin to a desperate sob, and he wasted no time, immediately indulging her.

Tugging his cloak from his armor, Adar spread it over the grass. He would not have her dress covered in stains, nor grass blades stuck to her skin. The cloth created a sharp contrast - an onyx patch amidst a sea of pinks, purples, reds, and yellows - the dark to the meadow's light, just as she was the light to his darkness. She completed him, enthralled him, drove him mad, and tonight he would show her just how much.

She went for the ties fastening her dress, but he caught her hands in his and took over. She was a gift more precious than anything which the Valar could bestow upon their servants, and he would unwrap her accordingly.

As the laces binding the back of her dress fell away one at a time, Adar explored his lover's mouth with all the tenderness and gentleness that his cruel, twisted body could muster. He hadn't even realized that her tricky little fingers had begun to fiddle with his armor until his breastplate fell away.

In a flurry of discarded garments, they were each revealed to the other in all their beauty and all their flaws. Their shared vulnerability stilled their hands for an anxious moment, but only for a moment.

Adar's breath hitched in his chest when the soft lips he'd tasted mere seconds before connected with the scarred flesh over his heart. He'd expected pity, fear, regret - not reverence. Instead, as she looked up at him, he saw nothing but sincerity in her expression.

"You are gorgeous," she said, as though she could not tell that he had but one part of his body which was untouched by scars.

...As though she meant it. He realized with a sharp intake of breath that she did. She grasped his hands and they sank onto his cloak together, she on her back and he kneeling between her legs. His interest jutted toward her, but he could not find it within himself to be ashamed, not when he was with her. Not when a piece of his armor hung on a chain around her neck, resting comfortably above her breast.

"There is no beauty finer in this world than yours."

Spread nude before him over his cloak, Adar's lady looked up at him with an adoration he had not believed possible. Not when directed at an Uruk such as he. His lips met hers once more, but this time, he forced himself to be much more controlled. He wanted her, yes, but he also wanted her to know that she had his love.

Kissing his way steadily down her body, the Lord-Father of the Uruks had no doubt that he must look as hungry for her as he felt. Practically feral with pent-up desire, he needed her writhing on his tongue. His hands trembled with the effort it took to slow his movements, to take his time.

Abruptly, as his eyes met hers from between her legs, he realized that she very much had the capacity to destroy him. With a single declaration of hatred or a look of disgust, she could easily take his stone heart and pulverize it into powder.

How easily could she shred beyond repair what little remained of his soul!

Not even Morgoth had been able to do that. This mortal woman, this sweet, brave lady had no idea of the power that she possessed. The smart thing to do - the strategically wise path - would have been to kill her then and there while she lay vulnerable and trusting before him, begging for one more touch, one more kiss, one more moan, one more scrap of his attention.

Instead, he picked up his discarded gauntlet and slid her much smaller hand inside it. The clasps were quick work, and though she looked confused at first, once he lifted her thighs over his shoulders and guided her hand to his hair, understanding dawned in her eyes. She understood. He wanted her to feel powerful. She was his equal and she deserved to know it.

Even with sharp, unyielding metal covering her fingertips, they scraped so gently over his scalp as he lost himself in the flood between her thighs. She moaned and whimpered, squirming in his hold, but through it all, she never once hurt him.

Adar knew that she wouldn't. Even as she cried out his name for all the world to hear, drenching his tongue and chin, her grip in his hair was careful. Her thighs tensed in his grasp, squeezing his head in an intoxicating vice. Groaning and snarling against her sensitive folds, he couldn't bring himself to pull away until she was shaking in the midst of over-sensitivity.

"Adar, please," she breathed as he moved up her body. Hunger raged and burned in his eyes - he could deny himself no longer. Grasping her wrists, he pinned them easily above her head as he claimed her lips. His tongue delved into the softness of her mouth, taking with it the lingering taste of her.

Her legs wrapped around his hips, drawing him close enough for his tip to catch on her entrance. With synchronized groans, he pressed inside of her, joining their bodies together as one.

Profane language not meant for the ears of such a creature as her spilled from his throat in a guttural stream of Black Speech. Dipping his head, Adar moaned against her breast and surged forward, drawing a sinful mewl from deep within her throat.

"You have me. You take me so well," he praised in a raspy whisper, nibbling at her earlobe as he thrust into her slowly. Gradually, she stripped him of his sense and control, tugging from within him a steady flow of praise and filth in Elvish and Black Speech - promises to treasure her for the rest of his days, to protect her, and to draw from her so many screams each night that all of Mordor would be unable to deny his claim over her.

When she managed to roll her hips beneath him to meet his thrusts, begging him to use her, to ruin her, what could he do but grant his lady's wish?

In a quick movement, he'd repositioned them both so that she was astride his hips. Pulling her arms behind her back and tugging slightly so that her chest was pushed toward him, Adar looked into her eyes.

"If you wish your lord to use you, then move those hips," he ordered. Leaning in, he brushed a few strands of her hair behind her ear and whispered a bit more gently to her. "Ride me, meleth. Show me that I have you."

She obeyed him instantly, finding a steady rhythm which, aided by his fingers toying with her clit, would have her tipping over the edge in mere moments. Indeed, her hips soon stuttered, and he gripped the back of her neck, forcing her eyes to meet his.

"Do not look away. Look at the pleasure I can give you," he commanded, and as she nodded frantically, beginning to fall apart, he felt his heart stutter in his chest. "Yes, look upon the Uruk who loves you."

At that, she sobbed and collided firmly with her orgasm. She fluttered around his length, calling his name in lovelorn whimpers and gasps.

Who needed Valinor when she was its very embodiment?

He released her wrists, and she threw her arms around his neck, claiming his lips with her own. His hands slid down her back, landing squarely on her hips. Holding her steady, Adar thrust up into her, making her yelp in surprise. He needed very little now; he was close.

"Where do you wish me?" Adar breathed against her lips, and he could feel the heat burning her cheeks.

"Inside," she answered hiding her face against his neck, and he moaned against her shoulder. Her name tore from him in an almost pained whine as he spilled within her. He clutched her to him so tightly that he'd undoubtedly left bruises in his wake, but he would kiss them all in apology when they'd caught their breath.

Neither seemed eager to release the other, so in their embrace they remained exploring one another with gentle fingers and loving lips until long after the moon had risen and stars had winked their way into the sky. When he dared to lean back far enough to look into her eyes, Adar was met with love bathed in glittering starlight.

He wondered if he'd hurt her, but the smile stretching her lips said otherwise. The armor piece that she'd made into a necklace still rested upon the smooth expanse of her chest - a perfect accompaniment to his gauntlet upon her arm.

The ride back to camp seemed too short by far, but their bedrolls - which would soon be joined into one - called out to them so sweetly. Adar was used to the bows and deference he received from his children, but he knew in his heart that his decision had been right when upon their return he heard the Uruks repeating a particular phrase as they passed.

His lover had heard part of it before, but now there were a few more words to it.

"What is that they keep saying?" She whispered the question to him, and he couldn't keep himself from smiling proudly. "It sounds familiar, but different."

"'Tis Black Speech. They are saying 'make way for the Lord and Lady of Mordor,'" he answered kissing her temple as they approached their home.

~*~*~

Taglist:

@bigblissandlove1 @horta-in-charge @gandalfthepimp

#elronds-meleth-nin fic #adar x reader #my brain is now soup #no thoughts only Adar

650 notes · View notes

scratchandfriends · 4 months ago

Text

Second Chances (+18)

Pairing: Astarion x Female Tav

WC: 3300

Synopsis: You stand up for yourself and end things with Astarion after finding out they aren't what you think they are. To his dismay, he might have really fucked up on this one... so he pleads for you back.

TW: ITS A LOT OF PLOT WITH SOME PORN! unprotected sex, complicated relationship, ANGST, p in v sex, oral fem receiving, creampies, pet names, dirty talk, yadda yadda yadda...

— —

You thought you and Astarion were an item.

Lingering glances, sheepish smiles, a grip a bit too tight when he was pulling you out of the way of a trap, the way he would sometimes fall asleep next to you after feeding from your neck…

Oh, and the sex.

You had given your body to him each time he asked. It had only been twice, but you were excited and willing both instances. You thoroughly enjoyed the physical intimacy you shared, but there was no discussion on the status of your relationship. This didn’t bother you, of course, because the whole mindflayer-inside-your-brain situation was still front and center.

But you thought things were going somewhere… and clearly you were incorrect.

** At the Last Light Inn **

You couldn’t fall asleep so you thought you’d head down to the bar for a nightcap.

You slip your trousers back on and messily tuck your sleeping tunic in to the waistband before heading out of your rented room and padding down the stairs in stocking feet. Before your rounded the wooden post at the bottom of the staircase, you hear the familiar devious giggle of your vampire lover. You stop in your tracks and can’t help but eavesdrop…

“Astarion, shouldn’t you be turning in soon? Your little… what was it? Treat? Made her way to bed ages ago. A shame to miss a good thing waiting for you…” Gale comments to the pale elf sitting next to him at the bar.

“Oh stop. She’s just a bit of fun.” Astarion says with a smirk and a laugh. “She’ll be just as ready tomorrow if I don’t make it tonight. I’m not worried if she’s left waiting.”

The vampire takes another long drink from his wine glass.

Tears welled up in your eyes.

Why?

It’s not like either of you had said you were together… so why were you upset?

You sniffle and blink back the wetness threatening to spill down your cheeks. You slip quickly towards the opposite corner of the bar and help yourself to a bottle of wine. You examine the label first, rolling it in your palms. You look for a vintage year.

“Oh, who gives a shit.” You say exasperatedly before ripping the cork out with your teeth.

You grab a glass from the shelves above you and pour a heavy cup of red wine. You round the bar, glass in one hand and bottle in the other, and settle yourself on a barstool. You try to block out the memory of Astarion dismissing your relationship by taking several gulps of wine. You wince a bit but pour yourself another cup once it’s empty.

“Slow down, soldier, we still have a long way ahead of us tomorrow!” A booming voice comes from behind you.

*whack*

Karlach claps her huge hand on your shoulder with far more force than she intended. Just recently being able to touch others for the first time in years, she was still getting used to her own strength with friends.

You stutter and cough as you choke on a mouthful of wine.

“Oof, sorry friend.” Karlach chuckles. “Didn’t mean to scare you!”

“I’m fine, Karlach.” You say with a fake smile. “Just need a drink before headed to bed.”

“Alright, I won’t stop you, fearless leader! Just don’t expect me to hold your hair back if you’re hungover tomorrow!” Karlach laughs before heading off to her own stateroom.

You sigh and bring the very full cup of wine to your lips.

You take a gulp and close your eyes. The warmth from the first drink was starting to spread through your body and you hum in content. You take another sip.

“I thought you had retired, darling…” A smooth, familiar voice purred in your ear.

You open your eyes. Astarion was sidling up to the barstool next to yours. You didn’t even hear him approach.

“Hmm…” You mused and turned your head away from his entirely. “Interesting coming from someone who isn’t worried if I’m left waiting.”

Silence.

You turn back to finally look at him, seated next to you at the bar. What was that look in his eyes? You had never seen him caught unawares before, so this expression was new to you.

“Just a bit of fun, hey?” You say with venom in your words, cocking your head.

Silence.

“Nothing to say now.” You say before turning to face forward again and take another sip of wine.

“What do you want me to say?” Astarion asks, desperately trying to keep up his casual facade. “What about what we have going on said ‘loving couple’ to you?” He says with a sneer. “We could die tomorrow, dear, you can’t be mad at me for that.”

You huff out a tired laugh.

You take another drink.

“No, no I’m not mad at you.” You give a soft smile, blinking back tears still. “I’m mad at myself for thinking you could care about someone. I shouldn’t have assumed we had anything special. I was just another means to your ends. I won’t be making that mistake again.” You grab the bottle off the bar top and hop off the stool, ready to return to your room.

“Tav…” Astarion starts as you walk away.

“I’m not your toy, Astarion.” You call as you turn around and begin to walk backwards, facing him still seated at the bar. “I’ll still let you feed from me, but that’s where our physicality ends. Hope you can understand.” You shoot him two middle fingers with a mean, fake smile before turning back around and heading up to your room.

— —

Weeks had gone by.

Ketheric had been defeated and the Shadow Curse had been lifted. You had finally made your way into Baldur’s Gate, your home. You had barely spoken to Astarion in weeks, other than polite conversation amongst the group. You were avoiding him entirely. He caught you trying to lockpick a chest yourself, stumbling upon you after hearing your shouts of frustration. You called on him for nothing, making sure your tent was set up as far away from his as possible.

Astarion hated it. He hated every second of it.

He hated that you had been right before… you were just a plaything for him to manipulate at the time but now… now things were different. Perhaps things had always been different, but Astarion couldn’t recognize it then.

The way the sun glinted off your teeth when you smiled…

The way you always volunteered to show off your (albeit terrible) Celtic dance every time the party broke into the wine reserves…

The way you stopped to pet every single cat you saw on the road…

Why were you so different?

When you removed yourself from him, Astarion’s demeanor shifted immediately. He was on edge, tense. He couldn’t focus on the task at hand, he was too worried about what you were thinking of him. He yearned for your touch. He shouldn't care… he told himself he wouldn’t care… but he found himself feelings thing he hadn’t felt before. Even your feeding sessions had changed. You had banned him from your neck and insisted he drinks only from your wrist as you busied yourself with a book or journal in your other hand. Immediately upon having his fill each time you waved him away… and it hurt him.

— —

You had rented the suite in Elfsong Tavern for your party as you sorted out the plans ahead of you. You sat on the plush featherbed combing out your long hair after a hot bath. The scent of lavender oil thickly permeated the air as you hummed a soft tune to yourself, getting ready to turn in for the evening. Just as you were finally thoroughly relaxed, you hear a knock at the door of your room.

You sigh.

You already knew who it was. Only one person sought you out at this hour, and for one reason.

“Come in.” You call out.

As expected, Astarion slinks through the wooden doorframe and closes the door shut behind him. He might have locked it, you weren’t sure… his hands were too fast.

“I hoped you were still- oh.” Astarion stops in his paces as he lays his eyes on you.

You were wearing a new night dress you had picked up at the fancy-dress shop in the lower city. You thought it was frivolous, but with Shadowheart’s urging to “live a little,” you purchased it. It was dark red, short and silk with lace decorating the edges along your upper thighs and breasts. You notice the elf staring at your figure so you pull and fidget at the hem of the nightgown.

“Stop staring.” You scold. “It’s nothing you haven’t seen before.” You roll your eyes.

“Not in this…” Astarion rakes his eyes over you again. “… this tasty little thing… you were expecting someone else?” He asks.

“No, but it’s none of your business if I was.” You shift on the bed before lifting your arm up in his direction, hurrying him to take his drink and go.

Astarion stalks towards you. He grasps your wrist in both hands and seems to contemplate it for a moment. You turn your face away and brace yourself for the icy bite, but it never comes.

Astarion folds up your fingers into your own palm with his own. He keeps your hand held in his. You look up in confusion.

“No… that’s not why I’m here.” He says softly.

Your breath catches in your chest. What did he want? His gaze doesn’t leave yours.

“Then… why did you come?” You ask timidly, secretly hoping in your heart of hearts he wasn’t here to kill you.

Astarion says nothing, but keeps your hand locked within his own.

The vampire slowly sinks to his knees before you, looking up at you with yet another expression you couldn’t recognize. You knit your brows together, confused.

He brings your hand to his chest and flattens your palm against it.

“I have been wrong… Not only have I been wrong, I’ve been an absolute, rotten bastard to you… and you’ve done nothing to deserve that. Tav, I’m here to… well I’m here to say… I’m sorry.”

You blink several times, trying to process what the normally arrogant, confident man was saying on his knees in front of you.

You swallow thickly.

“You’re… sorry?” You repeat his words.

“Yes. I don’t expect your forgiveness, nor do I deserve it, frankly… but knowing tomorrow might be my last day in Faerūn as a free man… I-I don’t think I could live with myself if I didn’t at least try to make amends.” Astarion says, as you’re reminded that your confrontation with his master is imminent and his fate is uncertain.

“And you’re not just saying this because you miss sipping from my neck?” Your eyes narrow at the kneeling elf before you.

“Gods no! Please, Tav. You may not feel the heart in my chest but I promise you it beats only for you.” Astarion pleads as he presses your hand further into his pectoral. “I miss you, Tav. I miss you near me, listening to me, touching me, holding me… I want, no- need you to believe me.”

He looked so pathetic before you, a state you had never seen him in before… gripping your wrist tightly and gazing up at you with desperation in his eyes. You had to admit… you missed him too.

You pull your hand back from his chest.

“You’ve hurt me, Astarion… badly…” You scold him.

“I know, I know and I can’t ever undo that. All I ask if for another chance. Please. Let me hold your heart again.” Astarion shuffles closer to you, still kneeling but now between your legs as you sat on the bed. He places his cold hands on either of your knees tentatively, as if you were an animal he didn’t want to frighten off.

You think for a moment. You couldn’t bear to let him hurt you again, but he seemed genuine, vulnerable and pleading. His eyes sparkled and your chest fluttered with the feelings you had been shoving away for so long now. You bring your hand to his cheek.

“You’ve always held my heart, Astarion.” You say with a soft smile. Your gaze turns stern for a moment as you stroke his pale skin. “-but if you spurn me again even slightly… I should have your ball bag as a coin purse.”

He can’t help but smirk.

“A fitting punishment for the crime, darling.” Astarion starts to slide his hands from your knees up your bare thighs. You shaved your legs tonight in the bath and you knew he had noticed by the way his thumbs ran circles on your plump flesh. “You’ll let me show you how much I appreciate you, won’t you?”

