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#sorry this took me so long :(

teaableu · 3 months

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AA Thank you for the flowers!! Don't mind the twins <3 this reminded me of how much Two loves plants :)

#emd au #emd au asks #sorry this took me so long #rottmnt separated au #teaaart

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sunflowerxthoughts · 9 months

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Okay hear me out but like the line “and I remember that fight 2:30 am when everything was slipping right out of our hands I ran out crying and you followed me out in to the street brace my self for the goodbye because that’s all i’ve ever known and you took me by surprise and said i’ll never leave you alone” with Eddie. Idk why but I just can like picture it with him.

I have a long ass list of Taylor songs that are Eddie coded but!!!! This has been on my inbox for a while now and ugh this is A CONCEPT!!!!

Eddie who is used to running away when things get bad because he is a fighter but he’d rather run away than get hurt yet again. He has issues okay it is canon that his dad was a piece of shit.

So when you have your first fight Eddie thinks it is over. Two months of bliss gone to absolute nothingness. I can absolutely see that the fight could be about him not letting you in, and as much as you want to help him and give him space, it takes a toll. You feel like a stranger sometimes.

So when Eddie goes back to the trailer after being put for a couple of hours and you are still there his eyes water all over again.

“You’re here? I thought we broke up?”

“What? Eddie no, everyone fights. This doesn’t mean we are breaking up, it just means we have to talk through it and fix things.”

“So you won’t leave?” You can’t hear the tremble of his voice over the sound of your heart breaking at the hopeless boy in front of him.

“Oh honey, I could never leave you. I love you Eddie. And that’s not going to change as long as we both put in the work to make this work, okay?” You take his face in your hands so he’ll focus only on you. “I know you don’t want to let me in because you think I’m going to leave. But don’t deprive yourself of being understood for something we can’t control, Eds. I don’t want to leave, I want to help you. I want to hold you when you are sad and laugh with you when you are happy. We just have to put in the work, and talk to each other, okay?”

“I’m sorry. I- I get scared because I want to be with you forever and forever it’s never been for me. The only constant thing for me has been Wayne. And I really want you to be it. It’s not and excuse and I know it. But I’ll be better for you.”

“It’s not about being better Eddie. I’m happy as long as we give it as much as we can. I want you to get better. Not be. You already are great as you are.”

“Even when I snore?”

“When you snore, when you are grumpy and when you are so tired you can’t even open your eyes. I’m in it for all of it.”

“I love you too.”

“I know you do, because one of the great things about you, Eddie Munson, is that you show your love through everything you do, in the little things and also in the grand gestures. You are the best thing that’s ever been mine.”

#sorry this took me so long #eddie munson #i love taylor so much #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson angst #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson hurt/comfort

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lavenderskye29 · 8 months

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Imagine someone insulting SWK's and Mac's wife. How would that turn out?

For example:

Random Demon: *Insults Peaches*

Mac: You just signed your death warrant...

SWK: AND IF YOU EVER COME IN HERE AGAIN, WITH A BUDDHA D*** OPINION, I WILL SHOVE IT SO FAR UP YOUR A**, YOU WILL NEVER SEE THE LIGHT OF DAY AGAIN!

Just as you think: with that demon dead.

No one insults the demon lords' wife and gets away with it! There must be recompense for their crimes and that is their life.

They do shoo Peaches out of the room though... unless she's into that.

#ask #sorry this took me so long #i didn't know how to answer for the longest time

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boobpancakes · 10 months

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Oh, oh, oh if you're open to sim dumps can I ask for the absolutely stunning redhead cowgirl with the two braids? I've loved her since you posted her but never had the guts to ask. I'd be honoured to buy her a ranch in a few weeks ahah

CLARE WILKINS - COUNTRY CARETAKER

jealous, mean, animal enthusiast

now available for download: here (sfs)

#the sims 4 #ts4 #sim dump #sims dump #ask #anonymous #sorry this took me so long

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madame-mongoose · 1 year

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Share story for Mariaverse?

YEAH ABSOLUTELY DUDE!!!!

So rq I'm gonna give a teeeensy background on martian stuff. So on Mars, they have a sort of biological caste system, similar to ants. Maria and Marvin are a part of the brand new subclass of workers, called scouts. Martians have just recently achieved easy interplanetary travel. Due to this, scouts have become a new caste role to broaden the Martian horizons and find a new planet to live due to Mars being a dying planet

Maria is a ditz. Everyone knows this. Despite that, they are desperate for scouts as most Martians are very weary of the role and it's dangers. So she is assigned a non mission, to keep out of the way of actual discovery. Her assigned celestial body to study? Earth's moon. As it turns out, Marvin has also taken residence on the moon, assigned to study Earth. So she quickly becomes a thorn in his side as she gets in the way of his research

At some point Marvin decides to make a landing on earth to do more thorough research on the planet and it's inhabitants. Unluckily Maria is a stowaway on his tiny ship and causes them to crash. They become stranded on Earth, needing to find a way to repair the ship and get back home

Thank you for asking!!! They appreciate it :D

#SORRY THIS TOOK ME SO LONG #i had to gather my thoughts #plus was sooo busy #but i wanna go more in depth on martian lore later #i love my lesbians #mariaverse #marvin the martian #maria the martian #oc stuff #my art #monnie answers

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tsisisail · 5 months

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oh the way i'd kill for drawtectives x reader headcanons im so curious sahfjkasfj

YESSS YESS I’VE BEEN WAITING FOR AN EXCUSE TO DO THIS!

Okay, first and foremost, Rosé!

Rosé, is, of course, incredibly awkward. She flirts via method of tripping over herself to offer you compliments and cheesy pickup lines she doesn’t actually remember that well.

If you have social media she is going to force you to have matching profile photos with her daily rotating otps. Her love language is comparing you to her anime husband/wife of the week.

Rosé is big on compliments, both giving and receiving them. She’s a person who requires a lot of reassurance, and it means a lot to hear she’s loved. At the same time, if she cares about someone as much as she does you, she’s got to tell you every single second of every day. She thinks you’re the hottest thing on Earth and is not going to go a second without reminding you.

She’s a pretty conflict adverse person when it comes to interpersonal relationships, which might cause issues in your relationship. If something makes her unhappy she’ll just kind of bottle it up for fear of upsetting you.

Rosé pretends to think that she thinks romantic gestures are stupid, but in truth if you were to get one of those silly heart chocolate boxes for her she’d melt on the spot. As much as she doesn’t want to admit it, she’s a romantic at heart.

When she inevitably introduces you to her best friends, they’re rather skeptical of you considering Rosé has a history of having really bad taste. It takes a while for the Drawtectives to stop giving you side glances, but once Grendan gives your their stamp of approval, York is on board since she’s the best judge of character our of anyone in the group.

Who knows, if things go particularly well, you might have two new boyfriends.

She doesn’t strike me as the type of person who’d use a lot of pet names unless she was trying to be affectionate, in which case she’s only using the most absurd cheesy things. You’re her precious honey angel now, sorry, she doesn’t make the rules. She likes being your girlfriend, and she’ll call you whatever you want her too, but she does default to “partner” regardless of gender.

York is actually aromatic, so any relationship with him will be a bit unconventional. We’ll say for the sake of argument that York is romance neutral.

Immediately: If you do not work out, the chances of York initiating the relationship with you himself is slim to none. But if you do… Ho-boy, you cannot physically stop this man from flirting with you (AKA, pestering you about your arm wrestling prowess.)

You’re gonna have to be very clear with your expectations with him, because he isn’t really going into this with the mindset of exclusivity. Additionally, he is going to introduce you to his best friends immediately and if they don’t like you it’s pretty much over for you. This shouldn’t be something you have to worry about though- any friend of York is a friend of theirs.

York is very nonchalant about the entire experience. He basically treats you identical to the drawtectives except he’ll kiss you sometimes if you ask him to (which isn’t something he’d really be opposed to offering his friends either, you’re pretty much one of them now. Congrats!)

He doesn’t quite get a lot of romantic gestures, relegating things like flowers, weddings, and valentines day as being stupid. In the Northern Tribes you’d just defeat your lover’s worst enemy in combat to earn their favor and that’d be that.

He does, however, love the exchanging of sweets and the physical affection that come with a romantic relationship.

As for labels, York doesn’t really care what you call him or what he calls you. He’s your boyfriend? Cool. He’s your partner? Yeah okay. Your lover? Sure why not. He doesn’t really do pet names, but he will give you a nickname, and it will be a shortened version of your own name.

Grenda is probably going to have the most conventional relationship with you. Out of the bunch she has the most solid grasp on flirting and what healthy romantic relationships look like, so it’s pretty much smooth sailing ahead. (Not specific to romance but Grenda is also the best at giving hugs.)

His love language is definitely quality time, more than anything she just loves being with you. Whether it’s cooking or walking dogs, walking a movie or just sitting next to you in comfortable silence, being around you is just comforting for them.

If there’d be any issue in their relationship, Gma does have the tendency to put her own emotions aside in favor of helping other people in times of difficulty. You sometimes have to remind them that, hey, he doesn’t have to be everyone’s therapist all of the time.

For pet names, I think Grendan would honestly just call you by your name. I can maybe see “honey” or “babe”. If you call her a pet name though they’ll get really sweetly bashful, blushing and going “dawwwww….!” while swatting the air, the whole shebang. Once you start calling him a pet name though there’s no going back, they’ll get sad if you don’t call her that.

