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bittermuire · a day ago
I completely fell in love with feyre while writing this. granted I haven't reread the books in the while so I think this is just my interpretation of her, but seriously. I’ve always been slightly emotional over her never-ending future with rhys and now after writing this it’s a whole other level
this can be read separately but makes more sense after reading this other fic of mine :
it’s a quick read and this fic takes place pretty soon after. anyway, enjoy :)
“I can’t believe it,” spits Rhys, pacing the room. “You’re siding with her?”
Feyre sighs. Motherhood has worn her down. Her body sinks like a stone into the soft armchair. “Rhys…”
He turns swiftly and takes her in. His eyes soften.
“I’m tired,” she tells him.
“I’m sorry.” He kneels and takes her hands. “I am, truly. I don’t want to cause you stress. But I can’t keep excusing her.”
Feyre laughs and squeezes his hands, kissing his fingers softly. “I think this time she’s excused herself.”
She doesn’t sleep.
It’s too real, now.
Without Nesta, it’s too real.
She has no way out. She will be alive forever until she dies. She will be alive. She is twenty-one years old and happiness doesn’t always adapt.
“Happiness is like fine wine,” he tells her, pressing hot kisses to the inside of her thigh. She tips her head back. She closes her eyes and succumbs. She bends to him. “We’ll be happy forever,” he whispers, and her skin burns where his hands take her.
Her son is like the rising sun. He screams and he cries and he smiles.
“He looks just like you, Rhys,” compliments Cassian. He puts a protective arm around her. “He’s beautiful.”
He looks like Father.
He looks like me.
“Are we supposed to age?” she asks. Nyx rests in her arms, sleeping.
Rhys smiles. Every curve, every line, is so familiar to her it hurts. Every inch of her is filled with love for him; she can’t imagine this particular eternity any other way.
“Age? Of a sort. We reshape, we reform. Our lives are like mosaics. Move the pieces and make different pictures.”
His eyes flutter to a close. She watches him, the way he shines by the firelight. He is hers. He belongs to her. Her fingernails leave scars in his back. His name is tattooed on her lips. This is what a mate is: the air and the lungs breathing it, the sky and the eyes seeing it.
“I love you,” she murmurs, and kisses her son’s forehead, his perfect mosaic.
She doesn’t tell him that the nightmares she wakes from are often of him.
(By the Mother, the horrors, the fear, the terror—oh, the way it shakes her, the way she trembles, the way she freezes in the face of the one who loves her. He grins and breaks her arm. He grins and her blood dribbles from his lips. He grins and presses her up against the wall. “It’s a game,” he says, “It’s a game, Feyre. It’s a game. I’m saving you. Don’t worry, Feyre. I love you, Feyre. I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Smile again, Feyre. Feyre darling, Feyre darling. Feyre, Feyre.” He owns her, he paints her skin; everything is him.)
No, she doesn’t tell him.
When they wake in the night, she always wakes before him. In those few minutes she looks at his face, memorizes it again; she remembers herself in his eyes and the soft curve of his cheeks. You’re mine, she thinks, and by making him her own, she feels like she is her own too.
He told her they reshape, reform. Will this fear leave her? Or will it only organize itself, fold itself neatly into her dreams for the rest of forever?
His inky warmth floods her. As he comes awake he pulls her close to his chest. He kisses her hair. “Forgive me,” he whispers, and she squeezes her eyes shut, rejecting the fear.
I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I love you, you’re mine.
“You’re not the same.”
An arrow thuds into the target. Bulls-eye.
“What do you mean?” She nocks another arrow, body thrumming with this forgotten routine. “I haven’t changed.”
Lucien watches her shoot. The morning’s unseasonably warm. Elain is setting the table, mostly forgotten to Velaris, now.
“It’s good to see you this way,” he says.
Nyx is walking, tottering around the halls of the House, when Emerie and Gwyn come rushing in through the door. Their eyes are shining, their cheeks pink. They don’t see her as they bustle into the kitchen.
“She looks gorgeous,” exclaims Gwyn.
Feyre hoists him into her arms and leaves, as briskly as she’d arrived.
Cassian sobs like a child in her arms. “I can’t breathe without her,” he groans.
The House is silent in Nesta’s absence.
Old wounds scar. The years pass all in one. Nyx tugs her close and says in her ear, “I want to be human, Mama.”
She smiles.
She does not tell him what it was like to be human.
