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sfehvn · 6 months

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Description: Astarion left twenty years earlier, after defeating the elder brain, in search of a cure for his vampiric condition. Tav has not been coping well. A/N: A little angsty, alcohol abuse and Tav being overly-sexual in hopes of feeling some comfort in Astarion's absence; if you aren't comfortable with that you may want to skip this one! Also eludes to Tav being a sorcerer elf, but nothing is explicitly stated. Enjoy! :) Rating: M (18+ minors DNI) Word count: 2,438 Characters: Astarion x Tav

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The gnawing sensation that remained deep-seated in your gut had all but dwindled. Nights filled with booze and meaningless sex did little to appease the hunger that twisted your insides viscerally. That damned vampire had only been in your life for but the slightest fraction. Somehow, he utterly rewired your brain's chemistry in such a minuscule time frame.

“So that’s it then? You’re leaving after everything we’ve been through. Just like that?” The bitterness that dripped from every syllable was palpable as you spoke. An air of disgust and heartbreak hung between you and Astarion.

He remained silent, the cogs of his mind turning while his face remained unreadable. “I will return for you, Tav. I swear it. I must do this alone.”

The scene dissipates into the back of your otherwise empty mind. You had waited. Waited patiently for the return of your lover; spent years willfully ignorant to the fact that he had wholly left you. Two decades came and went before the realization sunk into the essence of your being. He was just gone. The many conquests that filled your bed were always reminiscent of him in at least one way, though you were never able to quench that desire. A white-haired man sits before you, telling fantastical stories, no doubt with the intention of bedding you. You would let him, of course. As he speaks, hands moving with a pristine emphasis of his tales, you can only discern the differences from your once-lover. His locks share the same silver hue but are much too short compared to Astarion’s. Soft tufts of curls are nowhere in sight; the stranger’s hair is pin-straight. The longer you listen to him speak, the more you coin him a prick. The ego wasn’t far from your lover’s, but it was without the redeeming charm you had grown to love.

Despite all of this, you would still follow him to bed, or perhaps a latrine is more this man’s prerogative. Either way, you hoped you could squint your eyes just enough to forget the differences and see a glimpse of Astarion instead.

“Riveting as this conversation is,” You cut the stranger off, and your hand sits on his arm seductively. “I speculate we may get on better in private. Naked.” The pungent scent of alcohol is unmistakable. If it were a decent man before you, he may have chivalrously rejected your advances for fear of taking advantage. This was no decent man, though; he proves it by taking your hand in his and standing from the bar. You had been right about the latrine. He props you against the wall in the outhouse and has his wicked way with you. Your mind is numb as he pounds mindlessly into your mound. You squeeze your eyes shut, and try as you might, your lover is not present in the moment. Instead, you feel dirty, used, and ashamed.

You allow the man to finish, as it only took him a measly two minutes. You had counted. You didn’t bother faking your own orgasm. This one didn’t care. You adjusted your dress until its hem fell to your ankles. “When can I see you again?” He asks. You brush past him wordlessly. His shameless contention is not lost on you as a distasteful ‘bitch’ elicits from his mouth. You pay your tab and start your trek back home.

“Why, though? We’re a team! I told you I’d help you find a cure, Astarion. Please don’t leave me.” Painful tears sting at your eyes, once filled with so much sunshine and radiance. There had even been a touch of naivety to you at that time in your life.

“I don’t want you to.” Astarion was sharp, pointed with his words. “You deserve a break. Months of leading a group of brain-wormed buffoons; you need it. It won’t take me long, and I will be back. I’ll always come back for you.” He reiterates.

The possibility of death was not unfounded. The bitter truth was brutal to swallow but did not subdue your anger. If death were his fate, you could have saved him as you had many times before. It was entirely preventable if the case; he was just too stubborn to see it. Radiance of wealth exuded from your residence; nothing but the best for the hero of Baldur’s Gate. You scoffed. How trivial these things were when you did not have a soul to share it with. Your friends had all gone their separate ways, aside from Wyll and Karlach, who had come to find a happy union together among their time spent so closely in Avernus. Gale had forged a family with a lovely lady from Rivington and now had two children barely into adulthood, himself somewhat up there in age. Lae’Zel wasn’t the best at keeping in touch, but last you had heard, she was off kicking ass like always. Surprisingly, Shadowheart visited you as regularly as she could, but that was still seldom.

All of your old traveling companions had gone on to do great things in their own ways. You were happy for them, you really were, but it’d be a lie if you didn’t admit there was some part of you that envied them. Envied the fulfillment they found within themselves, in the love they discovered in other people. All you had to show for yourself was a house too big for you alone to maintain and, admittedly, a bit of a drinking problem. You grumble as you fight to get the key into the lock of the front door, eager to wash the escapades from earlier off your body.

You slink into the tub's warm water, allowing the liquid to engulf you as you stare at the wall absently. What would you be today if Astarion was at your side? It was a question you had asked yourself a million times over. Probably not the calloused person you became. Not living off of any alcohol you could get your hands on, certainly. Recalling the abandonment made a lump rise in your throat, and you quickly choked it down. No, you would not spill another tear for the man who had left. You would not.

You couldn’t.

You stare at the nearly empty whiskey bottle across the room, but you are sure there is at least enough for a little glass left in it. You refrain from pulling out of the tub with the sole purpose of pouring that glass and instead scrub your body clean. Relief floods over you once you’ve successfully washed off the remnants of the stranger. His seed had stuck to your stomach like a paste when he pulled out, and the way it dried and tightened over your skin had made you want to vomit. You only exit the round tub once you’ve washed your hair. With your silk robe tied loosely around your body, chest exposed, you make a beeline for the whiskey glass that had been teasing you from across the room. A sigh of contempt leaves your mouth when a single drop drips out into your glass. You recap it and debate tossing it, but decide that will be a problem for future you. You take the candle that lit the washroom and shuffle into the hall, holding it far enough in front of you to provide adequate light through the long, dark corridor. The sound of creaking floorboards halts you in your tracks. The sound did not come from beneath your feet, but instead downstairs. Your ears strain in an attempt to make out any other noises. Another creak this time closer to the bottom of your stairs.

You blow out the candle and a quiet incantation for darkvision leaves your lips. There was no fear, whatever sorry bastard chose your home to break into would surely change their tune once they’re at the other end of one of your spells. Suddenly more alert and prepared for whoever emerged, you felt yourself sober as the adrenaline coursed your veins. As quickly as you’re able to make out a faint silhouette bounding up the stairs, another hymn leaves your lips.

“Ignis.”

A firebolt protrudes from the palm of your outstretched hand, bounding quicker for the stranger than they can respond. A searing sounds as it bores straight through the uninvited guest’s clothing, sizzling with now charred flesh. They groan in agony, the silhouette clutching at their injured chest. “You’re quite lucky I like a good chat, or you’d be dead already. Who are you and why are you in my home?” Your voice was unwavering and void of any emotion other than conviction.

“Well, I’d be lying if I say I’m surprised. I do suppose I set myself up for this one, darling. Always the sharp-shooter, you are.” The man attempts a laugh, but it’s lost under the pain in his voice. That voice.

His voice.

Forgotten under a sea of other voices, but you place his cadence immediately. You want to run to him, feel the way his arms fit so naturally around your body, let your lips fall upon his. Your first instincts are quickly replaced with anger. Betrayal. You wanted to hurl another firebolt at him; hells, a fireball would’ve been better but you bite it back. You were angry, but becoming homeless after burning your home down was not something you were prepared to deal with. With a small flick of your wrist, you light the sconces that line the hall and you’re met with the illuminated sight of Astarion. He looks not a day older from the last time you had seen him, dare you say he looked even better.

There’s a tinge of color to his flesh, like he’d been kissed by the morning sun many days over. There was a pink hugh to his skin, reminiscent of fresh blood pumping from a beating heart. Your own skips a beat at the picture of him before you. He was alive. Alive alive. Gone are the ruby-red eyes you had grown to love, replaced with eyes as golden as fresh honey shimmering in the light. You chew the inside of your cheek in an attempt to fight back your tears. Your face remains unchanged despite the flurry of emotions assaulting your brain and heart. “Why are you in my home?” You repeat, as if you had no recollection of the man before you.

Astarion’s features reflect the hurt that he feels from your reaction but quickly he masks it. “Not exactly the welcome-home I was imagining, if I’m telling the truth. This is quite the place you’ve got. I’m pleasantly shocked at how well of a job you did decorating, dear. Though I will probably have to make a few adjustments-”

“Twenty years.” You whisper incredulously, cutting Astarion from his rambling stupor.

“I’m sorry?”

“Twenty years, Astarion!” You shout. You’re no longer able to hold back the floodgates in your eyes. They prick unforgivingly, threatening to pool over onto flushed cheeks. “Twenty years you were gone! And here you are, acting like nothing happened; acting like not a day has passed since we’ve last spoke!” You wipe the tears from your face, angrily laughing that your emotions had betrayed you so. “You don’t even know who I am anymore and you think for a second I’ll allow you in a position to hurt me again?”

