#gil's prompts

[gilbirda]

DPxDC Prompt: Wrong Number Jazz edition

Based on this amazing post I saw

"Danny, it's been a week. Sam said you took the phone with this number. Everything alright?"

"Please. It's been a month now. I just want to know if you are alive."

"I won't look for you. I know I promised. But you promised to check in."

"The funeral was today. They didn't attend, forgot what day it was."

"I miss you."

Jason came back from a Outlaw out-of-the-grid mission finding messages from an Unknown number. A quick check gave him a name and address, and also news about a missing little brother. The more he searched the fishier it all looked.

Good thing he didn't unpack his things yet.

[laurancezvahlslefteyebrow]

NOT ONLY do meif’wa smoke catnip, but they also bake it into certain foods and make it into tea.

I imagine it has a similar effect as weed, with bad reactions being rare. It calms them, gives them a general sense of euphoria and can be used to relieve pain. Though if ingested in large quantities, it can work almost like melatonin, helping them relax and fall asleep. It does not cause hallucinations.

Meif’wa don’t really drink alcohol, but when they reach a certain age (i’m thinking around 15 or 16) they have their first catnip tea on their birthday, like how people (in america at least) have their first drink at 21.

Maybe there’s a ceremony 🤷

either way meif’wa catnip culture is like the opposite of (modern) human weed culture. it’s not taboo or judged, it’s something that’s very important to them and their culture.

On another, completely unrelated note, many werewolve tribes call it Sedativus Herbāceus (sedative herb). They tend to use it to well.. sedative others. Usually if they’re sick, injured, or need some kind of medical attention. Though they have used it for other purposes.

Catnip does have an effect on humans, the same as meif’wa, it’s just not as potent unless taken in large quantities.

[stealingyourbones]

If one of Tim's brothers pisses him off, he does the regular thing one does when retaliating; Send them scientific research papers and studies as ominous threats.

Damian laughed at Tim and belittled him for having slow reaction times and being clumsy when he slipped off a building with his grapple and smashed his hip against the corner of a roof. Damian gets multiple articles sent to him, one of which being a paper on parkour injuries on adolescence. it's a clear warning for Damian to watch his back, or else.

Jason pisses off Tim later when he teases Tim on his apparent lack of gun shooting skills. He later emails them a research paper on gun shot wounds to the dick. It's incredibly informative and very much so a threat.

Bruce keeps pushing Tim on his training and Tim is exhausted. He has work in the morning at Wayne Industries. He has so many meetings to attend and he is incredibly stressed that he doesn't have the time to do everything or anything. He reaches burnout incredibly fast. He sends Bruce a paper on the burnout of undergrad business students with full time jobs. Both Tim and Bruce have a very hard time communicating. Bruce gets the message and lets up on the training.

This happens a lot whenever people fuck with Tim.

Do not fuck with Timothy Drake.

[melestasflight]

For the holiday prompts, could I please request 🌄Sirion and "still hope may seem bright"? Thank you! <3

still hope may seem bright

Idril stands at the edge of a rocky outcropping whose body has half-sunken into the water and stares into the Great Sea. She can feel the coolness of heavy water droplets against her bare ankles as the waves crash against the rock, again and again, in a steady rhythm that is most welcome for her unruly thoughts.   

The water here at the feet of Sirion’s bluffs deepens quickly, only a few steps of shallow sands, and then a sudden abyss opens, housing the massive coral reef that gives life to the Bay of Balar. Idril pierces the depths with her gaze, letting herself be enthralled by the sea forest beneath the surface.

Flung about by the waves, pulled by the currents, tossed this way and that by the entire power of the sea, the seagrasses sway in the tide. Fish, big and small, and critters and crawlers of all sorts wade between their tall green bodies, feeding on them, hiding between them, using them for survival. Flung, and pulled, and tossed, the grasses choose not where they go, the most vulnerable beings in the sea though all life starts with them.

Idril sees something of herself in these simple plants of the sea for she also has been tossed around from one land to the next, pulled by currents much larger than herself, uprooted time and again from each place she has called home. Here she stands at the edges of Beleriand, by the sea after so long, yet not of her own making. How Idril had longed for the sea during her first years in Gondolin, for there is something of that scent when the algae bloom, of the ways salt crystals form along the skin, that never truly leaves someone who has known them. 

Now that she is returned to the gentle embrace of the coast, Idril has little strength left to rejoice. Questions weigh heavily upon her, of the hurts her people still carry, of the favors she must ask and has nothing to offer in return, of dark winter nights that are soon to find them, of kingships and crowns. She still owes an answer to Ereinion on that last matter and has promised to deliver it before nightfall.

The sea breeze picks up to snatch at Idril’s tresses, tossing them around playfully and bringing with it the lilt of cheerful laughter. It is a most familiar sound, most beloved, yet one she has not heard in close to a year. A very long year. 

Idril’s heart chases this sound desperately and her eyes follow down the beach to where Eärendil runs to Tuor, hands overflowing with shells and pebbles. The treasures fall out of his small palms and he must pause to retrieve them from the sand before sprinting, the merriment spilling from his lips again. Tuor laughs too, though quietly, its resonance lost between the coming and going of the water. Their bright heads shine brilliantly in the afternoon light and when they are joined, Eärendil’s gold next to Tuor’s early silvering, it is as if the Sun has met the low Moon.