.. Okay so I know this was supposed to be Drawtectives headcanons, and Eugene is not a drawtective… But I love him and he’s my fictional husband so we’re doing him anyway!

Eugene, being rather shy and also absurdly wealthy, strikes me as the secret admirer sort. He’d anonymously mail you flowers and such, and then coincidentally go to talk to you the next day to see what you think.

If you reciprocate his feelings, he’s definitely not gonna catch on. Eugene is dense as a brick. You could go up to him and go “yo, let’s date!” and he’d just be like “haha wow you’re so funny!” and them go back to wishing you loved him back. You’re gonna have to be very explicit with his intentions if you want to woo him.

Eugene is very easily flustered, and so he tends to default to gift giving and acts of service as his love language. He’s pretty bad at flirting on purpose, he’ll just turn into a mumbling mess before he gets through the first sentence. Thing is, the emphasis is on the “on purpose.”

Eugene will say the sweetest, flirtiest things.. but he can only do it on accident. If he thinks about what he just said for more than one second he’ll turn bright red and stop talking immediately.

He’s also pretty shy with physical affection of any sort, but does enjoy it if he works up the courage.

Eugene would be pretty shy about pet names, mostly sticking to “my love”, maybe throwing in something like “darling” or “starlight” if he isn’t really thinking about it.

This head canon is only really applicable to Eugene, but if you were dating him since before the Celestial Spear, then you get to have a dramatic reunion scene accompanied by a dramatic reunion kiss. I like to imagine that “pick up and spin you around” thing.

#drawtectives #eugene finch #eugene drawtectives #rosé drawtectives #york drawtectives #drawtectives grendan #drawtectives headcanons #grendan highforge #gyorik rogdul #we have x reader headcanons #wowza we’re a real fandom now!#sorry this took me so long

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yanderepuck · 9 months

Text

Charles Route Release Campaign Masterlist

Day 7: Wearing his clothes

Wearing his clothes-yanderepuck

Wearing his clothes-Faust-bite(art)

Kiss me one last time-lumierexfics

Day 6: Wedding planning

Wedding planning-yanderepuck

My love will fall with grace-lumierexfics

Day 5: Confessing your feelings

Confessing your feelings-yanderepuck

Don't you say those sweet things to me-lumierexfics

Day 4: "Are you . . . jealous?"

"Are you... jealous?"-yanderepuck

Day 3: Don't forget Louis

Don't forget Louis-yanderepuck

All that spinning 'round and everything you loved!-lumierexfics

Don't forget Louis-kbius6(art)

All that spinning ‘round and everything you loved!

Day 2: First time sleeping together

First time sleeping together-yanderepuck

Do you want me for my mind or my body?-lumierexfics

Day 1: Sick day

Sick day-yanderepuck

Release Day: Free prompt~

Under the stars-yanderepuck

More time with you- Fang-and-feather

#charles route release campaign #ikevamp #ikemen vampire #ikevamp charles #SORRY THIS TOOK ME SO LONG #ALSO PLEASE LET ME KNOW IF I FORGOT ANY #you know how tumblr doesn't like to show everything under the tags

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separatist-apologist · 1 year

Text

The Other Side Of The Apocalypse

What would you trade the pain for?

Summary: One last grand adventure. Rhysand had promised his father that after this final journey, he would take a wife and resign himself to inheriting his title. As it turned out, Rhysand had other plans, and so did the huntress he'd encountered in the village.

Note: WE'RE BACK WITH MORE CHAOS BOIS

Read on AO3 ・Previous Chapter

Chapter 3/10: A Hammer To the Statue of David

They should have slept. Rhys kept glancing at the dark hollows on Feyre’s face, betraying her in spite of the words she forced from behind her teeth. I’m fine, stop staring— Rhys couldn’t help himself. He knew he likely looked no better, forcing himself to follow her further and further into the dark. He kept one hand on the earthen walls, drinking in the loamy scent of the world. What would happen to Spring, he wondered? Would they know it was two humans that had freed them?

Would it stay their hands the next time they crossed paths with one? Or did the fae have short memories? Rhys wondered this endlessly, forcing one foot in front of the other until he slammed into Feyre’s unmoving body. She grunted, hands flung out before her to keep her from hitting the rough, stone-hewn ground with her face at full impact.

The sound was satisfying.

“Do you mind?” she hissed, a mere shadow in the dark. Rhys knew she couldn’t see the grin that spread over his face, even as he feigned innocence.

“I can’t see in the dark, darling.”

She muttered something that sounded suspiciously like prick, but straightened herself all the same. The chain attached to his wrist went taut for a moment as if she’d pulled it and Rhys resisted coming any closer. He wasn’t her pet.

“Why did you stop?”

Coming closer, Rhys could see the indecision on Feyre’s face. Their tunnel had branched into two different directions, neither discernable to him. Rhys stepped around her, ducking his head into one and inhaling, and then the other.

Smelled like dirt.

He took pity on Feyre and said, “This way,” before striding with more confidence than he felt.

“Rhys,” she protested, but this time it was him dragging her by that cursed chain. Rhys wouldn’t pretend he didn’t derive more than a little satisfaction from that, either.

“Where are we going?” he asked, scuffing his boot on a protruding rock. Beside him, Feyre’s shoulders seemed to slump a little.

“Autumn, I think.”

“How do you know?” he asked more forcefully than he meant.

Feyre scoffed in the dark. “You knew we were going to Prythian and didn’t look at a map?”

Fair. Rude, but fair he supposed.

“Can we expect…” Another insane Lord, he wanted to say, but that didn’t seem quite right. Feyre seemed genuinely grieved to destroy that beast and Rhys didn’t know how he felt about that, either. Gods, he needed to close his eyes, preferably somewhere he didn’t have to share the same air with Feyre damned Archeron, and try and clear his head.

“I don’t know what to expect of Autumn,” she finally said. Rhys thought of the beasts warning—six other lords.

“Who is the High Lord here?”

Feyre grunted in the dark, her breathing just as labored as his own. The tunnel had begun to climb and Rhys suspected they would be deposited right in the middle of where they needed to be.

“His name is Beron” she finally told him, chewing on the name. There was a mix of emotions Rhys couldn’t quite read, though revulsion seemed to be the strongest. Perhaps, beneath it, was fear? Rhys rubbed at his eyes, sighing loudly.

“Well,” he finally said, forcing himself to continue. “He can’t be any worse than the last.”

“Of course he could be. A lot of things could be worse than that.”

Rhys was too tired to argue.

Feyre reached the rounded wood door first, her fingers curling over the knob. The sight that followed was disorienting. Had they been walking for so long it was now night? Or did time work differently from territory to territory? Feyre’s moon bright eyes blinked, too, drinking in the rustling forest that now surrounded them.

“Maybe we should sleep in here tonight,” she whispered, hesitating just enough to send Rhys plopping to the ground.

“Works for me,” he grunted. Rhys would have done just about anything to rest his eyes. Feyre settled against the wall across from him, gingerly stretching her legs. He rifled through his pack for something to eat, passing her some dried meat and stale bread ruefully.

While he fished around, Feyre tended to the wound on her head, carefully dabbing the blood with a strip of cloth. Using precious water from their canteen, she cleaned it the best she could before leaving it entirely.

“We’ll need more provisions soon,” she said as Rhys ripped a hunk of the well-seasoned deer jerky apart with his teeth. He thought of the Spring village and their argument—well, Rhys thought of Feyre and her pretty, golden brown hair.

He kept his eyes on his hands and reminded himself he didn’t care about her. He was still a man, wasn’t he? It would have been a lie to say he hadn’t noticed she was beautiful. He’d also noticed how annoying she was, and utterly self-satisfied. Rhys looked away, adjusting his back against the stone until he’d found a mostly comfortable position.

There was nothing to say to her that wasn’t cruel, and Rhys needed sleep. Briefly, he wondered if his father had discovered his deception and was apocalyptic with rage or if Rhys was still safe. Well, safe enough. Safe, despite being dragged about on a leash by a woman with a death wish.

Rhys woke with a start to dappled sunlight and the wafting scent of pear. It took him a minute to realize Feyre had her head in his lap, a cloak draped over them both. When had she gotten there?

He was tempted to stand and let her head bounce off the hard, earthen ground. Was he that kind of man? Rhys sighed, and settled for poking her in the cheek instead. And when she didn’t rouse, it gave him a small amount of satisfaction to flick her hard in the nose.

She frowned, opening one bleary eye at him. Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment when she realized her position. “You were shivering,” she said defensively, pushing herself up by her palms.

Rhys hummed in agreement. “You don’t have to be embarrassed, darling. Ladies such as yourself clamor to have their face where yours was.”

Her eyes hardened. “Get up.”

He couldn’t help himself. “I’m already there. Why don’t you—”

“Shut up.”

Rhys stood with all the grace he could manage, stretching his sore muscles. Feyre crouched at his feet, rifling through his pack until she procured the last of their jerky. He assumed they’d be walking and eating which suited him just fine. The sooner they got through this, the better. Rhys ripped a chunk of spiced meat with his teeth while Feyre quickly rebraided her tangled hair.

