#I'm weeping I'm shaking I'm waiting for the inevitable

[hoeratius]

Truly I feel a bit unhinged about the Herculaneum like a child a week before Christmas. What's in those boxes what's under the tree will it be everything I've ever dreamed of or things I never knew I wanted or tangerines and will those tangerines contain new pits and slices unlike the ones we have now please I want to knowwwww

[teslaluvszombies]

IMMUNE

carl gets bit and y/n refuses to let him go out alone, she wants him to wait until after he turns to kill him and he reluctantly agrees only to find out he was immune.

(intended lowercase)

warnings : death, slight implication of suicide.

“please leave, I don't want you to see this.”

you shook your head at his plea, you couldn't leave him in there alone knowing what he was planning to do. rick and michonne had tried to get you to leave but it was no matter because you refused to leave him, refused to let him go out alone.

“i’m not leaving you in here so you can kill yourself!” you couldn't contain the sobs that came with your words, you'd done everything to keep yourself calm but it was futile. you sat by his side hunched over in tears, not being able to look at his face for the first time since you met him. when he had arrived at alexandria you could've sworn he was the prettiest boy you'd ever seen, you hadn't been able to keep your eyes off of him, even after he lost his eye and begged you to look away. now, here you sit, unable to look at his face, drained of color, eyes void of light.

“I need to do this.” he insisted, despite knowing it wouldn't deter you in the slightest; you always had been stubborn.

you searched your brain for something to say, something to prolong the inevitable moment, “i’ll do it.”

“y/n—”

“the second you turn I'll shoot you, I swear. just let me have these last couple moments with you, please.”

you hear him sigh before he lifts his hand off of the gun it'd been resting on, instead resting on top of your shaking hand. “okay. I trust you.”

for a moment you feel the weight on your chest lessen, sudden relief at the thought of more time with him even if your time with him will be cut short regardless, any time is better than no time.

“look at me.” his voice is gentle and plainly weak, but had a factor of desperation in it that was undeniable. for the first time since you had found out you allowed your gaze to meet his, his eyelid was droopy and he wore a soft smile, his expression alone telling you that he didn't have much time left. he began to rub circles on the back of your hand, his eye examining your face like he was trying to make sure you were permanently engraved in his brain, even in the afterlife. “promise me something?”

“anything.”

he chuckles at your quick response before continuing his statement, “promise me you'll keep going. I know you, I know how you are, I can see it on your face— you have to keep going, have to keep living. judith,” a quiet sob escapes him at the mention of his younger sister, “she needs you. dad and michonne are great and all, but she's gonna need someone to show her how we do things, someone like you.”

it took everything in you to not remind him it was him that she needed, not you, but you were sure it was known. “I don't know what I'm gonna do without you.” you say, silently agreeing to his request.

“you’ll figure it out.” he reached his hand up to cup your cheek, his thumb swiping over a stray tear. you hear him groan in response to propping his body up on his elbow, “come here.” a shaky exhale passes your lips as you lean into him, your head resting in the crook of his neck and your arms wrapped around him just as you had done just a few days prior in the safety of his room. part of you knew that this was it, you could tell this was goodbye by the way he held you — it was different compared to any embrace the two of you had shared in the past, more permanent, like there wouldn't be a next time.

“I love you.”

your nails dug into his back, a choked sob sounding out in the nearly vacant building, “I love you,” you weep, “more than anything.”

you wish there was a way to trade places with him, to not be forced to live without him, but it was too late for wishes, wasn't it?

he pulls back, his lips finding their way to yours in a gentle kiss. it was slow and soft, just like it had been the first time, though this time it was laced with more urgency and desperation, like the other might disappear into thin air. he pulls away, his forehead resting against yours, 

“thank you, y/n, for everything.” he says, pressing a kiss to the bridge of your nose, his hand moving to push the gun underneath your fingertips, his way of telling you it was over.

you feel him fall limp against you, his eye falling shut.

you contemplate sitting there until he turns, letting him turn you too, but you made a promise and you can't break it, not so soon.

you push him back against the hardwood, your entire body visibly trembling as you do so, loud sobs echoing through the building. you grab the gun and make sure it's loaded and ready, scooting back from his body a bit. you knew it was a mistake to promise to do this but it was worth it for the time you got.

your eyes lock on his body, watching as his chest continues to rise and fall even if it's weaker and more delayed than usual. you had never seen someone turn, you'd only heard the stories, so you weren't sure how much longer he would continue to lay there before he did fall victim to the virus, but you did know you refused to shoot him until then.

it had been hours since then and his chest was still rising and falling at the same pace, it was torture, a game of waiting. you thought back to the stories you'd heard, it had never taken this long, but maybe this was your punishment for all the wrong you did during the end of the world and maybe even before. no one was perfect so why would you be subjected to such hell? there were plenty of worse people out there, you were sure you were just the tip of the iceberg.