A familiar look plays on his visage as he looks up at you now. Playful and mischievous, he starts to toy with the hem of your night dress.

“I’ll allow it.” You cheekily smile down at him.

“Oh darling, I so hoped you’d say that.” Astarion says while nipping at your inner thighs, causing you to spread them unconsciously. “Now let me have a taste of you…”

Astarion spreads your knees and pulls you further on the bed so your sex was exposed right at the edge, in perfect line with his lips. He leans in and takes a deep inhale with his nose nuzzling the patch of hair at the apex of your cunt, groaning lewdly at your scent.

“Gods, I missed this.” Astarion says right before he takes a long lick up your pussy and settles at the top, suckling at your clit gently.

You let out a long moan.

“Ooohhh and I missed that-“ You cry out again in pleasure.

You grip your breasts and pinch at your nipples as your back arches off the mattress, legs trembling. Astarion continues slurping and tasting you in just the way he knows you like as he massages your inner thighs with his dexterous hands.

He slips two fingers into your soaked hole and you gasp. Your shoulders jerk forward off the bed as he curves them up to his your favorite spot. He pulls off your clit for a moment and kisses the spot where your leg met your torso, right over your femoral artery.

“Heh, still so sensitive, love.” Astarion giggles against your skin as he continued his manual assault on your pussy. You feel his fangs brush against your sensitive flesh and know exactly what you want him to do.

“Do it.” You breath out, writhing against the bed in pleasure. “Bite me.”

“You’re sure?” Astarion asks without faltering his fingers hammering into your wet walls.

“Yes, shit, do it.” You pant out, closer to your peak than ever. “Ah-!”

You yelp as you feel it. The strangely arousing cold bite radiated from your upper thigh. As soon as you feel Astarion begin to drink from you your body was pushed over the edge and hurtled into ecstasy. You could no longer form words, completely lost in pleasure. You babble incoherently as your body jerks and your dripping hole clenches rhythmically around Astarion’s nimble fingers.

After your orgasm, you feel the fangs leave your skin and the hand being pulled from your sex. A final, wet kiss was placed on your clit before you feel yourself being lifted by the waist and tossed back onto the pillows of your bed. In your post-climax daze, you hadn’t noticed when Astarion shed his own clothes, just that he was now bare on top of you. He leans down and presses a kiss to your lips. It tastes of your release and also your blood, it only sends you further into a lust-filled haze.

Astarion pulls back.

“As delicious as you look in this little number, I’d much rather see you without it.” Astarion jests as he pulls your night dress over your head and tosses it to the floor beside the bed.

He pushes your knees up to your chest and playfully teases the leaking tip of his cock in and out of your entrance shallowly.

“Are you ready for me, darling?” He asks.

You buck your hips in response, hungry to feel him fully inside of you again.

“Gods, yes.” You whine as you rake your nails down his white chest.

Astarion responds by pushing himself to the hilt inside your wet whole, groaning deeply when your hips became flush. He pulls out halfway and pushes back in torturously slowly, pressing himself hard into you when he bottoms out against your cervix. He repeats this process a few times, just marveling at the way your cunt hungrily accepts his length.

“So fucking beautiful like this… messy and wet on my cock…” Astarion teases you. “Such a sweet little thing you are…” He says as he brings his thumb to stroke your clit as his other arm held your legs up against your torso. You let out a vulgar moan.

“More… Astarion, please…” You plead up at him with wet eyes, desperate for him to speed up and fuck you hard and rough.

Astarion obliges your request and quickens his pace, letting go of your leg and leaning forward to brace himself with one arm as he thrusts into you faster.

“You don’t have to beg, my love… I’ll always give you what you want… always… anything…” He pants through exertion. “Gods above, you feel so fucking good…” He exclaims with a moan.

“I-I’m close again, I-“ You gasp out as you feel the familiar tension build in your lower belly again.

“I know, darling, I can feel you squeezing me… Just a bit more… I’m there with you…” He grunts and leans down further to press his forehead against yours. He kisses you messily before needing to catch his breath again, faces still pressed together. “I-I love you-“

You could barely hear him say it before you’re thrust into another powerful climax. You scream and spasm around your lover, clawing at his back as he punishes your pussy with a few final strokes. Astarion lets out a long groan as he pumps your cunt full of his thick, heavy load. He presses into you as far as he can, chest shaking a bit against yours as he finishes. He collapses on top of you, burying his face in your neck and whining at the stimulation of your walls pulsing on his over-sensitive cock.

You run your hands up and down his back as you both come down from your highs. You try not to let your fingers trace along the edges of his scars, making sure not to sour the moment. He eventually relaxes and pulls out of you before settling himself on his side facing you.

You turn to him and pull him closer.

“For the record, I love you, too.” You say with a smile.

“Oh thank the gods, that makes this sleepover a lot less awkward.” He smirks at you. “Now come here and let’s get some rest. We have a big day ahead of us tomorrow.” His smirk fades for a moment, but you lean in and give him a gentle kiss. You turn your back to him and he pulls you flush against him with his arm around you.

“You’re cold.” You comment, a bit of a shiver running along your back.

“You’re going to have to get used to that, my love.”

#baldurs gate fanfiction #baldurs gate smut #bg3 #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 tav #baldurs gate 3 #baldurs gate fanart #bg3 fic #bg3 astarion #astarion #astarion ancunin #astarion smut #astarion fanfic #astarion x oc #astarion fanfiction #astarion x reader #astarion fic

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endless-ineffabilities · 11 months ago

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chemical override (6)

Ewan Mitchell x actress!reader

a/n: I hope you all have found ways to cope after the breakup, but here all your questions will be answered on what went down pre-August! Special shoutout to @just-fics-station @thepurplecrown @clarkysblog @hotdismylife and @sprinklesprinkle888 for sharing your ideas and indulging me with the lovely, crazy discourse!

To everyone, I am so chuffed at how this has become OUR story - our lil self-indulgent Ewan Nation production. You all are aces <3

series masterlist ▪︎ main masterlist

In the aftermath of the breakup, the reader and Ewan throw themselves into their work, trying (and failing) to avoid any trace of the other. Will they remain this way - former lovers doomed to drift in each other's orbit?

Some time before August

New York City

The lush office was laden with expensive wooden antiques, one side with built-in shelves displaying film awards and plaques of varying degrees of prestige. A full glass minibar occupied the other side.

The casting director introduced himself as Bruce, insisting that Ewan call him by his first name and not any of that "sir or similar stick-up-the-ass names". Ewan can see him as a mentor or maybe even a friend, Bruce insisted.

After all, they were going to help each other out a lot.

The discussion was straightforward enough, never mind the saccharine tone Bruce seemed to be so good at. Aimed at making Ewan feel welcome, coddling him, remarking with awe at his projects thus far. But there was a fakeness to it. Ewan steeled himself, trying to adapt to the style of conversation. After all, if he is in this for the long haul, then he would have to get used to these situations.

Bruce appraised him, leaning back on his leather swivel chair. "How are you with the fantasy genre? All that YA, lovesick stuff the kids eat up so eagerly nowadays? Personally, I haven't got the taste for it, but it always makes bank, if you know what I mean."

"Oh, well, I'm a fan of all movies. I definitely see why the fantasy genre has made such an impact on audiences, especially with the romance element, you know, I get the appeal."

"Well, son, we've got a solid franchise in our hands here. Some adaptation of an elf-human love story, mind you, it sound ridiculous, but you know how it is. And the team seems to be in agreement - you fit the bill for the male lead. The male elf lead - " he almost guffawed at the thought, then collected himself " - hope you don't mind my saying that you've got elvish features yourself. Long nose, long jaw, lanky. The teens are going to eat you up."

"Ah," Ewan smiled curtly, nodding. There was a backhanded compliment if he ever heard one. "Well, sir, I've read the script - at least, the bit that was sent to me - and it looks quite promising. I'd be honoured to - "

"Of course, of course!" Bruce exclaimed in pleasure, cutting Ewan off mid-sentence. "And there's the case of your leading lady, and this all boils down to chemistry as you know. Our top contender is that Jenna Ortega girl from the Netflix show, you know her?"

Ewan nodded, well aware. He's seen her work, and thinks that she is a top actress of her generation, but leave it to Bruce to reduce her to being that girl from the Netflix show.

"Yes, she's a very talented actress," Ewan replied.

Bruce hums in agreement, head bobbing as a smirk materialises on his face. "Think she's a looker?" he said openly, without shame.

Ewan laughed nervously, his words caught in his throat.

Bruce, characteriscally oblivious to the discomfort of others, carried on. "I only ask because we're going to need you two to be pretty chummy with each other when you jump on this project. It's kind of a condition of the whole thing, but really nothing to concern yourself with." He waved a hand in the air, his proposition barely carrying any weight in his mind. But Ewan was catching on, and he started to develop a dislike about the whole deal.

"What do you mean?" Ewan asked.

"It's pretty common in this business, son. There's a reason why young, new actors like yourself opt to remain unattached so to speak, so they're always open to a PR arrangement or, you know, just so their - your - hoards of fans would think they got a chance with you," Bruce explains lazily. "In this case, since you and Ortega are, as I said, unattached, getting you two together would fuckin' do wonders for our movie."

Our movie, he said, convinced that Ewan was all in, because why would any young actor refuse such a golden opportunity? Franchises like this can set up an entire mainstream Hollywood career.

Ewan thought that he wasn't unattached. Granted, his date with you was yet to happen, but he already felt bound to you. He wished you were the one tapped to be his love interest. Very little acting would be needed there. Maybe he might even be inclined to go along with the idea of selling the relationship, using it for publicity for the film, but even that made him uneasy.

The industry offered a lot of privileges, but more often than not, they come at a cost.

"Sir, I - "

"Bruce."

"Right, sorry. Bruce, I have to tell you that I'm not exactly unattached."

"Got a partner?"

Ewan actually found himself smiling at the thought of you being called his partner. His first easy smile since entering this office. "Yes, she's an actress herself," he agreed.

"I heard of her?" Bruce asked with obvious disinterest. You were but a wedge in his flawless plan.

"She's kind of a new talent like me, but she's brilliant. She plays Alyna Rivers in our show."

"Ah her," Bruce loosened up a little. "I get it, she's a piece."

Ewan cleared his throat loudly, his jaw clenching on instinct. "So, like I said, I'm with her. I'm sorry but this whole PR arrangement with Jenna wouldn't work."

"Look, kid, I want my movie to do well, alright? I got a lot invested here. This PR thing has proven to be highly bankable time and time again. If you don't trust me, I can ask the team to show you the data on all that. It's a lot of boring numbers, but shit, the numbers are never wrong."

"I don't need to see - "

"If you wanna be with your girl, you can, but you just gotta learn to hide it. Sweep it under the rug, you know. Don't canoodle in public, you crazy kids," Bruce offered, like that made things any better.

"You want me to hide my relationship?"

"Hey, now, come on. Word gets around. Isn't your girl also doing this exact same thing with Jacob Elordi?"

"Not anymore, I don't think," Ewan clarifies, "and that was... that was hardly anything. They weren't obligated to do it. It just worked by chance because they were both single for a time."

"Po-ta-to, po-tah-to." Bruce clicked his tongue before making his next point. "So you see how it works, your thing with Ortega won't be any different."

"Do I have a choice?" There it is, the defining factor.

Bruce smiled slowly. The calculating and menacing air about him intensified, and it was obvious he was not there to be Ewan's friend.

"It would be stupid to refuse something like this, kid."

Ewan's blue eyes flashed in return. None of this was ideal, but his nan raised him well, and he knew better than to falter on his values in times of trial.

"Sir, what's stupid is if you ask me to hide my real relationship for the sake of mere publicity for a film."

"Stupid you say?" Bruce sneered, having already discarded Ewan in his mind, his fragile ego bruised. "What a shame."

There wasn't much to say after that. Bruce was clearly not disinclined to reveal the ice that settled in his veins, and it dawned on Ewan that it had always been the case. There was no true hospitality here.

For bigwig casting director-slash-execs like Bruce, this was a transaction. And Ewan was not about to put what he has, or what he could have, with you on the line.

There has to be another way to advance his career. If not bigger productions, then at least those with less domineering producers.

"That is a shame," Ewan said, getting up from his seat. "I won't waste any more of your time, sir. Thank you for considering me."

Bruce's eyes darkened even further. "You're actually refusing me? For some girl?"

Another genuine smile formed on Ewan's face at the thought of you. Some girl.

But you're not just some girl. He nodded without a trace of doubt in his mind, before reaching out to shake Bruce's hand. "If you don't mind, sir... I have to go and see my darling."

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

Near the end of August

Los Angeles

The modern space sported a minimalist yet rustic feel, the interiors a blend of sterile white and sleek wooden surfaces. Very LA, as they say. The windowed walls offered plenty of light, as well as precious views of the valley below.

"Thank you for agreeing to meet with me, Donna," you greeted Ewan's publicist as she ushered you in her LA office.

"No problem at all, sweetheart," she said. "Please, have a seat. Would you like some coffee or tea? Ewan always has his coffee with way, way too much sugar. Mind you, if that kid wasn't active and boxing all the time, I'd be worried for his health."

You smiled fondly at her genuine concern. "Don't even mention the cigarettes."

"Oh, yeah," she scoffed, settling down on the chair across from you. She could have sat down at her desk, making the meeting more official, but Donna's always had a friendly and open way about her. "So, my sweet, how's your new movie coming up?"

You respond eagerly. The dialogue flowed freely, talking about your film and the lukewarm reception of season 2 of House of The Dragon. And finally, Ewan.

"I really thought he would get the Greta Gerwig film," you said. "Everyone said he was perfect for it. I think Greta herself had nothing but praises for him when they met on Zoom."

She sighed thoughtfully, "I thought so too. And, theoretically, he did have that one almost booked up. But there was an issue with one of the producers, which - I don't even want to get into that."

You shook your head, catching on whom she hinted at. "Donna, I heard... well, it didn't go too well in New York, didn't it? Ewan told me about it but... if you can tell me more, I just want to understand why - "

"Sweetheart," she offered a smile, but it doesn't reach her eyes, "you should talk about this with Ewan."

"I tried. But he wouldn't budge. Mallory told me... that it might have been because of me that he didn't get the role? And also why he's struggling to get roles now? Donna, I... I can't have that."

It took some time for her to formulate a response. She didn't want to step in something that's none of her business. Your relationship with Ewan is yours. But when his career is on the line, she supposed that she needed to have some say in that.

"He met with this top producer in New York. This real old money Hollywood guy. For decades, he's built careers for the greats, you know - Pitt, DiCaprio, Theron, and whatnot. There was a franchise project practically offered to him on a plate, but Ewan refused, because a non-negotiable was that he would have to hide you in favour of a PR arrangement with his leading lady."

You swallowed, the weight of the truth making itself clear. "Couldn't he have just done the movie without that?"

"You would think," she grimaced, "but some producers... when they want something, they have to get it. And well, Bruce wasn't lying, that would have sold the movie well."

"I thought we were past this," you expressed sadly. "I understand how PR relationships work. Just recently, I found myself kind of in the middle of one. But there was no pressure, it wasn't forced on us, and it was meant to be all in good fun."

"I know, sweetheart," she insisted, reaching out to squeeze your hand. "Bruce is an outlier now. Most of the time you do get lucky, with an all-around supportive production team, just like with your project with Elordi."

You hummed in agreement on that positive note, but your mind kept drifting back to Ewan.

Donna continued, wrapping up her story, "but Bruce is still here, and he still has a lot of power. But you know, it'll be fine. Ewan's got such a huge fanbase and so much talent that it'll only be a matter of time before something else knocks on his door."

You wanted to share her sense of optimism, but something ate at you. What else will Ewan have to sacrifice just to be with you? This was his dream, his one dream, and you were standing in the way. How much longer before he is offered another project but he refuses to take it for your sake? Your thoughts blurred together, bordering on irrational, but you couldn't help it.

All you could picture was the unabashed sincerity on his face, that sense of wonder, when he told you that acting had always been his dream.

Being tied down to you, this early in his career, would surely only hurt him. And you don't think you're worth it.

"Ewan loves you, sweetheart. Anyone with eyes can see that," Donna said after a while, heeding the storm brewing in your expression.

He loves you. It was true.

Less than a month in, and you've already found yourself with a love that you've never felt before. And perhaps never will again.

And that was the problem.

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

Late September

The podcast moderators are overly welcoming, if not a little loud for Ewan's taste.

The BBC podcast is called Loose Ends, and it's one of the first things Ewan agreed to take on upon returning to England.

He had wanted to head straight home to Derby, to bury himself in his heartache and bitterness, but the team for the show tapped him for a couple more promotional stints, riding on the high of the season finale. And who better than Ewan to offer to the media, the undeniable fan favourite.

Clad in an old gray shirt and blue jeans, people would think he just rolled right out of bed. He didn't really have the motivation to put in more effort. The only striking thing about him is his newly bleached head of hair, supervised by his stylist for a photoshoot a few days ago.

It was ironic, the timing of such a change. Ewan knew that if word got out that you dumped him, he would never hear the end of the joke of that being the reason for his hairstyle change, typical of all heartbroken sods.

Everyone bursts into laughter when he tells them about his mum's reaction to his nude scene. It feels like going through the motions, and he must have been so out of it, so forlorn, that his team prepared an outline for him prior to the interview. The questions and answers all pre-agreed.

Make them laugh. React as required. Remember to speak when spoken to. The mantra goes on in his head.

And don't think about her.

An impossible task, worsened when a moderator goes off script and asks, "Now it wasn't me who saw this, as I'm not on social media myself, but one of our interns did mention that you ventured into Instagram recently? Is that true?"

Oh fuck.

"Mmm, yeah, I guess," Ewan laughs nervously, his hand massaging the back of his neck in a self-soothing motion.