She set a silent, bruising pace. Rhys was flustered, too warm despite the chill of the loamy scented air. Leaves fell round them like confetti, making it impossible for them to creep quietly through the woods. His mind kept returning to Feyre crouching at his feet, her golden brown hair a curled mess down her slim shoulders and how she’d looked up at him with those bright blue eyes.

He couldn’t help the next image, though he wished he’d never allowed it to linger the way it did. Feyre, still on her knees, her full lips curved sensually as she untied his pants. Mouth parting when he sprang free, eyes on his face with a mix of surprise and lust. Tongue out, sliding along the length of him until she sucked him root to tip into her mouth, gagging ever so slightly. He could picture how soft her hair would be tangled between his fingers and how he’d moan, back against one of the trees as he helped guide her into a steady rhythm.

Rhys was grateful when Ferye, her own mind lost to him, eyes glassy and unseeing, stumbled over a rock just as he pictured her swallowing his release. His pants were uncomfortably tight—this was a daydream he had no right indulging in, given how little he cared for her. Feyre looked up at him, eyes narrowed as if she’d guessed what he was thinking. Rhys lowered his own, not bothering to smirk and prove her right. That, he decided, was something best forgotten entirely.

“So,” he managed once his cock had deflated and he could fill his burning lungs again. “How did your sisters come to be here.”

Feyre exhaled. “It’s too long of a story?”

Surrounded by nothing but an endless expanse of jewel bright leaves and trees, Rhys getured outward. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Her eyes fell to the iridescent chain holding them together. “Some of it is…personal. I…” Her eyes went glassy again. Rhys felt genuine curiosity as he stared down at her. “I fell in love with the wrong male.”

Rhys couldn’t picture that, though he kept his opinions on Feyre’s emotional capacity to himself. Perhaps she had once been the sort who fell in love easily—vulnerable and soft and sweet, only to be made hard by an unforgiving, cruel lover.

Feyre’s hair seemed to gleam like rich chocolate copper beneath the filtered morning light and when she tilted her face, he swore the freckles dusting her nose were an exact match for the night sky.

“I agreed to marry him before I knew the full scope of…who he was. He could be so loving and kind—but also cruel and capricious in equal measure. It was like walking on eggshells. I never knew who I’d get that day, or what might set him off.”

Rhys’s stomach twisted uncomfortably, his thoughts shifting to his mother and father. How often had she warned a young Rhys to be careful not to upset his father, as he was in one of his moods? The atmosphere in the house would change and everyone could sense it—and his mother always bore the worst of it.

And once it passed, his father would become doting and loving again. He empathized a little with Feyre, who seemed young and likely working through her very first relationship in a place that didn’t prioritize women to begin with, and would have sided with her lover if he wanted to keep her.

“Anyway, I left him. I said it was over and, without a lot of details, he took it poorly. He went to a fae king for assistance and made a deal and when it wasn’t honored properly, my sisters became collateral damage in this war between us.”

“Where is this man?” Rhys questioned. He wanted to know who he was, as well—was it a man he socialized with? Someone he often drank with that had turned around and betrayed a fellow human to the brutal fae?

“Dead,” she said flatly. Rhys didn’t dare ask if she had been the one to kill him. “Magic like the deal he made comes with a price. He wasn’t able to pay it.”

“If he’s dead, aren’t your sisters free?” Rhys asked, unsure how fae magic worked to begin with.

Feyre shook her head. “No.”

Rhys thought of the beast, and her insistence they kill it. He almost demanded to know if this was the price demanded by that king to free her sisters—kill the creatures and her sisters could return to the wall.

But why would a faerie demand the payment of its own kind in blood? And why oblige him at all when they weren’t bound to fae whims, fae laws? She could simply stroll into this Night Court and take her sisters back. Rhys was certain Ferye was keeping secrets from him, had chosen not to divulge the full truth of what had led to him being leashed to her.

Demanding she tell him would only start another fight. He’d keep his eyes open and his wits about him until he’d pieced it together himself. He didn’t trust her even if she was honest—she was little more than a betrayer and a thief.

Trying to untangle the mess unfolding around him rendered Rhys silent. Frustrated, and pulling absently at his wrist without even realizing what he was doing. If he spent too much time looking at his hand and those markings, he got angry all over again. Marked by this place—if he couldn’t remove it, he could never return home.

Agreeing to help her was the worst decision he’d ever made. Rhys thought he would have preferred marriage to someone of his fathers choosing over this adventure. Rhys would have taken a hoard of children over this—inked like one of those faerie loving whores ringing bells all through town.

“Well, well, well,” came an echoing voice. Feyre stilled, looking around the dense trees for the source. Rhys’s heart sped at the mocking sneer carried in that tone and the lilted accent that could only belong to someone of Prythian.

It was no beast who sauntered into view. The man in question looked as if the forest itself had materialized him, made him whole from the leaves and bark and sky itself. Auburn hair the same shade of the treetops was neatly pushed off a face that was both elegant and cruel in equal measure. Amber eyes glittered with amusement as he beheld two humans traipsing through his lands.

It irritated Rhys to see this man drag his eyes up, and then down, Feyre’s form. His smile widened as though her mere presence amused him. Rhys had heard the stories of what fae men liked to do to human females and consciously wedged his body between them, forcing the creature to look at him.

Nobility. Sneering, self-satisfied nobility radiated from every inch of the man before him. Rhys had the same blue blood and felt no fear—though perhaps he should have—when he stared the faerie down. He was a good inch or two taller and Rhys utilized it, crowding closer to keep Feyre from being subjected to its cruel, perverse whims.

“You should know better than to come here,” he said, crossing his arms over an elegant gold and green jacket. “Don’t you know what happens to little humans lost in faerie woods?” “Save it,” Feyre spat, her eyes shining with hatred.

The man clicked his tongue. “So rude. Don’t they teach your sort manners?”

Rhys withdrew his blade, letting the tip hover an inch from the fae’s chest. “Don’t speak to her.”

That smile grew. “Have you come to challenge the High Lord of Autumn? We all felt your actions in Spring.”

Rhys pressed his blade against the man's chest. “You seem easy enough to kill.”

That smile became razor edged. “You should let her talk. Tell him what he’s too stupid to see.”

“He’s not the High Lord,” Feyre ground out.

“Get the pretty female a prize. How clever—”

“Are you going to let us pass?” Feyre interrupted, casually pulling a knife from the baldric across her chest. The faerie cocked his head, eyes tracking that blade with a guarded expression.

“I might be persuaded to offer you safe passage through Autumn. If you do something for me, of course—”

“No deals,” Rhys barked, irritated at how sensual that man watched Feyre. He didn’t trust him. “What do you want?” Feyre asked, obnoxious and difficult to the end.

“There is a curse on this land, too. As you well know,” he added, those eyes sliding down her body again. “A High Lord terrorizes us just as he did in Autumn. Dispatch him for me, and I’ll send you on your merry little way.”

Feyre’s eyes hardened. “You ask too much.”

“Oh, I don’t think I ask enough. What is your death worth, I wonder?” he took a step toward her and Feyre, finally displaying some sense, stumbled back. It made the faerie laugh.

“There’s that famed human courage. Come, now. With your handsome warrior, surely this is an easy feat? One more High Lord in exchange for a little magical assistance to…?”

“Night,” Rhys offered when Feyre pressed her lips together. They were destined to be at odds, too helpful when the other remained silent. The faeries eyes lit up with delight.

“Night? Well, if you plan to face the winged nightmares of that land and the fearsome creature who sits upon their throne, Autumn will be good practice.”

Feyre’s scowl made her usually lovely features ugly in turn. “Is this the only way you’ll let us pass?”

The faerie pretended to think before nodding. “Yes. I think you’re much better sword fodder than myself, pretty as you are. Stay in the nearby village today and rest. See what this curse has done to my people—”

“We don’t care about faerie trash,” Rhys snarled, tired of the monologuing fae.

“No,” he sneered, eyes sweeping over the pair of them with disdain. “I would imagine not. Still, this is the only way you leave Autumn alive. Shall I give you a moment to think it over?”

“Fey–”

“We’ll do it,” Feyre said before Rhysand could stop her. His eyes traveled skyward, fingers clenching to angry fists. He heard the hiss of air escape that fae lord, could all but taste his delight.

“Excellent. Here—a room, on me. I’ll see you tomorrow, bright and early. I hope they teach humans how to read,” he added, drawing Rhys’s attention back to his form. He was grinning sharply, his amusement plain. “Our High Lord is a little less brutish.”

And then, with a snap of cold wind, he was gone. Rhys had to blink his eyes to adjust to the magic, wrinkling his nose against the metallic stench. Only then, alone in a blanket of leaves, did he round on Feyre Archeron.

She was faster. Blade in hand, she pressed one hand to his chest, slamming him so hard against an ancient oak the whole thing shook a rainbow of foliage around them. Rhys bared his teeth as the jagged end of her dagger pressed against his throat. Knee against his balls, Rhys felt as if he was losing his mind. She smelled of pear and lilac and her hair caught copper beneath a soft shaft of sunlight.

Her eyes swore she hated him. “How long will you continue to contradict me?” she demanded.