Astarion is taken aback by the furious passion that laces your every word. The wound he had been nursing with his hand is abandoned as he attempts to step closer, but you take a swift step back. “It had to be done, Tav. The journey to get where I am today was an arduous one. One that I was not willing to ask you to take with me.”

Your jaw clenches, and there’s no time to collect yourself before you respond. “You didn’t have to ask. I told you I would have followed you through the hells if it meant being with you.” You practically spit the words.

“I wouldn’t allow that.”

“Gods, Astarion! Are you so dense that you don’t see it wasn’t your decision to make regarding what is best for me?” The venom is thick in your tone. “Maybe I would be some semblance of the same person you abandoned all those years ago if I had at least gotten to say goodbye. Perhaps if you had sent a letter I’d be a little more forthcoming with you right now.”

“It was not my intention to abandon you.” He quips back, but sees it was the wrong thing to say as the fire burns brighter behind your eyes. “Against my better judgement I guess that is what I did. Only because I couldn’t fathom saying goodbye to you. I-” He pauses for a beat. “I thought it may make things easier on you, too.”

The laugh that leaves your mouth was a chortle, filled with malice and sarcasm. You grasped for anyway to hurt him in the way he hurt you, “Well you ruined me, Astarion.”

“I did not, you look-”

“Looks are deceiving. I would figure you know that by now. For example, just by looking at me you probably can’t tell I drank my weight in whiskey today. Or yesterday. Or the day before.” You purse your lips. “You probably can’t tell that I allowed a bastard of a man to open my legs and fuck me simply because he shared your hair color just earlier in the evening. Or that a tenday ago I fucked another man who’s laugh almost made me believe you were there. Only for a moment, of course.” There was shame in your words and you wanted to cry harder as you voiced all of the ways you had failed to care for yourself. The desire to make him feel what you felt was too great. You wanted him to hate you the way you had grown to despise him.

His arms pulled you firmly against him, his head ducking to bury his face into your wet hair. You soften under his touch, allowing yourself to go limp as he holds you. Guilt eats at Astarion’s subconscious as you cry into his shirt. It didn’t matter if you tried to push him away. It didn’t matter what you had done to cope with his absence. He was home and he was going to prove to you that he was not going anywhere ever again. Everything he had gone through in the past twenty years, he had powered through with the thought of making it home.

You were his home.

#astarion x reader #ascended astarion #ascended!astarion x reader #tav #reader #ascended!astarion x tav #bg3 #astarion #astarion x tav #x reader

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gothhabiba · 4 months

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Hi my name is Shadow Dementia Dark’ness Raven Heart and I have long shadowy black hair (that’s how I got my name) with short bangs and a silver diadem and mossy green eyes like cool shaded ponds and a lot of people tell me I look like I could be a Dark Justiciar (AN: if u don’t know what that is get da hell out of here!). I’m a half-elf but my ears are elegant and tapering. I have pale white skin. I’m also a True Soul, but I’m on a quest to defeat the Absolutist cult. I’m a follower of Shar (in case you couldn’t tell) and I wear mostly black. For example today I was wearing black sandals and black leather leggings and a low-cut black corset top with leather straps and metal studs. A lot of Selûnites stared at me. I put my middle finger up at them.

#baldur's gate 3 #shadowheart

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phantoms-world-and-more · 5 months

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Danny is a few hundred years old and owns a small hole in the wall bar in Gotham, the place felt more like a tavern in a fantasy world, it also looks like one. Danny is retired and let's other heroes handle things. He stays in the human world to make sure the dimension stays stable since the DC universe has merged with his own. He's witnessed quite a bit over the years from the shadows. One night he's quietly wiping down a glass as the fire in the fire place burns low behind its grate and candles burn low in their brackets casting flickering shadows in the empty bar. Danny sets the glass on the shelf below the bar and straightens up when Batman gets thrown through his front window shattering it and knocking over candles which catch a few things on fire. Danny quickly grabs the fire extinguisher he keeps behind the bar and starts putting out the fires. He is not letting his business go up in flames. The halfa looks up to see ManBat forcing his way through the broken window. The meta bat screeches only to be met with a fire extinguisher to the face. "One of my rules here is no causing a ruckus now get!" Danny yelled using the extinguisher as an impromptu weapon as ManBat lunges at him. The meta eventually flies off and Danny goes to check on Batman who was slowly coming around. "Easy there Bats, you might have a concussion and a few broken bones." Danny said helping the vigilante sit up. Batman wasn't exactly sure what he was seeing. In his dazed mind he swore he traveled to a fantasy world and was speaking to a half elf. Danny has pointed ears from his ghost half and an androgynous build with lean muscle and a short ponytail holding back his black hair with a white shock in it.

#fic prompt #daily prompt #dc x dp #dp x dc

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steddie-island · 5 months

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@steddiemas day 7 - mall and/or workplace WC: 952 | Rating: M (for language) No content warnings, full tags on ao3

Update: @doomcheese made lovely lovely art of them and you should go look at it and show it and her all the love!!! 🥰

Jingle Boy Rock

Wearing the usual Scoops Ahoy uniform was bad enough 11 months out of the year. Wearing it in December was fucking miserable.

Gone were their usual hats, and in their place were elf hats– the kind that were red with green trim, with a bell on the end and giant felt elf ears on the sides. They were given bright red shorts, with a green and red striped shirt that had bells hanging from the spikes around the collar.

Steve would have preferred to wear the regular uniform everywhere every day for the rest of his life than wear the goddamned elf outfit all month long.

Especially when Eddie fucking Munson, the goddamn bane of his existence, worked right across the mall, at the record store. Eddie had taken one look at the Scoops uniform and decided that he was going to be the biggest nuisance in Steve’s life. Every lunch break, every time he was bored, every time he just felt like it, he was there. Leaning against the freezer and smiling that crooked smile. Steve really didn’t want to know how much worse the wheedling was going to get when Eddie saw their holiday uniforms.

“Jingle boy!”

Steve groaned– he hadn’t been at work for five fucking minutes, and already Eddie was calling across the mall to him. He pushed both hands over his face and grabbed the hat to pull it off. “He only does that because he always gets a reaction out of you,” Robin pointed out. At least her outfit– a red dress with a green shirt underneath it and matching white and green striped tights— was cute.

“He does that because he’s a pain in the ass,” Steve said. He dropped the elf ears onto the counter and leaned back against it with his arms crossed over his chest. “I can’t deal with this today.” “Right. Like you don’t love it.” Robin shook her head. “Just kiss him already, dingus.” Steve had heard this at least five times already, and just like he had every other time he waved it away. “Do you say that shit to him, too?”

“No, just to you.” She pushed away from the counter. “Hey, Eddie.” “Hey Buck!” Eddie sauntered over to the counter. Surprisingly he was wearing a hat, too, but it was black velvet with white fur trim.

“Santa’s goth now?” Steve asked. “Metal, actually. I have to shake things up somehow, right?” Eddie leaned against the freezer. “I like the new getup. It’s very… ‘Hallmark threw up on me.’”

Steve rolled his eyes. “Do you need something, Munson? Some of us actually have work to do.”

“No one’s here,” Robin pointed out. She just grinned when Steve glared at her.

“I’m actually here ‘cause I have something for you,” Eddie said. For the first time that Steve could recall, Eddie actually looked… nervous.

“You have something… for me?” he asked.

“Yeah.” Eddie pulled a box out of his pocket. “It’s not a big thing, just… something that made me think of you.” He slid the box across the counter and tapped the lid with his fingers. “Go ahead, open it.”

“It’s only the 7th,” Steve said.

“I know, but I want you to open it early.” Eddie tucked his hands into his back pockets. “Please?”

“You said ‘please.’ Does that mean something’s gonna jump out of the box at me?” Steve joked. He untied the pretty red ribbon and took the lid off. Inside was the cutting of a plant, just a stem with a few little shoots that ended in green leaves and little white berries. There was a matching red ribbon tied around it.

“Is this…” Steve looked at Eddie. He wondered vaguely if his cheeks were as pink as Eddie’s were. “...mistletoe?”

“Yeah.” Eddie ducked his head so his hair fell into his face. “I, um… I realized that I don’t think my flirting has been working? And I figured, before I turned you off of me forever…”

“Wait– wait, you’ve been flirting with me?” Steve asked. “Since when?”

Eddie looked at him with those big, deep eyes. “Since I walked in and said ‘hey, big boy’? What did you think I was doing?”

“Trying to get under my skin!” Steve said. “Are you– really?”

“I wasn’t trying to get under your skin. Maybe in your pan–” “Hey! Maybe you two should go to the breakroom to finish this conversation!” Robin said. “Quickly, though, Santa’s almost here and that means we’re gonna be packed.”

Steve caught Eddie’s hand and tugged him towards the back room that had a couch, two folding chairs, and a wobbly card table. “You’ve really been flirting with me?” he asked.

It made sense, when he thought back to all the time Eddie spent tugging at his scarf or flicking his hat, talking about his shorts and–

“Oh my god, I’m an idiot.” Steve shook his head and lightly hit himself in the forehead with his fist– a move he wanted to repeat when the bells around his neck jingled with the movement. “Oh my god!”