The sight is so beautiful and soothing, almost a dream, as something Idril’s mind must be conjuring to find a temporary refuge from the questions that give it no peace. A vision or no, Idril dares not interrupt and remains watching how Eärendil offers the gifts to his father with a beaming smile, how Tuor falls on his knees to receive the offerings, how they both touch and turn each shell as if examining a most remarkable jewel. Tuor explains something with utmost care and puts a big round shell next to their son’s ear. Eärendil listens, and then his eyes open wide and he shrieks with delight. 

The laughter reaches Idril’s ears again, clearer and brighter this time, and it is as tangible as the cold water beneath her own feet. This is not a dream. Her boy laughs again, for the first time since Gondolin.

The tears that come then are not the familiar murky streams of grief but of a heart opening itself to hope again. Idril lets the water flow out of her, fall down her body, and mingle with the spray of waves until she is one with the Sea. Still hope may seem bright, Idril believes, if Eärendil keeps laughing like this, if Ulmo’s waters keep their steady rhythm. 

A decision settles in Idril's heart. She will not rule, her head will bear the weight of no crown in Beleriand. She will be like the seagrasses. Stand tall for her people against whatever comes, be the home they have lost, guard them, and nurture them, and then, when the time is right, let the currents take her where they will.

Idril gives thanks to Sea and turns away to deliver her answer to the one who shall now be a High King to their people.

For ghosti.

If you enjoyed this story, feel free to drop me a note/kudo on AO3. It makes my day!

[helianskies]

9 or 21, lietpru|pruliet?

man i hope i have done them and u some kind of justice—

Martyrdom

“God, you're in a sorry state.”

“Thanks for pointing it out,” Gilbert quips as he does his best to swallow down a cough that feels like it could dislodge a lung. “Hadn’t noticed.”

“No, really,” Tolys proceeds all the same, wandering only further into Gilbert’s room—notably, without his permission. Typical. “It stinks in here. For someone who’s usually a proud and tidy man, you might as well be living with animals—”

“Sometimes, I do.”

“—and it’s the middle of the day, why are your—? Here—”

Tolys walks right over to the window, and before Gilbert can stop him (or really even consider stopping him) he throws the curtains open and lets the sun in. Gilbert wants to scream and curse him back a thousand years into the past, but… he can’t muster the energy or will to, and simply chooses to defy the other, throwing himself back down into his bedsheets in the same way a child would.

Just because Toyls wants to invade his space, that doesn’t mean that Gilbert has to entertain him!

The mattress shifts and bounces with added weight behind him. Gilbert stares at the wall, but he knows that the other has now decided to make himself comfortable. It only grinds his gears more.

“Go away, Liet…”

“So formal, Preußen,” Tolys muses. “You really are in a bad mood.”

“No thanks to you.”

“Not sure I can be blamed for how you’re feeling. Or coping.”

“Maybe not,” Gilbert mutters, acerbic, “but you aren’t helping.”

“Is that what you want me to do?” Tolys asks. “You want me to help you?”

Gilbert lacks a real answer. Saying that he wants any kind of help would mean defeat. A kicked canine, tail between his legs. But saying that he wants nothing, and potentially sending Tolys back on his way, will only leave him alone again. And for how long? Alone to wallow, to lie there, to drip away slowly into nothing…

It’s been days now. Days of silence. He has noticed passing footsteps—footsteps that have sometimes stopped, listened, waited, and then moved on—

“So, you want me to help,” Tolys remarks as he crosses one leg over the other, and Gilbert can feel those watchful, attentive eyes on him. They may as well have been fingers on his skin, warm, ticklish, teasing…

“Yeah,” Gilbert replies, letting his breath go. He feels himself sink deeper into pillows and blankets. “I need a favour…”

“Go on then,” the other says. “What is it?”

Gilbert breathes back in. His body flushes with shivers and aches. And he asks of the other, “Put me out of my misery.”

Part of him wonders if Tolys will laugh at his request, or maybe tell him to stop being so dramatic. Part of him wonders if he’d feel fingers after all—if something would possess the other and he would cure Gilbert of his ailment—an ailment that Gilbert himself couldn’t even describe. Part of him wonders if—

“No.”

Gilbert nearly chokes on his own saliva, hurrying to sit himself up before he ends up coughing up a lung after all. He whips his head around to stare at Tolys, who is now apparently much more interested in looking out of the window opposite the bed, and he feels shivers and aches of a different kind. 

“No?” he repeats.

“No,” Tolys repeats, too. He looks back at Gilbert and says quite plainly, “Not my misery, so not my problem.”

He’s stunned. 

“Well, fuck you, I guess,” he says, before, again, returning to his bed. 

Not the same way as before, though. It isn’t abrupt, and it isn’t like a tantrum. He just… lies back down, like a dog who has given up trying to get attention, his head settling back on a pillow as his eyes return to the wall. To his wall. To one of his walls, so grey, so cold. 

A soft snort of laughter comes from behind him. It’s wounding, for a moment. But then he feels the mattress move and wobble again, and the next thing he knows, there is an arm. An arm. A whole arm that has come to lie across his side. It doesn’t quite hold him, but it is there, and… that’s okay.

“You get five minutes,” Tolys tells him as his fingers find the other’s hair and gently sift through it. Gilbert closes his eyes. He lets him continue, and relaxes. “After that, you’re having a serious fucking shower, got it?”

“Sure. Got it.”

But if Gilbert could fall asleep in those five minutes, then… Well, the shower, the cleaning, the living—it could wait. It would wait. He’s got what he needs for now.

The dog always gets the bone in the end.