"And your first post went viral? What can you tell us about that? Our listeners would love to know."

"Uhhhm - " He remembers that the broadcast is live, and he can't exactly ask them to edit this part out, so he quickly settles for something indirect. Inconclusive. Safe. " - did it go viral? I'm not too sure how that thing works. I haven't used any kind of social media before."

"Apparently it did! And it had to do with the subject featured in that photo, Ewan. Your costar - "

"Mmm," Ewan stops him there, "didn't you say that you don't use Instagram?"

"No, I think I'm too old!" The moderator laughs.

"It's insane, that whole thing," Ewan shakes his head. "I don't know how to handle it. I'm logged off most of the time."

"Oh, you log off?"

"Yeah, yeah, helps me keep my focus, you know. Keep calm and all that."

"It can get frivolous, can't it?"

Ewan hums in agreement, and thankfully, the moderator moves on to his last question. One that does not breach the subject of you.

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

Another day means yet another media stint for Ewan, this time for Now TV.

Still in London, his stylist Davey and the rest of the team prepare him for a day of brief interview clips, to be posted on the social media pages of the company.

Davey had half-joked about Ewan needing even more concealer than usual, the shadows under his eyes having significantly deepened after the breakup.

Some of his team have gotten wind of what happened. They would curiously ask about you, how often Ewan keeps in touch with you while you're on set...

You must be on FaceTime everyday!

Is it hard to be doing long-distance so soon?

Do you miss her? Is that why you're not getting any rest?

...but Ewan would only laugh uncomfortably, dismiss it by bringing up another topic or shifting the attention to someone else, or excuse himself to go for a smoke.

He'd been drowning himself in cigarettes and caffeine during the day, pint after pint in the nighttime. Aimless.

He is coping. He knows how it must look, but he deserves this. He deserves to drift for a while. It's the only thing he can do to keep himself from jumping on the next flight to Atlanta and begging for your hand back.

You said you love him. You did. He hangs on to it like a beacon in a storm. No matter how pointless it may seem, with you choosing someone else over him.

Work is becoming something of an anchor, something that keeps him from spiralling. He's an actor, and he has always wanted to be an actor. People now have expectations of him, and he will answer the call.

The interview session begins with generic questioning, stuff he's answered before on several occasions.

How special is the bond between dragon and rider?

What is a funny moment from set that you can share?

How similar are Aemond and Daemon?

All safe. He's proud of himself for not breaking mental clarity thus far. You're in the back of his mind, dormant as a memory, and not something looming darkly over him. For a while, at least.

But then he is asked, If you could invite any 5 people to a Ewan Mitchell dinner party, who would you pick?

"Matthew McConaughey - "

You.

" - Bruce Lee. I think they could strike up an interesting conversation - "

Your name echoes in his mind, and he can't control it.

" - Andrea Riseborough. She's just a chameleon, like in any role she undertakes -

You have great taste. Even if you would make him eat spicy food again, he'll take it. He'll endure anything for you.

He's stumped for a second, lump in his throat, and his effort in avoiding you leads him to mention someone who will always be a comfort to him.

" - Maybe my nan, because I miss her -

Your name. He has to say your name. Who else? Think of someone else.. but who else? Who would be better?

" - and then, another person. Let's make it from the show... it would be Alyna Rivers."

"Oh really?" The interviewer asks. She's not really meant to respond in this instance, but she knows that the fans would go crazy about any mention of you or your character, so why not jump on this opportunity? "Can you tell us why you chose her?"

"Uhhm, well, she's just an amazing character, you know, fiercely loyal, beautiful, tenacious," Ewan replies easily, "so yeah, she would make for good company."

It is obvious that he is describing you just as much as he does Alyna Rivers, and no doubt, the fans will catch on to this detail.

Later, he's asked about his favourite part about season two, and he duly answers, "Seeing more of Aemond and Vhagar's bond and how that perhaps have gotten stronger. Aemond has definitely reined her in, after the accident at Storm's End."

Then, "There are some new additions to the show. Do you have a particular favourite?"

Another obvious piece of bait. And he takes it, he doesn't care anymore. What's the use of denying the truth?

"A favourite new character? Oh, well, uhmm... I really do like Alyna, and I think I've said before that Aemond and her are quite similar in a sense that they both know what they want and how to achieve it. It's just a shame they're on opposing sides, because if those two get together... " he trails off, leaving it up to the audiences to fill in the rest of the thought.

And they eagerly do. The clips where Ewan mentions Alyna get the most traction, flooded with comments that more or less talk of the same thing -

We know why you chose Alyna, Ewan. We know your ways.

He could have said Alys. Or Gwayne. Or even the ghost of Daeron ffs. But nooooo.... it's Alyna Alyna Alyna 😮‍💨

I wonder if she's there behind the scenes

yeah shes definitely lurking in the background!

Aemond and Alyna better have at least a scene together in season 3!!!!!

Someone kidnap Ryan Condal and make him write this

Ewan doesn't see any of it. Not that he's missing out, because he soon feels the need to call his younger cousin to ask her how to turn off his notifications on Instagram.

Day in and day out, his one single post gets dozens of new comments and likes, a brutal reminder of what he's lost. He could just delete it, and get rid of his profile entirely, but he hates to imagine the discourse that would follow.

All the invasive allegations and rumours. So he leaves it be. It makes no difference to him now. Let people believe what they want.

To his chagrin, he finds himself scrolling on his home page once in a while. The addictive element to it was true, and for him, it's exacerbated because the things he sees are often related to you.

Photos of you from fanpages and news accounts. Ones where your friends have tagged you. It's a toxic habit, looking through it all, but he can't help himself.

Then one day, as he's slouched on the seat in his London apartment, phone propped on his knees, he sees a cutout photo of his face on the corner of the screen. He clicks on it, and it's an image of him interposed among different posts. Posts which he apparently liked.

"Oh for fuck's sake," he cusses at himself, reading the caption.

Boyfriend lurking? - Ewan Mitchell may play a formidable TV villain, but in real life, he's just like us. Click on the link in bio to see his series of liked posts!

Dread takes root in him, followed by self-loathing. Why couldn't he just keep off this bloody thing? He takes to the comments to see what he has allegedly liked on accident and it's predictably photos of you - you at a premiere, stills of you as Alyna, and even, heavens fucking forbid, a behind the scenes shot of you getting pretty close with Jacob Elordi on the set of your film.

He vividly remembers seeing that last one, because he went on a bender after coming across it.

Cursing himself and his wayward, sticky fingers, he exits the app and deletes it from his phone.

Whatever goes on there, whatever people might leave on his profile, he washes his hands of it.

He calls up several of his mates, asking them if they want to come over for a few drinks.

"Again, Ewan?" one of them exclaims. "C'mon, you gotta take a breather, mate."

"I don't need a breather." I need her.

"Ewan - "

His composure breaks, all his damned frustrations rising to the surface, and he confesses, "I wonder if she thinks about me."

"Hang in there, mate. We're coming over."

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

October

The director finally yells a satisfied, "Cut!"

It's only taken a good twenty-something takes for you and Jacob to nail a challenging scene. You had been on a roll since the beginning of the shoot, the last few weeks seemingly a breeze on paper, though it's a constant struggle to keep it together.

You've had to quell your internal dialogue so it does not stray to him. His smile. The feel of his skin against yours. His way of subtly picking up on details, and doing sweet things that surprise you as a result.

But you received word just before the scene that a few of your friends have come to visit, waiting back at your trailer - Phia, Fabien and his girlfriend, Bella.

And so, as if on instinct, Ewan is all you can focus on, every repressed memory of him rushing in like a tidal wave.

Do they know? What could you possibly say to justify what you did? You can only hope he took on that project, to give you a bitter sense of vindication.

It's the only thing that keeps it all the bay, the only thing that keeps you from jumping on the next flight to England and grovelling at his door.

Phia has her arms wrapped around you the moment you open the door to your trailer, loudly squealing, "I missed you!"

You sink into the hug, comforted by her presence.

As well as the fact that she represents some connection to Ewan.

Phia, Helaena. Helaena, Aemond. Aemond, Ewan.

It's a sick game to play, but it's what you have.

"Hey, yous," you hug Fabien and Bella in turn. Not long after, you're all lounging on director's chairs right outside your trailer, enjoying a bit of sun.

"How's our big Hollywood star?" Phia quips, her lips curling in her trademark pleasant upturn.

"Hardly a star," you shake your head fondly. "More of an indie darling."

"Of course, of course," she relents, before going on a monologue about how she's been keeping tabs on your project, how she just adores the costume designer whom she spoke to at length while you were working, and how the rest of the cast is rooting for you.

The rest of the cast.

"Ah, are they?" you ask, making a conscious effort to not simply blurt out his name. What does he think? Has he mentioned you at all?

Do they know?

Do they secretly hate you for what you did?

"Mhmm, right Fabs?" she says.

"Oh, definitely." Fabien agrees right away.

"How's your film? Are you done shooting in Philly?" you ask him.

"Just about done, but I think we're doing some final reshoots next week. I'm just glad my girl's here to visit," he slings an arm around Bella, who smiles and leans closer to him.

You smile at the sight, but it visibly falters. Ewan could be visiting you on set right now, just like Bella with Fabien, if you hadn't fucked it all up.

They notice.

"Love," Phia sighs, her tone softening. "I just want you know - we want you know - we're here for you, okay? No matter what you went through with... " A pause. Like saying his name would open up the floodgates.

Your gaze falls to your lap in shame. You pick on invisible lint on your trousers. Bite your lip. Breathe deeply.

Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry.

"So you guys know, huh?"

"Well, more or less," Phia says. "I just spoke with... Ewan... recently. He's back in Derby for the time being, and he's - "

"He's a bit rough," Fabien says firmly. He's not taking sides here, but he's heard from Ewan, and he feels the need to have his mate's back. "Look, I don't want to pry, but what happened? It seemed like you guys were doing so well together!"

"You don't have to tell us," Phia adds, shooting Fabien a look. "But if you want to, we're here to listen. We love you both and we just want to help, love."

You feel your eyes welling up. Leave it to Phia to be oh so sweet. You can't lie to them, you don't want to. Even if you did, they would see right through it.

Your friends know you too well.

"I... I miss him."

Phia squeezes your hand, and the whole story is about to spill out of you when you hear your name being called.

It's your assistant Clara, letting you know you're needed back on set.

You swallow back tears, standing on your feet, trying to maintain enough composure so you can grant yourself access back to your character.

"Go do your thing, superstar," Phia smiles comfortingly. "We'll be here when you're ready."

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

November

"I'd like to propose a toast," Tom declares out loud in the empty pub, "to Ewan, Hollywood's new elf... Lord? Prince? Ah sod it, cheers!"

Round the table, Ewan, Fabien, Luke and Elliott all raise their pints with a collective, "Hear, hear!"

The pub has been cleared out for the lads, thanks to a favour called in by the twins, with the owner being their gym buddy and good friend.

"Thank you," Ewan replies, smirking. "I am your new elf prince, address me as such."

"Your ears have never been pointier, mate," Luke quips.

After a month of moping back home in Derby, or recovering as Ewan prefers to put it, he got a call from his manager telling him that the offer from Bruce still stands.

Apparently, the production team for the movie still had him tapped as the prime choice for the lead. After observing his audience metrics and overall viability, they decided that the movie would fare the best with him in it.

They had planted some half-baked announcements in the media, stating that it was Ewan against Joseph Quinn and Manny Jacinto for the role, and the fan reaction veered in Ewan's favour by a landslide.

Even though Bruce had an unsavoury word or two to say about him, he was willing to work past it, so long as Ewan would be more amenable to his demands.

After careful deliberation, Ewan chose to throw caution to the wind, and accept the role. So what if he has to pretend to have a real-life romance with Jenna? This is what you wanted.

"I'm glad you finally came out to see us, mate," Fabien says. "It's been a while."

"Yeah, fuck's sake. Remind us never to break your heart! That was tough to witness, you hunkerin' down out there all mopey and whatnot," Elliott laughs.

"Mmm." Ewan takes a swig of his beer to hide the wince he couldn't hold back. His friends, and most of the cast know by now, not in too much detail, of what went down between the two of you.

A typical short-lived romance of two actors. A summer fling. Most of them would look back and only see it as that.

Even though it was so much more. Even though Ewan still recalls how warm and soft and beautiful you felt as you whimpered underneath him, the loss of you as painful as getting hit by a freight train.

The liquor helps. Burying himself in work helps. Denial... well, that certainly helps the most.

When he goes out to the back garden for a smoke break with Fabien, he tricks himself into believing it's mere curiosity that compels him to say, "Phia mentioned that you guys went to Atlanta."

Fabien is rendered off guard, because he knows what's coming. "Yeah, we did. Bella came with us too. She was visiting me on set," he says, measuredly.

"Mmm." A long drag, a flick of ash towards the ground, an unaffected shrug - and eventually, with as impassive of a tone as he can muster, Ewan asks, "So how is she?"

Fabien smiles knowingly. "She's doing great. Her film's looking pretty good." He's privy to the truth, after he and Phia managed to gently coax it out of you over several martinis at a hotel bar in Atlanta. But he doesn't think it up to him to reveal that to Ewan, out of respect for your privacy.

While he might not share your sentiment, he thinks it's not in his place to tell Ewan that you basically lied for his sake.

But that doesn't mean he won't drop a helpful nugget or two.

"You know, I don't exactly know what's going on... but her and Jacob came across as nothing more than friends."

Ewan's hand freezes mid-air, the cigarette inches from his lips. He loathes the sense of hope that immediately bloomed in his chest. He's so bloody easy. One miniscule hint, and his delusions break through the wall of indifference he worked so hard to build.

"She said she has feelings for him," Ewan stresses, trying to convince himself. What was the fucking point of all this... this pain... if you never did?

"Hey, mate, I dunno," Fabien puts his hands up, "just telling you what I saw."

"It doesn't matter." It does. "She ended it." He wants you back, he will always want you back. "It's better this way."

"Is it?"

Ewan doesn't answer. He doesn't know how to, without grossly embellishing the truth.

Fabien watches his friend, sensing his hesitation as he averts his gaze. One thing becomes clear to him - you and Ewan are far from being over.

So he says, "She misses you, you know."

Ewan regards him with a stony look, one that slowly softens to reveal the broken boy inside. For but a moment, before he clears his throat and throws the butt of his cigarette on the ground.

"Let's head back inside."

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

December

You're back in London, as production for your film is paused for the upcoming holiday season.

Work is supposed to be the last thing on your mind, but it just so happens that your manager has you booked for a chemistry read for a yet undisclosed film.

Phia came over to your apartment, insisting that she help you get ready. When you asked how she found out about your audition, she was quick to say that she was up for the role as well but didn't think it was right for her.

"Why not?" you ask, as she hovers over you, patting blush on the apples of your cheeks.

"Oh, you just get a feel for these things."

"Phi, it's just a chemistry read," you say, when she reaches for the mascara. "I don't need to get all dolled up for this."

She gasps, "Oh, but this is showbiz, darling. We always have to put a face on."

"Fine," you relent. "Do your worst."

The makeup she ends up doing on you is minimal, but it enhances your features just the right amount. You rush through your final preparations, folding up the script sample you were given and stuffing it in your purse.

Phia stands out on your balcony, in the middle of a call. The window screen is slightly open, so you hear snippets of the conversation as you walk by.

"Is he ready?" she asks. Who's he? You assume it's the guy you are doing the read with.

You don't know about him, but you are ready, so you stick your head out to say, "I gotta go, Phi."

"Oh!" She startles a little, angling her phone away. "Already?"

"Yeah, the read's at 4, I believe. Just lock the door when you leave, 'kay?"

She hurriedly whispers something to her phone, presumably ending her call. "I'll actually head out with you," she grins. "My work here is done anyway."

"Any plans for the night?"

She shrugs, "Might meet with Tom and Martha."

"Oh, why don't I meet you guys after my thing?"

"Uhhhm," she chews on her lip, thinking. Under her breath, you barely hear her mumble, "... hoping you'd be busy."

"What?" A restrained chuckle escapes you, confused as to why she's being so coy.

"Nothing," she tilts her head. "We can meet if you'd like."

The weird exchange is out of your mind when you arrive at the casting agency. You run the scene through in your head as you walk in the building, up the elevator, down the long hallway.

It's a heartfelt scene, if not a little tense, a dialogue between reunited ex-lovers.

Your manager Polina and publicist Mallory greet you at the doors, swiftly briefing you before directing you in.

"They're waiting, just walk right in, doll," Polina says.

"Okay, wish me luck!" You have your hand on the door handle when Mallory strangely remarks, "Don't hate us, sweetheart!"

"Why would I - "

"Go, go," Polina guides you in, then shuts the door behind you.

The office sports an spacious and open layout, with plenty of natural light streaming through large windows. The primary workstation is partially hidden behind a subtle partition. You see silhouettes of a few people behind it, so you walk down that way.

The figures reveal themselves soon enough - the casting agents you recognise as Patrick and Amie, sitting in front of the actor you're meant to read with.

A range of emotion washes over you, but you don't even have time to reckon with them. The casting agents divert your attention from Ewan, as they approach you with wide smiles in greeting.

"So nice to finally meet you!" Amie croons. "Take a seat. You two already know each other, of course. Between us, there won't really be a question of chemistry here."

"Right?" Patrick adds, looking between you and Ewan. "The fans sure think so, and we have to say we already agree."

"So just give us a minute to set up," Amie says. "Then we'll start."

You smile stiffly, settling down on the opposite end of the couch. You keep your gaze straight, trying to keep your attention on Patrick as he sets up the camera. Your heartbeat races the entire time, and you feel your hands getting clammy.