She does not tell him she was human.
And she does not, she does not, tell him about Nesta.
Nesta, devastating and cunning and cruel, made High Fae and yet—
Nesta, determinedly human.
Rhys holds her all through the night as she cries for the first time in years. She doesn’t tell him what for.
What grief is this? Whose? Where has it been hidden?
She grieves her lost sister, her lost childhood.
All the mortality floods from her eyes in a river. She feels like one of those old myths—the woman who wept an ocean, the girl who was made a tree, lurched over the currents.
“Is it normal to be so tired?” she asks. How old is she now?
Rhys frowns. “No. Are you feeling alright?”
She smiles. “Fine,” she says, and nestles closer.
She’s very sick when her son’s head is to her hip.
She can’t crawl from bed. Madja finds nothing wrong, no physical malaise.
“Take me to Elain,” she begs, clutching the healer’s arm.
“He’ll die,” she whispers, because that’s all she can do, “if I die.”
Elain hushes her and presses the washcloth to her forehead.
“I can’t die, Elain.”
Her sister is a haze in the sunlight.
“He can’t die.”
The summer is a slow one. Perhaps it’s many summers, she doesn’t know. Lucien carries her out to the fields and Elain brushes her hair beneath the sun. Sometimes she can sit up and eat; other days she merely lays, splayed out on the grass, her existence so still she feels dead. Elain smells like flowers and the past. Her voice is warm like the day.
“Nyx wants to see you,” says Elain, poking her head in.
She’s taking her breakfast in the drawing room. She knows Elain would have a fit if it was anyone else, but this is where the floorboards are warm in the sun, and the furniture smells real and is soft beneath her heavy limbs. This is where she walked again; this is where she became alive.
Her heart lightens. “Of course.”
He surges in like the tide, his little face bright. He careens into her legs and she pulls him into her lap. “My Nyx!” she laughs. “You’ve grown so much!”
Wrapping his arms around her neck, he settles into her warmth. He feels as familiar to her as breathing. In this intermission of her life, this reinvention, she feels that perhaps she is a little more herself, and the other parts are the parts she’s chosen. She has no idea how old she is, but she isn’t nineteen.
A futile hope—but in the mirror she thinks she sees lines around her eyes.
Life becomes life again. She moves back to Velaris.
He’s missed her. He’s desperate for her. They don’t talk about her time away.
This used to thrill her—his need for her, his aching want. It made her glow. He, a five-hundred year old High Fae, wanted this puny little human, and he still wants her.
Feyre Cursebreaker.
He feels as good as he always has. She can’t put her finger on what’s different.
“You abandoned me,” she says to the stars.
There are other children, other houses, other cities. Their family grows. Happiness is not easy but she catches it occasionally. Lucien and Elain remain childless and are determined to remain so for many years, and their estate is quiet, and she spends many lazy days there when all her children are lost to the world.
Eternity soaks into Rhys like a great ocean. It only makes him more beautiful.
And the past—it mostly stays there.
(She’ll go there once. She’ll go there now, once.)
She’s only seen Nesta once since she had stalked back down the altar. Her sister keeps her visits quiet and invisible; Emerie and Gwyn are the only giveaways, with their happy eyes.
But that image, that last sight—it’s burned into her mind.
She was alone, that day. She was walking the streets and breathing the air. She felt very human, very fragile; they don’t tell you that the Fae can barely feel the wind. She felt it, that day. That day, the wind was rushing, and it rattled her bones.
Nesta was crossing the street, near unrecognizable with her long hair down, body sheathed in a heather gray coat. A scarf covered her mouth and nose. Even from where she stood, Feyre could see the snowflakes shining on her eyelashes like stars.
Then, Nesta turned. Slowly, deliberately, she turned; her eyes caught Feyre with a shocking familiarity. Not even sisters can escape the agelessness, the eternity, she thinks.
They will always have this.
In Nesta’s steely gaze was the challenge:
Leave him.
Leave him, I dare you.
Leave all of this.
And when the words were given, when the challenge was posed, she turned once again away, and walked away, away, away—where Feyre knows she will never be able to follow.
She sees her sister in her dreams.
She is always walking away. She is always walking towards the sun.
Wind lifts her hair; her silhouette is soft in the snow.
Except for one. There was one dream, different from the rest.
Her arms are warm like a sister’s. Her voice is gentle.