[ find the fic collection on ao3! ]

[aprilizzie]

PH Month 2023, Day 4: Raven 🐦‍⬛

@i-prefer-the-term-antihero

Edit: took a slightly better photo again ;-;

[softquietsteadylove]

“Today, every day, and on Valentine's Day, I will visit my wife of 56 years. We are separated by her dementia. I will tell her what's been going on outside, as I spoon-feed her in her care-home hospital bed. She says, "Thank you," when I tell her I love her. We both know she would say more, if only she could. We have had a great life together, ever since the second grade. She is slowly leaving, I know that. But we're a pair until then.” I saw this quote on NYT’s post about small acts of love, and I immediately thought of Thenamesh which made me think of you. I know this might be a sensitive topic so feel free to skip this as a prompt if you’re not comfortable, but I do think you could write something not only respectful but absolutely beautiful about this vein of love for our favorite pair. It reminds me of the Notebook too, if that’s at all inspiring! As always, love everything you give us <3

Far out in the Australian desert, there is a house.

It sits completely apart from everything around it. The land is tended to and the house is inhabited despite the arid nothing surrounding it. There is a water pump and an oven, a garden and space to keep goods.

Everyday, a man leaves the house. He leaves with a basket in hand, and he walks under the unforgiving sun. The trip is made in silence, walking for hours. He says nothing, stops for nothing. His journey takes him even further into the desert, further away from everyone and everything.

He walks until he sees a figure on a hill. The figure is all white from a distance, standing out against the sizzling red sands. It remains completely still. Most would even assume it doesn't breathe.

The man sets down the basket first, lowering himself next to the figure. Her hair picks up in the breeze, but he keeps it away from her face. Her eyes are as white as the dress on her back. When the weather turns bad he comes and stands over her, wraps a blanket around her shoulders.

He would fight off the lightning and thunder if he needed to.

He touches his hand to her cheek, to make sure she has warmth in her skin. He checks her eyes, which have not been green in years now. He checks to make sure she's still breathing, that time has stopped for her in a way that leaves her comfortable. He checks that she is still the Warrior Eternal, Thena, his wife.

The Strongest Eternal settles for the time being. He comes and sits with her everyday. Some days it's hours, some days it's only one. He has their home to attend to. He comes and tells her he misses her, what is happening back on their little patch of land. Tells her of the lizards she loved so much running through his garden.

The man pulls over the basket, pulling out some of the mead he has perfected over the years. There's no harm in letting her taste it, now. He pours it into a delicate sipping vessel and brings it to her lips. It is not as if she can expire of natural causes, out here. He can't either.

But he likes to come and share things with her. He's even started taking up her old practice of drawing, although he is certain she would tell him if they were as terrible as he thinks they are. Still, he brings them and shows them to her, one by one. Many are of her.

He eats something for himself, whatever he has made and brought with him. He still cooks because he enjoys it, even if there is no gentle humming at the table or smiles bathed in kitchen window sunlight. She always told him that her favourite part about his cooking was how happy it made him. She wouldn't want him to stop.

He points out clouds to her, asking what she thinks they look like. She would always just say weapons in the past, so now he makes up things like bunnies and monsters and even their family members, in a way. He asks her how they are sometimes, certain that she must be with them. Because he hopes that whatever happens within those completely white shrouds in her eyes, that she is happy, and safe.

He packs up the basket again, preparing to walk home. He tilts her chin towards him. Sometimes he can imagine her lips lifting ever so faintly. He can imagine the smile his wife always had for him. "Hey."

She does not reply.

"I'm heading home," he whispers sweetly to her, promising the next time he will feel most alive instead of the hours in between. "I'll see you tomorrow, sweetheart."

Her head tilts, leaning into his touch just a little more.

He smiles. Because sometimes she's in there--his Thena. He can see glimpses of her in times like these, when she leans into his touch, when her fingers twitch to hold onto him as much as she is able. There are traces of her still there, in the time he feels most alive.

He has no illusions, nor regrets. An Eternal has only the merciless and indefinite future to look forward to. He said they would take that chance, and they did, for almost a thousand years.

He's happy for these moments, and he can live with the hours in between. He leans forward and presses his lips to her forehead. She stopped blinking long ago but he swears he can see her eyes moving when he does this. "See you soon, Thena."

His hand slips from hers, and he sees that little twitch that makes him smile again. The first time he'd seen it, he had stayed for hours and hours afterwards. Now he knows he will see it again.

He walks back down the hill, looking back at her a few times just because he feels like it. She does not move. He knows she will be there tomorrow, and the next day. And if the earth shatters in half the day after then he will come and get her, and he will carry her to a place that is whole. He will carry her to the ends of the earth and sit with her when that end comes.

He would have nowhere else to be.

The man walks back, hours and hours again. The sun shifts in the sky and he makes it back before nightfall. With the dusk oncoming, he can see the light he always leaves on at the house. He follows the same path he walks everyday. He sets the basket down and walks out to check on the garden and the lizards. He makes sure his apron is hung up and his dishes are clean.

He goes to their room, lies down in their bed, and he thinks about his wife. He falls asleep with his hand on her pillow, thinking of her hair trailing onto his shoulder, of her soft breathing and her laughter. And tomorrow, he will go and see her again.

Far out in the Australian desert, there is a home.

It is the home of two Eternals, a husband and wife. They travelled the world together, even saved it, in a way. It was always known that she would leave before him, and they took that chance. They built an entire life out in the arid desert, out surrounded by the sand, surrounded by the sea.

Their home is built at the ends of the earth, and the wife resides further into the nothingness still. And her husband walks to see her, every single day.

[lana7779]

So so excited to be participating in something like this as a beginner artist!

Kicking off PH month with the prompt Coat, here's what I got!!!