"They're all in on it," you hear Ewan say, prompting you to finally look at him directly. You take him in hungrily, admiring his outline, ever so handsome with his Targaryen-blonde hair and black leather jacket.

A weak "Mmm?" is all you can muster.

"Our teams, Tom, Phia... they set us up. Tom came over and I overheard him on the phone with Phia."

"Oh," you mumble. He doesn't even spare you a glance, leaning on the armrest on his side of the couch. He looks as if he'd rather be anywhere but here, next to you, and it hurts.

It's what you deserve.

"Is this not a real chemistry read?" you ask meekly.

"I suppose it is," he laughs humourlessly, "but it's not a coincidence that you and I just happen to be the only ones scheduled for today." He turns to you, giving you a critical sideways glance. "Didn't see that coming, did you?"

"I... I can leave if you want - "

"Mmm," his brows furrow, "you do seem to be good at that."

You look away. He is not being fair, but you weren't neither, that wretched night back in September.

And he is making you pay for it now.

But then you hear him speak in a softer tone, "Stay."

Stay. When you look at him once more, his attention is entirely on you, arm outstretched on the couch like he just tried to reach for you but decided against it.

Stay, he asked. So you do.

It's what you should have done, months ago.

"Okay, guys. Whenever you're ready," Amie says. She and Patrick take their seats in front of you, with the camera on a stand between them.

The script crinkles on your lap as you hold it with shaky fingers. "It's been a while," you read out your opening line.

The dialogue plays out twisted and ironic, now that you know who your scene partner is.

"Hardly," Ewan responds in character. "I feel like no time as passed."

"Feels like a lifetime."

He pauses, then sighs, "Do you even miss me?"

"How... how can you even ask me that?"

"How can I - "

"Why didn't you... why didn't you fight for me?" your voice breaks, the lines hitting a bit too close to home.

"You're a fucking hypocrite," he spits with venom. "You weren't exactly giving me anything to fight for."

"I did it for us. I did it all for us." If you didn't feel like crying at the weight of the scene, you would have rolled your eyes at the similarities.

"Like I said - nothing to fight for."

"Nothing? So you're telling me I was nothing to you."

"No," he levels you with an icy look, "you were everything to me. Everything. But you left me behind, and for what? So you can run off with the rebel sect?"

"The mission needed me. You wouldn't understand." You feel a sense of relief when the sci-fi elements roll in, otherwise you might have given in to your emotions and sobbed right there on the damn couch.

"I needed you," Ewan says, eyes not leaving yours. "I needed you and you abandoned me, just like that."

"And are you not better for it? When I left, did they not make you General?"

"See, that is the difference between you and I," he says coldly. "I wouldn't have traded what we had for anything - no position, no amount of wealth, no glory... I would have chosen us every time."

"Aaand cut!" Patrick jokes, effectively breaking the tension.

The two of you have unconsciously drifted closer, now only a foot part. Ewan does not drop your gaze, watching you closely. You see his eyes flit down to your parted lips, and he leans in almost imperceptibly.

"Alright, how about we go one more time?" Amie says, diverting your attention. "Give us a different take, and then that's it!"

Ewan settles back on his end of the couch. When he reads his lines again, his tone is harsher and he no longer meets your eyes.

Patrick and Amie commend you both afterward, singing praises about your acting abilities. Ewan is polite as always, blushing and grateful, but he practically dashes out of the door when the meeting finishes.

You're left standing with Amie, as Patrick has taken to his laptop to file the footage.

"The way he looks at you," she sighs dreamily, referring to Ewan. "You'd think the sun shone out your arse, doll."

"He... he was just in character," you disagree. "He's a good actor, as you know."

"Yeah, I mean, he nailed the part's rancour perfectly. But his eyes - oof - you've got a good one there."

Oh. Of course they would still assume you and him are together.

How desperately you want it to be true.

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

An hour later, you've just sent Phia a text saying - You owe me. Where do I meet you guys?

But you hear a knock on your apartment door. If you didn't buzz anyone in, it can only be a neighbour or someone the doorman recognised.

Someone familiar to you.

And it's him.

"Ewan?"

"I need to speak with you."

You step aside so he doesn't linger at your doorway. He walks past you, a welcome if not unexpected presence in the room.

You can't decipher his expression, his gaze angled downward as he leans against your kitchen counter.

When the silence becomes almost deafening, you laugh awkwardly, about to make some silly remark on whether he is still in character. But he doesn't let you diffuse the tension.

"I want you," he blurts out without warning. "God help me, I still want you. I think I might have a fucking problem because how can I... after what you did - " A momentary glance of betrayal, but you see the spite clear in his eyes. " - but I do. I can't get you out of my system."

"I'm sorry - "

"I don't need that," he says sharply. "I don't need your sorry. I need you. I need to have you, and maybe this way, I'll satisfy whatever pointless desire I still have in me."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying - I'm asking - will you let me have you?"

"Ewan, I don't under - "

"I'm saying that we should sleep together," he says bluntly, and it feels like the rug has been pulled from under your feet, "but only just. You won't be mine, and I won't be yours."

"You're kidding."

He shakes his head, before adding, "Don't worry. It'll be our little secret. To the rest of the world, I'll have a different girlfriend anyway."

His words register, along with the bitter ache at his words, that you won't be his, he won't be yours. This is purely for pleasure. There used to be love here, and now he just craves the comfort your body allows.

You'll be using each other.

You should refuse. This is not healthy; this is not how you move on. Can you even go back to being good friends after this? But also - what have you got to lose?

What, except for him, and for good this time?

What, except everything?

"So what do you say - " He closes in on you, and with every bit of malice intended, the name no longer possessing the sweetness it once held, he sneers, "- darling?"

💌 next chapter

Taglist: @namelesslosers @skymoonandstardust @valyrianflower @luckyfirebasement @omgsuperstarg @elissanatok @callsignwidow @sinistersnakey49 @darkwriteracademia @yyrzmomo @queenofshinigamis @luvaerina @shamelessblazecrown @mirandastuckinthe80s @elleinex0x0 @pierrotlu @aegonswife @strangersunghoon @lunampacheco @writer-ann-artist @gaiaea @of-swords-and-words @ateliefloresdaprimavera @m00n5t0n3 @helaenaluvr @peachysunrize @annie-ruk @luvly-writer @ananas26t @athenafaes @lovelyteenagebeard @mamawiggers1980 @moongirl27 @katherine93 @barnes70stark @justbelljust @cloudroomblog @somestufftoday @esposadomd @girl-in-the-chairs-void @insideyourimagination @vyctorya @wildrangers @livcookesgf @onlyrealjoy (continued ... )

Some notes in the margins...

Well well well... the transition from friends to lovers to strangers to angsty FWBs sure is a slippery slope!

The time jumps are so we get through the moping quicker! It's mostly back to the regular shenanigans in the next part. Only, you know, angst-ridden. But you hurt Ewan, reader. *wags finger* Don't say you didn't expect this switch! Tsktsk

So what now - will you accept this arrangement? Will things ever be truly okay? Part 7 is going to be hot and hilarious and stupid and messy, just as the doctor ordered.

Let's hash it out in the comments, shall we? 🗡💕

#ewan mitchell #ewan mitchell x reader #ewan mitchell imagine #aemond targaryen #house of the dragon #chemical override #hotd #aemond targaryen x reader

738 notes · View notes

whowrotethenote · 1 month ago

Text

𝐑𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞

A/N // Short story set in the universe of Biggest Fan. This takes place five months after One of Your Girls.

I wrote the beginning and end at the same time and got a little lazy trying to connect the two. So, if it seems rushed towards the middle, that's why. The inspo for the short came from this anon. I didn't include the moments leading up to the actual appointment just because it will be mentioned and discussed in the next part, Desires. I hope you like it anon💗

Warnings // Angst // Adultery // Profanity // Themes surrounding pregnancy & abortion

Word count // 6k

Disclaimer // Biggest Fan Masterlist // Roman Reigns Masterlist // Join My Taglist // Main Masterlist // Navigation

Tuesday, January 2, 2024

“Never have I ever…kissed a girl,” I announce.

Seven fingers up, standing strong in the lead, I read the room. Demi’s finger goes down, leaving her at four left. And then the unthinkable happens. Anthony puts a finger down taking a sip out of his Naughty Elf mug.

“Excuse me?!” Demi shrieks with her head cocking back.

He removes the mug from his mouth, revealing a smirk. “That’s right.”

“Now, you know we need a story time.”

“No story time.” He shrugs. “It used to happen all the time. How do y’all think I discovered I was gay? I had to experiment first.”

“Wait—so you’ve like dated girls?” I dip my head like it’s some grand secret.

“Yup. Kissed ‘em. Had sex with ‘em—” His uncovering of truths is cut short by us gasping in unison. He cracks up. “Don’t get me wrong—pussy is great. It’s just something about men I can’t shake. They’re terrible people but I can’t shake those bastards. What about you, missy?”

“Senior year in high school. Captain of the girl’s basketball team. Think Kehlani but a little thicker,” Demi explains.

“Mmm.” Anthony and I both hum in agreement.

“Understandable. And don’t forget that shot, miss thing,” he reminds her.

She throws one back before shooting her four fingers back up. On the floor of our newly rented Manhattan condo, we were getting lit off left over Coquito I brought from home—the crumbs of Christmas dinner—with our second round of Never Have I Ever.

The best ice breaker to ease Anthony into our world—who, if I’m being honest, needs no easing whatsoever. He fits right into us. The missing piece to our puzzle. So much so, I offered to let him move in when he shared that his lease was almost up. It was a no brainer. Within the last two months of his hire at the hospital, we became ridiculously close. Anthony is fun, wild, and he doesn’t give a fuck about what anybody thinks. Anyone who embodies those three characteristics is okay with me and mine.

There’s too much extra space in here. Every which way I turn, there’s an extra room that needs to be furnished and filled with personality. Demi and I are barely home as is. So, we let him take the lead on decorating the rest of the condo. All I can say is, that boy has taste. He made this place look like it belongs in a Home & Gardens spread.

In the living area that he garnished with cream and black accents—we all sit comfortably in front of the floor to ceiling window. The news talked of the snow sticking and to expect at least six inches by tomorrow morning. Flurries of white hauled down on the other side of the window, blanketing the city, prompting us to take full advantage of the fireplace for the first time.

“Okay, my turn! Never have I ever…” Demi’s eyes float up until the light bulb goes off. “Got my ass ate.” At the same time they put a finger down and reach for their drinks. Seven fingers still up, I wait for them to be done before Anthony’s eyes go wide.

“Wait—why are you still over there with seven fingers up?”

“Never happened,” I confess.

“Never?” His head dips.

“Never,” I confirm.

“Well, what about that Alpha from last summer?” Demi squints. “What was his name? Travis? Trey?”

“Terrell.”

“Yeah! Him. He gives me that.”

I shake my head. “Never did it to me. We didn’t do anything really.”

“And nothing from whoever you’re seeing now?”

I grin when all I really want to do is scream. “Who said I’m seeing somebody now?”

“Oh, come on.” He searches for Demi who gives him nothing. Picking up one of those cheap Christmas themed sugar cookies we baked earlier and plopping it into her mouth. “I see you getting texts and disappearing,” he continues. “Gifts and whatnot. You were gone a whole weekend a few weeks back.” His squints with the lower half of his face twisting in amusement. The wider his smirk, the deeper that pit in my stomach.

“It’s nobody, really.” I laugh, countering the heat capturing my face. Did I forget to mention that he’s very observant?

He shows his hands. “Fine. I’ll get out your business. Whoever he is, that boy’s got taste. That Chanel bag for Christmas?” He puckers his lips while shaking his head side to side.

“Ouu! We should make gingerbread houses. Let’s see what we got.” Demi shoots up from the floor. Our eyes snagging before she fully rises as I try to convey a thank you through my eyes. An angel, she is.

“Only thing in that fridge is eggnog and to-go plates. Good luck.” Anthony shouts while going through his phone.

Anthony is sharp and we’ve only just met some months ago. I don’t like this. Keeping secrets and hiding an entire portion of my life from the people that mean something to me. Not saying anything is too close to lying outright and that’s not who I am. That’s not who I want to see when I look in the mirror. Too many things surrounding him are not just unconventional, but immoral. Never mind that it's a secret hidden from the world, but what does his wife think when he takes extra days away and doesn’t rush home to her and their kids?

I try not to think about her too much. A stabbing—no burning courses through me whenever I imagine him with her and their flock of children. I picture a home full of love and comfort. Nothing like the one mine turned into after my dad got sick. I can see them cuddling on the couch. One of their youngest sprawled across their laps with the iPad. The oldest yapping on the phone in the kitchen to her friends.

She’s pristine and so well put together. She looks it. Always dressed nice in designer. That rock of a ring beaming in every photo. Only the strongest and most resilient woman could raise five kids while her husband came and went unexpectedly like a full moon. She’s nothing like me. I know it. I’m Lana—always late and tripping through life. Never knowing or even prepared for what comes next.

“You okay, friend?”

My eyes flutter and I snap out of the maladaptive dream at the sound of Anthony’s voice.

“Yeah,” I lie to him again. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

Wednesday, January 3, 2024

“Mm,” I groan flipping the duvet over my head.

The sun bullying me awake. My head—a constant pounding at my frontal lobe. My reward for another round of Never Have I Ever, Caresha Please and Drunk Uno. Since the week of Christmas, all I've done is fill my body with alcohol and it's starting to take a toll on me.

The laughs and muffled chatter that must be my roommates, travel through my room walls. I snatch the cover back down, one eye peaking at the digital clock on the nightstand.

3:12 PM

The fuck?

I know we wrapped it up pretty late last night, but I haven’t slept in like this since being a teenager. A blessing and a curse—my body’s natural alarm clock from years of morning shifts and morning classes, would usually wake me up against my own will.

The smell of sweet syrup and hopefully pancakes is what boosts me to swing my legs on the edge of the bed and finally stretch. Limbs sore and head still pounding, my slippers scrape against the floor in pursuit to the kitchen.

“Sleeping beauty!” Anthony beams. I eye their empty plates and a kitchen so clean it looks untouched.

“Don’t worry. Your food is in the microwave,” Demi informs.

“Why did y’all let me sleep so long?” I rub my eyes opening the microwave to be met with a full plate as promised. I slam it back shut and the buzz fills the room after I press the one.

“Girl, you’re on break and you have no work. What’s wrong with sleeping in?”

“Don’t want my body to get used to it.”

The plate is full and steaming as I carry it to the open stool next to Demi at the white marble top island. I’m halfway engaging in conversation, with Gossip Girl playing on the TV in the family room over. The metal of the fork hitting my plate as I scoop potatoes while biting into the beef bacon in rotation. Everything’s fine. It’s not until I take my first bite of the scrambled eggs that shit gets…funny. The smooth texture against my tongue at first and then the mini spasm of my throat as I attempt to get it down. My stomach turns once the smell of the eggs becomes too potent while it’s all I can focus on. The biggest thing in the room it becomes. I chew and chew—breath growing heavier and spit getting warmer with every rotation of my jaw.

The clink of the fork hitting the plate rings dramatically, halting Demi and Anthony’s conversation. It’s all a blur. One second I’m sitting there with them and the next I’m inches away from a toilet bowl. Gasping for air after letting out everything from last night and just a few second ago. The smell—sour and overwhelming, has my back hunching as another round ejects from me.

“Lana, oh my god.” Demi’s soft voice is over me as her small hand finds my hair. My chest expands rapidly as I cough and spit what’s left into the rest of it. Slamming the toilet, not being able to bear the smell a second longer. I blink hard to allow the sitting liquid in my eyes to fall.

A stack of tissue jolts into my line of sight and I take it. “Thank you,” I croak and cough again. I shake my head, registering in cloudy consciousness, that look she gives me. “Probably all the alcohol catching up to me.”

“Alcohol, huh?” Her voice fades out. I follow her line of sight to the decorative basket sitting on my sink. A case of L Organic tampons standing tall amongst the other junk inside. Just one left in the clear cylinder. Making it more than obvious that they’ve gone untouched for some time—otherwise, they’d be replenished.

Our eyes, like magnets, find each other.

Boxes and boxes tumble inside the mini cart hanging in the crease of Demi’s elbow. It looks like she’s doing inventory. She uses a forearm to swipe what’s left on the shelf into the cart. Two don’t make the landing and I bend to pick them up.

“Demi—you don’t think that’s a bit much, friend?”

“My ass.” Her eyebrows hike up. Boxes still rippling into the overflowing cart and still falling. The more I pick up, two more come down to the floor nearly hitting me on the head. “Some of these damn tests be lying. This is not the time to guess or play roulette.”

She stomps away from me on a mission. I place the handful of tests back on the shelf instead of adding fuel to her fire. Stomach empty and head full of the worst possible outcomes, I follow right behind her through the aisle.

No words needed to be exchanged as we stormed out the bathroom together, bundling up and ordering a unnecessarily expense Uber. After disarming and convincing Anthony that I had started my period and didn’t have any tampons left, of course. More lies.

What the fuck is even happening today? It all feels like the longest nightmare and it hasn’t even been an hour since I opened my eyes.

My luck isn’t just falling short—it's nonexistent. The self-checkout is under maintenance. So we stand in wait, suppressing angst, as the younger cashier swipes the dozens of boxes with a constant beep. All different sizes, different brands adorned with different fonts. All with that same word somewhere on them that makes me want to throw up again.

I want to jump out my skin watching the young boy swipe and swipe, eyeing every single test like he’s shopping himself. Eyes hesitantly looking up at us across from him. Our eyes like daggers, pierced on his every move, as if he’s handling thousands of our hard earned money in his very hands. God, I wish he’d hurry the fuck up. Just as I open my mouth to say something, Demi is quicker.