Despite his pounding heart, Rhys forced himself to relax. “Harder, Feyre darling.” She pulled away with a disgusted sound, sheathing her blade. Rhys could still feel the heat of her body, could still feel the threatening kiss of her knife. He raised his wrist before she could go too far, jerking her roughly with their shared chain that she fell backwards to the ground.

“If you kill me, you’ll be dragging my dead body to your precious sisters,” he snapped, striding toward her to press his booted foot against her stomach. He supposed he was a little angry with her, after all. “Aligning with that faerie was a mistake.”

“I know it was,” she snapped, shoving him off her. “But he wasn’t going to let us through if we didn’t agree. You don’t know how ruthless the Vanserra’s can be.”

“And you do?”

Feyre’s eyes burned like falling stars. “I do.”

Rhys turned away. “I wish I’d never met you.”

Feyre said nothing at all, though Rhys suspected she felt the same. Silence settled heavy and furious around them, which made their walk through the woods all the more terrible. Rhys itched to yell at her, to scream in her face until—until what? The light went out? Until she stopped fighting him and did what he was told? Until he couldn’t tell the difference between himself and his father?

He swallowed, forcing himself to count his breaths. So, she’d tricked him. No one had ever done that before and it wounded him a little. Okay, it wounded him a lot. He’d spent too much time trying to fight her, and not enough time being smart. If he wanted out, he’d need to focus on something other than how much he hated Feyre Archeron.

He did take some comfort in the thought of abandoning her in Prythain. Leave her to the fae she knew so much about—that she’d foolishly made a bargain with in the first place. He didn’t care about the elder Archerons, and at that point in their walk, Rhys was willing to go home, cap in hand, and apologize to his father.

Well.

Almost.

They found the village almost by accident. Rhys expected to find it on the outskirts of the forest, built by a river he swore he heard gushing somewhere in the distance. Instead, the two merely stumbled onto the cobblestone street from the forest itself. Built among the trees, the thatched, pointed rooftops and rambling carriages felt so enchanted that Rhys had to take a step backward. Loamy earth mixed with the scent of hot metal and cooking bread wound around him, threading into his chest where it settled beside his beating heart.

“Come on,” Feyre grumbled, tugging him forward. She didn’t bother concealing the chain between them, which drew more than a few curious looks among the peasants. In some way, he could have been back in his own village. He recognized the nicer, larger homes set slightly apart from the main road. He saw underfed children with big, glazed eyes and men with twisted spines hobbling toward whatever job they’d work until they died.

It was nothing like the village they’d visited in Spring.

What a terrible way to spend immortality, he thought.

Feyre’s expression was hard, likely thinking of her own life back home. She was no stranger to hunger, to the kind of poverty that existed even among the beautiful faeries Rhys detested so much. And though he wanted to hate them, he found himself pitying them, too. They were no better than his own people, who were too exhausted and broken to ever consider revolting.

This was worse, he supposed. At least the Queens who appointed the ruling governors were human. Whatever ruled these people was a monster—enough so that his own son was willing to beg humans to kill him.

No one dared to come close, eyeing the sword over his shoulder and their distinct, human features. Feyre’s eyes swept over them, her lips pressed in a thin line. He understood their wariness of him—he was tall, he was broad, and he was built to slaughter their kind. Feyre was slight and looked, in his opinion, easy to kill.

It was their humanness that bothered him, he realized. They’d checked into the inn Vanserra had promised them while the faerie at the counter tried very hard not to meet their gaze or touch them.

“Filth,” the faerie hissed when Feyre took the key. Feyre winced in response, her shoulders sagging. Rhys reached for a dagger strapped to his thigh and slammed it to the wooden counter in warning. He’d intended to tell that faerie to take their words back, but the creature scuttled out of sight, soaked in fear.

“Coward,” he grumbled, sheathing his blade.

“It doesn’t matter what they think,” Feyre whispered, turning her back to the crowded room of patrons drinking and eating among the wooden tables and booths.

“They should be grateful we’re here,” he disagreed. “Maybe their lives won’t be so miserable once their monstrous High Lord is dead.”

“Or maybe we trade one monster for another,” she mused, stopping at the door with a silver seven on it.

Rhys had been about to ask her what she knew about the eldest Vanserra when that door swung open.

One bed.

A small bed, the sort that would force the two of them to sleep close. Neither of them moved for a whole moment, both thinking the exact same thing.

“I’ll take the floor,” he told her, not thinking about the chain around his wrist until Feyre raised her arm.

“Like this? All night?”

He opened his mouth to say, better than sleeping beside you. But he remembered how she’d been called filth, how people were too afraid to say it to him, but unafraid to say it to her and he stopped.

“We need to just…” Feyre took a breath. “We need to get used to being close to each other.”

“Great. Shall we bathe then, darling?”

A scowl slid over her features. “We can bathe in the river.”

“And pass up hot water?” he replied, unwilling to let this go. “You can bathe in the river, but I’ll be using soap and maybe even bubbles tonight.”

“You will not—”

“You can sit beside the tub…or climb in with me—”

Feyre shoved him hard in the chest. “You made your point, Rhysand.”

“I’m being serious. You don’t want to sleep next to me without a bath.”

“I don’t want to sleep beside you at all!” she snapped. “Must you make everything so awful?”

“We could have been friends,” he lied, certain Feyre had never had a friend a day in her life. “You’re the one who put a leash on me.”

She had no rebuttal to that.

They came into the room silently, disarming themselves while trying their best to ignore the other. Rhys hadn’t been lying about the bath, hidden behind a door that didn’t lock all the way. Feyre kept her back turned while he stripped to nothing. His armor unclipped easily, but the shirt beneath hung between the chain, which he supposed meant he’d be wearing until he was free of her.

Maybe he’d taunt her with a day of washing it, parading around shirtless just to piss her off. He did groan when he folded his body into the small, claw tub. The hot water was a different sort of magic. Rhys almost felt human again, like his own man as he settled himself beneath the gushing tap. Feyre sat on the floor, wrist propped behind her while she faced the wall so she didn’t have to look at him.

Rhys flicked water at her cheek. “Are you always so serious?”

“What’s the alternative? Cracking jokes while we plan to kill a High Lord?”

“It is a little funny, when you think about it,” Rhys said, back against the cool porcelain. “They hate us and yet they need us.”

“Hilarious,” she said dryly.

“Oh, come on,” Rhys tried, sinking lower into the water to soak his hair. “Tell me something you do think is funny.”

“Why don’t you tell me why you wanted to be here so badly to begin with,” Feyre said instead, almost twisting to look at him. She seemed to realize at the last moment that he was naked and in the bath, which was for the best. It had been all fun and games to suggest she sit in here while he bathed, but the reality was Feyre was beautiful.

And Rhys was stupid.

“I preferred the silence, actually–”

“Let me guess,” Feyre pressed, tapping her pointer finger to her chin. “Your father wants you to get married, right? And, stop me if I’m wrong, you’ve decided you’d rather hunt faerie than take a wife.”

“That’s hardly a guess. The whole village has been discussing it,” Rhys snapped, running soap through his hair. “And so what if I don’t want a wife? I don’t imagine you’d enjoy having someone announce you were going to be married, would you? Or just deciding who that person would be without a care about your own feelings?”

“It’s just a little cliched, don’t you think? The handsome lord doesn’t want a wife—”

“Handsome lord?” he interrupted, leaning over the tub so water dripped beside them. Feyre looked up, skittering away when she realized how close his face was. “Tell me more about how good looking I am, darling.”

“Get fucked, Rhysand.”

“Maybe I will,” he said with a smile, settling back into the bath. “We’re in the same bed tonight, after all.”

“I’d rather die.”

He hummed in response.

Hating himself just a little, for liking that Feyre Archeron thought he was handsome.

Rhys did not get fucked that evening. He also just barely got any good sleep. Sharing that small bed was miserable given they had to either face each other or lay on their backs, which wasn’t possible. Rhys couldn’t sleep, thinking Feyre was staring at him. He woke himself up constantly, surprised to find her so close, her nose scrunched from whatever terrible dreams plagued her.

Neither one of them spoke when the sun rose. It was awkward, he thought, and for the first time in his life, Rhys didn’t know what to say to Feyre. He strapped his weapons back to his body before making his way back into the open tavern.

“Eat,” he told her, eyeing the faerie doling out food until he held two plates, along with a decanter of tepid water.

“Rhys,” she murmured, eyes darting around that stifling room nervously.

“It saves us rations,” he said, digging in despite his own concerns about the food. He’d been warned his entire life not to eat the fae’s food, not to drink their wine, and to never trust them.

Too late, he supposed, taking that first bite. He had to suppress a groan. It was good. It was possible Rhys was just starving and exhausted of dried meat and fruit, but fuck that morning meal of sausages and beans and eggs and potatoes was the best thing he’d ever tasted.

Feyre inhaled her food like he did, eyes on her cutlery.

She was also the first to rise. “Ready?”

No. Rhys offered her a lazy smile. “As I’ll ever be.”

But he was nervous. They’d just barely escaped Spring. What, he wondered, were the odds they survived six more monsters? Something told him that like the territory from before, the beauty of Autumn was deceptive. At least there were no spring flowers, no pretty people. The exhaustion on the villagers faces mingled with the smell of rotting leaves, prickling over his skin. It was a warning he would have been smart to heed. Walking out of the village felt very much like a death march. Even Feyre was more somber than usual, her fingers constantly reaching for the bow slung over her shoulder as if to reassure herself it was still there.