@i-prefer-the-term-antihero @this-idiots-left-eye

[lendmyboyfriendahand]

Maglor/Daeron mpreg

Maglor was honestly enjoying the festival. All the planning details were Fingolfin’s responsibility. Maglor’s younger brothers were back East, guarding the border that hadn’t had a serious battle in years, and unable to cause political drama. Celebrimbor and Gil-Galad were both in attendance, with Celebrimbor looking out for his “younger cousin” before Gil-Galad went to Ethel Sirion to learn about court.

For the first time since Valinor, Maglor could sing without any other concerns. After a few songs, he had acquired a crowd. Some of them were Silvan and Falmari, and Maglor always took extra pride when he was recognized purely for his voice, not his family name. 

One stranger in the crowd seemed very intent though. He stared directly at Maglor, though he did not move when someone blocked his view. Instead the stranger remained still. 

Three  songs after the stranger appeared though, Maglor noticed a strange vibration. This elf was humming under his breath - but in perfect rhythm with the songs Maglor had never before played in front of audience, and notes that only departed from Maglor’s own to go on on trilling runs of harmonies. 

Maglor stopped singing to take a drink of the excellent wine. He had not been on any sort of stage, so it was easy enough to approach the stranger. 

“You have a good sense of melody,” Maglor said. “Do you play an instrument yourself?”

“I play the lyre, and the twin pipes, and sing as well. Your voice is very well trained.”

“Thank you. Talent without practice is wasted, after all.”

“Is it?”

“It’s a saying from Tirion, or perhaps just from my kin folk. But that’s not important.”

“What is, then?”

“I would love to hear you actually sing or play, rather than just muffled accompaniments.”

__

They create a melody, a harmony, a song that takes on a life of its own. Their voices twine into something that is made of both of them, but a thing unto itself. Daeron realizes that he has invoked his maternal inheritance too late. He pulls back from the song, to tell Maglor what they have done, but Maglor sees only that their creation is about to falter.

Maglor sings louder, and claims the tune as his own. It needs a vessel, and Maglor offers his. Daeron initially panics, but communicates to Maglor that co-creation with a maia is approximately similar to having a baby, and Maglor as male is totally unequipped for that.

“Oh, is that the only problem! It’s not pleasant, but I can do so again.”

Maglor goes to Doriath their son a year later, begging for safety for the grandson of the king and queen. Maglor pushes through branches, carefully protecting the bundle in his arms. But at one wild rose bush, the edge of the blanket is caught. When Maglor untangles it, the baby has disappeared from the blanket, and the rose bush grown brambles so thick Maglor could not reach even a finger in. “I named him for the strength of his grip and the weight of his actions!” Maglor shrieks at the trees. “Lungum, if you ever let him speak his mother-tongue!” The forest is silent, though the bush next to him now has buds amidst the thorns.

They say after that Mablung of the heavy hand was at the Mereth Aderthad, and it is true, the way elves count the beginning of a life.

[number1mongrel]

Gilgamesh learns the hard way not to eat brownies that don't belong to him.

happy 420 i started writing this like 3 years ago

[gil-galadhwen]

Hello, my beloved!

What about writing some "touch yourself" with Gil-gadaddy? :3

HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY, LOVELY! 💝

And to all the Gil-gadaddy lovers out there, this one's for you! 😜

Gil-galad x Reader (gender neutral)

Summary & warnings: Reader is a little anxious at the high king’s request, but soon gains courage 👀 This isn't super graphic but still NSFW (maybe I’m desensitised? Idk)

Notes: I used a few Quenyan words I got from elfdict dot com - Írima (lovely, beautiful, desirable.) Melda (beloved, dear, sweet.)

Word Count: 500+

***

Touch Yourself

You keep your eyes closed and teeth clenched as you fight the urge to balk.

“Just breathe,” a familiar voice says close to your ear. “You are trembling.”

You do as you’re told and force air through your nose. You focus on how cool it feels as you send it down to your lungs, to your core. 

You’ve dreamt of this moment. Imagined being invited into High King Gil-galad’s rooms, being pressed against his desk while he kisses you until you forget yourself. It’s an idle dream, private and mostly incidental. While you know the King had noticed you, you never thought he would make your dreams come true in the most anxiety-inducing way imaginable.

“I want you to touch yourself,” Gil-galad whispered against your throat, his voice deep and rich with longing. 

You freeze beneath him, and the cushions under your back suddenly feel as hard as stone. 

Gil-galad shifts back to look at you, his hand reaching up to brush the hair from your face. “I do not wish to make you uncomfortable, Írima. But I want you in so many ways that I do not know where to start.”

Your cheeks flush at the sentiment. You look up into his eyes, gentle brown gleaming in the soft lighting. There’s a calmness in them, a steadiness that seems at odds with his usual demeanour, and you understand the kind of power he’s handing to you. The rapid beats of his heart beneath your hand should have told you as much.

You gently push the king back until you’re both upright. “Go and sit over there,” you say, nodding towards the chaise lounge across from the bed. 

With a small smile, Gil-galad obeys, adjusting his silk robe as he perches on the lounge while you slide to the edge of the bed.

You raise your eyes to his and find that anchor in his gaze again while you push your clothing to the side and spread your legs wide. 

You watch the king swallow as he takes in the sight of you, rich and ripe for his taking. Leaning back on a hand, you slide the other up your thigh and down the inside, stopping just before the apex.

“Melda,” Gil-galad murmurs. “I was mistaken, it should be me–”

“Hush,” you say, admonishingly. “You wanted this, you will get your turn, I–” You sigh as your fingers brush against your soft skin. You don’t know how, but it feels more incredible than it ever has in all the times you’ve pleasured yourself before. 