“Your business—mind it,” she spits. Crossing her arms, pulling her black Chanel shades over her eyes as he nods frantically speeding his task up a couple notches. We came busting in this CVS, calling ourselves in disguise. Already bundled in puffer coats, scarves and beanies to protect from the inclement weather—we added shades that defeated their purpose, seeing as we’ve had them sitting atop our heads this whole time.

Resting my hands in the pockets of my sweats, I case the store. Some middle-aged folks in the aisles. A group of what looks to be college kids come walking up to the register. And the frail older man behind us in line, with a prescription bag and jug of water in his hands. I pull my glasses down immediately when he and I lock eyes.

After the ring up from hell, it took the persuasion of seven car salesmen for Demi to talk me out of taking all of the tests, right in the bathroom of that CVS.

“A drug store is not a place to crash out,” she tells me.

I opt to crash out in the back of this Uber’s truck instead. Bags full of tests like groceries stocked for the inclement weather the news promised us.

“I can’t be—” The shake of my head finishes my sentence like a period. I can’t even allow that word to flow past my lips.

“Yeah, no shit.” What the fuck am I gonna do? I can’t be. I just can’t. School. His family. My family. My god—his wife. My breathing picks up and suddenly it feels like the middle of July in the back of this man’s Ford truck. “Lana—Lana just relax. We don’t even know if it’s that yet.”

“What else can it be?” My face screws up. Tears hot and threatening to spill. “Sir, can you please turn the heat down?!”

“Sorry—sorry ma’am.” He eyes us through the rearview hastily. I didn’t mean to yell, but damn. The hot air from the vent was doing the opposite of calming me down like Demi suggests. Everything around me feels like too much. I snatch the LV scarf straight from my neck on the verge of suffocating.

“You two have been careful?” Demi’s eyes pierce mine. Careful. He’s careful with just about everything else, except that. He’s grown careless. Yeah, no phone around me but it feels too good to pull out. Call only from a payphone, but snatching the condom off in the heat of a wild night. “Lana?” She calls my name. I know she’s expecting an answer but I can’t say it out loud. NDA and shame both having a hand to my mouth.

In defeat, my head hangs until it’s buried in my hands. I can’t be.

A vivid and erotic reel of all the most recent times, secluded with him, flashes through my mind as I come to the painstaking truth that I actually can be. Before Christmas in Greenbay? Around Thanksgiving? When we went back to the Hamptons house—fire burning and crackling, laying on the living room rug, sweating all the extra left over energy out?

Every time I think I’ve pinned the exact moment it must’ve happened, I come up with a different more likely occurrence, until it seems every time might’ve been the time. It happens so often now—there’s no way for me to sensibly dig out when this catastrophe was born from the chemicals of careless lust and passion.

My stomach gets queasy. Tight and twisting like I’m preparing for the steepest drop on a rollercoaster. A foreign sound—something between a whimper and a groan leaves me.

“I think I’m gonna throw up again,” I strain.

“Please not in this man’s truck.”

“Yes, please,” the driver pleads. Eyes shifting from the road to the rearview mirror. His futile outburst earning him a glare from hell from Demi.

Bzzz! Bzzz!

My Dior bag vibrates between us. We exchange looks before I dig my phone out and sure enough, a text from an unknown number is the latest notification.

Vegas this weekend. He’s asking for you. 9543402985

Staring at the text on the screen, I fight the urge to throw up again. The timing is cataclysmic. My heart usually races for a different reason when I see those words.

Muscle memory has me googling the nearest payphone or Link kiosk. “Sir, I’m sorry but can you stop at Penn station really quick.”

“You gotta do that right now?”

“If not now, then when?” I turn to be met with her head shaking. “I’ll add the stop on the app,” I tell the driver.

Quads aching from stammering down three flights of steel steps—maneuvering through chunks of civilians like the most skilled quarterback—face burning from trying to regulate its normal temperature—I snatch the receiver off the hook.

It dawns on me hearing the gnawing dial tone, that I don’t have any quarters. No way in hell am I going back up all those steps to the coin machine. My head rotates to gauge my surroundings. Only a few feet away from me, a young boy—curly fro, no older than fourteen dressed in a Denim Tears sweatsuit—leans on the wall with a guitar in his hands. A more nineteen thirties, blues reminiscent rendition of Snooze emitting from it.

“Kid.” I step away as far as I can, inching in his direction without dropping the phone. “I know you got some quarters in there.” My eyes drop to his hat sitting at his feet. “I need five dollars in change. “

He looks between his NY Yankees hat and me with my hand out. “I want twenty.”

“What?!”

“Twenty or nothing.”

“How you want twenty and all I need is twenty quarters?” It's not like I’m short on money. In fact, I could make the kid’s day, Cashapp him five hundred dollars, and go on about my business. But something about him trying to hustle me, threw me left. Especially considering the day’s already unfortunate events. I’m already abundant in Ls. Two seconds from wilding out on the nearest person.

He shrugs. “And all I need is a twenty.” I sigh deeply. Patience dropping like the sand in a hourglass. “What I gain from giving you these quarters?”

“You won’t lose anything if you give me the quarters for a five. It's an even exchange,” I bargain. I can see the internal battle, watching his eyes shift between me and his hat. “Look—how about I give you ten.” I show him another five dollar bill. “And you still just give me the five in quarters. You gain five, little man.”

He squints and then counts the twenty quarters off before dropping them in my hand. “Bet.” He snatches the two fives from me and resumes his ballad.

“Punk,” I mumble slipping his quarters into the slot. I am well versed in the art of negotiation. Years of making a sucker out of my brother whenever he needed to just “borrow” money from my stash. Charged that ass interest too.

The line rings only twice before that silence signals connection. “Paul?”

“Alana, how are you?” Never been better. I just got cheated out of five dollars. I’m using a dirty ass payphone in underground NYC to call my famous fuckbuddy’s companion. I’m almost a month late on my period. And the dad is public married with five kids already, and old enough to be my father.

“I’m fine,” I tell the same lie two days in a row. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing down this way. Is it snowing over there?”

“Yeah—bad. I haven’t seen it like this in years.”

“Well, you’ll be relieved to know you’ll be on the west coast, where there’s no snow by this time on Friday.”

“I thought the show was in Canada?”

“It is,” he confirms. “He doesn’t plan on staying though. He has business in Vegas the next day so it makes sense to just leave.”

“I’ll be staying until Sunday?”

“Monday, actually. I’ll be sending over the flight and hotel details soon.” I nod as if he can see me. “You ever been to Vegas?”

“No.” Before him, I hadn’t really been anywhere.

“I don’t think it’s anything special unless you’re into gambling.”

“Good to know.” The conversation is static—robotic almost. Or maybe that’s in my head. Every pause feeling like a confession of some sort. Every word I push out feels like I should be saying something else.

“Anything else going on?” He pokes.

My mouth opens then shuts. My catastrophic possibility—likely to affect everyone around me, including the man on the phone—hanging tight on prison bars, begging to be set free. This doesn’t feel right. All the secrets. All the suppression. There’s no way I’d be able to do this in front of him after knowing whether I am or am not. So I decide right here that I won’t know.

Snow flurries land and melt on my face all at once as I jog back to the truck. “Thank you,” I tell the man for the unpredicted stop, right before he pulls off. Demi’s eyes burning on me like the brightest light in a room.

“I guess you’re leaving this weekend.”

I nod. A pause hangs between us. It’s louder than All I Want For Christmas playing on the radio. “I’m not taking those.” My confession breaks free.

“I’m sorry, what?”

I finally meet her gaze. Her eyes wide and brows lifting to her hairline damn near. “I’m not taking those,” I repeat. “The tests.”

“I’m confused. Did you just come on or something?” She looks me over as if the evidence of my period would be on the clothes I’m wearing.

“Demi—I can’t take those before I go. Imagine the two lines come up. I’m supposed to just go around him acting normal?”

“Or—hear me out—tell him the truth?”

My face screws up hearing such a simple anecdote that’s the furthest thing from simple. “You’re talking crazy.”

“What is so crazy about telling the truth? Unless you’ve already decided what you’re doing if the two lines do show up, and you just don’t want him to have any say?” Another lingering silence. It’s smoldering hot like the air coming from the car’s vents, yet again. “Wow.”

“We already know his verdict.”

“Oh, you’ve asked him already?” She laughs, but it’s vacant of any joy. “Great—just do whatever you want.” She turns her head to the window after throwing a hand up.

“Oh—you’re one of those?”

“I didn’t say all that.” Her eyes turn to slits from my accusation. An accusation I knew bore no weight. Demi is as liberal as they come.

Our eyes sharp and daring don’t leave one another. I’m the first to break. Internal strife too great already. I don’t need two battles. I won’t survive either.

“This is nothing to argue about.” I face forward. Catching the eyes of the driver who snatches his away in a flash. Nosy bitch.

“Not arguing. Whatever the results…I don’t think the decision should fall all on you.” Her voice, way softer than that condescending one from just seconds ago that made me feel smaller than a crumb. “And I think you shouldn’t be so quick to choose, either. Believe me—I get it. This is probably the worst thing that could happen. But the quick decisions are usually the ones we end up regretting.”

My nose flares. Chin quivering as I focus on the snow flurries sticking and melting to rain on the window. I hate when she makes sense. This whole thing feels like the end of the world. One of those situations that’s going to stick to me for the rest of my fucking life. Regardless, of the outcome.

What I imagined yesterday—their picture perfect family, doing what loving families do—I’d put a crack right down the middle. Our secret—our bubble fed in the dark of expensive hotel rooms and hours after midnight—would have no choice but to come to light. And I don’t think I am strong enough for that. Let alone motherhood.

Friday, January 5, 2024

I laugh to myself, watching in real time as he smugly grins down at Nick Aldis from the ring. Capturing his belt from Paul after just laying out Randy, AJ Styles and LA Knight like they were mere target practice to him. Just pawns on a board.

I shake my head. A fucking menace.

“Shitting me?” An outburst that nobody can hear after Nick informs Paul of the fatal four-way match to take place. I know Demi’s going ballistic back home. I stare at the phone on the nightstand provided by the hotel. I could call, but I know that’s probably going against something in the NDA.

Suddenly, a wave of dreariness hits me. Most likely an effect of traveling and all the stress. Although Google told me it was an early symptom of my unwanted event.

When I wake up it’s almost one in the morning. Still no Joe.

I shower again, wincing at the water hitting my chest. Usually a tell sign that my period is not far behind, but she’s almost a month late. Life has been moving way too fast, flashing by me. Holidays, traveling to meet him, semester ending—and I never stopped to register that I hadn’t touched a tampon in a month. My head has been gone.

On the plane ride, I decided to heed Demi’s advice. Slow the process of decision-making down by weighing everything first. Pros and cons. So far, the only pro I came up with, is that he’s well off and not afraid to splurge or share. My, you-know-what, would never have to grow content with financial struggles.

So far that cons list is longer than Santa’s naughty list when he ventures into O’block.

Child number six (I.e. the baby of the family usually forgotten)

Born out of wedlock

Most likely a secret for most of their lives. Not being able to tell the kids at school who their daddy is

Judgment

Balancing school and … you know what

Gaining weight from the cravings

Giving birth and all the things that can go wrong with that

More nausea

Going from an escape to an obligation to him

The cons just kept hitting me like all the dodge balls from the other team when you’re the last man standing on your side—until I was buried in cons.

I make my way downstairs to this hotel that sits in the heart of Vegas. Seas and lakes of lively people, all dressed up and most likely intoxicated. Loud and flashy. That’s all I’ll remember about Vegas. The people, the buildings, the scenery. In your face and in your pockets.

I eat for the sixth time since this morning. Sitting by my lonesome now at a slot machine. Pressing away and feeding the machine more money to keep losing—a too familiar tango, sort of a reflection for the relationship between him and I.

Vegas nights…this would be a decent theme for a prom. The committee at the hospital had been searching for ideas already, to start planning their annual charity prom for the kids who can’t make their own.

I reach into my purse, ready to text Demi and throw her the idea to get her opinion. I stop myself. I don’t have my phone. Right…

My shoulders slump with the release of a breath. I keep tapping. And tapping. And tapping. Until I’m damn near one with the machine, tapping like second nature while I get lost in my insecurities.

Is this what I want for my life? For my…

It’s lonely. It’s tedious. Searching for things to occupy my time until he shows up. Always wondering and worrying about what or who he’s doing when he’s not in my line of sight. It won’t magically change just because something or someone else enters the picture. Being a mother to his kid won’t suddenly usher in a new routine in place of him trying to get me in where I can fit in. It’ll be the same scenario. I mean, look how he treats the first mother of his children.

This is not what I’d want for me and mine. Even when my father was sick, he uprooted being a father as a priority. He was always present. Always doing what his body would allow. He never had to fit us in. Never had to juggle two households and a career. My kids don’t deserve chaos. A chaotic childhood will only make them susceptible to a chaotic life. Kind of like the one I’m living now.

All I’ve done is generate cons. There are no pros.

The glow of the TV is the only source of light in this massive penthouse suite when the soft click of the master bedroom door prompts my eyes to pop open from sudden slumber.

His large frame, a shadow so quiet, as he makes his way toward the bed where I sit up.

“I woke you up?” He whispers.

“Yeah, but it’s cool.”

He drops the duffel bag by the foot of the king bed where I stand to meet him. Spreading his hands out to invite me into his arms.

“Mm,” he groans into the hug. Simultaneously releasing a breath together, like he’s transferring all the tension in his body to me. But there’s no need. I’m already overflown with it. Wrapped in his big arms, it hides cowardly. Afraid to come out and show itself in front of him. That’s not the purpose I serve here. “Squeeze,” he instructs. “Tight, tight, tight,” he mumbles with his mouth right on top of my head. The grin sneaks on my face, not for show, as I grip his hard body as much as I can. Burying my face into his hoodie and sniffing in that familiar cleanliness that’s stained on him. The events of the week forgotten for no longer than the twenty seconds we embrace. SWV was right. The cause and cure.

“Everything alright?” He leans back a few inches. Eyebrows wrinkling and something of a smile dancing on his handsome face.

“Yeah.” I nod. Voice soft and unconvincing. “I’m fine.” Another lie. Three for three now. The slot machines downstairs would be blinging and flashing obnoxiously. His stillness lets me know he’s not buying the act. “—Just work things.”

“Okay. I’m gonna take a shower.” I don’t say anything, already knowing the announcement is an invitation. I let him do his thing before he enrages out the steam filled ensuite bathroom. Body dripping wet still—arms big and daring. I almost regret my decision to not join him.

We don’t have sex. The subtle bags sitting under his captivating eyes tell a story of restlessness. He did a lot tonight just on camera, so I can only imagine. My reading proven correct when he sinks his large frame beside me, welcoming me into his space with a hand to the back of my head until it’s comfortable on his peck.

“What did you do today?”

“Nothing really. Ordered room service. I watched Smackdown.” He elicits another smile from me despite the internal dread, reminiscing on his performance.

“Yeah? How’d you like it?” His large hand slides down to palm my stomach. A gesture that I usually ignore, thinking it was just comfortable for him. No different than the circles he draws on my hip at times. But this time I freeze up like a possum playing dead. Previous thoughts vacuumed right from me.

“Um…wait—what—what were we talking about again?”

His chest tightens under me from laughing. “Don’t tell me your memory is going before mine?”

“I’m not the one pushing forty.” I force a laugh. Grateful he can’t see that it didn’t reach my face.

“The show?”

“Oh, right. Big bully Roman. It was really good. They should have you teaching classes on heel turns.”

“Mm,” he hums sleepily. “Didn’t do anything else while I was gone?”

“I went downstairs for a little bit. Played the slots. And some roulette…”

“Didn’t know you liked to gamble,” he speaks ignorantly and somehow still knowingly. I’ve been gambling since I’ve met him. Gambling my time and the discovery of this whole ordeal. And now, a new stake has entered the bet. The roulette of whether I am or am not still spinning with no landing.

“No…I don’t actually…”

He fights the dreariness in his deep voice for a while longer. Talking to me about his first time in Vegas with the twins amongst other things. It’s not long before I hear the soft snores.

All I’ve wanted to do, for days now, is call my mom and tell her everything. Let the confessions roll from me like a ball down a hill nonstop. Release the angst from me to her, the way I’ve always done. Selfish tendencies of a child, I know.

But sadly, I can hear her now. Lana, what business do you have with a married man? A man whose plate is already full when there are men that will come to you with an empty one?

Tina Maxwell—previously Tina Floyd—is a proud woman. Philly born and bred—her, bullshit, and low maintenance, just don’t coincide. Her heart is the size of Alaska, but her pride and self worth can fit two more of that colossal state. Hence, why immediately after my father recovered and just couldn’t seem to raise his spirits back up, with no will to bring back the spark in his marriage after it laid stagnant so long—she filed for divorce.

I know people judge her for it. I was one of them. How could she leave a man that had just recovered from a battle of fighting cancer?

The older I get, the more the curtain protecting that answer on the board lowers itself. Life is too short to waste on anything or anybody. She loved and still loves my father. But love is fickle. It burns out too quickly. She gave him a chance and he didn’t want it. She did her duty as a wife and a mother to his two kids. Stayed bedside, overextended herself when he was too sick to work let alone get out of bed, showed up to every appointment and waited in angst through every procedure.

After choosing him for years, she chose herself. And she always does. The only things that take precedence over that, are her kids.

If she knew how I lay in this bed up under a man that belongs to someone else, while the strong possibility of carrying his child looms over us—she’d drop to her knees. And me along with her, too weak to stomach the look of disappointment on her face.

Whatever we have—or whatever I think we have—it’s dead. The sun shines on all living things and we’ve never even touched the light of day. So, I might as well lay to rest whatever is left or whatever is expected to come. I already know what he’d want. I don’t need to ask or consider.