Eddie giggled and wrapped his fingers around Steve’s hand to stop him from doing that. “Be nice to yourself,” he said, and Steve was shocked when Eddie leaned forward to kiss his forehead. “Anyway, Stevie… my gift. What’d you think?”

“I think… that it’s bad luck, if we let it go to waste.” Steve lifted it out of the box by the stem and leaned in with a smile.

He wasn’t sure what the mistletoe was supposed to mean exactly, but as their lips met, and as his fingers curled into Eddie’s soft hair, Steve found that he was more than willing to find out.

#steddiemas #Steddie #Steddie ficlet #Steddie holiday drabble

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oxbellows · 19 days

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Welcome Home! Nothing Weird Happened.

Written based on @emilybeemartin's spectacular Boromir Lives AU comics, with permission. I might write more, who knows.

My whole thought process here is this: if Boromir lives and makes it back to Minas Tirith, he is about to receive an absolutely ludicrous quantity of bad news. And I for one think it would be both plausible and hilarious for Pippin to be the one who ends up delivering that news. So here we are!

Trigger warnings for that whole pyre situation from Return of the King.

It was fitting, to Boromir’s mind, that the battle for Minas Tirith should be decided by dead men. So many had died for the city of kings already, their blood seeping into her soil like rain. Why, then, should her fate rest solely in the hands of the living? An unnatural justice rang out in the clang of steel against phantom blades, heralding the return of a hope long since given up for lost.

“None but the king of Gondor may command me,” the wraith hissed.

“You?” Boromir had roared. “You, Oathbreaker? I am the heir to the Stewards of Gondor. Generations of my kin have died for an empty throne. None but the king of Gondor may command ME. Here stands the king of Gondor before us, and you will suffer him as I have!”

And suffer him they did. Sickly green washed over the last armored oliphaunt as the dead claimed more souls for their own. Boromir pulled his eyes away from the spectacle and spun his sword in his hand, scanning the area around him for the next foe. He found none. Only the backs of retreating orcs, and weary Men attending to their fallen brothers. That and, out of the corner of his eye, the strangest possible trio of a Man, a Dwarf, and an Elf. Finding no enemy to engage, Boromir instead turned his step toward the strange trio to embrace his friends in the wake of victory.

Aragorn, king of Gondor, did not appear especially regal at the moment. He was covered in grime and gore, surrounded by the corpses of orcs left to rot in the open field. Gimli’s sturdy metal armor was slick with blood, and it dripped steadily off the edge of the axe that he had slung over one shoulder. Legolas, of course, was only as disheveled as he might have been after a short run, clean of the muck that covered the rest of them. His hair still fell properly at his shoulder, what witchcraft did the Elf use to maintain it?

Boromir could only imagine what he himself must look like. He knew that he was damp and smelled like death, which did not bode well for a lordly appearance. Nonetheless, even in all his heavy armor Boromir felt lighter than he had since childhood. The battle was over, fought now only by those straggling beasts that had not managed to escape the field on foot. Boromir was still, impossibly, alive, and so were his companions. So was his king.

The enemy may yet prevail, but Gondor would not fall before the White Tree bloomed again. It was more than his grandfathers had ever dared to hope.

“Is that blood in your hair or just its natural grease?” Boromir asked his king, sliding his sword back into its scabbard and stepping over the body of a fallen orc to approach him.

Aragorn laughed, raising one dirty hand to skim his fingertips over the top of his head. “I cannot say, Captain. I only know that in either case, I would wash it before I present myself to your lord father.”

Boromir clicked his tongue dismissively. “My lord father’s not the one we have to worry about. If my brother hears that I’ve brought Isildur’s heir home in such a state, he’ll throttle me.”

He almost continued speaking. He almost added, if he’s alive. Aragorn heard the unspoken caveat all the same. His dark eyes had a softness in them when he spoke.

“The battle is over, Captain of the White Tower,” Aragorn said. “We must turn our efforts now to the dead and wounded. May we not find you kin among them.”

If the taste of ash settled on the back of Boromir’s tongue, it could be attributed to the smell of Mordor’s filthy army laying dead at his feet, and not to the terrible image that flashed across his mind’s eye of Faramir’s bloodied and unblinking face.

“My father will be well,” Boromir asserted, determined not to speculate on his brother’s wellbeing. “He is past his time as a warrior. He will have commanded our troops from a place of safety within the walls.”

Aragorn inclined his head in assent. His hair really was a sight- black blood had matted chunks of it together, and where they stood now in the open field, with the sun just beginning to peek through the enemy’s unnatural bank of shadow, Boromir could see that his clothes were in much the same state. Perhaps this was why Aragorn so persistently favored black for his travel clothes. Were he wearing any other color, it would be obvious that he was as drenched in the blood of orcs as if he had bathed in it.

A warrior of staggering skill was this king of Men, but he preferred not to proclaim his deadliness to the world. He tucked it away into shadow until such skill was needed. Perhaps one day Boromir might look upon this man that he called brother and not be humbled by the mere sight of him.

Perhaps.

“I will search with a sharp eye, then, for Captain Faramir,” Aragorn promised.

Boromir closed the distance between them to grip Aragorn’s shoulder in thanks. Aragorn returned the gesture with ferocity, digging his fingers into the mail covering Boromir’s upper arm. Gimli thumped Boromir’s back in a heavy handed gesture of approval, and Legolas bowed his head with a coy smile. A river of unspoken words passed between the four of them, about great and important things like love and fear at the end of the world, and then they released each other. Aragorn turned his stride towards the Citadel to lend his knowledge of elvish medicine to the House of Healing. Legolas and Gimli set out together to help carry the wounded into the city for aid. Boromir made for the rocky outcrop at the city’s outermost wall, the one that archers favored for its vantage point. There he was sure he would find rangers, and hopefully news of Faramir.

The walk carried him past countless dead orcs and uruk-hai, but also more dead men and horses than Boromir had ever seen on a single field. For every pair of comrades he saw embrace in giddy relief, another wail of grief reached his ears from somewhere else. His mail grew heavier with every step he took.

Boromir had scarcely made it halfway to the archer’s outpost before he was stopped by the sound of his own name.

“Captain Boromir!” a familiar voice shouted. “You live!”

Boromir stopped and whirled about. There, about ten yards from Boromir, close enough to the outermost wall to be half-concealed in its shadow, crouched a man in a forest-green cloak. His hands still hovered over a fallen Gondorian soldier, as if he had frozen partway through checking for signs of life. Before the man in green rose to stand, he brushed a hand over the fallen one’s face, coaxing his eyes shut before stepping away. Boromir felt a dull pang of grief in his already overburdened heart at the confirmation that yet another of his countrymen was dead. He had no time to acknowledge that pain, though, as the man in green righted himself fully. The green cloak, brown leather vambraces, and longbow on his back all sparked immediate recognition.

Boromir knew this man, had met him before, but his weary mind failed to provide a name for him. It hardly mattered. The uniform he wore told Boromir everything he needed to know. Faramir had been clad exactly the same, the last time Boromir had seen him. This was one of the rangers of Ithilien, his brother’s own company. Hope swelled painfully in his chest. He hastened his step towards the ranger.

The ranger rushed to meet him and performed a quick, obligatory salute when they were close enough to speak comfortably. “My lord,” he greeted, breathless. “Your father thought you dead, but we in Captain Faramir’s company held out hope.” A wide grin split across his face. “You cannot imagine how sorely you’ve been missed!”

Seeing his smile finally dragged the ranger’s name to the front of Boromir’s memory. “Anborn,” he said warmly. “It’s good to see you alive and well. Tell me, what news do you have of my brother?”

Anborn’s smile dropped, giving way to a look of naked concern as quickly as a candle being snuffed out. “I have no news, my lord, none that is not two days old at least.”

"Then give me the old news,” Boromir pressed, trying not to snap.

Anborn grimaced and nodded. “My lord,” he said, haltingly, “The last time I saw your brother, my Captain, was on the day he rode out to reclaim Osgiliath with a company of forty mounted soldiers.”

Boromir could only stare for a long moment, turning over Anborn’s words in his head to try and make them comprehensible. No clarity came to him. “My brother is- in Osgiliath?”

Another grimace. “If he is still there, he is dead.” Boromir’s lungs constricted and froze. Anborn continued, “Osgiliath was overrun more than a week ago. I’ve heard rumors that Faramir made it back to the Citadel, but I cannot say any more than that without inventing rumors myself.”

“The Citadel,” Boromir repeated. He forced breath into his uncooperative lungs. He would go to the Citadel, and he would find Faramir there with their father, incoherent with frustration after arguing strategy with Denethor. He turned on his heel and started walking. Anborn said something as Boromir strode away, but he didn’t hear it properly over the ringing in his ears.

What he had heard of Anborn’s words clamored in his mind- it sounded as if Faramir had taken a company of only forty men to reclaim an overrun city. That would be absurd, though. Faramir may be prone to bouts of melancholy and brooding, but he wasn’t suicidal. And even if he did, for some reason, decide to seek his own death, he would never bring any number of Gondor’s defenders with him to do it.