Across the room, Gil-galad leans forward, murmuring words of encouragement. You keep watching him, imagining it’s him. Imagining his hands pressing into you. His lips, hot against your skin. His hips thrusting…

Gil-galad stands abruptly, his robe falling open to reveal his naked desire.

“My king,” You whisper, awed at the sight of the magnificent creature who is falling to his knees before you. 

Pressing the gentlest of kisses to your thigh, he pushes your legs a little wider.

“Now, it is my turn.”

[gilbirda]

DPxDC prompt: Jazz's haunted

Duke is more and more worried about the substitute teacher at his school.

The woman is nice, overall a good person and great with the younger kids. But she is very reserved about her past and has a few ghosts that follow her - maybe literally.

Duke knows he shouldn't abuse his meta abilities but he cannot help it, he needs to let her know.

"Hey, this may sound crazy, but I think you have a ghost following you." Jazz turns to find one of the best students in her class. Duke Thomas. She sees his eyes glint yellow for a second as he looks at Danny hanging out invisibly next to her, leaning on her shoulder, muffling his giggles. She smiles warmly at the kid. "You don't say?"

[khazadspoon]

22 and 34 with Gil and Pete Please 🫶🫶

22 - Burning

34 - curves

———

A few years ago, maybe as many as six or seven, they’d first fallen into bed together. It had been rough, a fumbling attempt at sex that has been mostly successful. Successful enough to warrant more attempts at least.

They’d gotten better at it each time. Pete learned each thing that made Gil go a little crazy. Gil learned how to find and press all of Pete’s buttons until they were two sweaty, exhausted bodies entwined together in second hand sheets.

Now they’ve almost perfected it. Not in the way that means there’s no spontaneity, no passion or excitement, but in the way that means they are each equipped perfectly to drive the other wild.

For instance: tonight, Pete has tied Gil’s wrists together, anchored him to the headboard and is taking his sweet time getting to anything in particular. His hands are slow, lazy as they drift over the curves of Gil’s body. He squeezes the swell of his belly, revels in its softness, moves on to the thighs that distract him so easily. He lifts them, slots himself between them and takes handfuls of Gil’s ass to hold him close.

The handsy approach never fails to make Gil squirm. He wriggles, grinds their cocks together until Pete has to adjust his grip and smack one thick thigh to make him quit it.

“Now, now,” Pete laughs, lowering his partner to the bed again and laying over him. His skin is so hot, flushed a deep pink, almost burning to the touch. Pete lays over him and nips at his neck and shoulder. “Don’t be a brat.”

Gil is grinning, he can feel it in the way he arches up and strains against the rope tying his hands. “You like it, though.”

Pete pinches his side, grins at the fake outrage as Gil stifles a giggle. “Maybe…”

Before Gil can talk back and prove himself right, Pete bites down on one of his favourite parts of Gil’s body - the gentle slope of his shoulder, where tendons reach up to his neck, thick and strong, calling out to him whenever Gil turns his head and his shirt opens. He drinks in the low rumbling moan, feels Gil’s legs wrap around his hips. They grind together, two sweaty bodies taking pleasure in one another.

“Pete,” Gil gasps, “want- want you in me.”

He might be strong willed, but even Pete Nolan can’t say no to that.

He opens his partner up one finger at a time, makes him slick and pliant with oil, slides into him so achingly slowly it makes his toes curl. Gil arches his back and sighs sweetly, accepts him eagerly, his sighs becoming moans as Pete begins to move.

Pete’s hands are greedy. He takes handfuls of Gil’s stomach and thighs, grips and squeezes and fondles every curve of the man he can reach. Heat fills him head to toe as he fucks into Gil at a slow and steady pace. He hears the bed creak. Gil is gasping in time with his thrusts. Pete wants to bury himself as deep as he can in the burning warmth of his body, settles for the legs around his waist and his cock held in that tight heat.

“Fuck-!” He growls as Gil bites his neck none too gently. He snaps his hips forward, Gil bites him again, makes the fire in his belly rage out of control.

They’re usually at least a little gentle with each other. Any discomfort or accidental injury can be hell the next day, after all. But when Gil gets mouthy and rises to meet him, his body curving in the way that makes Pete want to bend him in half and fuck him hard enough to break the bed frame, he can’t help but be a little rough.

He sits up and grabs Gil’s hips, thrusts hard and fast, chases his orgasm like he’s trying to turn a stampede. One hand grips Gil’s pretty cock and strokes it in time with his movements until Gil is biting his lip so hard it might bleed to stop his shouts drawing attention.

When Gil finished, his body curls in, wrists pulling at the rope until it creaks, and Pete follows quickly. He spills inside Gil and it is the perfect kind of torture to feel that tightness around his cock. He groans, falls face first into Gil’s chest, hips jerking as the aftershocks thrum in his veins.

When he comes back to himself he unties the rope, massages the minor rope-burn, curls up with Gil in the spoiled sheets and wonders how he managed to get it so good so late in life.

[aelloposchrysopterus]

Ballroom Dancing and Other Monsters

Bang hates fancy parties. She hates formal etiquette. She really hates anything where she can’t solve her problems with knives, ideally in someone else’s body. But she was going to suffer through — the horrors — prom because Violetta and Zeetha wanted to go, and she wasn’t going to be a lousy friend. (She also didn’t want Gil to go alone, which would have happened, since Agatha refused to go, Tarvek was going with Violetta, Xerxesphina was Colette’s date, and Zeetha had her mysterious boyfriend, and Klaus had told his son that he was going, whether he wanted to or not.)