He’s married. Happily or not is irrelevant because he’s not unhappy enough to leave. He made a promise in front of God and his family. She’s who he goes home to. He still comes in whatever luxury hotel room, whatever time of the night, relieving himself of that black band that he displays to everyone except me.

So, it doesn’t really matter what results come from those tests when I get back home. Just like us, it’s already done.

A/N // as always, if you read it or even a portion of it, i am forever grateful💗 feedback is welcomed.

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roseandxanderfics · 3 months ago

Text

“The River Runs quiet” - Legolas Greenleaf x shy!reader

Summary: The Fellowship fears your power—until you save them. But it’s Galadriel bowing to you that changes everything. Legolas? He never doubted you.

--------------

The Council of Elrond had been a gathering of voices, strong and sure, arguing over the fate of the Ring. But you had remained silent. Even as you were named among the Fellowship, you did not speak. Not when Aragorn clasped your shoulder in quiet approval. Not when Boromir questioned your presence with a skeptical glance. Not even when Gandalf, who had known you since childhood, placed a hand on your arm in gentle reassurance.

You were powerful. They all knew that. But power did not make you bold.

So when the journey began, you kept to the back of the group, your presence like a shadow. You listened, observed, but rarely spoke. And in those first days, the only one who truly noticed you was Legolas.

Legolas Noticed Everything.

He was used to silence, to the language of movement rather than words. And in you, he saw an unease he understood. The way your fingers twitched when attention lingered too long. The way you hesitated before stepping forward, even when the Fellowship needed your strength. He saw it all.

And when you least expected it, he spoke to you.

“You walk lightly,” he murmured one evening as you sat a little apart from the others, hands curled around a small piece of lembas you weren’t even eating. “For one of great power.”

You flinched, barely noticeable, but he caught it. You hadn’t expected him to speak to you—not when the others kept their distance, unsure what to make of you.

“I do not think I am great,” you admitted softly. “Only… different.”

He tilted his head, studying you the way only an Elf could. “Different is not lesser.”

You swallowed, unsure how to respond. Your magic was strong, unpredictable. It came in bursts, overwhelming when you lost control. That was why you hesitated. Why you kept yourself small. But Legolas… he did not seem afraid of you.

Over the days, he sought you out, never pressing, never demanding. Just existing beside you. When Aragorn and Gandalf led discussions, he stood near. When you lingered at the back, he matched your pace.

And when the Fellowship fought, he watched.

You were quick, graceful, but hesitant. Even as you sent waves of force against enemies, even as shadows curled at your fingertips, your own power startled you. The others marveled at it, but Legolas understood your uncertainty.

One night, as the Fellowship rested near the edges of Hollin, he found you apart from the group again, staring at your hands.

“What troubles you?”

You exhaled shakily. “I don’t want to lose control.”

Legolas crouched beside you, his voice quiet but firm. “Control is not silence.”

You looked at him then, really looked, and found no fear in his gaze. No wariness. Only patience.

“I have seen many things,” he continued. “Many warriors who wielded strength, and many who feared their own power. You are not the first. But you are the gentlest.”

You flushed. “That is not a strength.”

He smiled—small, fleeting, but real. “It is. Strength is not always fire and fury. Sometimes, it is the patience to hold power back.”

Something in your chest tightened. No one had ever told you that before.

That night, as the Fellowship slept, you sat beside Legolas instead of apart. And though no words passed between you, something settled in your heart.

You were different. But perhaps, with time, you could be something more.

And Legolas, quiet and watchful, would be there to remind you.

—

The Misty Mountains had been cruel. Snow and stone conspired against the Fellowship, forcing them down into the dark path of Moria.

You felt it before the others did. A whisper in the air, something stirring in the black water outside the great stone doors. It pressed against your mind, a weight of something watching.

Legolas noticed your sudden stillness. “What is it?” he murmured, stepping closer.

You opened your mouth to answer—but then the water moved.

A deep, shuddering ripple spread across the surface of the lake, and then a great roar split the air.

The Watcher in the Water rose.

Tentacles lashed out, massive and glistening, slamming into the rocks as the Fellowship scrambled back. Frodo barely had time to react before one wrapped around his leg, yanking him into the air.

Chaos erupted. Aragorn and Boromir swung their swords, hacking at the creature’s limbs. Legolas had already loosed two arrows, both striking true, but the beast did not stop. More tentacles surged from the depths, slamming into the ground, cracking the stone.

Panic clutched your throat.

They would not be enough.

Your heart pounded as you stepped forward, the fear in your chest twisting into something else—something older. The world around you dimmed, the frantic shouts of the Fellowship fading beneath the slow, rhythmic pulse of your own blood.

Water.

You could feel it, surging, restless, shifting. It called to you, and for the first time, you did not hold back.

You let go.

The air around you shimmered. The river answered.

With a single motion, you raised your hands—and the Watcher’s tentacles stopped.

A deep, guttural sound rumbled from the creature’s maw as an unseen force ripped at it, dragging it backwards. The water surged unnaturally, waves rising and twisting like unseen hands had seized them.

The Fellowship stumbled back in shock as the great beast screamed.

With an effortless flick of your wrist, the waves collapsed in on the creature, sending it spiraling into the depths. The lake churned violently, swallowing the Watcher whole. Then, as quickly as it had risen, the water stilled.

The silence was deafening.

The others were staring at you.

Frodo gasped for breath where Boromir had pulled him to safety. Gandalf’s eyes gleamed with something unreadable. Aragorn, sword still drawn, slowly lowered it.

And Legolas—Legolas was watching you with something deeper than shock.

You exhaled, your body trembling from the force of what you had done. For once, you did not feel fear. You felt steady.

Gandalf broke the silence first. “Well,” he murmured, stroking his beard, “that was unexpected.”

Boromir let out a breathless laugh. “That is an understatement.”

Your fingers curled slightly, uncertain. Would they fear you now? Would this change how they saw you?

But then Legolas stepped forward, his expression unreadable—until he spoke.

“You are the river,” he said softly, “calm until it chooses to move.”

Your breath hitched.

There was no fear in his gaze. Only understanding.

The stone doors loomed behind you, and Gandalf ushered the others inside, but Legolas lingered beside you for just a moment longer.

“I knew you were powerful,” he murmured, low enough for only you to hear. “But I do not think you know just how much.”

You swallowed, heart pounding—but this time, it was not from fear.

For the first time, you thought maybe he was right.

And you weren’t so afraid to find out.

—

The mines of Moria swallowed the Fellowship in darkness. The cold stone walls pressed close, and the air was thick with the weight of ages. But none of it felt as heavy as the silence that followed you.

You had saved them. You had done what no blade, no arrow, no strength of man or dwarf could do. You had bent the river to your will, cast out the Watcher as if it were nothing but a ripple in the tide.

And now, the others didn’t know what to make of you.

Boromir’s glances were wary, though not unkind. Gimli muttered under his breath, something about unnatural power. Frodo, at least, only looked at you with awe, his small hands gripping the Ring as if he half-expected you to snatch it away.

Even Gandalf, wise and knowing, had not spoken to you about it. Not yet.

You walked behind the others, lingering in the shadows, hands curled tight at your sides. You could still feel the pull of the water, the way it had listened to you.

It had never obeyed you like that before.

You didn’t hear him approach, but you weren’t surprised when Legolas spoke.

“You are troubled.”

You glanced at him. He walked beside you easily, as if he had always been there, golden hair a faint glimmer in the dim torchlight.

“I…” You hesitated, fingers flexing. “I don’t know what I did.”

He tilted his head slightly. “I think you do.”

You swallowed hard. “It was too much.”

Legolas was silent for a moment, then: “Was it?”

You blinked at him, startled.

“You did not lash out in anger,” he continued. “You did not lose yourself in the power. You saved us.” His voice was steady, sure. “There was no cruelty in what you did. No recklessness. You were precise.”

You shook your head. “But what if—”

“You did not,” he interrupted, his voice gentle but firm. “And that is what matters.”

Your throat tightened. No one had said it so simply before.

Legolas studied you carefully, his sharp Elven eyes searching your face. “Does it frighten you?”

You almost said yes. But when you opened your mouth, the words stuck.

Did it?

For so long, you had feared what you could do. What might happen if you let go. If you stopped holding yourself back.

But back at the lake, it hadn’t been fear that guided you. It had been clarity.

You looked down at your hands. “I don’t know.”

Legolas considered this, then nodded. “That is an honest answer.”

You exhaled shakily. “The others… they look at me differently now.”

“They do not understand.” He glanced ahead at the Fellowship, his expression unreadable. “Many fear what they cannot.”

You bit your lip. “Do you?”

His answer was immediate. “No.”

Something in your chest eased.

“You have power,” Legolas said, softer now. “But power does not make you dangerous. Fear does.” He met your gaze, unwavering. “And I do not think you are afraid of yourself anymore.”

Your breath hitched. He was right. It wasn’t fear that sat in your chest now—it was something else. Something quieter.

Acceptance.

You looked ahead at the Fellowship, at the shadows of Moria stretching before you. There was still much to face. You were still uncertain.

But for the first time, you did not feel small.

Legolas walked beside you, steady as ever. And somehow, you knew he always would.

—

Lothlórien was not of this world.

The air shimmered with a quiet power, something older than words. The Fellowship moved carefully beneath the golden leaves, their footsteps soft on the winding paths. Even Gimli, reluctant as he had been to enter an Elven realm, had fallen into an uneasy silence.

And you?

You felt the land. The trees whispered of ages past, the river hummed beneath its surface, and for the first time since Moria, something inside you settled.

The others still watched you—less wary than before, but uncertain. Even after you had saved them, the weight of your power still lingered between you. They did not fear you, not exactly. But they did not yet understand you.

But Galadriel did.

She stood before you, luminous in the twilight, her presence filling the glade without effort. When her gaze passed over the Fellowship, each member tensed—except for you.

Because when her eyes met yours, there was no hesitation.

There was recognition.

The Fellowship watched as she stepped toward you, her movements fluid as water. And then—before you could even think to bow—she did.

A slow, graceful incline of her head. A gesture of respect.

Murmurs rippled through the group. You felt their stares, their quiet disbelief. But Galadriel paid them no mind.

“Child of the river,” she murmured, her voice like a song, “you have come far.”

Your throat tightened. You had never spoken to her before, but somehow, she knew you. Knew what you had done, what you were.

“I—” You hesitated, glancing at the Fellowship, then back at her. “I only did what was necessary.”

A faint smile touched her lips. “And yet, few could do what you have done.”

Her eyes flickered toward Legolas—who stood at your side, silent but watchful—then back to you. “You are no danger to them,” she said, as if she had plucked the very thought from your mind. “Only to those who would seek to harm them.”

The tension in your chest loosened.

She turned then, addressing the others. “Your companion is strong, but strength alone is not what makes her worthy of your trust.” Her gaze swept over them, quiet and knowing. “It is her kindness. Her restraint.”

Boromir looked down, as if ashamed of his previous doubts. Frodo’s small shoulders straightened. Aragorn inclined his head, thoughtful. Even Gimli muttered something under his breath, though it was not unkind.

And Legolas…

He had never needed convincing.

Galadriel turned back to you, her voice softer now. “Do not fear your nature, child. The river does not ask permission to flow. Neither should you.”

Something inside you cracked open. A quiet understanding.

When she turned to leave, you bowed—deeply, fully, pressing a hand over your heart.

She smiled.

And for the first time since Moria, the weight between you and the Fellowship was gone.

—

Lothlórien had softened something in the Fellowship.

After Galadriel’s words, the air between you and the others felt lighter. The glances they gave you were no longer edged with uncertainty. Boromir no longer seemed wary. Frodo no longer watched you as if you might take the burden from him. Even Gimli—gruff as ever—had given you a nod when you passed him by the silver-lit stream.

And Legolas?

He had always looked at you without fear. But now, there was something else in his gaze. Something you could not yet name.

The Fellowship remained in Caras Galadhon for several days, resting beneath the golden boughs, letting the weariness of Moria fade. You spent much of that time by the river’s edge, listening to the quiet hum of the water. It was the only thing that had ever made sense to you.

You heard him approach before he spoke.

“You belong here.”

Legolas stood a few feet away, his bow slung over his shoulder, his fair features illuminated by the soft glow of the trees. He did not say it like a question.

You smiled faintly, trailing your fingers through the water. “Perhaps.”

He stepped closer, lowering himself beside you, his keen eyes watching your movements. “Galadriel’s words have settled your heart.”

You exhaled, letting the cool water ripple against your skin. “I think… I feared myself more than they ever did.”

Legolas tilted his head slightly. “And now?”

You glanced at him. “I think I was always meant to be this way.”

His lips curved, the softest hint of approval in his expression. “I knew that before you did.”

Your breath caught. The air between you was different now—warmer, charged with something neither of you had spoken aloud.

You turned back to the river, letting the silence settle comfortably between you. “The others no longer seem uneasy.”

“They trust you now,” he said simply. “It only took the Lady of the Wood bowing to you for them to open their eyes.”

You huffed a quiet laugh. “I hope that isn’t the only reason.”

“It is not.”

His voice was steady, sure.

You looked at him again, meeting his gaze fully this time. His blue eyes held something deep—something steady and unmoving, like the roots of an ancient tree.

He reached out then, so gently it sent a shiver through you. His fingers brushed your wrist, where the water still clung to your skin. “You are like the river,” he murmured, “always moving, always changing. But no matter where you go, you are yourself.”

Something in your chest tightened.

Legolas had always seen you—not just your power, not just your uncertainty. But you.

And in that moment, sitting by the silver waters of Lothlórien, you realized you were no longer afraid.

Not of yourself.

Not of what you could become.

And especially not of the way Legolas looked at you, as if you were something endless.

#legolas #legolas greenleaf #Legolas greenleaf x reader #lord of the rings #lord of the rings x reader #lotr #lotr x reader #fluff #light angst

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balrogballs · 4 months ago

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A Flower to the Sun

A short and bittersweet ficlet about fatherhood and a slightly different take on elven fading. Samwise Gamgee comes across Celeborn of Lothlorien on a lonely Lindon beach, the two discuss their daughters, and a decision to sail together is made.

Samwise watches Celeborn sitting on the beach, his legs crossed beneath him, the certainty he's learned to associate with the elves in stark contrast to how… lost this one looks. Sam had found him here on a visit to Lindon, on a solitary beach he’d picked because it was far from the bustle of the Havens.

Unfortunately, the elf clearly thought the same, so much of Sam's visit had been spent sitting on a set of logs watching Celeborn watch the sea. So much for a retirement holiday, he thinks to himself. Celeborn of Lothlorien is frankly the last person he'd expected to spend any part of his dotage existing next to. Perhaps this is just the elf's way of retiring too, he supposes. Perhaps even this ridiculous creature got bored of his trees at last.

On the twelfth day of doing the exact same thing in silence, Sam plods over to Celeborn reluctantly, and offers him a little bow.

“Doing all right, my Lord?” he asks awkwardly. Celeborn offers him a similarly confused, slightly vague smile. “Have you been here long?”

“Ah. Yes, yes. Three hundred and sixteen evenings and counting. But I am sorry, young friend, you seem to know me. Have we met before?”

Sam frowns. Young? His hair was white from head to foot. Every damned curl, and he’d earned it. Had it been literally anyone besides an elf lord who’d said it, he’d….

And then he blinks at the other, something else, something worse catching at him. Have we met? Elven memories this, elven memories that, he’d been told all his life, then they met Elrond who (in Pippin’s words, not his!) “has all the glad and sorrowful memories of the world shoved up his arsehole, ready to be fingered at request”. Have we met?

And then he blinks at Celeborn. The lord is as young and beautiful as ever, yes, but oddly vacant and near-translucent in some lights. Like he isn’t even there, and then is, and then isn’t.

Ah, he realises. Ah.

“Yes, my lord,” Sam says quietly. “We have met. My name is Samwise Gamgee. We met during the Ring Quest. I was with, with, with Mister Frodo. My greatest friend in the world. I’ll be off to see him soon.”

“Is that so?” Celeborn blinks at him, confused. “My greatest friend is Galadriel, my wife. Marvellous thing, she is, my sun and stars. Ring quest, is it? Probably something Elrond thought up, I wager. Do you know him? He’s the little donkey that my daughter, my Celebrían, married. For good or for ill. Do you have a daughter?”

“I do,” Sam smiles reflexively, passing over the lord calling Elrond a donkey, having existed for far too long near Pippin, who has called him far worse. “My Elanor, lively thing she is. Apple of my eye, then and now.”

“Ah, so you know!” Celeborn smiles at him, looking almost solid for a split second. “It’s wonderful, isn’t it? That first moment, when you hold them in your arms. Feet first, my Cello-baby was born, did you know that? Feet first, and then the rest of her, and I was the first to truly hold her skin-to-skin. She had opened her eyes right there, like a flower to the sun as I always say, those scraps of blue sky in her eyes, and I fell feet-first into this unbearable affliction. That of loving something far more than yourself. Just like that. What an astonishing honour it is, Samwise, to be gazed at by a wonder like that. Don’t you agree?”

“Absolutely, sir, I just ‘bout burst into tears when I first held my Nori,” Sam feels a lump tighten his throat at the thought of that and of their farewell, though he is somewhat comforted seeing that Celeborn is just as misty-eyed. “You’re absolutely right. A right honour, that’s it.”

“Ah, I can see from the look in your eyes,” Celeborn claps his hands together and Sam is startled to her near-silence, as if the slap of his palms hadn’t even happened. “I can see you know what I do: holding your baby daughter for the first time, how it feels!”

“Like the bravest Hobbit to ever live,” Sam sits on the sand next to him, looking out at the sea.

“Yes! Like the most noble elf in all of history. Like you have made a friend for life, just like that,” smiles the lord.