“y/n?”

you'd been so lost in thought that you nearly shot the wall in your shock. your eyes immediately fell onto the boy in front of you, your mouth agape at the sight, “carl?” you were sure you were seeing things, maybe you had fallen asleep or succumbed to the same hallucinations rick had been faced with after losing lori. “your—?”

“alive? yeah.” he said, sounding just as confused as you were.

“but you got bit! how is that even possible?” your hands raised to your hair, the gun you had been holding falling to the floor.

“I don't know.”

the two of you stared at each other in disbelief, seemingly searching each other’s faces for a sign this wasn't real, not that either of you were hoping it wasn't.

it wasn't long before the tears started again, mostly from confusion and relief, “you're alive, oh my god, you're alive.” you couldn't resist throwing yourself in his arms, him happily reciprocating. his arms held you close to his chest, his head resting on top of yours as you sobbed in relief, his heartbeat echoing in your ears.

neither of you were sure how it was possible that carl was still alive, how he hadn't turned, but it didn't matter too much in the moment — he was alive.

your face left his chest to look at him, scanning his face once more to assure he was real before you collided your lips with his. the kiss was messy unlike the one you had shared before he supposedly passed, there were noses bumping together and teeth hitting each other, but it was the best kiss you had ever experienced.

“you think this means i’m immune?” he pulled away to ask, a geeky smile across his face at the reality of being alive and being with you.

“I don't know but let's not find out.”

[marchessa]

Sunday Snippet

I was tagged by my beloved @thinlinez

so I'm going to share a longer snippet from my fic for @1daboficfest (thank you for the dearest mod in the world for giving me all the time extension I need)

This work is still under construction, so some cheerleading would feel nice 😊

The story is set in a fictional empire in the medieval times, so the applicable TW: period-typical violence

" Enough!" Louis shouted with a hoarse voice. " Halt the fight, I have to talk with your emperor," he pleaded with a loud cry, and his voice carried over the sound of fighting. 

Louis could hear how the people in the other army murmured they wouldn't let him get in front of their ruler while he was still alive, so with sagged shoulders he did the inevitable.

" I surrender," he shouted, and to emphasise his decision, he lowered the banner shamefully. The same banner his soldiers fought under proudly for agonisingly long days, because it represented their beloved country. He did not loosen his grip on the pole, because he couldn't let it drop to the ground for a final time yet, but he kept it down, beside his own body, waiting for the cacophony of the fight to reduce. The clanking of swords, weapons and armours slowly ceased. 

" But my Queen!" One of Louis' knights shouted in outrage, and several one of them tried to hold him back, when the sea of fighters opened for him to walk to the leader of the other army. 

" It's alright," he gently said, smiling sadly at one of the youngest knights among his men, after he cupped the boy's face with his palm. He wiped some blood and dirt from the young man's cheek, and looked at him and his battle torn armour with tearful eyes. " It will be alright, I'll make sure of it. The fight is over," he leaned closer to momentarily rest his head against the boy's cold armour, before looking back up at him. He pulled his head lower to breath a kiss against his forehead, and the boy collapsed on the ground weeping, tremors of his crying shaking his whole body. Louis took his hand away from him, and walked slowly toward the epicentre of the now halted battle, where the other ruler waited for him. He was aware of the fact his knights were there with him on this shameful walk, protecting him, even when he didn't deserve their protection anymore. 

Suddenly the battlefield became eerily quiet as his remaining forces surrendered. Every single one of the enemy warriors’ eyes were set on him, and his palm itched to reach for the sword that was hanging on his side in its sheath during his stumbling walk, to protect himself from the gleeful glances he received. He resisted the call of the cold iron with great effort, and continued his walk, because the emperor himself didn't show any effort to move from where he was standing. 

Once Louis got close enough to the other ruler, he could get a good look at the taller man's appearance. It was their first official meeting. Louis did not know what to expect from the man because previously they only consulted via messengers and envoys. So Louis wanted to see with his own eyes the alpha who doomed his fate. 