Bang, above all, hates formal dresses. She’d called Tarvek to find an outfit for her. He’d thought she was going to try to kill him, but when it became clear that she’d kill him if he didn’t get her a dress, he made sure to find a very pretty one for her. It was a lovely cream with crimson beadwork on the bodice, spaghetti straps, an A-line full skirt, and a deep V-neck. She did have to admit that she felt pretty in it, even if it did make her vulnerable.

“Eep,” she yelped as Zeetha zipped it up.

“Thought you were invulnerable to pain,” Zeetha remarked.

“I’m not invulnerable to having all the air squeezed out of my chest!” Bang almost reached for a knife but stopped herself. Zeetha is a friend. She means well.

“Okay, Zeetha, try to murder me now,” Violetta laughed. She was in a deep purple off-the-shoulder dress with a tiered tulle skirt. Another Tarvek selection.

Zeetha obliged, yanking Violetta’s zipper up. She was wearing a golden mermaid dress that glistened in the light, with heels and bracelets the same hue of green as her hair. Tarvek hadn’t had any hand in her outfit; she’d picked it out herself. (He had almost been insulted that she hadn’t consulted him.)

“Are we ready to party?” Zeetha asked, rolling the r in a flamboyant manner. “Come on, the limo’s waiting outside!”

“The… limo?” Was not expecting this. Bang awkwardly laughed.

Zeetha rolled her eyes. “We’re picking up the boys in style, gals!” She grabbed Bang and Zeetha by the arms and yanked them outside, plopping them in the limo. “First stop, Tarvek!”

Tarvek was waiting for them when they got to his house. He hurriedly jumped into the limo — Bang could tell that he was worried about his father and his sister trying to stop him. His father was controlling to an extreme and his sister was… ill. She knew his home life wasn’t great, which was why she felt a twinge of guilt each time she stabbed him.

“Hey, Tarvek, if you need somewhere to stay tonight, my place is yours,” she said.

He jumped up in his seat. “Thanks! I don’t think I’ll need it, but thanks anyhow!” He was wearing a purple suit that matched Violetta’s dress exactly, with a purple and blue tie and a blue pocket square. The blue was Wulfenbach blue. Don’t say a thing. Let him pine on his own. He idly adjusted his cufflinks.

“So, Zeetha, who’s getting picked up next?” Violetta asked, fiddling with her amethyst necklace.

Zeetha smiled. “Gil, of course.”

“If he’s in anything other than green, blue, and purple, it’ll be a miracle,” Tarvek muttered.

“Oh, Tarvek!” Zeetha giggled. “Don’t worry. I made sure he got a suit. It’s black, with a cream shirt and a red tie and pocket square. It matches Bang perfectly!”

Tarvek breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you so much, Zeetha. A weight has truly been lifted off my shoulder.”

Bang suddenly realized that the beads on her dress were the same shade of red as Tarvek’s hair.

At Wulfenbach’s, Gil leapt out of the house in the suit Zeetha had bought for him, bounding into the car like an excitable puppy. He flopped down next to Bang, who noted that his new shoes were scuffed up already. Tarvek saw the exact same thing and tossed some black shoe polish towards Gil.

“You’ll need to open the window while applying that,” Tarvek said.

“You had this on you?” Gil asked, incredulous.

Tarvek shrugged. “A well groomed man is always prepared… your cuffs are sewn together, aren’t they?”

“It’s better that than Gil losing a cufflink again!” Zeetha retorted. “Remember when he did that in front of Queen Albia? The Baron was embarrassed for years.”

“Hey,” Gil rolled his eyes. “I’m not the one who showed up in traditional Skifandrian attire to the wedding of one of Albia’s daughters and nearly gave her a heart attack.”

The siblings looked like they were about to punch each other for a second, but the situation defused itself. Good, that’s one more time I won’t have to patch up Gil’s outfit tonight. Zeetha slouched back in her seat as Gil rested his right leg on his left.

“Who’s next?” Violetta eagerly asked.

Zeetha tensed. “I hate to do this,” she said, “but please keep this under wraps. He’s a Jager.”

“What?” Gil turned to his sister. “Dad’s going to kill you! And how did you let the prom committee to give a guest pass to a Jager?”

She twiddled her thumbs. “I pulled some strings, and Dad doesn’t need to know about it. For what it’s worth, Mom approved. He’s a nice guy, not any fangier than I am, just, y’know, immortal. I met him at the MMA gym.” She sighed. “His name’s Axel Higgs.”

The car was silent.

“Zeetha has a boyfriend! Good job, girl!” Violetta yelled.

The mysterious Axel Higgs was picked up outside a defense contractor’s office headquarters. His suit was a distinguished ecru, with a pale golden shirt and a green tie and pocket square. He carried himself with an air of dignity and refinement. A man of many hats.

Nobody said anything when he entered the limo. He smiled at them. No fangs. He sat next to Zeetha, who silently wrapped an arm around him.

“Should we, uh, do introductions?” Bang asked.

Zeetha grinned a fangy smile. “Yeah, sure! Do you want to start?”

“Okay,” Bang said. “I’m Bang Dupree. It’s short for Bangladesh. I met Zeetha last year, I think, at a karate tournament. Our match was a draw because the refs stopped us before one of us killed the other.”

“Gil Wulfenbach, short for Gilgamesh. I’m Zeetha’s long-lost twin brother. Our parents are divorced, so I’m stuck living with our dad, who’s some high-up in the defense industry.”

“Violetta Mondarev. I met Zeetha in our film class. We were watching The Princess Bride and we bonded over the inaccuracies in the fight scenes and the poisoning scene.”