Sam can almost see the trees through his eyes.

The loneliest creature in all of Arda, he thinks inexplicably.

“Just like that,” he echoes. Celeborn offers him a drink from his flask companionably, which he gratefully accepts.

“Would you wait with me, Master Hobbit?” asks the elf lord. “I think today might be the day.”

“Might be the day, my lord?”

“That her ship arrives,” Celeborn tells him, gesturing out at the sea ahead of them. “She went on a journey, you see. My Celebrían. It was on this little beach we all said our farewells and see you soons, you see. I don’t remember when. Maybe a couple of years have gone by, so, she should be arriving back soon. She’d always hated the sea, you know. I tell you, that Elrond probably has something to do with this delay, the little mollusc.”

“You’re waiting for… you’re waiting for your daughter?” Sam whispers. “For Celebrían?”

Celeborn nods casually, says “I’ve been here every day,” and then slaps his knees, smiling. “I seem to have forgotten the date she’d said she’d come back, see? But today’s the day. I’m certain.”

Oh Mister Frodo, Sam finds himself thinking, eyes filling with sudden tears. Such a land of sorrows ours has become.

“Today’s the day,” Celeborn says again, in a fierce whisper.

He’s not even here. He’s not been here for years.

“It isn’t,” Sam says steadily, but reaches out and grasps Celeborn’s phantasmal, translucent hand in his liver-spotted one. “They’ve stopped receiving ships in this harbour, see. In the Havens that is. But there’s a way.”

Celeborn’s fingers tighten on his, shaking, and Sam almost feels it. “Is there a way? Do you know it? I’ll go. I’ll go now, I’ll go anywhere for her. She must be thinking I’m so... so silly. Having waited on the wrong beach. But I have forgotten…”

“Do you know Círdan?”

Celeborn shakes his head slowly.

“Should I? I have forgotten much, I think. I don’t know how. Oh, I fear I have forgotten ever so much, my friend. I did not want to. I didn’t mean to.”

“That’s all right,” Sam reaches out, wipes a freezing tear off the trembling chin. “I know him. You don’t need to. You remember the important people, that’s enough. It’s a while away, this place, but we’ll go together, you and I. It’s a little while away, over the sea.”

“Do you know the way to where she is, once we get there?”

“Well, no,” Sam shrugs, still smiling. He grasps Celeborn’s other hand, warms it in his. “But when we get there, Mister Frodo told me he’d be waiting on the docks. And he’ll know the way, I promise you that. I’d not lie to you, Lord Celeborn. And not just your girl. Your Lady Galadriel too. Both of them.”

Celeborn is shaking all over now, looking at Sam with suddenly wide-helpless eyes.

“What is it, lord?”

“I have forgotten much, my friend,” he repeats. “What if they have forgotten too? What if they have forgotten me? I have wasted too much time, I fear. What if they do not recall me?”

His eyes look like Mister Frodo’s eyes, Sam realises. During those last steps up the mountain. Like a calamity certain to pass.

Sam had never thought this would be what it means to fade like the elves. He had thought it would be easy, painless, much better than dying. But this. This is worse than dying, he thinks. To fade is not to leave a land of sorrows, but to become part of it. To become another sorrowful thing, nameless and drifting about hills and trees. And Samwise Gamgee has always refused to let such things happen. No, not on his watch.

Celeborn is far too tall for Sam to carry. He won’t even try. But his hands are steady, and so is his shoulder. There’s plenty of him left to lean on, that he knows. He clasps Celeborn’s own shoulder, squeezes it tight and turns the elf towards him.

“Don’t even think about it, Lord Celeborn. Where they are, there’s no forgetting, absolutely not,” he grasps his hands again, rubbing some warmth back into them. “You get off that boat with me, we’ll say good-day to Mister Frodo, and then we’ll be off to find your wife, and your girl. There’s no forgetting in that place, you see, nothing like that at all. She’ll open her door, and her awful husband may be there but your girl will see you and know exactly who you are.”

The elf lord laughs a little, brushing his cheek with his sleeve. “She’ll think I’m awfully silly. Waiting in the wrong place like this.”

“That she will. That’s what daughters do, we know that. And then she’ll look at you, like, what was it again you said, sir? Like poetry it was, but I don’t remember...”

“I do,” Celeborn’s eyes are almost solid enough to reflect the dusk-stained sea. He smiles, hands squeezing Sam’s. “She’ll look at me, like a flower to the sun.”

#it has a cute ending i swear #me through tears: TELEPORNO *points*#lord of the rings #balrogballs writes #the silmarillion #lotr #samwise gamgee #frodo baggins #galadriel #celeborn #celedriel #celebrían #celebrian #elrond peredhel #tolkien #memory loss

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miraculan-draws · 1 year ago

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I AM NOT DONE YET BECAUSE I LOVE ELF SHIT!!

More Astarion speaking elvish. More complicated emotion in regards to religion—for a high elf named after the stars, one who tried all the gods and was ignored. More about being abandoned by Correllon, the Protector of Elves, the Father, who guides wayward souls by starlight. More about his FAMILY because he's not even that old!! They're like most definitely alive!! Where are they from? Did he leave home on good terms? More Astarion as our translator, more Astarion gossiping with Elf Tav and feeling so much more at ease and less prone to performing, but if you EVER BRING IT UP he'll shut down. He's all pointy ears. I would like to discuss the pointy ears and their implications.

#bg3 #im sorry i know you're all tired of me talking about him but theres still meat on this bone #and i aint nothin but a hound dog #astarion #astarion ancunìn

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steorrneleom · 5 months ago

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BG3 Elven Names: A Watsonian Perspective

Amongst folks who like Astarion as a character, the meaning of his name is a common topic of discussion. The answer is typically that it is a variation of Astērion (Ἀστερίων), a Greek name meaning starry, which makes complete sense considering that he is likely a moon elf, but it is based in a language that does not actually exist in the Forgotten Realms. This isn’t a problem, a Doylist answer is completely valid, but I thought it would be fun to figure out what the meaning would be in Elvish (the D&D version), a Watsonian answer (1). After Astarion's, I set out to see if this could be done with Halsin and Cazador as well. I present here my results, with narrative. I have also included a TLDR at the end for those who want to skip the methodology.

(1) To any who may not be aware: Doylist means that it is what the author was thinking when writing / what their intention was. Watsonian means the in-universe perception / explanation. Example: Why did magic change so much between D&D 3.5e and D&D 4e? Doylist answer is that they wanted to simplify how magic worked to draw in new players. Watsonian answer is that Mystra was assassinated by Shar and Cyric resulting in arcane magic becoming unstable and changing its behavior.

In the Lack of Duolingo

First things first, I needed a resource for the Elven language in D&D. As with many collaborative canons, official uses of the language were spread through many mediums and over the course of decades. This makes hunting down sources difficult, but luckily a wonderful person by the name of Diane Morrison was kind enough to create ‘A Treatise on Espruar,’ which offers a complete dictionary. This is what I will be using:

A quick disclaimer that, also like with many collaborative canons, this language has inconsistencies and gaps which makes a true cannon language impossible until a complete conlang is officially released. What I present is to the best of our current resources.

Method to the Madness

I have the words, but next comes the challenge of using them. These names were not made to be interpreted in the lens I am using, so it is kind of like trying to fit a square peg in anything but a square hole. Some words can line up near perfect but have meanings that make absolutely no sense, like dragon royal world, or some words can have the right meanings but have the wrong letters. I resolved this with the following criteria:

The words used must be as close to the name as possible.

Sound shifts must be minimal and not drastic.

As few letter drops as possible.

A meaning that makes sense in context (as much as possible).

Key

Word / part of word Meaning

Astarion

Something noteworthy about Astarion’s name that I kept in mind when translating it is that it was his ‘child name’, the name that was given to him by his parents and not one he chose for himself (2). This means that the meaning wouldn’t necessarily be one that he himself liked, but rather one that a parent would like to ascribe to their child.

Searching for words, one almost seemed perfect at first: Aasterinian (meaning quicksilver). It was already so close to his name without having to Frankenstein words together, but sadly it broke nearly all of my rules. It had three letter drops and two sound shifts: er to ar and ian to ion. I also was of the opinion that while quicksilver was a fine name meaning, it wasn’t one that felt like it was meant for a child.

So, the next option was a combination of Aestar (meaning together or one heart) and -ion (meaning noble). I was hesitant of this one at first. The meaning I wanted to use for Aestar, heart, had seemed to be reserved for the context of marriage at first glance, but then I saw the name Araestar with its meaning of Goldheart. This is evidence that heart is valid for names as well.

Thus, my Watsonian idea is that Astarion’s name comes from Aestarion, which translates to noble heart. This only has one letter drop and a slight sound shift from Ae to A. I also personally think noble heart is a fitting meaning for a child’s name.

(2) Astarion’s tombstone has his name and states he was 39 when he ‘died’. Elves are typically considered adults and choose their new name when they reach the age of 100.

Halsin

Halsin was a bit of a hard one, where there were tons of possibilities but near all of them just didn’t fit right. Halsin is 350 years old, he would have presumably chosen his name with a meaning that represented him as a person. He, in my opinion, wouldn’t have a name that meant something random like weak brook or red. In addition, I had to find a combination of words that fit my rules.

So, I had to write down three prefix possibilities, five word possibilities, three suffix possibilities, and mix and match until I got something that met my criteria. I won't include my rejected combinations due to their number, but here are some reasons I rejected them: ‘r to l sound shift is too drastic’, ‘the on sound is too different from in’, and ‘though m and n are close in the IPA the sound shift feels too great’. Luckily, I did find a combination I was satisfied with in the end.

My Watsonian idea is that Halsin’s name comes from Halasan which translates to one who is free and wild. The ending of Halasan would likely be pronounced like in already so it would only be a letter change instead of a sound shift. The only other change needed would be a letter drop, the a in las.

Cazador

Now this name I went in thinking that it would be the true challenge, the 'z' felt distinctly non-elven to me, but much to my surprise D&D elven does have the z sound and letter. It was still hard to get a good meaning out of it, especially since it is unknown whether this would be his child name or his adult name and there was only one combination of words that worked.

The collection of words at my disposal were cas which means herald, -adar which means world, and za which means royal, of royalty. From this, I got Cazadar, which is a modification of Casadar that adds za. This would give a direct translation of herald of royalty world, which I feel would be interpreted as royal herald (to the world). It isn’t the cleanest meaning, but I feel like there is ego and world domination vibes to it, so it works.

A slight tangent, it is debatable how valid my overlapping construction is. It is possible that the shift from cas to caz would be seen as just a letter shift and not an addition of the word za. This wouldn’t be a problem, herald of the world is still a valid meaning for my purposes, despite it losing some of the ego. There is also the possibility that the za is seen but it results in the caz being interpreted as ca, a letter shift from ka which means dragon. Since there is no dor or dar in elvish, it is possible that it would be seen either as an ornamentation or a shortening of -adar, in which case the translation becomes dragon of royalty or dragon of royalty world. These meanings aren’t horrible in the case of a wrongful interpretation, but it doesn’t entirely make sense, and Kazaadar breaks the rules I imposed.

With all this being said, my Watsonian idea is that Cazador’s name comes from Cazadar, which can be translated to royal herald (to the world). This is the one name that I created that feels like a stretch, but I tried my best.

Last Names

I originally only did the first names when I decided to make this, but then I realized while typing all this that this probably wouldn’t be complete without trying the last names too... and so, I decided to give them a try. I sat down with the elven dictionary and felt the hope leave my body as soon as I wrote them down on my scrap paper. Ancunín, with a little accent on the ‘i’ and a super rare letter for D&D elvish, ‘u’; and Szarr, with two consonants (S and Z of all things) next to each other. I predicted a struggle, a struggle is what I got, and I fled the battle, unsuccessful. I was not able to find anything that met my rules… yet.

I will revisit this someday, but it will require a lot more research on Faerûn than I am able to put in right now, sadly. Here is the fun thing about last names, they are often more influenced by location as opposed to the ethnic origin of someone. Case and point: in the US a lot of folks changed their last name upon arrival to better fit in, or it was messed up enough times that they changed it for convenience sakes. Examples: Müller turning into Miller (a spelling change), Zimmermann becoming Carpenter (a direct translation), or going from Sadowski to Smith (A complete change to assimilate). They also have a different meaning convention compared to regular names to begin with, where they can be based on the location an ancestor lived, their occupation, or their nickname.

A Watsonian answer may exist for Ancunín and Szarr, but it would be rooted in where their families lived through the eras and other local languages that might have influenced the original elvish version. Like perhaps the location the Ancunín family is from has a predominant language which favors ‘u’ as a vowel. Maybe Szarr isn’t elvish at all and is an occupation name. I don’t know if I will be able to find a satisfying answer, but if I do one day I will be sure to post it.

Bonus

Espruar is the alphabet of the elvish language, which looks really cool in my opinion. Before I even started looking into the Watsonian origins of the names, I thought it would be cool to see what their names looked like written in it and so vectorized all the letters. Below are the character's names and their origin names written with Espruar.

Astarion

Aestarion

Halsin

Halasan

Cazador

Casadar

Cazadar

Little End Note

I want to thank everyone who read through my long explanations and tangents, I hope you enjoyed reading the thought process behind all of these ☺️. I also wanted to let you folks know that I am going to make another post soon with my vectorized Espruar alphabet so anyone can write with it should they want to.

TLDR

#super long post #sorry #there's a tldr at the very end #fun elven alphabet near the end in the bonus section #I tried to describe the letters best I could in the alt text too #bg3 #bg3 meta #baldur's gate 3 #baldurs gate 3 #astarion #halsin #cazador szarr

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talenlee · 2 months ago

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3.5e: The Prestige Classes of the Complete Warrior

The Complete Warrior was a book of all time. All the Complete books had their virtues and their vices, but the Complete Warrior was one of the first attempts by the designers in the lifespan of 3.5 to try and introduce some juice to the least powerful part of the game that was also, fundamentally, the most vital and popular. People love their human fighters, they love swords and they love archery and they love doing the cool fantasy things that wizards don’t do.

The Complete Warrior was a book that brought with it tools for the non-spellcaster, and how good or bad a job it did of it notwithstanding, one of the things it brought was a host of prestige classes. A prestige class is something like a Paragon path, but more retrictive and harder to implement. You need to fulfill requirements to get into it, and then each one gives you powers or benefits at irregular intervals.

I thought it’d be fun to look at them.

And then I found there were 30 of them.

Be pretty silly to look at all 30 of them, right? Pretty silly to take all these dusty archaic game pieces and one-by-one them to a general audience and discuss their design limitations or the idea of class fantasy, right?

Have to be a bit of a goober for that?

Bear Warrior

A barbarian whose rage is so potent they turn into a bear.

The Bear Warrior is a great place to start the list. It is 100% perfectly fine; you give up late-game Barbarian perks, your skills aren’t quite the same, and in exchange you get to do something that is new and cool but builds on what you were already going to do. Anything you ask a Barbarian to do, a Bear Warrior can do probably do about as well, but, and this is important, the Bear Warrior gets to transform into a big fighting bear.

Class fantasy fulfilled, mechanically reasonable, and doesn’t demonstrate an ignorance of the game rules.

Bladesinger

An artful melee spellcaster who can cast spells while fighting.

3.5 D&D had a longstanding puzzle for optimisers about how to make a type of character we called a ‘gish’ – a fighting spellcaster that could cast high-level spells, and fight in combat. The idea was a novel one that still appeals to me, since the power to do either side is going to be consumed by the things you need to feed the other half. The Bladesinger is one of many, many prestige classes in this tradition, and it’s actually decent.

This fulfills the class fantasy of being an elf, with a sword, casting spells and fighting at the same time. The name ‘Bladesinger’ has some truly broken history (back in 2e it was amazing), and this version carries that name, doesn’t make unreasonable demands of you to get access to it and delivers on the theme.

I kind of think of the Bladesinger now as a sort of robust middle-of-the-road gish class. It will do everything you need, it won’t ask you to do anything weird to get it, and while there’s more powerful and more flexible versions, there’s nothing wrong about using it and you get to do something most other gishes don’t (cheat the action economy).

Cavalier

A mounted knight who is good at being a mounted knight.

Here’s where we begin one of the first real drive-into-a-ditch problems of the Complete Warrior. See, Paladins are appealing to people who want to fight in melee, and that means there are some prestige options here for improving Paladins. This one, the Cavalier, is really only good if you are a Paladin, because mounted combat without a Paladin’s special mount options involves transporting around a mundane animal with maybe thirty hit points that can be crisped by a fireball.

What you get out of this class when you jump into is, uh, being a good mounted combatant. Like Paladins mostly already are. I want to give this modest praise for specialising, but the problem is, the Paladin who doesn’t take this route eventually gets Holy Sword, which is really amazing for charging cavalry Paladins, and this class doesn’t get Holy Sword.

It can get Holy Sword through wands I guess?

Dark Hunter

A hunter, but roguey.

Hey, hang on, hold this for a second.

Darkwood Stalker

A rogue, but huntery.

Alright, back. The Darkwood Stalker and Dark Hunter are close to each other in both what they’re doing and how worthless they are. They are both melee combatants that want to be good at stealth and reward that stealth with combat options that make you better from stealth, using the time honoured tradition of Sneak Attack. Know what else gets Sneak Attack? The Rogue, and the Rogue is a standard class that doesn’t need prestige class requirements. It’s also really good. In fact if you want to, taking a Rogue and specialising to make it tougher and better at melee will yield a better version of both of these prestige classes than sticking them onto a Ranger or Fighter or whatever ever could.