“Come to me when you’re tired,” she says, “and we can rest in the sky.”
I cried writing parts of this :’) happiness by taylor swift is fun to listen to whilst reading, if you’re so inclined
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artistdove · an hour ago
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Randomly drew Wind, Four, Legend, and Hyrule in modern clothing or something idk. Too lazy to color them so just note Wind has an undershirt, shirt, and vest; Legend has a long sleeve with vest over it; and Hyrule has a plaid button shirt with a jacket over it
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grumpytrans · a day ago
do all of these people having babies during the pandemic realize that they're birthing Baby Boomers 2
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godweaver · 2 months ago
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cluttered vampire aesthetic
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unnonexistence · 2 months ago
hot take maybe but i hate when people use afab/amab as shorthand for anything to do with someone's body, or thoughtlessly uses it as a replacement for gendered language.
like for example if you have a scientific study that says "we found women are at higher risk for xyz than men" you CANNOT just turn around and say "hey guys this study says afab people are at higher risk for xyz than amab people" because you DON'T KNOW!
like, did the study include trans participants? no? then it doesn't tell you SHIT ALL about how someone's assigned gender affects things, because it's not comparing afab people and amab people of various genders, it's comparing cis men and cis women.
oh, and even if it's a medical study you STILL can't jump to conclusions! "cis women are at higher risk for xyz" does not translate to "afab people are at higher risk for xyz" because there are afab and amab people with all sorts of bodies. for example, if cis women are at higher risk for whatever because of estrogen levels, a trans man on testosterone might have a risk level more comparable to cis men, and a trans woman on estrogen might have a risk level more comparable to cis women.
if the study doesn't conclude anything about WHY cis women were at higher risk, or you're not sure if trans participants were included, you might have to say something like "it is unclear how this applies to trans people."
TLDR if you want to replace gendered language with something more inclusive you HAVE to think about what it is you're actually talking about and what assumptions you're making.
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writing-and-nutmeg · a month ago
Abortion bounty hunters are now legal in Texas.
This is so fucking scary.
Not only are abortions now illegal after six weeks (which would outlaw at least eighty-five percent of abortions since people can be unaware they’re pregnant at that stage), but any private citizen can sue people who violate this law for ten thousand dollars. People who can be sued includes anyone who “aided and abetted” the abortion—including not only doctors and healthcare providers, but the people like the fucking uber driver who drove you to the clinic.
And the Supreme Court has done nothing about it.
I am afraid.
I am angry.
I am in disbelief that a group of people, with full knowledge of the terrifying consequences of their actions, pooled their resources, wealth, and knowledge to launch this assault on abortion rights. Displaying a dearth of empathy, they plotted around Roe v. Wade by employing private citizens as bounty hunters, people they will pay thousands of dollars to report abortions.
They launched a modern-day witch hunt.
It’s hard to sort out my emotions. I feel like a pile of autumn leaves, whipped into a tornado of glacial reds and frothing golds and everything in between, unable to separate the colors, the movement, the chaos. But there are three things I do know.
I am a woman—a human being.
My rights are beginning to rot.
And I am furious.
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mettywiththenotes · 23 days ago
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I don’t really go here but I just Heard The News and my body is physically rejecting the news that chris pratt is mario
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art--harridan · 7 months ago
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[Image description: A digital comic. It begins with a woman obscured by her long hair. Her hands are pulling away from her chest and black blood is being pulled with them. The sentence next to her says " you pull apart my chest hoping to find the emptiness beneath". Below, there's a panel filled with dandelions - there's hair draped over it and also a hand, suggesting it to be the woman's chest. Next to it, it says "instead you are faced with a garden". Underneath, there's a fully black heart shape beneath a dandelion. The sentence around it says "my heart is filled with dandelions". The sentence after is "love does not grow here. And finally, there's a drawing of a hand clutching a cluster of dandelions with black blood dripping from it. The final line is "and yet, it beats".]
I'm slightly late, but happy aro awareness week <3
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meowjoy · 4 months ago
what timeline are we living in? penis smp was trending #3 on tumblr for a good while. several of the top mc twitch streamers expressed interest in checking out a 76k angst fic on ao3. i reload my dash and see that a former bachelor contestant has shown off her chicken named badboyhalo on fox news. there's still no warrior cat movie. the world is returning to normal after a global pandemic.
where am i. how did i get here.