“Tarvek Sturmvoraus, Violetta’s cousin. I’m not really all that close with Zeetha — I’m a friend of Gil’s and I’m close with my cousin, so I run into her a lot, but we’ve never really hung out.” Gil blushed at “friend”.

“Axel Higgs, Zeetha’s boyfriend and Jager. I wish I could tell you more about me, but that’s unfortunately classified information.”

Violetta and Tarvek were waltzing respectably well. He’s an excellent dancer — of course he is — and she’d learned from him. She was holding her skirt up just right, and when she twirled, it was glorious. Tarvek’s pince-nez gave them the general impression of being a relic from the Victorian era.

Colette and Xerxesphina were dancing quite well, too. They were enjoying the quick tempo of the Viennese waltz, taking advantage of it to twirl about the dance floor in a modified grapevine step. This was neatly avoiding the question of who was really in the lead.

Zeetha and Higgs were in such a close embrace that it was a surprise they were able to move at all, but moving they were. Their technique was subpar, particularly when compared to Tarvek’s meticulous footwork, but they were in tune with each other in a way that almost no other couple was.

Gil and Bang, on the other hand, were miserably failing at dancing. It wasn’t just the waltz. The saraband had been such a disaster that Tarvek had broken etiquette to whisk Bang off to dance with her while Violetta attempted to instill the basics in Gil. It didn’t help matters that Gil seemed to have two left feet.

“I hate this,” she whispered.

“I know,” he hissed back. “Could you at least try a bit harder?”

“Why should I keep trying when you’re the one who’s blundering the moves?”

Gil looked like he was ten seconds away from being arrested for attempted murder. “How about you think of this as a monster you want to kill?”

“Already trying,” she said. And it’s not working.

Later, they were all taking a break from dancing. Colette and Xerxesphina had gone off to “brush up their makeup”. More like “brush up on making out”. Tarvek was fixing his tie knot — his Eldredge had become asymmetrical, and he couldn’t stand it anymore. Gil and Higgs were enjoying discussing Jager history.

This meant that Bang, Violetta, and Zeetha were sitting at a table, drinking Arnold Palmers and munching on cake, chatting a little bit as they pleased to. Zeetha was a bit pissed that her brother was monopolizing her boyfriend (“especially since he’s got his own boyfriend here, too”), while Violetta was complaining about how sore her feet were (“with him, it’s always aesthetic over function, and it’s not like he’s ever tried dancing in these shoes”). Bang was just fiddling with her straw, listening to her friends.

She was also the first one to notice the monster when it came crashing through the ceiling.

“Guys. Look.” She gently shoved Violetta and Zeetha. “Is that just me, or is that something we can fight?”

“Oh yeah,” Zeetha’s eyes glazed over as their classmates began screaming. “Let’s go fight this thing.” She snatched one of Violetta’s shoes and snapped the heel off. “It’s improvised weapons time!”

Violetta took her other shoe and snapped its heel off, while Bang took an entire table leg. Zeetha passed the other heel to Violetta to grab an entire chair. Violetta complemented her heels by taking a hair pin out of a nearby dancer’s coiffure.

The Fighting Girls Tea and Cake Society started running after the monster, ready to take it down.

Maybe formal dances aren’t all so bad.

Read on AO3.

[echo-bleu]

How about number 54 for Gil-Galad?

Thank you! This took me a while, but here you go!

54. The moment when reality starts to make sense again

Also on AO3

“Your Highness.”

Gil-galad frowns at the unexpected voice. It shouldn’t be unexpected. It’s dark still – no, his eyes are closed, but the first light of dawn is coming through the window. His eyelids stick together for a moment, and he almost regrets the effort to open them when it gives way to the sting of dreadful dryness in his eyes.

He reaches up to them, but his arms are around something – someone. Right, Elrond. Gil-galad can feel his regular, slightly raspy breathing against his chest. He’s sleeping in the way of Men, Gil-galad thinks. He was exhausted.

He cried himself into unconsciousness.

The deep unease, the anchorless grief come back to him in increment as he remembers. The last few days are a blur in his memory. All he can see in his mind’s eyes are the waves. The great storm, grey moonless night in the middle of the day, and the waves.

He needs to get up. He needs to see his counsellors, have people inspect the damage and look for survivors. He needs to know how much of his land these waves took away. He lost an entire country once, strip by strip, until it was all gone. He can’t bear to see Lindon be destroyed the same way.

And they don’t even know why.

“Your Highness?”

There is not a shred of doubt that the event was not natural. The waves reached three times the height of the harbour buildings. The harbours are gone. Most of the coast, too, probably. His beautiful city of Mithlond, halved overnight.

Ëonwë came to them late in the evening of the second day. Númenor is gone, he said. Eru Illuvátar himself broke the world and remade it. They all felt a great change, a sundering in their heart from their Western kin. Gil-galad will reckon with that part later – he can’t begin to encompass that just yet.

Númenor is gone. Númenor, the Isle of Gift, and all of her people. He thought Elrond was going to burst into flame – he’s never seen him so angry. Full of rage and of mourning for his kin, a whole island of them, forever gone under the waves. Gil-galad, whose sole remaining kin on Middle-Earth is Elrond, Galadriel and her young daughter, whose lost family will one day be reborn in Aman, cannot fathom the grief. He remembers Elros fondly, as a young kinsman and a fellow king – this is Elros’s entire descendance, whose names Elrond faithfully keeps in his books, gone in a flash.

“Your Highness.” The voice is louder. “I’m sorry to wake you, but you asked to be informed immediately if we had news. Númenorean ships has been spotted coming from the west.”