Oh, and the Darkwood Stalker brings in race-specific combat abilities, which is uh, bad. It gets a death attack which is terrible since it requires three turns of anticipation, only targets orcs, and gives a save-or-die. It is an ability whose upside is probably not as good as three multi-turn attacks, and it’s your capstone ability for don’t bother.

Bonus: When you get it, wizards have already had access to a spell that can save-or-die any target, even if it’s not an orc, and they get it at level nine.

Dervish

A fleet-footed combat dancer who moves through a battlefield to a rhythm that makes them untouchably dangerous.

The Dervish is a really cool class fantasy, it lets you specialise in something most fighters want, and it presents you with an interesting puzzle to solve if you want to use it well. Basically, you can attack and move, and you can do more attacks and more moves, but you have to be able to move into a new square every time, and you can’t move back into the last square you were in.

To maximise your Dervishing you need to map through a combat and the result is both effective and satisfying. Amazing class, absolutely worth the effort to get into it, and it makes you good at either enormous targets with uncomplicated terrain around them (like giants and dragons) or really widely spread out weak targets. Thing is, there’s a lot more than just those two options, and it gives you room to screw up and get yourself put somewhere really dangerous if you’re reckless.

Shame about the slightly racialised name.

Drunken Master

You’ve seen that guy in a Jackie Chan movie? Yeah, like that!

Oh boy, speaking of racialised names.

The Drunken Master is a monk prestige class that gives the monk the ability to fight with improvised weapons. This is something that the monk could already do through narrative description (hitting people into things like benches, tables, and ladders) but don’t worry, the Drunken Master is here to let you do that exact thing, but not as well.

This class is fine, but it’s not better than the base class it comes from.

Exotic Weapon Master

Well you tell me I shouldn’t pick up three exotic weapon proficiencies, but what if I did, mom?

This class is a big pile of special options but isn’t worth it. Nothing it unlocks is as good as you can get from other prestige classes that are less demanding. Exotic weapons are, largely, not worth using, since they are weapons and therefore they are all balanced around not making longswords and two-handed swords redundant, and that means that the best you can do is the Jovar or Bastard Sword, which are the same thing but slightly better. All the other fancy cool looking weapons fall behind on the math, and in some cases by a lot.

Remember, the tonfa is a club and it’s an ‘exotic weapon’ in this system.

This is a bunch of feats that aren’t good enough, in a trenchcoat, and should have been a modal feat instead.

Eye of Gruumsh

Hating elves and depth perception is a personality.

Stick your eye out! Become an Eye of Gruumsh! Get the special powers of Being Good At Fighting, which you already were!

Look, sometimes something exists to be a flavour option and then the designer gives up on making it so there’s any reason to want that flavour. This is what sometimes gets called an NPC prestige class; something that only exists so NPCs can take it to make them more interesting or specific as a combat encounter for players. You have to play a bad heritage to get into this class, then you have to focus on a bad weapon, and then you have to impose a material penalty on yourself, and then with all that, you get a perk that’s not useful as a player.

Bonus, the class is racist. Its bonuses are focused on being better at fighting elves.

Frenzied Berserker

The fantasy of raging so hard you hit teammates with an actual payoff.

The first big flaring red light of ‘this is a problem’ class in the book, though not necessarily for reasons you might imagine. The Frenzied Berserker is an extremely strong melee combatant whose drawback is that other players who don’t respect what you do can get hurt.

This is a bummer.

For them.

This is a rare example of a prestige class that is, ostensibly, delivering on what it promises and what it delivers is worth waiting for. It’s for people who want to play an out-of-control rager who is a danger to themselves and others. Where it gets weird is that by ignoring death rules, it can do some odd things with a bucket of water if you’re the kind of DM who doesn’t hold the reigns tight enough to say ‘I know the rules say you can return to 0 hp by sticking your head in a bucket, Dave, but we both know you know that’s stupid.’

Gnome Giant-Slayer

How do we compensate gnomes for being awful at fighting the things they should want to fight all the time?

Structurally, it is weird that the Complete Warrior got this when the gnome handbook, Races of Stone could have used it more. Then again, saying anyone could use this is overstating it, because nobody needed it. This is a prestige class about making one specific type of small character better at fighting big things, which seems a skillset that should be generalised and not at all related to a specific heritage.

This is also something like the fourth prestige class so far that wants the feat Spring Attack. It’s almost like that’s the only thing fighters can do that the designers can point to as a desireable prerequisite.

Halfling Outrider

The triple union of horse girl, good boy, and hobbit superiority.

I’ve written about this one before! The Halfling Outrider is part of the Supermount design, which didn’t exist until after this book was made. It’s a perfectly good class without that, and it does something the Cavalier doesn’t do – in that it’s something you can get into from multiple points and provides a reason to do so.

Hulking Hurler

Want to throw things at people? Like, really big things?

Okay, deep breath.

The Hulking Hurler is one of the most broken things in this book, and I mean broken as in ‘rules don’t work this way normally.’ The Hulking Hurler gets the ability to throw objects as improvised weapons, which then deals damage based not on the object’s design, but rather based on the object’s weight, and that’s a stat that scales up.

A 400 pound object, when flung, deals 5d6 damage. If it’s sharp, like a stalactite or jagged rock, it’s doubled, meaning that you’re flinging 10d6 damage at level 7. For a Hulking Hurler to fling one of those you need a strength of around 23, and it goes up from here. There are magic items for improving your carrying capacity, and for storing large items. Thing is, this number here is where the normal table maxes out, and carrying capacity and object weight damage do not scale up in the same way. When your strength goes 10 times over the cap in the book (so if you can hit 39), your carrying capacity quadrouples, and the damage goes up by 1d6 per 200 pounds. You start needing to do algebra homework on your damage dealing.

This gets ridiculous combined with the War Hulk prestige class from the Miniatures Handbook, but it’s worth remembering that even without that combo, this is still introducing into one whole combat economy (hit points and strength mods) another unrelated one (weight capacity).

Hunter of the Dead

A holy warrior that casts spells and purges the undead. Paladin? No, shh.

Sometimes a prestige class has a clear conceptual flavour but not a good way to deliver on it. This, for example, should probably just be a Paladin variant.

Invisible Blade

A sneaky stealthy fighter who fights with two daggers.

There’s a body of classes that are about giving you an existing feature, but worse. In this case, the class gives you sneak attack, but only with daggers, and then a way to surrender that sneak attack for a worse effect. Cool idea, but piss-poor execution meaning it’s just not worth it to care. Giving up 1d6 sneak attack for 1 point damage over time effect means that you have to wait 3 rounds to, on average, catch up with just sneak attacking.

Also, the Invisible Blade can add its intelligence to its AC, but that bonus is capped by its class level.

Essentially, this class has some cool ideas (bleeding sneak attacks and nimble defenses) but made sure to make them suck in case people got too eager to play with them. After all, this is the fighter book, not a wizard book.

Justiciar

You’re a fucking cop.

The ability to deal nonlethal safely (kinda nice, maybe worth a feat with some other perk), and then improvements to tying people up mid-combat, presenting a unique form of control that trades turns of damage knocking someone out for a few turns of grappling them in the hopes they then won’t escape artist or strength their way out of your restraints.

It’s a gimmick.

It’s probably a gimmick for an NPC.

If you’re really into the idea of dealing nonlethal damage, unarmed combat has plenty of support. The sap isn’t terrible. Hell, know how else you can do nonlethal damage? With the Merciful Enchantment from the Dungeonmaster’s Guide, which lets you inflict nonlethal safely and freely. and you can just buy it with gold.

Crippling strike is cool, but it’s not worth the investment of this class. A point of stat damage is also, something you can put on a weapon enchantment.

Also you’re a cop.

Kensai

Spiritually attuned weapon masters who want to express a really cool element of their weapon.

It’s kind of embarrassing how mystical this one has to be to justify what it is.

The Kensai is good at their weapon. It’s not always a sword, but this is 3.5, if you care about weapons, you care about swords. The Kensai is overwhelmingly going to be about doing a good job with its sword. The Kensai can spend experience to improve their sword, customising it without ever having to hand it to a wizard, and, spent right, this can be useful to bust through economy barriers. Depends on how your DM wants to handle XP I suppose.

Anyway, the Kensai also gets some cool abilities like using a concentration check to improve their body or transfer perks to allies, or do cool things with their attacks. It’s a good system and it casts its shadow onto 4th edition’s encounter and daily combat powers, which of course, nobody before 4e knew anything about.

Knight of the Chalice

A holy warrior that casts spells and purges demons. Paladin? No, shh.

Sometimes a prestige class has a clear conceptual flavour but not a good way to deliver on – hey wait I said this already. But it’s true! It’s a more specialised Paladin that doesn’t pay out worth the effort.

Look, demon hunting Paladin wannabes. If you want to attack outsiders, if you want your powers to be better at hurting outsiders, don’t look at your shitty spellcasting. Get a weapon and cast Holy Sword on it.

Knight Protector

A knight, who tries to protect people.

This is largely just alright, but it is important that this class is trying out ideas for aggro management that would become important in 4e when they were put in place more structurally.

Master Thrower

A thrower who is good at it.

Absolute piss.

This is here to make throwing weapons good, because throwing weapons are good in fantasy fiction because throwing weapons looks cool in fantasy movies. But the game system is not set up for that, because throwing weapons aren’t one of the chosen good types of weapons to do, like a longsword.

If you want to attack things at range, a lot, with a cool weapon nobody’s noticing, play a cleric, get into archery, and make your weapon invisible. The class fantasy here is obvious, and the delivery is terrible, but don’t worry, the alternative is also bad.

Master of the Unseen Hand

The powerful urge to use telekinesis to smash people into walls like a big splatty hand.

Hello, wizard prestige class, what are you doing here?

Well I know what you’re doing here, you’re trying to make something wizardy that feels fighty. The Master of the Unseen Hand gets to use the Telekinesis power and use it like a weapon at range. That’s really cool, and lets you do things like pick people up and throw them out of combat so hard they leave their boots behind (as per the class fantasy art). The way it works is a bit wonky, so talk to your DM ahead of time about whether it works the way it states it works or the way it seems to want to work.

You can even do something cool with this one! You wanna know how? It involves your character taking on levels of Savage Progression as a ghost.

Want to be good at this prestige class? Just die!

Mindspy

A spy, for minds, because high concept is hard.

What the hell is this doing here.

The Mindspy is an inexplicable rogue class sitting in the fighter book because I guess we needed some good space filler, to go along with the Cavalier, Hunter of the Dead and Knight of the Chalice.

Nature’s Warrior

A dangerous form-shifting warrior that stalks the woods and uses the forms of animals to attack its foes.

A class for augmenting wildshape, one of the best and most broken abilities the Druid has access to. Druids advance their wildshape by levelling up as Druid, and doing so also brings with it all the Druidic spellcasting and the other class abilities they get, which is pretty good and cool, even if you don’t get more base attack bonus. You have to ask yourself if you’d rather iterate one attack or get the full monster attack pattern that a bear or smilodon gets.

Point is, if you can wildshape, you wanna stay in the best class in the game for wildshape.

Still, it’s potentially useful for a ranger that wildshapes.

Occult Slayer

Wizards hate him, because of this one weird trick.

Noticing that wizards were better than all melee combatants, some classes were designed like competing organisms in an ecosystem. This is a fighter who is meant to be better at fighting wizards, which would scare wizards a lot if they had to ever care about things that made saving throws when they could just impose a bunch of negative levels with a level 4 spell.

It’s very hard to compete with an apex predator because they’re apexes for a reason. What a fighter could do is tackle a wizard with a grapple, but that might not work more than once. You’d need to be really good at grappling.

Order of the Bow Initiate

A kind of archery monk.

One of many classes that imagines swapping multiple attacks for single bigger attack is good. Since it doesn’t use skirmish or sneak attack (which both can be multiplied), and its overall damage output is extra d8s instead of extra d8s+all bonuses, it’s only good for overwhelming enormous damage resistance, which doesn’t exist in 3.5.

Unless you’re trying to shoot your way through something with hardness.

Basically, this is the class for shooting a castle wall to death, and that would be cool as hell, but nobody wants to do that. It’s a perfectly reasonable tool for a bad job.

Purple Dragon Knight

A refugee from the world of Faerun, with the knights of Cormyr, whose lore is large and tedious.

Novelty here is that there’s the dawn of another 4e mechanic (a challenge). Otherwise it gets to live alongside the Cavalier, and the other Knights, just generic mish-mash of ‘kinda a Paladin, but not as good.’

Rage mage

You wouldn’t want me to cast spells when I’m angry.

Know what spellcasters love? Losing spellcaster levels.

What the Rage Mage does as a class fantasy is be able to rage and also to cast spells. This is a thing that is perfectly reasonable to want to do and a novelty as a class, but doing so involves splitting your focus to get into the class and then making your execution of that class role worse, because you’re giving up spellcaster levels to do it.

Terrible idea, back to the drawing board, fix all.

Ravager

Servants of a god of pain that get to be good at inflicting and sharing pain.

I suppose the best I can say about the Ravager is that it lives up to its class pitch. It’s just a class whose prestige ability is ‘do a bit more damage.’ It’s another class that doesn’t compare well to (say) sneak attack, which is a repeating theme in this book of how many of these prestige classes could be replaced by just multiclassing rogue a little.

These four level classes are really bad.

Reaping Mauler

A grappling specialist.

Oh hey, it’s that thing that the Occult Slayer wishes it could do. The Reaping Mauler is straightforward, focused, and good at what it wants to do. Weird name, considering it neither reaps nor mauls, but what are you going to call some kind of specialist at wrestling and grappling? There’s no good word for such a thing, right?

Ronin

Samurai have codes of conduct; what if they fail to live up to them?

A samurai prestige class, which is to say, let’s take a piss-bad class and give it a weak prestige class that doesn’t improve its biggest problems. It does follow neatly in the tradition of the samurai, which is worse than a fighter, by giving it a prestige class that’s worse than a blackguard and worse than just multiclassing rogue.

Weren’t we just talking about that?

Spellsword

A wizard, a sword, some armour.

Hey, remember that Gish discussion from all the way up in the Bs, with the Bladesinger? Yeah! This is another example of a gish, trying to fix the 3e prestige class of the same name. Sadly, the Spellsword kind of sucks compared to even its most mundane competition, the Eldritch Knight in the Dungeonmaster’s Guide.

The evolution of this class fantasy in 3.5 is fascinating. By the end of the game’s life there was a core class that did this – full base attack bonus, full spellcasting, in armour, from day 1, and what they used to balance that class was its access to spells. Seems like the obvious way to do it in hindsight.

Stonelord

Dwarf fighters that lean into the aesthetic of being all about stone and rock.

One of the failures of imagination in 3.5 was that when you had to ask how to expand the fighter, you just gave it spells, and those spells replaced being a fighter. The Stonelord surrenders the feats of a fighter in the name of having access to a bunch of spells, which is something you could do with multiclassing into any number of casters, or even just buying magical items. Hell, you could multiclass rogue again, get Use Magic Device and skirt all this nonsense.

Tattooed Monk

A monk who uses tattoos to enable a host of interesting powers.

The way the Monk interacts with iterative attacks created a problem for potential multiclasses; you really needed to hit your +3 attack every 4 levels, which started at 0; that meant that you’d go 0-1-2-3, then, 3-4-5-6. That meant that if, say, you jumped into a Monk prestige class at level 6 (when most people were jumping into prestige classes) you’d get your 0-1-2-3, 3-4-4-5. Because of the special way monk attacks iterate, being at +5 at level 8 means that you’re behind on your Flurry of Blows progress, which feels weird as a way to handle that.

Anyway, yeah, it’s a monk, with tattoos. Those tattoos are cool magical abilities. Personally, I’d handle tattoos as magical items, the way that the game eventually did, but y’know, sure. It’s not like a class that gives you a bunch of magical items effects is uncommon.

It’s not good, but oh well.

Thayan Knight

A Red Wizard’s personal bodyguard.

The coolest looking class in the book, this is blatantly an NPC class. It’s not worth taking as a player, but its abilities are really annoying to deal with when you’re fighting an enemy red wizard with one of these as a cohort. Should just be some monster abilities.

It’s a dumb design, and a waste of book space. It tells DMs that this is how complicated and fiddly monsters need to be and that slows DMs down and makes the process harder to manage.

War Chanter

A bard whose focus shifts from generalised spells to highly effective combat buffing.

The War Chanter is a rarity in that it’s a thing that pulls you away from a spellcaster class, into a melee class and makes the transition worth it. Now, the caster class it draws from is the bard, a class whose spellcasting is usually an afterthought (or at least, a mid-thought), but the War Chanter really lays out the red carpet for the alternative. You get the full base attack bonus, better hit dice, and immediately get a way to toughen up in combat. Also, the requirements are positively reasonable.

Essentially, this lets you play a bard who fights, and sings as they fight in a way that everyone who hears it appreciates it or fears it. You get better songs than default bards, and you get to benefit from it yourself, and you get to mix and match them together as you level. Hell, the final ability is incredible, letting you turn a gaggle of nobodies into characters who fight as fighters of your level, making them amazing for amplifying pets and cohorts as well!

Warshaper

A shapeshifter who practices ways to make their body warping more powerful.

What the fuck is the Nature’s Warrior doing in this book when the Warshaper is here.

The Warshaper is a short class, which breaks the trend for those in that it’s good. It improves your ability to shapeshift, but it lets you access that shapeshifting in a variety of ways. That means your wildshape forms are stronger but if you say, are a character with inherent Alter Self or some kind of Polymorph effect, that counts too.

Look, the Warshaper isn’t good enough to stop a Druid, I don’t think, but it’s still good enough for anyone else who shapeshifts to at least think about it.

Conclusion

This was stupid and fun. I shouldn’t try and do something comprehensive like this again.

… though there are other Complete books…

Check it out on PRESS.exe to see it with images and links!

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