Green eyes flashed under the emperor's helmet, and he stood proudly in all his glorious armour even when the plates were smudged with blood and dirt, and in some places the steel was dented in. It would have been obvious even to a blind man that the alpha fought alongside his soldiers. 

Courage was rapidly deserting Louis as he walked even closer to the menacing statue of raw power and authority. In the emperor's close proximity, the omega queen felt the need to swoon like a damsel in distress, and he had to grit his teeth and focus on the pain his body suffered from to ground himself against the dizziness that slowly began to cover his head in a fuzzy blanket. 

" Emperor Styles," Louis greeted him, leaving his bodyguards behind.

 

Without letting the other man acknowledge his presence, he pitched the pole of his banner into the ground, then as gracefully as he could in his current state, fell to his knees. The Queen knew he wouldn't beg for his own life, but he was willing to humiliate himself in front of thousands of enemy warriors for the sake of his army. 

He drew out his sword and placed it on the ground in front of the alpha's legs, while he was still kneeling, bearing his neck as the universal signal of surrender. Tears threatened to run down his cheeks, so he closed his eyes while waiting for the alpha to make a move. Louis could hear the metallic sound as the emperor pulled out his own sword from its sheath and then he felt the coldness of the blade against the pulse point on his neck. 

" Do you have any last words as a Queen? If yes, say them now," the low timbre of the emperor almost made Louis forget the situation he was in, even with the threat behind the alpha's words. 

Louis' lips trembled, and the sword moved at his neck until the flat side of the blade was under his chin, lifting his head toward the towering alpha. 

" Open your eyes," Styles ordered him, and the omega's eyes flew open immediately, obeying the deep voice without a second thought. " That's better," the taller man said when their gaze met. " Any last words?" He asked with a smirk that was barely hidden under his helmet.

👑

What will happen next? Find out from the fic that is coming soon (hopefully)

I don't know who to tag, besides @thinlinez , so if you want to share a snippet, consider yourself tagged 😉

[chihirolovebot]

hehe could i request some kokichi content? maybe like angst or hurt/comfort? thank you sm :D -🐇

featuring. kokichi ouma

genre. angst

content. major drv3 spoilers, allusions to death, grieving, crying, general sadness and pain and agony, gender neutral reader.

summary. in the wake of the final trial, you await for your partner to make his return to you.

Your hands clutch at the fabric, twist it between your fingers. It is dotted with blood and the awful truth that you refuse to let yourself acknowledge.

You stare out over the ruined courtyard as daylight breaks over the horizon quietly, soaking your grief in honeyed light. The cuts and bruises left along your body seem to sing, strangely - the pain seems separate from you, your skin not your own. There is only one thing you're focused on. Only one thing you want to see.

One person.

"Y/n," comes Maki's voice, quiet, placating. More patient than you have ever heard her. "He's... not coming."

You shake your head jerkily; your fingers twist so tightly in the fabric that they begin to hurt, cutting off the blood circulation where it knots over your skin. "No. No. He's... he said..."

Himiko tucks her head into the crook of your elbow, ducking beneath your arm like a cat. "Y/n... 's okay," she mumbles. You wonder if she is thinking of the people she lost, of Angie and Tenko. But this isn't like that. Because he's not dead.

He'd said...

He'd told you...

"Please," you mutter to yourself. You look down at the chequered scarf clutched between your hands. It stares back up at you plaintively, mocking. All you have left of him, for now. Until he comes running out of that dilapidated building, like you know he will. Like he'd promised in that hangar. Why else would you have let him go through with that ridiculous plan?

"You're not... actually planning to die, right?" you asked, knees tucked to your chest. You stare at the hydraulic press, that ugly, bleak hulk of metal. It stares dully back at you, silent as a tomb.

"Who, me?" Kokichi cackled, springing to his feet and stretching. His back was to you; you disliked that you couldn't see into his eyes, even if only for a second. "As if. I've still gotta end this dumbass killing game, right? Can't do that if I'm dead!"

"Kokichi," you said quietly. "Truth or lies?"

He stilled. For a horrible moment, your stomach sank. And then he turned to you, casting a blithe smile over his shoulder. "Truth! And that's not a lie. I've never not told the truth to you, right?"

Tears roll absently down your face as you scan the horizon desperately. The Ultimate Academy lies before you in ruins, chunks of stone and pipes spilling water and crushed glass. But nothing breathes. Nothing moves. Nothing comes running to you, no broad grin, no small pale hand in yours.