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vasira96 · 25 days ago
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more doll concept art✨ 
i have like 6 wip customs atm, i hope i can get around to actually finishing the dolls
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coyotecure · 5 months ago
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whats up everyone im Sunset and i havent eaten anything but tic tacs in the past ohhh 36 or so hours. i had to pay a fine that ive been dodging for a couple years so it was in the Hundreds n now im flat broke (:
can i please have like 30 bucks; 10 to put in my gas tank until i need to refill it and 20 to get a couple burritos i can eat tonight n tomorrow. thanks for helping out while i get me shit together, thanks i love you!!
$kurloz cashapp / @kurloz venmo
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michael-istrash · a month ago
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Just a little tutorial because I've been seeing a lot of grey science team, especially darnold, and I wanted to make a little tutorial on how to draw them better, and draw black people better in general. Here are also some links to some tutorials on how to draw black people. link link link link link link
Also if my handwriting is hard to read there is a transcript of all the writing under the cut
[Transcript (for my messy handwriting): First image- How to Draw Darnold (And in general other black science team) I've seen some Darnolds around that look similar to these examples and it is so clear to me a lot of you don't know how to draw black folk. So here is my tutorial!
Second image- LOOK AT DARNOLD'S MODEL! He has DARK skin and 4C or 4B Hair
Picking from anywhere here is usually good. Even up here can work!
PAY ATTENTION When picking Darnold's skin tone so he never looks grey or red
Third image- I also notice people taking away Darnold's hair texture. Darnold has 4C or 4B hair.
Examples of 4C hair v
4C and 4B hair is very tight curls and very shaped. No loose curls
(I've legit seen this. You were so close what are you doing......)
Fourth image- ALSO! Pay attention to the FEATURES!
Eyes (this one can be changed) FLAT NOSE BIG LIPS
Top lip usually darker and pinker bottom lip
Different noses!
Eyes can vary to different styles and people so just don't make him look white.
And remember to lighten the palms and bottom of the feet!
Fifth image- Bonus stuff I see in general with the science team!
This Gordon isn't black! This isn't curly hair
GIve him curlier hair and correct features please
Why do y'all do this??? Give Tommy curly hair. Jesus.]
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angeloncewas · 6 months ago
Production quality doesn't mean storyline quality. In fact, it might be detracting from it.
Yesterday, Tubbo and Ranboo talked about the shift from pure improv to pre-planned lore on the dsmp and how it's impacted content creation. This, combined with reading about how Karl feels he can't do casual smp stuff on his main - because it would be a dip in quality - got me thinking about the consequence of this progression on the story as a whole.
Karl is someone who puts loads of effort and time into building both the plot and setting of Tales From the SMP. I think it shows; Tales is an awesome sort of sub-series with a cool premise. But, and I mean this in the kindest way possible, a lot of his personal storyline lacks observable character development.
C!Karl is kind of a blank canvas because we don't get to see the moments between the big plot points. Those moments where Karl is chilling in Kinoko Kingdom and talking to Sapnap and you think oh, these people love each other, or there's an undercurrent of tension with the knowledge that Karl's forgetting what's right in front of him, or both. That's what's missing, and we don't know much about him or how he's feeling as a result.
Having a story restricted to its most significant beats - the driving plot points of the story - detract from the story as a whole. It's all payoff with no setup. The original festival would not have been as significant if not for the slow development of both the Manberg Cabinet and the internal affairs of Pogtopia. The exile arc would've been nothing if it had just cut to Tommy on top of the pillar right away. The Bedrock Bros' split was punctuated by all the moments of happiness and unity they had.
One of the most unique things about the dsmp's story is that it expands beyond what the viewers see. We exist with the knowledge that when a streamer signs off, their character is still going about their life. Ranboo is out there enderwalking, Foolish is making blueprints, Techno is hibernating and Phil is playing with trains in his basement. The world is vibrant because it feels like an actual world; it feels lived-in.
When you take away the "filler" parts of a story, it becomes empty. When every stream has to be significant, it feels like the characters only exist for those significant moments. That's fine, and if that's what the creators want I respect their decisions, but the notion that casual dynamics are somehow worth less than the movie-esque "lore streams" is ridiculous. We need the everyday occurances for the dramatic moments to actually be dramatic. We need the characters to be people - with wants and needs and relationships of whatever kind - for us to care about them. High-production is awesome, but it doesn't inherently mean anything.
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