The red haired bastard was waiting in the same place as before. He didn’t look so slick today. Eyes only for Feyre, his fair skin seemed sallow and there was a fresh bruise darkening one of his sharp cheekbones. Some of his auburn hair was standing askew, which could have been from the blustery wind around them, though Rhys suspected it was from raking his fingers through it nervously.

“Eris,” Feyre said coolly. He nodded, clenching his jaw before plastering a smarmy smirk against his features.

“Sleep well?”

“Like a baby,” Rhys lied. Eris’s amber eyes flicked in his direction. He snapped his fingers, calling up a quiver of arrows.

“Faebane,” he told Feyre, taking a step toward her. Rhys angled his body before her, forcing Eris to hand him the arrows.

“Your dog is protective.”

Rhys only smiled, matching that look on Eris’s face. “Any other words of wisdom for us?”

Eris’s expression turned flat. “Don’t die.”

Rhys turned to hand Feyre the quiver of arrows as Eris lunged, fingers gripping them both. Rhys might have shoved him back, but a rip in the world yanked them both forward. Feyre gasped a moment before crushing blackness threatened to crush them both. He reached for her blindly, drawing her against him.

It was over with a breath, depositing them both before a sprawling estate cut into the hilly landscape. Eris remained on his feet while Feyre and Rhys lay against the dewy grass, Rhys’s arm still flung around her.

“Prick!” Feyre hissed, and Rhys was mostly confident, though not entirely, that she was speaking to Eris.

“I can’t go any further,” he told them, his face leached of all its remaining color. “But Beron is inside. You’ll have to solve his puzzle in order to reach him.”

Rhys rose to his feet, helping Feyre as well.

“I’ll be waiting,” Eris added, some amount of earnestness crossing his features.

“Don’t betray us,” Feyre warned.

“I wouldn’t dream of it, cursebreaker.”

And then he was gone. Rhys had the sense Eris didn’t go far—he swore he could feel those unnaturally bright eyes watching from the trees in the distance.

“Maybe we should kill him, too,” Rhys grumbled. Feyre was too busy staring at the palace before them, built both long and tall. The gnarled wood made it seem as though it were made of the very forest they’d just been ripped from, though it spidered into nothing at the top, devoid of the vivid colors that might have made it feel alive.

Rhys wondered if the ankle deep sea of leaves had once belonged to the palace. Feyre took a breath, swallowing hard. Rhys had to stop himself from grabbing her hand, unsure where the urge even came from.

They made their way up a path to a massive, curved door carved with the effigy of a vicious, scaled dragon. Rhys reached for the iron ring, intending to push inside, but the beast blinked open jeweled eyes.

His heart took off in his chest as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing. It wasn’t real, and yet its fanged mouth opened as the ground beneath them rumbled. Spears in door frame slid forward, glinting under the midmorning sun.

“Don’t move,” Feyre warned, her eyes sliding to their feet. They’d sprung a trap without even meaning to.

“Answer my riddle,” the beast began, those unseeing ruby eyes fixed somehow on both of them at once. “And I shall let you pass.”

The creature did not need to explain what would happen if they failed. Feyre squared her shoulder, chin lifting.

“Tell us.”

“What is always old and sometimes new? Never sad, but sometimes blue. Never empty, but sometimes full? Never pushes, always pull.”Silence settled over them. Rhys glanced at Feyre, who looked up at him. Did she know? How long did they have to answer? He took a breath.

“The moon.”

There was a grinding of stone that did make him reach for her, gripping her wrist as he waited for whatever came next. The spears in the archway retreated back into the wood, and the door creaked open of its own accord.

They both exhaled, swallowing hard.

“Do you think that is the worst of it?” Rhys asked her, certain these little tests would make him insane before they ever found the creature that was waiting for them.

“No,” Feyre whispered, looking around the palace with wonder. Rhys imagined it had once been beautiful. Chandeliers and sconces that had once likely illuminated the palace were unlit and gathering cobwebs. Arching stairs and snaking halls splintered off in new directions, while their shoes betrayed the path they walked from accumulated dust.

He could have spent a week exploring that place and likely never seen everything. Feyre did pause at a portrait of a beautiful, auburn haired woman staring blankly back at them. Rhys thought there was something distinctly sad about her russet colored eyes, though maybe that was his own fear reflected back at him.

“Where are we going?”

“Down, I think,” Feyre murmured, turning from that portrait to another door. Another dragon, another iron ring.

Another puzzle. This time, when ruby bright eyes opened and a mouth filled with sharp teeth opened, Rhys wasn’t so afraid. Even when the ground shook and spikes from the ceiling began to inch themselves lower, he didn’t shrink, if only because neither did Feyre.

Though his heart was still racing. It made it harder to concentrate as that dragon offered to let them pass so long as they solved his riddle.

“This thing, all things devour- birds, beasts, trees, flowers. Gnaws iron, bites steel, grinds hard stone to meal. Slays kings, ruins towns, beats high mountains down.”

Feyre glanced at the spikes overhead. “Time,” she said, clenching her fists at her side.

The spikes retracted and the door opened. He’d expected it to lead them down into a damp dungeon where whatever horror was hopefully chained to a wall and easy to slaughter. He certainly didn’t expect a sun bathed corridor crusted in topaz and emerald. Yellows and orange and green spilled over the buckled floor beneath them, tracing the path of giant, ancient tree roots that had begun to reclaim the palace. Glass from the wall of windows was long gone, allowing the nipping chill to pour around them, enveloping them both like a cloak.

Rhys might have reveled in the chaotic beauty had he not found that weathered pile of bones. Someone had been here before them—and someone had made it just across the long hall before whatever killed them did so with crushing force.

Feyre had seen them, too. Splintered and bleached from years—maybe decades—laying in the sun.

Another door, another dragon with ruby eyes. Rhys’s mouth was dry, his boots mere inches from the bones. Feyre, too, was so, so pale. Like she didn’t expect them to survive this test. Rhys took a breath and waited.

“A thing there is whose voice is one;

Whose feet are four, and two, and three.

So mutable a thing is none,

That moves in earth, and sky, and sea.

When on most feet this thing doth go,

Its strength is weakest and its pace most slow.”

Rhys turned to Feyre, eyes wide as he repeated the words in his head. Ignoring the grinding beneath his feet, Rhys closed his eyes and tried to imagine this creature. To swallow his own nerves and focus on the words.

Feyre screamed. Overhead, ground stone rained down on them, betraying what had happened to the bones at his feet. The ceiling was slowly making its way toward them. Rhys had a vision of their bones laying among the pile, snapped and shattered as a new adventurer, sent by the terrible Vanserra son, came to die just like they did.

“Rhys—” she panted, reciting the riddle to him. Focus, those moonbright eyes demanded. It was hard when he could feel the ceiling brushing his hair, could feel the impending weight of his own death.

“I—”

They were both panicking. Rhys pressed his hand to the ceiling, thinking he could slow it with his own strength. He groaned, knees buckling against the sheer force of that driving wall.

“Four, then two, then three?” he asked her when Feyre grabbed his face.

“Four, two, three. What beast…?” she breathed, clearly counting every animal she knew that might transform itself, hunching like he was as the wall crept closer and closer to the ground. All Rhys could think about was his grandfather, hunched over a cane. As Rhys came to his knees, Feyre’s eyes went wife.

“Humans, it’s human!” she screamed, turning toward that sightless dragon.

The ceiling paused and then, with a scraping sound, began to draw itself back up.

“Oh, thanks the gods,” Feyre whispered, reaching for him to help him to his feet.

He only nodded, swallowing the urge to pull her against him. He just—Rhys just needed to touch someone. It didn’t matter who it was. Feyre was just there. Rhys didn’t, if only because the door swung open and this, he suspected, was their final test.

“I think I preferred being hunted by a monster,” he whispered, following her into the open, arching throne room. It had likely once been majestic, a regal seat for the creatures who ruled here. It was a scorched wreckage of melted iron and gold and wood. Fire had so clearly claimed the vast majority of the interior, twisting the throne against a raised, dark platform. Windows had been blasted from their panes, frosted beneath their feet. Rhys was careful to avoid more protruding tree roots as he surveyed the great, cavernous space.

“Rhys,” Feyre whispered, grabbing his wrist. He turned to look, surprised she was touching him, only to find her head tilted toward the ceiling. Dread swept through him as he, too, turned to look.

He should have known.

“RUN!” he ordered, but the door was locked behind them. A bellow of fury betrayed what had happened to the windows, while beating wings blew burning air in their direction. A massive orange and gold dragon was perched among the rafters, watching them with flame red eyes. All those riddles for this? Why not lead with the dragon, which was far more terrifying?

A burst of flame would have taken Feyre out had Rhys not grabbed her around the waist, using his back to shield her frame from the blast. The heat was the worst thing he’d ever felt, burning the back of his neck as they made their way toward the walls. They were going to die, and it wasn’t going to be heroic, or even particularly clean.

It would be fast, though. Eyes smarting against his burning flesh, Rhys drew his sword. Feyre had the arrows Eris had given her. There was more than just faebane laced on the shimmering gold feathers, though Rhys couldn’t say what kind of magic they’d been imbued with.