Ships?

Gil-galad deliberately breathes out. He untangles himself from Elrond’s still sleeping form and sits up, pulling his discarded shirt over his head in the same movement.

There are survivors. All of Númenor is not gone.

The world briefly spins as he stands up, and a confused, barely conscious part of him wonders if that’s what it’s like to live on a round world.

Nothing is ever going to be simple again, he thinks.

But then, has anything ever been simple? For Gil-galad, last heir of the Noldor on Middle-Earth, king of a crumbling land, doomed never to make things right? For Elrond, half-elf and half-man, forever sundered from his twin and his kin for choosing to stay? For poor Celebrimbor, pursued by the shadows of a family he rejected and an Oath he didn’t take, fallen at last to the worst of betrayals? For Galadriel, now the very last of the Exiles, forbidden from ever going home?

The world rights itself, and Gil-galad takes the few steps to the door on a round world. He has refugees to welcome and care for. That is something he knows how to do.

With one last look at his sleeping, grieving herald, he walks out, ready to face reality for another day.

[arofili]

Royal Service

for @jaz-the-bard​, @undercat-overdog​, and moiety! also an extremely belated Kinktober entry for Day 31: Begging Kink :)

[ao3] - rated E; 779 words; Elrond/Celebrían/Gil-galad

~

“What do you think, Gil?” Celebrían purred. “Has our little lord been good enough?”

“He has been very good,” Gil-galad rumbled, lazily rolling his hips so his cock rubbed against her pearl.

Elrond, bound and gagged before them, whimpered pathetically. His cock bounced against his stomach as he writhed, eyes wild and flashing a thousand different colors in his desperation.

Celebrían hummed. “If only he could be still,” she chided. “Then perhaps I might let you mount him the way he so clearly desires.”

“And you, my queen?” Gil-galad asked.

She stroked him, grinding his cockhead against her pearl deliciously. “I would watch,” she said breathily, “and enjoy the view. And when you are done, I would take my fill, and ride his mouth while you lick your seed out of his tight, pink hole.”

Gil-galad moaned, and kissed her, his cock slipping in her juices. She almost thought to let him inside her—but no, not today. She was still sore from the night before, when they had each taken their turn fucking her cunt and her mouth, and it had been she who was tied up and at their mercy.

(Tomorrow, it would be Gil’s turn. She knew already that Elrond had some wonderful plans for their king.)

Elrond whined, drool dribbling from beneath the gag and onto his chin. Celebrían laughed, and reached over to loosen it, freeing his sinful mouth.

“Please, please,” Elrond begged, his voice low and wrecked. He was so hard, and with each plea his cock throbbed. “My king, my queen, please, let me serve you...!”

“He begs so beautifully,” Gil-galad sighed. “Shall we indulge him?”

“Roll over, Elrond,” Celebrían instructed, and watched gleefully as Elrond submitted to her command instantly. He gasped and moaned, lifting his ass into the air without even being asked, offering himself for the taking.

Celebrían and Gil-galad kissed one more time behind his back, sure to make the sounds of their mouths and tongues meeting as obscenely wet as possible. Then Gil-galad gave Elrond’s rear a light slap, drawing a breathy scream from their herald that was so exquisite that Celebrían just had to sink a finger into herself.

She watched with delight as Gil-galad set to work opening Elrond up with his fingers and tongue. Elrond cried out pleas for mercy all the while: Please, please, my king, please; take me, use me, ruin me; now, Gil, please, please, please...

“Do it,” Celebrían ordered hoarsely when she could take it no longer. She’d already wrung one climax out of herself just watching, and had four fingers buried in her dripping cunt as she chased the second. Ai, they were so beautiful together!

“He’s not quite ready,” Gil said with a frown.

“Please,” Elrond sobbed. “I’ll do anything, please, just fuck me—!”

“You heard him,” Celebrían said. “Do it!”

Gil-galad groaned, and lifted himself up so he could fuck into Elrond with one long thrust. Celebrían watched greedily as her king’s girth shoved its way into Elrond’s tight hole: he truly wasn’t quite stretched enough, but the howl Elrond let out as his king breached him was one of soul-deep relief, not of pain.

Within seconds Elrond had spilled, and Celebrían followed. Gil-galad pounded into his herald with rapture, drinking in Elrond’s cries as if they only gave him more strength. Elrond continued to beg for more, even when he had all but collapsed into his own mess on the bed; and Gil-galad gave it to him, until he had no more to give, and spent deep within Elrond’s body.

Celebrían gave them a few moments to recover before she crawled over to join them. “Elrond, my sweet,” she murmured. “It’s time to serve your queen.”

Gil-galad groaned and withdrew from Elrond, allowing him to roll over onto his back and offer up his mouth for Celebrían’s use. Sighing, she settled over him, shivering as she felt his tongue delving into her cunt and swirling around her pearl.

She smiled down to Gil-galad as their king spread apart Elrond’s legs and set about licking him clean. Elrond twitched and moaned as their king’s tongue probed his hole, and each tremor sent a shock of pleasure through Celebrían’s spine.

Elrond’s cock was fully hard again when Celebrían’s climax overtook her again, drenching his face. She shrugged herself off him, cradling him and whispering soft praises as Gil-galad licked and nipped at Elrond’s length until he spilled once more.

“Beautiful,” Celebrían murmured, beckoning Gil-galad forward so she could kiss Elrond’s seed from his mouth. “Both of you. Just beautiful.” And she pulled her lovers close, her heart full and her lusts sated, if only for the evening.