There is only you, and your fellow survivors, and that awful inevitable truth growing bigger with every passing second.

"Y/n..." Shuichi says softly. "We have to leave. Please."

"I can't - leave him," you say, your voice stilted with the effort not to cry. "I promised - I'd wait - he said—"

"I know," Shuichi whispers, and there are tears glimmering in his eyes, too. Does he weep for Kokichi? Not likely - his sadness is for you, you think. It's empathy, for the partner you have lost. But you can't bring yourself to think that, because if Shuichi is grieving on your behalf that means that you should be grieving, too, and that means that Kokichi is gone.

He can't be. But he isn't here.

Your knees give out; you sprawl onto the broken asphalt, burying your head into his scarf to hide your tears as you sob. There is a rush of movement, and you are somewhat distantly aware of Maki's hand upon your shoulder, shaking for the lover she has lost, and Shuichi's arms around your middle, trembling with the strength of holding on, and Himiko's sniffling in your ear as she weeps for her dead friends.

Their touch is comforting, but it is not the one you seek, the one you need. That one died - and no matter how many lies he had spun you in that hangar, it wasn't coming back.

[dirtychocolatechai]

Hello! It's me the lovely anon again. Can you please post snippets of your 3 most recent fics/writings that you've been working on?? <3

Hello, lovely anon!!! I'm sorry this is so late, this week has been p hectic. These are some of the fics I've been writing for atm 🙃

get some {bucky sexting}

Bucky picks up his phone and opens your message thread. Immediately, he sees your pretty little cunt stretched wide around the toy, clit swollen and thighs soaked. You’re hovering over his jacket, your juices dripping onto the buttery leather.

Groaning low and wounded in his throat, his gut clenches hard with desire. He exhales with a hiss and musters up whatever remains of his self-control. Bucky can’t abandon the mission several hours early just so he can race home and fuck you into the mattress.

At least, he really, really shouldn’t...

“Shit.”

The zipper of his jeans drags against his shaft, sending sparks of lovely friction up and down his spine. His cock springs up and curves towards his belly, head flush and slit weeping. It throbs in his palm.

“Let’s see how you like a taste of your own medicine.”

His hand trembles with restrained desire as he aims the camera, squeezing the base with his free hand. He makes sure to get everything from the dribble of precum down his shaft to his swollen balls, and then sends it on its way with a, “just wait until I get home.”

murphy's law {peter parker sex pollen}

*peter is always 18+

You jerk away, your breath rushing from you with a low hiss.

Parker pants and shakes his curls from his eyes, his knuckles white from how hard he’s gripping the cushion by your ribs. “Did I - are you - ohh...my god…”

“No, no I’m - fine,” you manage to reply through the whimper welling up from deep within your chest. “Just - it’s fine, keep going.”

A livewire of raw nerves, it’s not long before Parker’s getting frantic. He’s throwing his whole body into every thrust, keeping every available inch of you pressed to him. His hands can’t decide where to settle, hovering over your breasts before dropping to your waist, your thigh and then back up again.

He’s so hard it’s gotta hurt, unflagging erection throbbing in time with his heartbeat. You feel every pulse, every twitch that sends him keening. It’s obvious the friction is too much, not enough. Prolongs the inevitable. Drives him higher and higher and higher.

One wave of burning arousal flows into the next until he’s practically shaking apart, sick with the bone-deep instinct to touch, suck, fuck it out of his system. You’re sure the pollen accounts for most of it but you can’t lie and say it’s not filthy, dirty, hot how wrecked he is.

And he’s not even inside you yet.

God, you wish he was though, your mouth going dry with how badly you want him to stuff you full of cock at that moment.

It would be a mutually beneficial resolution...

“Can - oh fuck - can smell how wet you are right now.”

The words break him, his back rippling with hitched little breaths, finally reaching his limit. Strung out. Stretched thinner and thinner every time he cums unfulfilled. You’re surprised he’s held out this long.

Your heart wedges itself in the middle of your throat, unsure of what to do as Parker peppers desperate little kisses along the length of your neck. You’ve always hated seeing him upset, the usually upbeat chatterbox brought low wrong in a cosmically fundamental way.

“Parker?” you ask, cupping his face and unsticking him from your neck so that you can look at him. “What’s wrong?”