Your father thought you dead.

Boromir broke into a run.

Faramir didn’t hold sway over all their troops’ movements. Faramir wasn’t the Steward.

He was moving too slowly. Stumbling to a halt, Boromir grasped at the leather straps holding his pauldrons in place and did his best to unfasten them with numb fingers. Denethor had not been the same in recent years. The shadow in the east had darkened his thoughts, day by day, and set him talking as if the end were already here. His gray eyes had glinted in a way that Boromir scarcely recognized when he’d spoken of the One Ring. He’d never favored Faramir, never encouraged him the way he deserved, but the cruelty that had colored Denethor’s every interaction with his secondborn in the year or two before Boromir left shocked him.

Boromir’s pauldrons landed on the ground in a heap, and now he doubled over to escape the shirt of mail. It was a difficult task without taking off his sword belt, but he managed. He needed to be faster, but he could not bear to go unarmed. The chain links poured gracelessly down over his head, yanking his hair as they went, and then he was free. Boromir took off running again, now unencumbered.

Faramir would never plan a suicide mission.

Would he accept one, though, if he was ordered?

Boromir’s feet touched white marble bricks for the first time in months that had felt like decades. He did not pause. Shouts followed him as he went, calling his name or exclaiming surprise. Arches and edifices flew by overhead. Rubble littered the street. He caught glances of bodies crushed under great stones.

Boromir made it to the stairs. His weary legs burned and protested, but he dared not slow his descent. He needed to know where Faramir was, now. He needed to know what had happened in Osgiliath, before any more ideas had the chance to take root in his head. If he finished the line of thinking that Anborn’s news had set off-

Boromir might kill his father with his bare hands.

So, he would not stop, and he would not think, until he found answers.

He reached the top of the stairs.

A small group of guards, maybe five or six, clustered together at the Citadel gate, all spoke over each other in urgent tones. Boromir could not hear most of their words over his own ragged breath, but he caught a few. He heard “Mithrandir” and “Witch King” and “wood”, and then, “Denethor.”

“Where?” Boromir barked. Every one of the men before him startled and turned to him with unabashed fear written across their faces.

If Boromir had looked a mess back on the fields, by now he must appear absolutely deranged. Half his armor gone, hair wild, white shirt drenched with sweat and blood- he could hardly blame the unsuspecting guards for the shock and confusion they displayed so brazenly at his question. Nor could he blame himself for the urge to grab the nearest one and shake him until he spoke sense.

Fortunately for all present, the guard furthest to the left, a man of slight and youthful stature underneath his plate armor, spoke up.

“The House of Stewards,” he said, voice trembling. He pointed in the right direction. “In the tombs. Both of them, lord and son, with orders from the Steward to be left undisturbed.”

Boromir ran like he had never done in his life.

For what possible reason would his father and brother be in the tombs in the midst of battle?

He threw himself against the door to the tombs of his forefathers. They gave way with no resistance, and as he stumbled through the opening, he noted that the floor was dusted with splintered wood. This door had already been broken through. There he stopped short.

He could not, for the life of him, make sense of the scene before him.

In the center of the foyer, directly on top of Húrin’s memorial etching, were the remains of- a bonfire? Heaps of ash and charred wood covered the usually immaculate white marble floor, built up into a high, still-smoldering mound in the chamber’s center. The air reeked of smoke. Neither Denethor nor Faramir were in sight, nor was anyone else. The tombs appeared deserted.

“Faramir?” Boromir called warily.

A clang of metal and the scuffle of unshod feet on stone answered his call, and then-

“Boromir!”

A small form collided hard with his midsection, forcing him to take a staggering step back. Small arms wrapped around him like a vice, a familiar vice, and Boromir abruptly realized that he was in the embrace of a hobbit.

“Pippin?” he demanded, aghast.

The young hobbit turned his face up to meet his gaze and a fresh wave of panic seized him. Pippin’s face was coated in ash and streaked with tears.

“Boromir!” Pippin cried again. “You have to help, Gandalf said that healers were coming but nobody came, there was screaming in the halls so I dragged him as far as I could but he’s heavy and I don’t know where Gandalf went and just- just- come here!”

The hobbit released his iron grip around Boromir’s waist in favor of clutching one of his wrists and started hauling him off to one side of the room, into a corridor of mausoleums. There, poking out of the nearest alcove, Boromir spied the lower half of a single black boot.

Pippin pulled him onward when his own pace faltered. With each step he could see more of the body that Pippin had apparently tried to drag to safety. A small, or rather, hobbit-sizedsword lay carelessly discarded on the floor beneath the alcove’s arching entrance where Pippin had dropped it. That would explain the clanging sound Boromir had heard just before being tackled, then. Which would mean that when he called out, Pippin had been guarding this archway with sword in hand.

Pippin’s relentless tugging finally forced Boromir to where he could see the stricken man on the floor.

It was Faramir.

Of course it was Faramir.

A rough, strangled sound echoed through the quiet tombs, and Boromir only realized a moment later that it had come from his own throat. Pippin darted from his side to kneel at his brother’s head, petting his hair and murmuring a soothing word. Faramir did not react in the slightest. He wasn’t dead; Boromir had seen enough dead men in his life to know with unfailing precision the difference between a dead body and a dying one.

No, his brother was not dead. He was only dying.

Boromir dropped to his knees.

In all this time that he had dreaded coming home and hearing that Faramir had fallen in battle, it had never occurred to Boromir that he might watch him die.

“He needs medicine,” Pippin pleaded, his little hand nestled in Faramir’s hair. Boromir now saw that the hobbit was dressed in the garb of the guards of Citadel, mail under a velvet tunic embroidered with the white tree. What had happened in his city? When had this barely-trained halfling become his brother’s last line of defense?

“Go,” Boromir rasped. He touched the hilt of his sword. “I will protect him now. Go to the House of Healing, down one level. Aragorn is there. He will listen to you.”

Without another word, Pippin took off at a sprint. Boromir and Faramir were left alone, together for the first time since Boromir had left for Rivendell.

Boromir wanted to scream.

Instead, he maneuvered himself carefully to sit at his brother’s side. How Pippin had managed to stash Faramir away in this little nook, Boromir had no idea. He could only just find room for himself against the wall without jostling the motionless body beside him. He reached a tentative hand out to lay it on Faramir’s forehead. He paused before he touched skin, momentarily stunned by the radiating heat. When his fingers settled on his brother’s brow, it was like touching metal that had been left in the sun too long. Faramir burned. Boromir gently smoothed his hand over damp hair.

It wasn’t just Faramir’s hair that was damp, actually. It was everything on him. His short beard, the finely embroidered collar of his tunic, the silk of his sleeves. If his fever was so high, it was not so surprising to find him coated in sweat. The choice of clothes, though, was undeniably strange. There was no blood staining the fabric. Had he not been hurt in battle, then? Had he simply been taken by a violent illness? Was there a plague in the city? That might explain the lack of gore but not the presence of finery. Boromir had only ever seen Faramir wear this tunic for ceremonies. He wouldn’t have put it on before battle, and he would certainly have taken it off if he were falling ill.

No, the only reasonable conclusion was that Faramir had not been the one to dress himself. A terrible, unspeakable suspicion wormed its way into his heart.

Boromir almost regretted sending Pippin away without first asking him what had happened to create this bizarre tableau. Almost. His answers could wait until Faramir had been brought safely into the care of physicians. He lifted his hand to stroke Faramir’s hair again, but the slickness that clung to his palm bade him pause.

That wasn’t sweat in his brother’s hair, it was something else, something more viscous. Puzzled beyond words, Boromir brought his hand close to his face to inspect it.

His palm was smeared with oil.

All at once, a dozen disparate fragments of information arranged themselves into nightmarish clarity.

Someone had dressed Faramir for a funeral. Someone had brought him into the place where the bones of their ancestors rested and covered him in oil. Someone had lit a bonfire in the center of the tombs.

Not a bonfire. A pyre.

Someone had tried to burn his little brother alive.

“No,” Boromir whispered, as if he could prevent his next thought from taking shape.

Only one person in Gondor could do any of this without being stopped.

In the tombs, the guard at the gate had said. Both of them, lord and son, with orders from the Steward to be left undisturbed.

Boromir launched himself upright, out of the cramped alcove, and was sick all over the marble floor.

For the second time in a day, Pippin found himself running for someone else’s life. At least he didn’t have so far to go this time. He could not remember ever being so tired. It was also fortunate that he knew already where to find the House of Healing. Gandalf had insisted he memorize the route there as soon as he’d made his oath to Denethor, which was a bit insulting, to be honest, but turned out very useful in the end.

The first time he’d entered the House, just a few days ago, he’d thought it was very full. Most of the rows of clean, simple cots had been occupied by rangers returning from outside the city. As he dashed through the sturdy oaken door now, though, he entered a different world entirely.