In that moment, he didn’t care.

“The wings, Feyre, shoot his wings!”

Feyre winced, sending an arrow flying into the air. Faster than his eyes could track, she had embedded one of those ash arrows into the soft leather of the dragon's wings. It roared, sending flame raining back down on them. He needed Feyre to damage that other wing, to bring the beast to the ground where he might embed his sword into its soft underbelly. That was the only reason he covered her with his body again, groaning loudly under the burn against his neck and scalp. Feyre leaned over him once the blast stopped, back pressed to the scorched wall behind them. Red cheeked, Feyre let another arrow fly.

“Get up,” she ordered, though Rhys didn’t particularly want to. Not when he heard the beast roar in pain before slamming so hard to the floor it made his teeth rattle. Feyre had already notched another arrow, holding it against chapped, raw lips as her eyes darted between the High Lord and Rhys.

Terrible, world-ruining laughter erupted from that thing. “Pathetic humans,” he growled, talons ripping into the floor beneath her. The dragon tried—and failed—to lift his terrible, glittering wings and take flight again. Blood dripped around him in viscous black puddles that threatened to turn Rhys’s stomach. It was nothing like the gash on Feyre’s forehead, reopened from their first fight to streak down her face a bright, wet red.

This was twisted, ugly and rotten just like the creature in front of them.

Rhys spun his blade in his hand. At the same time Feyre loosed an arrow into the creatures eye, distracting it just long enough for Rhys to surge forward.

“The neck, you need to—”

“Don’t scream it at me!” Rhys shouted back, well aware she was telling the monster exactly what he meant to do. Feyre unleashed another arrow, hitting the writhing dragon squarely in his smoking snout. Rhys ached, was certain this was the moment he’d be eaten even as he raised his blade. Another arrow hit the beast in the face, splattering Rhys with more of that thick, warm, inky blood. He spat, fingers bruised around the hilt of his blade, and plunged it into the gold scaled neck.

It wouldn’t be enough, though despite Feyre having screamed their plan, he did manage to still the monster just long enough to twist his blade. More blood poured to the floor, drenching him until Rhys was all but coated.

“Keep going!” Feyre screamed from somewhere in the distance. Rhys was only half present, choking in the foul stench of the dying beast. He understood he needed to take the head entirely.

Pulling out his blade, Rhys watched that limp neck flop to the floor, still attached to the High Lord who had once been so wholly unkillable.

Feyre had come into view, another arrow notched on her bow.

“You,” the creature gasped, dull eyes sliding from Rhys to Feyre. “You will not survive this.”

The warning of the first monster settled back in Rhys’s mind.

Two down. Five to go.

With a roar, Rhys brought his sword up over his head, severing the dragon's head from its neck. It was not a clean death. The creature gurgled in pain, choking on its own foul blood before it finally perished. Rhys had to cut through sinew and bone, all of which took an immeasurable amount of strength.

He was exhausted when he managed to pull his blade away, staggering backwards only to nearly slip into more blood.

“I need to get out of here,” Rhys said, certain he’d vomit if he had to breathe in the rotting smell of faerie filth for even another moment. Feyre came with him, slinging her bow over her shoulder with one hand while the other reached for his arm. They came out together—no riddles, no pressing walls or monsters. Just crisp, fresh air and a tingling against his hand that told him the mark that had been inked when he’d killed the beast of spring had expanded.

He’d look at it later.

“I take back what I said,” he groaned, eyes sweeping over the undisturbed landscape.

“About?”

“I think I would like a bath in the river.”

Feyre cracked a smile, the first he’d ever seen. Rhys was given no time to appreciate it, or the fact that, improbably, they were both still alive. Eris Vanserra had materialized before them, crowned in burnished leaves and all but glowing with power.

He smiled, though there was little warmth to his gaze. Rhys was still clutching his bloodied sword in hand, primed to kill this faerie, too.

“Well, well, well,” Eris purred. “Look what you’ve done.”

#feysand #feyre archeron #rhysand #feyre x rhysand #feysand fanfic #sorry this took me so long

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fruitloopzed · 11 months

Note

some stenny perchance for the drawing requests OOH OR BENDY the most girlbosses to ever

they are so girlboss i adore both of them

#south park #SORRY THIS TOOK ME SO LONG #TO GET TO #i am slowly grinding thru my art for other people #sp wendy #sp bebe #sp bendy #sophdoodle #drawing req

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thornsnvultures · 1 year

Note

bucky barnes and numer 2 ? ❤️

❤❤️ thank you!

subtle smut prompts

18+

---

One moment Bucky's standing there at your door, his hand still raised from knocking on it repeatedly, and the next he's surrounding you. His arms swallow you whole, not caring that you're still damp from the shower he couldn't wait to let you finish. His scent fills the air, a mix of his body wash and a lingering tinge of gunsmoke that never seems to go away. It's rich and all consuming and his voice is deep in your ear when he squeezes you close.

"I think about you," he whispers into your hair like some sacred secret. A breath shudders from his lips as he cradles the back of your head, "Ceaselessly."

And you're not even mad that he interrupted your post-mission routine anymore because, fuck, you've been waiting for him to admit that he wants you too for a long fucking time.

"I want you. I need you." Bucky fills your stunned silence with soft kisses pressed to your cheeks, you chin, your throat, all over your face like he's mapping it out so he never forgets.

The smacking sound of his lips on the tip of your nose shocks you into a giggle and now you're smiling, laughing as you return the favor with kisses of your own. You jump into his arms when he moves his hands to your thighs and he carries you back to your bedroom, slamming your door behind him maybe a little too hard.

He apologizes, for the door and door waiting so long, as he drops you on your bed. "So damn long. Could've had you under me sooner. I won't make you wait any longer, honey."

#sorry this took me so long #prompt game #bucky barnes #bucky barnes drabble #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x gn!reader #bucky blurb #bucky barnes blurb #my fics

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parttime-creative · 3 months

Text

The Portrait of Regina Mills - Part 3

This is based on this prompt by @italymystery-swanqueen

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pairing: SwanQueen

fandom: Once Upon A Time

setting: AU

chapter summery: Emma and Henry have some mother-son bonding time with each other and the old manor. However staying here starts to become creepy as Emma has an unlikely nightly encounter and makes an interesting discoverey...

WC: 3703

prev / next (coming soon)

read on AO3

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CHAPTER 3: The first full moon.

The first week of their stay at the late Mills manor was nearing its end and Emma finally dared to say, the old house started to feel like a home again. She could see their three months here turning into something like a vacation. Being a house sitter wasn’t at that hard after all, she determined proudly. Now that she had eliminated times dusty grasp on the manor. The old keeper really hadn’t done a great job at maintaining it. She blew out her feather duster like a sheriffs revolver and winked at the pair of golden eyes of R. Mills in front of her.

The paintings brown eyes sparkled in amusement.

“Don’t worry, Darling, I am your knight in maid’s armor. Those dust bunny armies have nothing on me and my Excalibur. Pew, pew, pew!” She fished some cobwebs of the paintings corner.

“Hehe! Emma Swan, manor maid magnifique!” She stopped abruptly. “Okay no. That sounds atrocious.”

“Don’t you laugh at me! Not my fault this house is such a dust bin! Couldn’t you have lived in a smaller one?”

Her ladder wobbled as Emma shifted her weight and she yelp as she held onto it.

“Woah! Okay, okay! I didn’t say nothing! Your house is beautiful. Peace, okay? No ones gonna clean here, if I fall. Certainly not Henry!”

“Moooom! I am done dusting the living room!”

Emma could have sworn the paintings eyebrows rose ever so slightly. She rolled her eyes.

“Okay, usually you wouldn’t get him to clean anything. Have you seen the room of a teenager these days?”

“Mooom?” Henrys head appeared in the doorway to the entrance hall. “Who are you talking to?”

“Uhm, no one…. ?”

Her son raised his eyebrows in a way that made it abundantly clear he was not convinced.

“Are you losing it? Do I need to call the nice people in white?”

“Oh yeah! Ruth really is. Especially for brainstorming story ideas. She really has good ideas, unlike someone …”

“Ha.ha. Very funny.” Emma climbed down the ladder.

“If you must know, I was talking with Mrs. Mills. She is an excellent listener.”

“I don’t, but Ruth? Really?”

“Henry, give me a break! No everyone can have a mind like yours, also…. Ruth? Why Ruth?”

“ R dot Mills? Or do you know her name?”

“What? It starts with “R”!”

“Sure, but have you looked at her? She doesn’t look like a Ruth at all!”

“She totally does!”

“No way!”

“Okay what do you think is her name then?”

“Absolutely!”

“Never!”

Emma hesitated. She looked back up at the enormous painting of the dark haired woman. Her dark eyes looking back down at her. Their brown iris seemingly almost golden in the midmorning sun. Her expression regal. She looked like a queen ready to rule over her subjects, watching her residency. She looked refined and respectful.

“If she’s old, what am I then?”

“I don’t know, something powerful and elegant, like… Rose or Raven … maybe even Raegan.”

“Nahhh, those are too modern. She’s old!”

“Not in that picture, mom! But have you looked at this place. These portraits are painted like what, a hundred years ago? No one lived in this place for ages.”

Henry was right and Emma had cleaned the dust to prove it. But still, it felt utterly wrong to call a woman like that old. It felt disrespectful and somehow…. Unfair?