His skin is burning up, flushed and dewy with sweat. His curls stick to his cheeks, a wild halo standing in all directions. His gaze is dark and desperate, full of yearning. Pupils blown wide. Self-control ripped to shreds, trapped in the throes of insatiable lust.

“Please, I can’t - I can’t,” Parker sobs. “...s’not enough. It still hurts.”

la petit mort {vampire bucky au}

“Allow me?”

His eyes are half-lidded, dark and dangerous. His gaze is pure predator. When he speaks, she recognizes the low thrum in his voice as unadulterated power. The sudden realization that he is Other, very much not human, sets her heart pounding.

Before her is a creature that’s stood the test of time and come out victorious. Everything about him calls to her, insidiously gentle, coaxing her to yield. He was built to do whatever he likes. She is utterly at his mercy.

“What?” she asks numbly.

A quick smile, a flash of fangs. “Will you let me bathe you?”

Soothing waves of calm wash over her, soften the edges of panic creeping in, stamps down on her desire to fight the unspoken compulsion. Broad palms skate over the swell of her hips, long fingers cradling the bone as he steps closer. The lukewarm breadth of his chest moulds to her own, the hard planes and valleys crushed against the softness of her breasts.

Thu-thump.

Her heart squeezes in her chest, wedged halfway up her throat. A wave of dizziness crashes over her at the rush of blood. All of her senses reach out, narrow in on the glide of his palms, the coolness dragging over her nipples, the lips caressing the shell of her ear. His voice is whisper soft when he speaks, a low murmur that sinks deep behind her navel, the litany of syllables rising and falling in a cadence that entrances, ensnares, entraps.

“It’ll be alright, I’ve got you now.”

[fishoutofcamelot]

Song rec: sick of losing soulmates by Dodie is basically Merlin about all of his friends BECAUSE THEY DIED sorry I'm emotional

Okay first of all RUDE

Second of all, idk why but this song puts an oddly vivid scene in my mind. 

After eons of watching people die, of watching kingdoms rise and fall, of being surrounded by death he’s helpless in stopping, Merlin has gone mad from grief. Think Uther after Morgana betrayed him, but more intense. He’s retreated into a shell of himself and he’s super messed up, and his brains are a bit scrambled because no one can live for that long and lose that much while keeping all their screws perfectly hinged.

He retreats into a cave, dark and distant from civilization, far away from humans that can love him and leave him, away from the reaches of his immortally bleeding heart. So he sits there in the dark, determinedly not thinking about his pain and trying to pretend he doesn’t exist. Maybe if he withers away enough, he’ll simply cease to be altogether.

But Arthur has been reincarnated. All of them have. And they’re desperately searching for Merlin, their missing link. 

After ages of searching, they track him down. It is under unspoken, mutual agreement that Arthur goes into the cave alone. They all wait on the outside, anxious but eager to see Merlin again, eager to wrap him up in a blanket and promise he’ll never have to be alone anymore.

Meanwhile in the cave, Arthur holds out his hand to Merlin, offering to help pull him up, to bring him back to civilization. To bring him to comfort and solace and the loving embrace of friendship and family.

At first, Merlin doesn’t grab it. He can’t let Arthur back into his life, into his heart, only to inevitably lose him all over again.

But he’s always been hopeless in the ways of love, always unable to keep himself from falling into the whims of the gaping, weeping cavity called his heart. So, despite his better judgment, as grimy and emaciated as he’s become in this cave, he accepts Arthur’s hand and pulls himself up. And he walks into the light, Arthur’s arms wrapped carefully around his bony shoulders, for the first time in decades.

On the outside, his friends are all waiting for him. They hug him and kiss him and envelop him in all the love he’s been lacking all these centuries. 

His heart aches with the knowledge that this, too, shall one day leave him. These reincarnations of his friends will grow old and die, but he’ll linger behind forevermore. 

But he’s not going to think about that right now. For now, he’s going to weep and sob and shake as his touch-starved nerves cry out for their fill of long overdue affection. And Merlin will walk back into society, hand in hand with Gwen and Arthur, and he will let himself be happy for a few years. 