The cacophony of sound, smell and movement that surged up to meet him stopped Pippin in his tracks. The House of Healing was so crowded he could not see the far wall. He could barely see the nearest row of cots. Tall ladies rushed about in every direction, shouting orders to one another above a nauseating din of groans and cries. Pippin had been standing guard in a cloud of smoke for hours, and yet the onslaught of ugly and unfamiliar smells that accosted him here made him wish for the scent of smoke again.

His foray into the front lines of a battle had been terrifying. This place might be worse.

Boromir had said that Aragorn was here, though, and Pippin would walk headfirst into an army of orcs right now if it meant that Aragorn would help him. He never wanted to be in charge of anything, ever again, especially not trying to keep great lords and heroes alive. Aragorn was good at that sort of thing, he could take over now. Pippin took a deep breath and began forging a path through the chaos, calling Aragorn’s name as he went.

As he weaved his way through cots, ducking underneath outstretched arms and around long legs, Pippin heard questions following him that he had no desire to answer.

“How old is that boy? Who let a child in the guard?”

"Is that one of those halflings? The wizard’s pet or something?”

“Are you lost, little one?”

Some of these Men had the most terrible manners, clearly. Most of them were bleeding very badly, though, so Pippin could forgive them for their rudeness. He ignored them all and kept moving.

“Aragorn!” he shouted again.

A women that had been rushing by him paused for an instant to glare down at him. “Hush, you,” she scolded, in a voice that spoke of unquestionable authority. She wore a sort of veil with a nice brooch on it, so Pippin supposed she might be in charge here. “Lord Aragorn’s doing very important things right now and I’ll not have you disturbing him.”

Pippin’s heart jumped. “Where is he?” he asked.

The woman tsked and shook her head, making to continue along her original path. She held a bowl in her arms that Pippin was quite sure he did not want to see the inside of. Whatever it was sloshed unpleasantly when Pippin lurched after the women and grabbed a handful of her skirt to prevent her from leaving.

“The Steward has ordered me to fetch Aragorn! Show me where he is!” Pippin declared. He didn’t think it was a lie. Denethor was dead, so that made Boromir the Steward in his place, probably.

The woman gasped in surprise. “Lord Denethor lives?” she asked. “Wondrous news, we thought lord and son dead already.”

Pippin avoided the question about Denethor by standing up as straight as he could. “Lord Faramir needs medicine,” he said imperiously. “He needs Aragorn’s skill. Take me to Aragorn.”

With a quick hand gesture to follow and not another word, the woman took off walking at a brisk stride deeper into the crowded hall. Pippin had to run to keep up with her. After what seemed like a dozen maneuvers around clumps of people and cots, a figure clad all in black finally came into view.

“Strider!” Pippin cried with relief.

Aragon knelt at a young man’s bedside with a wet rag and bowl of water in his hands. He turned his face at once toward the sound of Pippin’s voice, a genuine smile gracing his lips as he did. Some of the panic that had been driving Pippin these last several hours faded away at the sight. If Aragorn was here, then surely things would get better now.

His relief faltered a bit when Pippin noticed that Aragorn was simply covered in blood- both red and black, and sweat, and grime that Pippin could not begin to identity. The Men gathered round him didn’t seem to mind Aragorn’s state, but then, most of them were splattered with blood as well, probably their own. Even Aragorn could not dispel the somber truth hanging in the air, that unimaginably many people had died today.

Faramir would join the dead soon if Pippin didn’t get a move on, so he marched past all those tall, bloodied Men to stand right at Aragorn’s side.

“Faramir’s dying,” he hissed, hoping he was quiet enough for none but Aragorn to hear. He didn’t especially want to deliver more bad news to the people in this room. “Boromir is with him, but he needs medicine, now.”

If Aragorn found this news distressing, he did not show it. He just nodded thoughtfully, and asked, “Can he walk?”

Pippin shook his head. Aragorn hummed an acknowledgment and rose to his feet. He handed the bowl and rag he’d been holding to another woman that Pippin hadn’t noticed before, murmuring something that sounded like instructions. He then spoke to the lady that had led Pippin, the one who seemed to be in charge.

“Ioreth,” he addressed her. “We have need of a stretcher.”

“It will be done,” she said, and turned on her heel to vanish back into the crowded hall.

Aragorn wiped his hands on his trousers to dry them. Pippin suspected he made them dirtier in the process. “Pippin,” Aragorn said. “Will you please lead me to Boromir and Faramir?”

“Yes, this way,” Pippin answered quickly. He was eager to be out of this terrifying place. He found it easier than before to navigate through the throng. He realized after a few moments of uninhibited movement that people were stepping aside to make way as soon as they saw Aragorn following him.

Had Aragorn already gotten around to being crowned while Pippin was busy? These people were certainly treating him like a king.

“Did you already become the King?” Pippin asked without thinking.

Aragorn chuckled dryly. “No, and I don’t think the lady healers would much care if I had. They care only that I know how to draw out the poison that covers many orcish blades, and that I’ve shared what I know.”

“Oh,” said Pippin, feeling queasy.

Finally, the door came into sight, and with a quick burst of speed, Pippin flung himself back into fresh air. Mostly fresh, anyway, permitting for some lingering smoke. The smell of blood and death that lingered in his nostrils seemed even more vile when contrasted against another, cleaner scent, and it made him gag. Aragorn placed a sympathetic hand between his shoulders.

“The battle to save the wounded is the hardest and the bloodiest,” he said gently. “There’s no shame in being shocked by it.”

Pippin couldn’t quite speak yet, so he bobbed his head in a jerky, shaking nod. He allowed himself two deep breaths before turning his attention back to the task at hand. Right. Faramir. Shot full of arrows and nearly burned to death, currently stashed in a mausoleum, actively perishing of fever. He had to bring Aragorn there, and then maybe he could sit down for a moment. He set off again at a jog.

Aragorn, being unfairly long-legged, could follow him with a brisk walk. Pippin was growing weary of these big people, he really was.

Back over the same cold marble stone he went, retracing his steps to the tombs. Two men carrying a stretcher had started following them at some point- Pippin hadn’t noticed exactly where they came from, but the stretcher they carried was already stained with red, so he suspected that they had been going back and forth from the House of Healing for a while already. Aragorn let there be silence between them for several yards, but began asking questions as soon as they crossed under a crumbling archway.

“What happened to Faramir to leave him needing medicine?”

“He was shot at least twice, I’m not sure when. Sometime yesterday.”

"Where has he been?”

“Well, he got shot when he was fighting in Osgiliath, and then the horse dragged him back, and that probably made it worse, actually, but then Denethor put him away someplace for a day or so and then brought him into the tombs and tried to burn him alive.”

Aragorn froze for a moment. “What?”

“Denethor lost his mind just before the battle started, he tried to burn Faramir alive on a pyre. And himself too, I think. He thought the world was ending.”

“Where is Denethor now?”

“He jumped off the wall.”

Aragorn took up walking again, now at a faster stride. “Boromir is with his brother now?”

"Yes,” Pippin confirmed, doing his best to keep up with Aragorn’s pace.

“Does he know what happened?”

That was a good question, actually. Had Pippin explained the situation at all? He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember most of today, to be honest- it was all a blur of screams and fire.

He remembered the blinding panic he’d felt when heavy footsteps had entered the tombs. He remembered clutching his sword with sweaty hands and bracing himself to get torn to shreds by uruk-hai, and then abandoning his sword to hurl himself at Boromir once he’d heard the man’s voice. What had Boromir said, though? Anything? Had Pippin said anything?

He remembered Boromir dropping heavily onto his knees. The look on his face had been awful. He looked sad and scared and sick all at once. Pippin had never been sure what the word anguish meant, but he was sure now.

“I don’t think so,” Pippin finally answered.

Aragorn muttered something to himself, a string of elvish words that Pippin had never heard before. It sounded like what Legolas said when he missed a shot, though, so Pippin could wager a guess at what it meant.

At last, they reached the door to the House of Stewards. Pippin darted through, glancing over his shoulder to make sure Aragorn was still following. Through the foyer, around the smoldering remains of the pyre, down the corridor on the right, and there they were. The lords of Gondor. Not quite as Pipping had left them.

Boromir had extracted Faramir from the alcove where Pippin had dragged him to lay his brother out in the open. The fine silk tunic Faramir had worn lay in oil-soaked shreds scattered about the floor, and the mail shirt he’d had on underneath was similarly cast aside, half-obscuring a puddle of vomit near the entry to the alcove. Pippin was sympathetic- being in this place made him want to retch, too.

Faramir lay on his side in his undershirt. The fabric had been white once, Pippin knew, but blood, oil and ash had colored it through. Boromir knelt at his back, holding him steady by the upper arm with one hand and gently tearing the cloth of the ruined shirt with the other. The cloth didn’t move the way it should when Boromir tugged it. It stuck stubbornly to Faramir’s scorched upper back and shoulder, like it had been glued there.

Pippin gasped in horror as the realization hit him. Boromir couldn’t get Faramir’s shirt off because it was stuck to his burnt skin, fused in place by the heat of the fire. Had his skin melted? Could skin melt? The thought alone sickened him.

Boromir must have heard Pippin gasp, because his head snapped up to fix the hobbit with a wild stare.