“Still, Ruth? That’s not it. Maybe Roslynn?”

“She so does NOT look like a Roslynn! You really bad at naming people, it’s embarrassing.”

“Hey! I named you!”

“Mum, my name is Henry. As in your grandfather. Reaaaaal creative!”

“OH, SHUT UP YOU LITTLE-!”

Her voice got cut by her son’s yelp as she began chasing him into the living room, waving her duster like a baseball bat. Henry giggled and laughed as he ran from her until his escape came to a sudden halt on the big sofa.

“I, Henry Daniel Swan, shan’t be afraid of a mere woman, waving about with a toothpick. Face me wench, ENGARDE!” and he pulled his own feather duster from in between the sofa cushions, holding it out towards his mother. Emma was taken aback for a second then, she grinned.

“You have overstepped your welcome boy!” she taunted, lightly tapping her duster against his. “I shall accept your duel, for I win, tonight’s dinner shall be server by your hands, child!”

“Wretched maid, so it shall be, for I win, it shall be paid by your gold in the fine woman granny’s establishment!”

“So it shall be!”

“AHHHH MOM AHAHAHAH NO, STOP AHHAH I can’t,I yield…. I YIELD!!!”

With a quick flick of her wrist Emma gave Henry a mouthful of feathery dust. Her son coughed and yapped and glared at her.

“The wench plays unfair. So be it!” he tossed a cushion at her and followed it up with a big jump from the sofa onto her. Emma managed to avoid the pillow but couldn’t dodge her son. Immediately she felt his bodyweight in her arms and sputtered to get the dusters feathers out of her mouth.

“Take that, evil queen!” he laughed as he kept tickling her nose with the old feathers.

Emma couldn’t speak, her mouth still full of feathers, her nose itching from the dust and with a gigantic sneeze she threw her son back onto the sofa. He yelped. Emma sneezed again before her fingers found their way under his arms and began tickling the boy relentlessly.

“Take that, ungrateful peasant.” Emma grinned. “Dinner’s on you tonight.”

Henry grumbled and sat up.

“That’s so unfair.”

“Hey, I won fair and square. You gave up.”

~*~

In the evening Emma and Henry settled on the huge leather couch. Both grasping a cup of cocoa with cinnamon in their hands and huddled around Emma’s old Laptop for a cozy Netflix session. The manor didn’t have a TV, which wasn’t all that bad, Emma reconned. It was a good reason for Henry to try out new things and activities that he couldn’t do in the city.

They had settled for Star Wars, both of their favorite movie franchise - also the only movies Emma had still downloaded on her laptop. Their love for movie nights was one of Emma’s favorite things she shared with her son. That and hot cocoa with cinnamon of course. She loved it when Henry snuggled into her. She’d miss this terribly once he’d be all grown up, maybe even moved out. So she took every second of his cuddling, even when it meant she’d have to watch Start Wars for the millionth time.

“Huh… I don’t remember there was a piano in the score in that scene…” Henry suddenly mumbled.

“What do you mean?” Emma asked confused. Her mind had drifted off, lulled in by John Williams’ music and the constant light saber noises.

“Don’t you hear the piano? I don’t remember there being a piano.” Henry repeated and this time Emma heard it too.

“You’re right. I never noticed before.”

“ ‘Cuz there usually isn’t!”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely!” Henry kept insisting and finally just paused the movie. His and Emma’s eyes grew wide as the faint sound of the piano continued.

“What, it wasn’t in the movie?” he whispered, his voice audible scared.

“No, I am coming with you!” He demanded. Emma chuckled.

Emma shifted on the couch and sat up.

“Sounds like it’s coming from the music room. I probably forgot to turn off the radio after cleaning this afternoon. I’ll get it. You can continue the movie, if you want.”

“Are you scared?” she teased.

“Maybe a little…” he admitted, his hand slipping into hers.

Emma held her tongue. It was not fair to tease her son for being scared. He was a child after all and the stories about the manor being haunted probably hadn’t gone past him either. She felt a small bit of anger rise up in her chest again. Small town folk really was the worst. Never the less the two of them made their way to the music room, following the soft piano notes.

“Did… Did that piano… just play on it’s own?” Henry whispered, his voice quivering.

“Mom… that doesn’t sound like the radio”, Henry whispered and she felt him hugging her arm. It in fact did not sound like the old radio sitting atop the fireplace. There was no crackling or statics within the sound.

“I know that song…” Emma mumbled.

With determination in her step she walked over to the old piano and opened the wooden lid atop it’s key. Within moments the music stopped, but Emma could have sworn she had seen the keys below the cover move, when she lifted it.

“Almost seems like it. But hey, that’s not unheard of” Emma tried to reassure him.

Henry nibbled on his lower lip and eyed the instrument from a safe distance.

“But, it’s a piano!”

“Well it could be a pianola.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a clockwork instrument, like a hurdy gurdy. Some rich folks or like restaurants had them to simulate life music. They have a small metal cylinder with bumps on it, that turns and basically pings the right strings of the piano to play the notes. It’s all mechanical an no magic.” She winked. “We probably activated it this afternoon. Nothing to worry about.”

“Okay…”. He didn’t seem convinced.

“So it did play on it’s own! The piano is haunted!” Henry shrieked and immediately duck behind the Chaise in the middle of the room.

“Come, look if you press the key, you can’t hear anything, it’s dead-“ her voice got cut short when the soft pling of the piano note sounded through the room.

“What the-“, she mumbled. She pressed the key again. The note was slightly out of tune, no one, it probably hadn’t been played in years, but this… definitely wasn’t a pianola.

Emma had to admit, she was at a loss for words. There was no reasonable explanation. If that piano was a simple, regular old piano – was there really a ghost in these halls? She just stared at the wall against which the piano was placed. It wasn’t an outer wall. She couldn’t find anything that could explain the notes. No mold, no water, no signs of mice living in it, no wind blasting through the walls. Just a regular old piano, against a wall decorated with paintings. There even was one, where R. Mills sat on a very similar one, eyes closed lost in the music she probably was playing. Maybe this was the same piano? Was it really haunted by the late owner? Maybe she missed hearing its sound.

Without much of a thought Emma slit back the stool placed in front of the instrument and sat down. It had been sometime since she had last played, but some songs had been so engrained in her mind that her fingers still remembered them. Within a few unsure notes, she started playing Für Elise. The piano was out of tune, yes, but not so bad that it was horrible to listen to. The notes were some halftones lower and gave the song a deeper, kind of sorrowful sound to it.

“What are you doing, Mom?” Henry asked after some lines.

“Are you not scared?”

“I am playing the piano. If there really is a ghost, he very obviously wanted the piano to be played again. I might not now all the notes to the Bone Waltz, but I guess that’s the next best thing to it, don’t you think?”

Henry was quiet, but she saw him come up from his hiding place.

“Maybe a little.” She winked as she continued playing.

“What if the ghost doesn’t like it?”

“Then he should request a song I have the sheets for next time.”

The soft laughter of her son warmed Emma’s chest and her fingers grew steadier.

“I didn’t know you could play the piano.”

“There is a lot you don’t know about me, kiddo.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You never asked.”

“Can you teach me?”

“Sure! Come here.”

She made room for her son on the piano stool and Henry slipped beside her. She took his small hands and placed them on the key.

“These are the base octave, called C-Dur.” She played the notes. “And every 8 keys up and down the line there is the same but an octave higher or lower.”

“What are those then?” he pointed to the black keys.

“Look if you press a key it makes the sound and slowly fades again, because the string in the piano is stopped from vibrating once it’s hammer is pressed onto it again.”

“Those are halftones”

“For what do you need these pedals?”

“For special effects.” Emma made Jazz hands and Henry laughed again.

“There are strings in a piano? And hammers? Don’t they break it?” Henry’s eyes were big and Emma realized he really had never learned anything about a piano before. She chuckled

“Of course not.”

With that their movie was forgotten and the two of them spend the rest of the evening on the piano. Emma teaching her son how to play some simple scales and how to use the pedals. As usual Henry was a fast learner and Emma played with the thought of getting him a keyboard, once they were back in the city.

For the rest of the evening the piano did not once play by itself again.

When Henrys yawning got more frequently and the full moon already shone bright through the windows of the music room, Emma decided it was time for her son to hit the hay. He did protest, of course, but by now she was pretty experienced in shutting him down.

“Okay. Good night, Ruth.” He waved the portrait above the piano. “Looks like she liked our jamming session.” He grinned and left the music room.

“We can continue tomorrow. Maybe we can find some old music sheets in the shelves then. But I am pretty sure we’d need sunlight to read them.”

He rolled his eyes, obviously looking right through her bad argument. The manor had electricity after all.

Emma followed his wave n confusion. The raven-haired woman was leaning on the piano, a brown dog curled up at her feet, her head resting on her hand, the other softly resting on the piano top. A soft smile playing around her lips and her dark eyes gently looking down at Emma, who stared at the portrait.

She hadn’t noticed the dog before, and hadn’t Mrs. Mills been playing the piano before? Her eyes closed and her hands on the keys? Emma rubbed her eyes. She must have imagined that. The painting was still gently smiling at her, blinking softly. Blinking?!