This song also reminds me of a BBCM/SPN crossover fic idea I have where Merlin makes a crossroads deal to bring all his friends back and then gets tortured in Hell, while Arthur & co help Team Free Will take down the British Men of Letters. Also, Morgana and Sam become besties and get therapy together because they deserve it. But we don’t need to talk about that

[sweetteaanddragons]

You said that you went heavier on the hurt than the comfort in that fic. I know it was supposed to be an AU, but would you consider writing a second half where Elrond is exchanged for Gil-Galad? The shock on the faces of the other elves when they realize that Gil-Galad wasn't killed and that Maglor really does love the twins would be beautiful. Also, poor Elros needs his brother back. The reunion of the twins and Maglor could be the comfort. (I'm not crying over this. Ok, maybe a little.) (2/2)

Thank you for your lovely comments in your earlier ask! Here, as requested, is the second half of the AU that I originally wrote for @swirls-of-randomness in which Elrond becomes king and Gil-Galad gets kidnapped by Feanorians.

Quick note: Elros and Gil-Galad have a discussion about the situation; not all views presented therein accurately represent my own.

. . . .

Gil-Galad is not at all sure why he’s not dead yet.

It’s not a new thought. It’s one that’s been plaguing him since they handed him a crown and told him he was king. 

The other kings in exile had all died - Fingon, who had looked so impossibly strong when Gil-Galad was small, Fingolfin, who had been able to challenge Morgoth himself, even Feanor, who, whatever else everyone said about him, had at least not lacked for might.

The other kings too: Finrod, whose death he had imagined in a thousand nightmares, Turgon, whose daughter really should have been the one to take the crown, Thingol, who had attracted Melian herself . . .

He knows all their deeds, all their power, all their strength.

And he knows how they all died.

Gil-Galad has never once seen the light of the Trees. He does not have any legendary deeds to his name. He does not feel strong.

He doesn’t know why he’s not dead yet.

He can’t ask anyone that, though, of course, because even he knows that’s not the kind of thing kings say.

He asked Círdan once anyway because he can ask Círdan anything, and he still remembers the terrible grief that had swept over Círdan’s face before the older elf had pulled him close and said, “Because I am not dead yet, and they will never reach you so long as I can yet stand in their way.”

He had known intellectually, even then, that no one could make that promise. Not really.

He knows it in his heart now, because he is tied to a post in a Feanorian tent, the blood of his kin still drying on his rope-burned hands, and Círdan isn’t here.

The Feanorian lord had been badly injured, he’d seen, before he was hauled away. If he dies -

Gil-Galad is going to die. He forces himself to take away that comforting if and confront himself with it. He is going to die, and he might as well get used to it.

The tent flap opens, and he braces himself for fury, for swords, for anything. 

He does not brace himself for a boy just entering adolescence that is carrying food.

The boy looks weary past bearing, but he does his best to smile anyway. “Hello,” he says. “I’m Elros. Did you know your men stole my brother?”

. . . 

Gil-Galad learns three things in the many visits that follow:

First, that Prince Maglor is apparently recovering and expected to live after all.

(“He has to live,” Elros says the first time, fiercely. “He has to,” and Gil-Galad is not at all convinced, but with each subsequent visit Elros gets a bit lighter, and Gil-Galad slowly comes to believe with considerable relief of his own.)

Second, that there is considerable debate in the camp what to do about their new prisoner.

(“No one really wanted you,” Elros explains before smacking his forehead and saying with surprising intensity, “Of course someone wants you, that’s not what I meant at all,” and he waits before Gil-Galad nods a bemused acceptance of this before continuing on. “It’s just the people that want you are all over in your camp, and we didn’t mean to take you from them, it just sort of happened, and now we can’t decide how to get you back without getting shot at and whether or not we should ask for something when we do.”)

That we is the third thing he learns: that Elros has some very odd and somewhat concerning ideas about who constitutes that we and exactly who was stolen from whom.

(“Of course we were stolen,” Elros says, frowning, “but that doesn’t mean it was alright for you to try to steal us, anymore than it was alright for them to try to steal those stupid gems from Sirion just because the gems were stolen from them first. Stealing is stealing.”

“That’s not how the law works,” Gil-Galad tells him. “And my men weren’t trying to steal your brother from you, they were trying to save him.”

“Stealing is stealing,” Elros says stubbornly, and he sits there and glares until Gil-Galad allows the subject to drop.)

. . .

He doesn’t try to convince Elros to let him go so that they can run away together because a) he’s almost entirely certain they’d be caught before they left camp, b) it would take a miracle for the two of them to survive the trip to the Isle of Balar alone, and c) he’s nearly positive Elros would refuse point blank.

That does not quite stop him from wishing he’d tried it when a man with faint scars still covering his face and missing one hand entirely enters the tent.

“Prince Maedhros,” he says, and he’s proud that his voice does not shake and that he sounds like the king he spends most of his time thinking he is only pretending to be.