Pippin didn’t usually think of Boromir as frightening. Fearsome, of course, but not to his friends. Certainly never to Pippin.

He looked frightening now. His eyes were wide, and his pupils were tiny pinpoints. His lips were pulled back into an animalistic expression, somewhere between a grimace and a snarl, showing just a hint of teeth. His shoulders curled forward, hunching slightly over Faramir’s still form, and through his thin, damp shirt Pippin could see he was shaking with pent up energy.

When Pippin was younger, one of Farmer Maggot’s dogs had gone missing. They’d found the creature hiding under a shed, nursing a bleeding paw, growling and snapping at any hobbit that tried to approach. Boromir did not make a sound, but Pippin swore he could hear the same wounded dog’s growling all the same.

Pippin felt rather than heard Aragorn approaching from behind him, and it was a great relief when Boromir’s gaze flicked up off his face to fixate on Aragorn instead. With what seemed to be a tremendous effort, Boromir opened his mouth to speak.

“Where is Denethor?” he rasped, voice shaking.

Aragorn took a cautious step forward, moving in front of Pippin. He held his hands up, fingers splayed open, the way he did when trying to settle a spooked horse. “Boromir, my brother-” he began, voice soft and steady.

Boromir interrupted before he could take another step. “Tell me where my father is, Aragorn,” he croaked. “Tell me so I can find him and gut him.”

“He’s dead,” Pippin blurted. “He set himself on fire and then he went off the edge of the wall and died.”

Aragorn stiffened. Boromir’s jaw went slack. He heard gasps from the men carrying the stretcher behind him.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have spoken. Gandalf was always telling him something to that effect.

Boromir let out long, low groan and slumped in on himself, bowing his head so low his forehead grazed Faramir’s hair. He released the firm grip he’d been maintaining on his brother’s upper arm to grab fistfuls of his own hair instead.

Aragorn moved swiftly to kneel beside Boromir. He wrapped one arm around Boromir’s shoulders and pulled him into a lopsided embrace. Boromir went without protest, deflated and boneless against his king. Aragorn spoke to him, too softly for Pippin to hear, and coaxed him to shuffle backwards just a pace or two to create space at Faramir’s side. The two half-forgotten men with the stretcher between them seized their opportunity and swept in to gather Faramir up. Boromir twitched forward when they lifted his brother, but Aragorn held him back with a hand on his chest. With quick, synchronized steps, Faramir was taken out of the tombs.

Louder now, so Pippin could hear again, Aragorn spoke with real regret in his voice. “I must follow them. I promise I will give all the skill I have to make Lord Faramir well.”

“I’m coming,” Boromir stated.

Aragorn fixed him with a hard stare. “It will be ugly,” he warned. “I’ll have to cut the shirt off his back, and I expect much of his skin to come with it. If he wakes it will be to scream.”

“I know,” said Boromir.

“I would rather not find your blade shoved through my heart while I work.”

Boromir flushed. “I would not.”

Aragorn raised one eyebrow. “All the same, if you wish to follow, leave your sword at the door for my peace of mind.”

Boromir opened his mouth, but seemed to think better of it and simply bowed his head in assent. Aragorn hauled himself to his feet and offered Boromir a hand up, which Boromir accepted without hesitation.

“Can I help?” Pippin asked, surprising himself.

Aragorn eyed him up and down. One corner of his lips twitched upward. “Yes, Pippin, I think you can help us all very much by staying at Boromir’s side and keeping him calm. If you have any more news to deliver, however, perhaps you could share it beforewe enter the House of Healing?”

Pippin recognized the admonishment for what it was and ducked his head, chastened. On the other hand, now that he mentioned it-

“Gandalf’s staff is broken,” he announced.

Aragorn closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I see. Thank you, Pippin. Anything else?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Very well. If you think of something, take Boromir out into the hall and tell him.” Aragorn turned to Boromir and spoke sternly. “Boromir, if Pippin takes you out into the hall, I forbid you to pick up your sword until we have had a chance to speak.”

Boromir huffed out something very close to a laugh. “Wise council, my king.”

#@emilybeemartin #lotr fic #Boromir Lives AU

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amaranthineghost · 5 months

Text

| RED IS FOR FERRARIS AND CHRISTMAS ( charles leclerc. ) |

ꕥ pairing: charles x reader

ꕥ summary: she decorates for the holidays with white and blue, but for him, it doesn't cut it.

ꕥ authors note: thank highschool french for some speaking knowledge (with some Google translate sprinkled in) also pretty short because i lack Christmas ideas and I wanted to get this out before i work ungodly hours this weekend but it's still cute so <3

"MON AMOUR, what is this white and blue bullshit?" the monégasque spoke from behind her. she turned to see a look of disbelief creased on his face. she scoffed as she strung the ribbons about the room.

shaking her head as she tied it off and stepped down from the ladder, she took a step back to admire her work, "figured you had enough red trauma in your life," she'd poke fun at charles, a smile gracing her face as he, undoubtedly, stared at her in admiration. but he'd prefer red.

"not funny, chérie." he deadpanned, though she could see the smirk that pulled at his lips, "red is better than whatever this shit is." he shook his head, hand on his side as he looked up at the decor.

she pouted, "but the white and blue looks good, besides it's too much work to redo it all."

"I'll help you."

she rolled her eyes, burning holes into his as she heavily sighed. she rolled her neck to look at the strung ribbon and ornaments she'd worked hard to decorate.

he admired the effort and dedication to her christmas spirit, and honestly, he was just poking fun. as long as she was happy, it didn't matter to him if they were blue or white, or even the most hideous of neons if that's what her heart desired. he just wanted to poke fun at his love for not using the color that dominated his life, in a good or bad way.

at the end of the day, he'd know that no matter how she decorated, it'd end up more beautiful than the previous year as he'd increase the budget at which how much she could spend because let's be honest, he knew she'd come home with more bags than what could fit in the apartment if he didn't limit her spending. she was like a little elf compared to the mountain of items she bought, excluding gifts.

he didn't care how much of his money she spent, he'd gladly push as much of it towards her as he could because he had more than he could ever spend, and if he knew one person that could, it was her.

his hands would find their way around her waist, sliding his face into the crevice of her neck and inhaling the addicting smell of her shampoo lingering in her hair, the faint perfume residing on her skin as well.

his lips would leave faint kisses along her neck, muttering against her skin, "c'est jolie, chérie, tu peux le laisser." (it's pretty, darling, you can leave it.)

her voice would go up an octave as his warm skin pressed hers, smiling widely at her work, "merci beaucoup, mais je pense que le rouge serait plus joli." (thank you very much, but I think red would be prettier)

"moi aussi." (me too.) he agreed with her, feeling the smirk of his lips against her skin, she rolled her eyes, but regardless, she'd pull out the red decor from the years prior. though she didn't mind him forcing his ferrari trauma on her, she did like the change up, but she knew that he'd secretly prefer red.

but she didn't know that he just liked whatever she did. anything she did was perfect to him and he loved every idea that her mind thought of. she was sacred and he would protect that.

he'd watch her vigorously tear down the blue, but left the white, which he didn't mind as it contrasted nicely against the dark red she'd chosen and the gold accents that complimented it.

she'd stand tired, half-lidded eyes as she turned around the room to admire her work when she'd hear the footsteps of her love from behind her. she heard glass clink on the end table of their living room as he caught her hand in his.

he twirled her around the room, the soft piano sounds of christmas music played throughout the apartment as they swayed to the sound.

"très belle," he'd coo, "juste comme toi." (very beautiful, just like you)

she'd blush, feeling the heat rush to her face, "et tu es très beau." (and you are very handsome) she replied shyly, a chuckle escaping his lips at her demeanor, even though she'd heard the words numerous times.

"merci, mon amour."

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michinekot · 9 days

Note

What do u like about thistle?

I'll start off with his design because it's not so spoiler-heavy.

He's short, cute, a total menace and has the cutest evil grin ever. I certainly have a thing for villains... But also generally, jesters are fun and I usually love their outfits. Thistle is no exception, I love all of his looks (but I'm not gonna look for them all through the manga...) and how different he is after becoming the Dungeon Master. Also, white hair, purple eyes & outfit... (´,,•ω•,,)♡

I must also add, I adore how the author draws elf ears pointed upwards and how expressive her art is. Absolutely amazing, all the angry Thistles are great.

Now I'll get into heavy spoiler territory, I'll go over the ending too:

First off, I really like how he shows his love through "eternity", much like Marcille. Elves who love people of other races suffer because they will undoubtedly outlive everyone else. The way Thistle and Marcille are similar is so great to see... and I think it's great that Marcille wasn't made out to be a terrible, selfish villain and neither was Thistle. Through her becoming the Dungeon Master, we see how much this power changes them.

He meant well and his wish wasn't initially selfish. He didn't even wish for eternal live, just a peaceful one. Of course, the Winged Lion dug deeper into it and the selfish part came to light.

And because no one was aware of the danger, it became absolute truth to Thistle that he's doing the right thing and making everyone happy. His dream was everybody else's dream in his mind. And I think it's nice how much he must've paid attention to the townsfolk needs, because...