“What the-?!” Emma jumped from her seat. “I guess I should go to bed as well.” She decided and almost sprinted from the room. She must be tired. Portraits don’t blink. Well, usually people also don’t talk to them, like she had done for the past week. But that was different. She didn’t think Ruth would answer! Maybe she had acted to much like the portrait could listen. Maybe her mind was playing tricks on her. Her mind was most definitely playing tricks on her! And yet, when she reached her room, she still threw a blanket over the portrait hanging above her dresser. In this one Mrs. Mills was sitting in the room’s armchair, reading a book. The same chocolate brown dog from the piano painting curled at her feet. No, if this woman really haunted the manor, she would most definitely not be watched during her sleep. Emma made sure the blanket was secure and wouldn’t slip down during the night.

“Ghosts aren’t real…” she mumbled.

But she still pulled her blanket over her head tonight.

~*~

Within seconds she was wide awake. On tiptoes she sneaked to her door, in her hand she held the first things her fingers had reached – her bedside lamp. Upside down.

The old grandfather clock down the hallways chimed when Emma suddenly woke up.

There was someone in the house. She was sure she hadn’t just dreamed the sound of footsteps walking down the hall outside of her door.

She held it close like a baseball bat, ready to swing at whoever came her way.

“Henry, is that you?” she whispered into the darkness. Well it wasn’t all that dark really. The house was lit up by the full moon shining through some of the windows Emma hadn’t bothered to close all the way.

There, in the pale silver light stood a figure over the sink. One of the sharp kitchen knives glistened in the moonlight as the figure appeared to … cut some apple slices???

Again, there were sounds coming from downstairs!

Emma gripped her lamp tighter and tiptoed down the stairs. A metallic clanking made her turn towards the kitchen.

“Hold it right there!” Emma called out, her lamp raised high, ready to swing.

She heard the figure gasp as she turned around. It was most definitely a woman. Dark hair. A bit smaller than Emma. For a long woman the two of them just stared at each other than the woman bolted from the kitchen towards the dinning room. Emma’s lamp broke on the floor as she sprinted after the intruder.

Suddenly Emma stood in a room where she hadn’t been in before. She was sure this room had been locked before. It looked, however, like a study. One wall was a single big book shelf, a second a single window front. In the middle of the room facing the door stood an enormous desk. Its dark polished wood reflecting the moonlight shinning directly into the room.

“Stop!” she called after her, but the woman literally burst trough the dining rooms double doors into the entry hall. Emma could barely follow. She ran full force into the big swinging doors and could just see the woman’s feet bolt up the stairs. She immediately ran after her. Almost on all fours Emma ran up the stairs and down the hall way. Past the grandfather clock, past Henrys room, past her own and through the door at the end of the hallway.

Emma leaned with one hand in the door frame, panting heavily.

Where did that woman go? She was no where to be seen and this was the only room that had been open. There was no second door out of the room, no window open. It was as if the woman just disappeared into thin air.

“This can’t be…” Emma mumbled. “You don’t get to disappear like that, Missy. I have found quicker people than you again!”

So, the young mother took to exploring the room, searching for any clue where the woman had disappeared to. The bookshelf resulted into no hidden staircase. The desk had no obvious hidden compartments. Or at least none, that would be big enough to house a human. There were no closets in the room Just a dresser on the third wall, opposing the bookshelf. Above the dresser hung another one of R. Mills’ portraits. This one however looked different than the other. It was the same woman, undoubtedly, as in the other pictures all over the manor. But she didn’t smile. Her hair was disheveled, her eyes had a sort of panic in them. She looked uneasy, agitated, as if she was waiting for something - something bad. She sat at the edge of the huge desk, her arms crossed in front of her chest. Her posture however wasn’t straight, now regal. She looked as if she had hurried to be on time to an appointment and just waited to jump up again to get to the next. Below her feet der was the rugs corner folded back as if she had just stumbled over it and the painter had decided to capture this exact moment to paint. A truly remarkable painter. This portrait looked so much more life like than the others. It felt like it had just dried moments ago. No, as if the paint was still fresh, still dripping. Emma leaned closer. She could almost feel the emotion of the hurried women in it. Hadn’t she just had a similar situation? R. Mills almost looked like she held her breath in order to not pant.

“Huh, you really must have had a busy life. But why decide to keep a painting like that? Well, I guess I know why you locked it in here, huh?”

Finally, Emma gave up on looking for the intruder. She must have fled into anther room and probably had already jumped out an open window or left the same way she had come. Emma decided to looked for her exit in the morning and swore herself to control every room from now on, so no one could come in uninvited. She probably shouldn’t have been so sloppy with it. After all, hadn’t that been on of Mills’ rules?

She turned on her heels giving the room one last once over before heading back to bed. On her way to the door however her food caught on something and she stumbled. Looking down it was a corner of the old rug, that was folded back. Huh, she must have lifted it, when she had burst into the room. When she kneeled down to fix it her eyes noticed a small indent in the sideboard of the enormous desk. Curiously she let her fingers glider over it. Wait – that was a button! Curiously she pressed it. With a soft click opened the desks side panel. Emma nudged it open fully. It was a small compartment between the inner and the outer panel of the desk, just deep enough for a small book to fit in it. Marveling at the craftsmanship of the desk Emma took out the book from its hiding place.

It looked to be a handbound notebook. Its neat canvas surface was dusty. In the moonlight Emma could read the words on the cover, written in an elegant cursive handwriting:

The diary of Regina Mills.

#SwanQueen #swanqueen #SQ #Once upon a Time #OUAT #ouat #Regina Mills #Emma Swan #The Portrait of Regina Mills #the mystery behind the portrait #my fanfictions #Sorry this took me so long #I am not a really regular writer #but the muse of the story bit me again and this was a lot of fun writing #also i still have my outline sooo good chance i'll actually finish this sometime

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gins-potter · 1 year

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I love that Matt and Kelly have been each other's constants for 2 decades and always have each other's backs.

I also love that Sevasey aren't afraid to be vulnerable or a little soft with each other despite how closed off and stoic the individual characters can be, especially Matt. Throughout season 10, it felt like Kelly was missing his person, and it wasn't Stella.

Some of my favourite Sevasey scenes or things:

Them calling each other Case or Sev

Backing each other up even when other people are making them doubt themselves (like when Kelly was investigating one of his dad's old cases, and everyone thought he had lost perspective but Matt).

Being there without question (Matt getting Kelly back to51 after Shay and letting him live with him and Kelly letting Matt stay with him after Matt's place burned down).

When Matt talked to Kelly about his feelings for Stella in season 6 and told him those feeling wouldn't go away anytime soon.

Kelly trying to hold on to Matt in the ambulance after his head injury.

Kelly being worried about Matt after Gabby left.

They aren't afraid to give each other reassuring touches, whether it's a hand on the shoulder or a big hug.

Matt returning for the Stellaride wedding. I wasn't a fan of the episode, honestly, and the way they did Matt and Brettsey dirty, but Matt and Kelly's talk and then Matt saving the wedding were the highlights of that episode.

What are some of your favourite Sevasey scenes or moments?

Do you have any least favourite scenes or storylines? I wasn't a massive fan of Kelly in the Bria storyline.

Honestly, I've been holding on to this ask for months and months waiting for when I would have time to sit down and organise my thoughts about Sevasey but you've pretty much summed up what I love about Sevasey. Either platonically or romantically it's just such an organic relationship that has grown so much over the seasons. I do love the angsty-ness of the s2 mid-season finale where Sev's holding Casey down after his TBI. Also in s3 when 51's truck gets hit, and Sev goes all protective mode. I basically love Casey whump and protective Sev ha ha.

The ones I don't like so much were whenever they disagreed on a call. I didn't mind the tension between them in s1 because I think that more reflected where they were at with their relationship in general. But whenever it popped up after that season, it was just like eugh. Because I feel like Matt always questioned himself and Sev just assumed he was right and bleugh.

#anyway stan sevasey for clear skin #sorry this took me so long #answered #one chicago #chicago fire #sevasey #matt casey #matthew casey #kelly severide #all queued up and no place to go

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ghosthoodie · 8 months

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I need to see Callie and Marie being rich aunts to Nishi PLEASE

ok i was gonna draw this but i don't want to forget about it... for like his birthday i think theyd buy him this super expensive cozy onesie...nishi is SOO comfy but i think sicilykait would freak the fuck out because damn it was so spensive... i think they like to buy him crazy things just to see their reaction

other than that though i think callie would LOVE nishi and do all sorts of things with him!! she plays a lot of games and shes like caroline in that shes the goofy aunt... shes very patient with him when hes upset too

marie however... shes not a big fan of children so she does chores like dishes & laundry when sicilykait are too overwhelmed to keep up with them, however she also loves to buy them stupid cute baby clothes👍 squid sisters aunts rule da world

#ask #wooden speaks #anonymous #SORRY this took me so long

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houseofoddballs · 5 months

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hi I think ur neat :]

You seem cool

Hello! Apologies for not getting back to this sooner! I think that YOU'RE neat, and you seem incredibly epic if you happened to stumble across my humble page! Have a wonderful life, you absolutely amazing anon!

#ask #anon ask #You are wonderful #sorry this took me so long #I hardly check my ask box #because it always tells me that I have asks #but it normally lies #so thank you #I love these!

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