“Cousin,” the prince returns, irony not quite covering the pain and bone deep exhaustion all too evident in his voice. “You’ll be pleased to know that Maglor is well on his way to a full recovery.”

Gil-Galad is pleased, both for the obvious reason and for Elros’s sake, so he’s able to say so quite sincerely.

Maedhros looks at him, a little surprised, and in the silence that follows, Gil-Galad can’t quite refrain from blurting out, “So now what?”

Maedhros looks at him for a long moment and says, in a voice now entirely void of all emotion, “So now we can spare the men to escort you and Elros back to your home.”

Gil-Galad’s second thought, after disbelieving relief, is, “Have you told Elros that yet?”

Maedhros leaves without answering, but that doesn’t matter.

Gil-Galad already knows that the answer is no.

. . .

It was a good plan, Gil-Galad thinks in all fairness. A generous plan, even, since the Feanorians weren’t supposed to get anything out of it. It was just a slow progression of the hostages - Gil-Galad, who still can’t quite believe this is happening, and Elros, who is refusing to speak to either Gil-Galad or Maedhros - between the two sides.

Except halfway across the field, someone suddenly breaks off from Gil-Galad’s side and takes off running towards them. Gil-Galad looks sharply to the archers, fearful that hostilities may be about to break out, but it is just one small form that he abruptly realizes must be Elrond.

Elrond, who grabs his brother’s hand and takes off running with him, the movement so smooth that it’s like the two of them have been planning this.

They are running towards the Feanorian side.

He should stop them, he thinks, but he can’t, not without shattering the fragile balance already teetering on the edge of violence.

Instead, he walks forward.

Círdan is there the moment he’s in range, and though they’re both careful to preserve the dignity necessary for such a public moment, surely there can be no harm in an embrace.

Círdan holds on just a little too tightly, and Gil-Galad presses that memory into his mind, to keep and hold onto when he inevitably lets go.

“I thought we’d lost you,” Círdan says hoarsely as he steps back.

“So had I,” he admits, finally daring to look back across the field. “We did lose them,” he says, and his heart aches for the little boys who refuse to be stolen twice.

But Círdan has an odd look on his face. “Maybe,” is all he says, and he keeps a hand on Gil-Galad’s back as they turn to walk away.

. . .

(Maglor weeps when he sees them, and Elrond isn’t sure if they’re sad or happy tears.

“I’m sorry,” he says helplessly, feeling his own tears well up at last.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Maglor says fiercely. “Not to me. Not ever,” and he opens his arms a little: always an offer, never a demand.

Elrond burrows into them immediately, gently as he can after he feels Maglor’s silent flinch. Elros is right there next to him in the embrace, and for the first time in weeks, Elrond doesn’t feel that horrible blankness hovering anywhere near him at all.)

[dragonagecompanions]

DA2 companions (romanced if able?) reacting to Hawke taking a fatal hit for them? Not just an injury, but a sword through the chest, or something of that caliber? Sorry to bother you! I'm just in the mood for angst...

Varric: It’s not real. 

It forms into a mantra in his head, repeating with every step, every frantic shout, every stuttering heartbeat that inevitably carries his friends away. There is no power that can be bought or stolen to fix this, nothing that even Varric -with his almost infinite resources- can do to stop this. The blow which was meant for him has instead taken his greatest friend, and the rogue can only weep and cradle this precious person who had once meant so much.

Isabela: She grieves. Anyone who says otherwise, who even hints at the idea that she does not feel the heavy press of sorrow for the Champion who had stepped between her and Fate will suffer a similar blow. But it sits side by side with the sour bile of guilt and the anger that comes with loss, and such things have always made her stumble. She does not stay in Kirkwall long- cannot linger at the epicenter of her emotional turmoil- but will never forget the brave person for whom she owes every breathe. Romanced: She is angry. There has never been a moment, not in all her life, when Isabela has been so breathlessly angry. What right did they have to leave her like this, to love her and then abandon her with so much? The rage seems all consuming, but beneath it is a well spring of sorrow so deep that even a seasoned captain might drown in it. She loved Hawke, and now they are gone. Gone to keep her alive, and it is a burden  and a blessing she will never feel worthy of.