He must've done so much to make the Dungeon liveable and safe for the people he cares about. All those traps were to ward off people who (he assumed) must've been just like the ones who came to destroy the kingdom. On the other hand, he saw opportunity in the monsters and had people take care of them like they did with their farm animals. It was unnecessary, he didn't have to do that since they don't need to sleep, eat or drink. But he knew that they weren't happy doing nothing at all and put a lot of thought into the ecosystem (compared to Marcille, which is understandable, but y'know. I think it's great to see the difference since her monsters werent very, uh... thought out?)

It's been SO many years of stagnation, they can't even taste the food or enjoy anything.

He's aware, he'd enjoy a little change of pace too, he's open to it! but the desire to protect everyone wins.

He just... loves everyone so much. His platonic love isn't simple at all. He did so much for everyone. And after losing his desires... I feel like he hasn't lost his love for everyone.

I think that, maybe... he feels like everything was fullfilled? He's been angry and anxious for so long and now there's nothing to worry about anymore. I'm really sad for him, but there's no going back to "normal" after everything. But I'm glad Yaad doesn't hate him. I don't think anyone from the kingdom truly hates him.

Also this page makes me want to cry...... he's holding him so gently and Thistle only looks tired and like he wants to sleep. I hope he finds his place in the new world and lives out the rest of his life peacefully.

I haven't read much of the additional stuff yet, but I also think about Mithrun a lot.

I think Mithrun was extremely selfish in his desires and that's why, aside from them, his eye and ears were taken away. It might be just the demon's will because it wasn't exactly the Winged Lion, but all demons are technically the same one(? from what I understood...). The only desire left within Mithrun was about the demon, but in the end, it still seemed selfish.

But neither Marcille or Thistle were physically hurt after having desires taken from them. The Winged Lion also said something along the lines of "this is for everyone, I want everyone's desires to be fullfilled for all eternity". It didn't like Thistle because he stagnated, but it probably understood him a little bit, since he mostly thought of others. But there was no way to manipulate him into thinking about Anyone outside of the kingdom. Only Laios managed to talk a tiny bit of sense into him... but it still didn't work out.

So yeah, Dungeon Meshi is amazing and I generally love everyone, but Thistle speaks to me the most because... his top priority was protecting those he loves, freeing them from death and pain, living out the life they had on the surface forever. And this feels personal to me- I lost both of my parents and the friends I cared about the most left me. So like, if we ditch all the (totally right) talk about how there's no happiness without pain and such, I get Thistle. He meant well. He's a very well done character. :)

#dungeon meshi #delicious in dungeon #dunmeshi #dungeon meshi spoilers #thistle #marcille #mithrun #sorry about the essay lol but whatever. i wanted to ramble.

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wecanbe-heroes · 8 months

Text

Astarion x reader, gn!tav

Requested by a member of the bg3 discord I am in. Tav uses disguise self to show Astarion his reflection. 1.1k words. Short and teasingly sweet.

“Damn this blasted thing!” You hear glass shatter and lean up out of your bedroll, glancing in the direction of the sound. A pale figure stands outside his tent, a broken mirror at his feet. The other people in your camp side eye him before going back to their business, but you rise to your feet.

“What’s going on over here?” You ask gently as you approach, careful to avoid any glass on the ground.

Astarion whirls around to face you, a brief look of anger then shock. “Hello, darling.” His face is a mask of cool now, his lips poised in his signature smirk. “Silly me just dropped my mirror.” He bent to pick it up and a couple extra pieces of glass clatter to the dirt.

“I thought vampires couldn’t see their reflection?” You already know the answer, but ask anyway. This earns a sigh and Astarion looks at the mirror.

“Yes, this is true. A part of me keeps checking though.” He twirls it in his hands for a moment before placing it back on the stool by his tent. “If this wretched tadpole can make me walk in the sun again, I thought it might let me see myself again.” There is a yearning in his voice and you realize it has been over 200 years since the elf has seen his reflection.

“So you’ve never had a portrait made or anything?” You tilt your head slightly to the left.

“Ha! As if Cazador would allow that.” He scoffs and waves a hand. “No, I have no memory before being turned. All I know is what people have told me. White hair, vampire red eyes. Beauty to rival a god.” His smirk widens and he winks at you. You can’t help the faint flush that rises to your cheeks at his flirtations. While perhaps exaggerated, he is quite beautiful.

“I wish I could paint a portrait of you, Astarion. You deserve to see yourself truly.” You sigh. Artistic talent never found its way to you, your hands not built for the finer arts.

“That is quite alright my sweet.” His eyes soften for a moment. Unknownst to you, he is taken aback by your offer. No one has ever cared enough about his vanity, his desire to know how he appears to others, to offer to paint him. He jerks back as you suddenly gasp and clap your hands together.

“I can do something better than a portrait!” How could you forget? You run back to your bags, rummaging through them. You picked up a scroll a few days ago that might be just what you need. Finally, you find the scroll you are looking for.

"What have you got there?" Astarion's voice holds a hint of wary, trust still hard for him. You give him a smirk and unfurl the scroll.

"It's been awhile since I've cast this spell so I'm studying it." You crack your knuckles and neck, studying the spell. It's not something you keep prepared and you're glad you picked this up in the abandoned house you went through earlier. Astarion steps back and you wave him forward. "Don't worry, it's not a spell for you. It's for me." You reassure him and stand to your full height. You study his features for awhile, long enough he begins to look uncomfortable under your scrutiny. You want to get this right, show him an as exact replica as you can.

"Alright here we go." You give yourself a shake and then begin casting. Magic sparks from your fingers as you wave them around your body. Tingles and light shocks spread across your skin as it changes. The spell is quick and basically painless, more of an itch as it adds an illusion over your body. Your camp clothes disappear, replaced by Astarion's leather pants and ruffled shirt. It's a bit weird, seeing the illusion take over but still feeling your normal look. Within a couple seconds, you are now standing eye to eye with the vampire. His eyes are wide, mouth slightly agape. You have never seen him flustered like this. "Well, what do you think?" You hold your arms out, pale skin gleaming the same as his. You don't feel the elongated canines in your mouth, but you know they are there when his eyes flicker to your mouth when you speak, giving him a smirk mirroring his own.

"My my, I am as handsome as I thought." His jokes armor against his own sensitivity. In truth, his hands are shaking and eyes keep jumping to different parts of you. You give him a slow turn to get the full view. Then you step forward, close enough your boots are nearly touching his. "Those eyes, my eyes. So red." He sneers at the sight. You wonder what color they were before he was turned. A shade of hazel or brown would be staggering, though he likely had a shade of blue as most high elves have. The red is piercing is he studies your face, his face. Drinking you in to burn forever in his memory. You reach up to his face, fingers ghosting the skin. Not touching him, but longing to.

"I'm not sure if I got the laugh lines right." You say breathlessly, trying to ease the sudden tension. Astarion scoffs and rolls his eyes, you ignore the slight glisten in them to save his pride.

"I am an immortal being, I do not have laugh lines!" He moves away from you, smoothing the creases around his mouth. As you give a soft chuckle, the spell begins to fade. That itching tingle spreads across your body once more and then you are back to normal you.

"I'm sorry I couldn't give you more. Maybe we can commision a portrait once we get to the city?" You suggest, though you're not sure if your team will make it to Baldur's Gate let alone have time for such a thing.

"No apologies, darling. You have given me enough." He gets far off look on his face before he takes your hand in his, a rare display of affection. "Thank you." He presses a kiss to the back of your hand before he retreats back into his tent. You stand there for a moment in awe before picking up the broken mirror and the glass pieces. A quick mending cantrip and it looks brand new. You place it on the stool outside his tent before going back to your bedroll. The spot on your hand that he kissed phantomly burns as you fall to sleep, dreaming of soft red eyes.

#bg3 #astarion #astarion x reader #astarion bg3 #bg3 astarion #bg3 oneshot #baldur's gate 3 #my stuff #my fics

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uhhhitsgray · 8 months

Note

fic where astarion puts lipstick on u? ☺️ I feel like that could be super intimate

aksjdhfakdhf, anon please 😭 this is so cute, yes yes I write c:

~ wc: 2k, no warnings, this is just fluffy and cute. tav and astarion are already in a relationship. attempted to make this as gender neutral as possible, but I did throw in a few pretties (since astarion does say that in the game), a few darlings and he calls you gorgeous. astarion would call you all those things regardless of gender so I hope you're okay with that ❤ enjoy & and thank you for the prompt, this was a lot of fun!

You sigh as you look down at the metal tube in your hands defeated with the fact that you don’t think, or even know, how to properly apply lipstick. Up until arriving at Baldur’s Gate you never had the need to dress nicely. Of course your clothing choice was much more than just clothing, it was armor meant for protecting and not so much for looking good.

You had found this small shop on the outskirts of the city one evening. It didn’t cost a lot of gold, and you wanted to treat yourself. Though maybe you should have gone with something you were more familiar with instead, but you wanted to feel attractive; pretty even.

It was a peaceful evening at camp, the day hadn’t been taxing on the group luckily, just a few pesky thieves but nothing else major happened. Your tent was further away from the center of camp where the others were, you enjoyed the solitude that it provided giving your mind and body an opportunity to just breathe and relax. By the gods, you’d take that chance any time it arose.

You had snuck away from the group while everyone was laughing and talking over the wine from the city. You so desperately wanted to try out this lipstick, but after several attempts and every pass looking worse than the previous your shoulders slumped in defeat, a heavy sigh leaving your lips. You could also ask someone in camp, maybe Shadowheart or Isobel would know. You remember them both stating they’ve worn makeup before, shit, Isobel currently wears makeup.

But admittedly you didn’t have that type of relationship with them. Of course you were fond of them, friends even, but close enough to ask for something like this? You weren’t sure you were that comfortable with them. Truth be told, you were only close with one person like that in your camp, the pale elf himself, Astarion. An odd person to ask possibly, has he ever worn makeup before – or lipstick even? You weren’t sure, but you weren’t sure if you even cared.

He’d help you right?

You shove the tube into your pocket, and head towards the campfire where you left him with the group. The light of the fire danced across his skin, washing warm hues across his pale skin. His rather white hair was highlighted in reds and oranges, his red irises reflecting the vermillion shades of the flames. He was laughing at something Gale was sputtering on about, a genuine smile on his face.

Truly beautiful.

You step into the light of the fire, one arm crossed across your chest holding yourself close. Caging yourself off as if you’re too afraid to ask such a simple question from the man you adore. “Astarion.”

Astarion’s attention is ripped away from Gale at the drop of his name, his name sounding like honey on your lips. He’d never get used to it. Warmth blossoms within his chest at the sight of you on the other side of the fire, “Yes, darling.” He smiles towards you, scooting himself over on the log he was sitting on, patting the wood for you to sit next to him.

You smile at him, and make your way around the side of the fire, offering a small wave to the few people who were still at the campfire. You cross behind Astarion’s back, hand dragging across his shoulders. You lean down behind him, fingers dancing up the back of his neck into his hair. “Can I ask something of you, my love?”

He leans back into your hand slightly still facing the fire as he answers. “Anything.”

You kiss his cheek, it’s short and quick as your words mumble and stumble out of your mouth. “Can I ask you away from everyone else?”

His body stiffens slightly, “Is everything okay?” Astarion turns towards you, his tone shifts in his question. Worry, and something similar to dread fills his eyes as he looks into yours. “Did… did I do something?”

You offer him a soft smile, “Everything is fine.” You cup his cheek in the palm of your hand, thumb brushing across his fire warmed skin. “You didn’t do anything.”

He swallows down the worry and dread as he leans into your palm. Astarion nods up at you, “Okay, darling. Where do you want to go?”

You look past the fire in the direction of your tent, “Is my tent okay?”

Astarion nods, standing up next to you. “Lead the way.”

The fact that you wanted to ask Astarion to put lipstick on you was plaguing your mind. You were sure you were making this a bigger deal than it really was, it wasn’t that big of a deal to begin with. But by the gods, your mind was telling you that it was the absolutely worst thing that you could ask of this man.

You slowly lead him back to your tent, your hand in his. The warmth of the fire still lingering on his skin, the cool evening breeze bringing a yin and yang sensation. “Now, darling, I’m dying to know what you wanted to ask.”

You were second guessing yourself as you pulled the front of your tent open and allowed him and yourself to walk in. You take a deep breath, “I… I — uh.” You shake your head and take a few steps further into your tent.

Astarion squeezes your hand, “You can ask me anything, you know that.”

You sigh, letting go of his hand as you drag your fingers through your hair. “I know.” You look at him, the crimson irises carefully watching you. You start pacing the length of your tent. It’s not big by any means, just enough room for your bed roll, a small table and stool. But you were gonna pace it as much as you could, as much as the space would allow; trying as best as you could to allow your mind some room to think of the question at hand.

“Darling.”

You were biting your nails as you heard Astarion call for you. Your eyes search his, uncertainty lays heavy on your expression. “You can’t laugh at me, okay?”

Astarion chuckles at that. You sweet, precious thing of his, he could never. “I wouldn’t dare laugh at you like that.”

You nod, looking at the floor again. “So I uh – I bought something in the city the other day and I need help putting it on.”

He raises an eyebrow to you, crossing his arms at his chest. “And what did you buy?”

You stuff your hand into your pocket and pull out the metal tube, palm side up showing Astarion. Your eyes burn holes into your palm, embarrassment flushes your cheeks red. How stupid is this.

You hear Astarion stepping forward, into your space. “Lipstick?”

Your eyes dare to look at him, too scared to see the expression he has on his face. “Yeah, I don’t know how to properly apply it. I was trying earlier, but it kept looking all wrong and bad and Astarion, I just wanted to look pretty.” Your words come out of your mouth a little too quick, not giving your brain enough time to process before speaking.

Astarion cups your cheek this time, a playful tone to his soft voice. “Oh darling,” He leans in and kisses your forehead. “You are always beautiful.”

Your arms cross, pouting. “But I wanted to feel pretty.” Your eyes darted up to him for a second before they found the floor, “Wanted to be pretty for you.”

“There isn’t a day where I don’t think you’re the most stunning person I’ve ever laid my eyes on.” He grabs the metal tube from your hand. “But I can put this on for you, if you so wish.”

You smile at him, “Please.”

He nods towards your stool, silently asking you to sit down. Your feet take you to the stool and you sit yourself down as Astarion opens the lid, a smile spreads on his face as he sees the color you purchased. It’s nothing flashy, a more mutual tone. Probably to not draw too much attention to yourself if he was to guess. “This color will look so pretty on those lips of yours.”

“You think so?”

Astarion steps in between your legs. One hand holds your chin, urging your head upwards so he can see you better. The other hand holds the lipstick carefully, twisted up just enough to be easily applied to your lips. “I know so.”

Your hands land on the outside of his thighs, just holding his pants as you carefully watch him. His eyes flit to yours and linger for a second longer. “Don’t look at me like that, darling.”

You smile at him, teasing, “Like what?”

“Like you want to kiss me.” Crimson eyes drift down to your lips.

“I always want to kiss you. Always want your lips on me, want them everywhere –.”

Astarion squeezes your chin, “Behave yourself, sweetheart.”

You giggle, smiling at him sweetly. “I always behave for you.”

He cocks an eyebrow to you, a smile plays across his face, fangs exposed slightly in the light of your tent. “I would have to disagree.” His hand moves in slowly, carefully, as he presses the lipstick to your lips. Your eyes are locked onto his, though he isn’t looking at you anymore, you can’t help but just watch him in concentration. Trying his best, giving his best to you.

He smiles as he pulls the lipstick away from your lips. “Gorgeous. This color suits you, darling.” He grabs your small mirror off the table next to you, flipping the mirror around for yourself to see.

Your eyes widen at how well it’s applied, like he’s done it a million times. You move the mirror around better to see his work. Astarion was right, the color does suit your skin tone just perfectly. “Thank you Astarion. I – wow. Just how are you so skilled?”

“Oh,” His eyes fall to the floor, you see his body freeze beyond your mirror as dread fills the pit of your stomach.

Shit.

You put the mirror face down on the table, standing quickly as horror washes over your face. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. I’m sorry.”

Astarion shakes his head, and continues anyway. “I used to wear it to lure victims back to Cazador.” His voice is low, hurt as the words are hushed out.

“I… I didn’t know that, I’m sorry for asking this of you.”

“I didn’t expect you to, I’ve never told you that.” He shrugs his shoulders.

“You didn’t have to.” Your nail digs into the palm of your hand, you feel horrible for asking such a thing. If you knew you would have never asked.

Astarion’s hand reaches out for yours, fingers intertwined with yours. “I’d do anything for you, my love. It was in the past, the future will be better. Even the now is better.”

You smile at him, "And I'd do anything for you. One day at a time, my love." You giggle, pressing up on your tiptoes as you kiss his cheek. You grin at the mark the lipstick left on his cheek. He laughs knowing you've left a mark on his cheek. "I love you, thank you Astarion." You kiss his lips soft and delicate, sure to be careful not to mess up his work.

"I love you too, gorgeous. Shall we show our friends?" He takes your hand as the other opens your tent up, awaiting for you to follow him.

You smile, “What about the mark on your cheek, you want to wipe it off before we go?”

Astarion laughs as his hand snakes around your waist, pulling you close. “I’d wear any mark from you proudly, I’ll leave it.” His hand wraps around the back of your neck and pulls you into a kiss. It’s warm, soft and caring; you’ll never get used to it. Or him for that matter.

Your thumb brushes across his cheek, as you pull away from the kiss. You smile as his lips are slightly tinted the shade of your lipstick. “Alright, let’s go then.”

#astarion bg3 #baldurs gate astarion #astarion #astarion x tav #astarion x you #astarion x reader #baldur's gate 3 #this dumb pointy eared vampire has me in a chokehold #this prompt was so fucking cute i screamed when i saw it #thank you for asking for this #i appreciate you sm

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