Aveline: She is prepared for the blow. All her life she has been a soldier, a fighter, and Aveline knows the swing and angle of the blade will not be forgiving even against a guard’s cuirass. She has aceepted that, accepted her duty and the sacrifice of same. And in some ways that makes the loss even worse, when Hawke steps in front of the blow. Because she was willing to accept her own loss, but to watch a friend die in her place is crushing. Like Isabela the guilt is both immediate and crushing, but she pushes past it to make the best of the sacrifice her friend had made for her. Romanced:There is no sound. Shouting, screaming, cries of denial from their companions, nothing can break through the terrible roar in her ears as she watches the second man she has ever loved fall. She wants to move, to reach out and hold him, to do anything but stand still and shocked as the world crumbles beneath her feet. Later she will vaguely remember avenging them, of the terrible violence that was inflicted by Kirkwall’s guard captain.But in the moment her vision swims, darkening and growing over bright by turns, and all she can do is beg Andraste to take her instead, please merciful Maker don’t let this be the end.

Fenris: Death is no stranger to the Lyrium Ghost. Too many had fallen to him for it to be any more than a spectre walking at his side. He has always known it would catch him eventually- had been amazed he still seemed to be ahead-  but had no fear of the Void or the Maker or whatever awaited him when that blade finally fell. But he had never grown accostumed to watching others fall to it. And Hawke’s loss -given for him, so that he might life- is agonizing. Hawke was a friend, a comrade, and their death weighs heavy on him. He avenges them, of course, and later when the inevitable haze of alcohol and pain have finally passed swears to live as they might have wanted for him. Romanced: The laying of the brands in his skin- so awful that the agony had wiped clean every memory of his life before- seem but pin pricks compared to the pain that swamps him in that moment. The vengeance he reaps is bloody and short, but even if he spilled enough blood to drown Thedas it would not bring back what he has lost. Hawke was a part of his, the other half of every heart beat and the completion of everything he’d ever wanted but could not ask for. They waited for him, loved him, gave him everything he’d ever imagined– and then the one thing he would never has asked for. It takes a long time for him to climb out of the anger and the despair, and the Tevinter slave traders will never forget the terror hat comes North to stalk them– for it no longer has anything to lose.

Anders: He almost burns himself out trying to save Hawke, but even with all his magic there is nothing that can be done. His friend is gone, taken as Karl and so many other were taken, and he mourns them deeply. His work after that keeps the idea of Hawke- champion and friend to all- at heart, andhe tries to live his life as their legacy. Romanced: There is a moment, as he kneels over the body of his lover, as he wills mana into a heart already grown still and silent- that Anders almost loses himself. The world dances in blue and white, shimmering before his eyes like the auroras that some sailors spoke of. Justice battles for control even as Anders tries to comprehend a world without the person that he loves. Its worse somehow than Karl, worse than the suffering in the circle or the agony of the Blight, because he could have stopped it. Could have taken the blow and died- would have died a thousand deaths- to save Hawke. In the coming days there will be less and less of Anders left, and Justice turned Vengeance consumes a mage destroyed by grief.

Sebastian: It is a true loss, and a heavy burden to bear. He mourns Hawke, mourns the loss of a friend and carries the guilt that they died so that he might live. But he is grateful every day for it, for their friendship and their sacrifice, and swears to the Maker that it will not be in vain. Romanced: Surely his grief must shake the heavens, so painful is it as he cradles the woman who was to be his wife and friend and queen. She was everything to him- a rock when even the foundation of his faith had been shaken-  and now she is gone. The guilt is almost enough to choke him, and the agner that follows fuels it. The Chantry offers little comfort, though he seeks it constantly, and he returns to Starkhaven not long after to try and rebuild his shattered world.

Bethany: There is a moment, when she must watch a second sibling fall and die before her, that the mage can feel Despair claw at her soul. Father and mother, twin and now this? How can one endure and not fall to the almost welcome release of posession? But she knows it would break their heart, and so she battles it back even as she fights to avenge this last bit of her family. And after, when they are laid to rest and she returns to either the Circle or the Wardens, Bethany throws herself into her tasks and promises to do good by their family name– that she alone carries now.

Carver: This isn’t what he wanted. By the Maker he wanted out of his siblings shadow, but never like…never like this. Of all the companions it takes the longest to drag him away from the limp form of his oldest sibling, and it is hours before the pain abates enough that he feels like he can breathe. The grief that follows threatens to swallow him up, and  for a long time those around him fear that he might tread the same path. But slowly he recovers, and swears to live every moment not in the shadow of their sacrifice but in the light of their legacy.

– Mod Fereldone