The Original Meeting for The Prince and Snow White, from the original 1937 Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs comic strip, released weekly, beginning December 14, a week before the film’s premiere.
Look, everyone! He has a name.
Well it about time that we know what his fucking name was.
An excerpt of self-indulgent smut before I focus solely on plot for 5-6 chapters:
“Cullen,” she said, somehow managing to both draw out the word and enunciate it perfectly.
That was when he realized he wasn’t listening anymore, had stopped his ministrations on her hand and was just holding it like a fool. Flushing with embarrassment, Cullen lifted his head. The automatic apology died on his lips when he found her evergreen eyes burning with something he’d only seen flashes of. Believing in that look was a terrible idea, but he couldn’t stop himself.
Evelyn leaned forward, and he let his eyes fall shut; shivered when lips gently brushed against his.
“Maker’s Breath, Evelyn,” he murmured, wrapping a hand around the back of her neck to keep her close. Cullen could feel her breath against his mouth. “What are you doing to me?”
«Keith drifts off slowly to the sounds of waves and the warmth, Shiro’s arm keeping him from falling into the water. He wakes Keith with an arm on his shoulder and then around it, lifting him and securing him against a hard chest. Keith hums a wordless question.
“Awake? It’s time,” he roughs against Keith’s hair, voice less human than it has been.
Keith blinks awake the rest of the way and wraps himself around Shiro. When he looks back toward land, there are lights above the cove, set high on the cliff. It doesn’t make sense until he realizes what must be up there—the Station is the only thing it could be. Guilt wriggles through him at the thought, but what Kolivan doesn’t know can’t hurt either of them»
Art inspired by @arahir ’s fic “Every breath you take” 🐚💕 If you haven’t read it yet I suggest to start to because is amazing, you’ll totally fall in love~!
Two years. Two years she has been gone, from court, from social grace, from the living breath of the sky, and it has been a long road back through mud and murk, along roads that have left her weary in more than just body. When she forces the doors of the great hall, with the guards hovering at her back, the knockers clang in their rivets, wood booms against stone, and she stands there, framed by the light in gore-stained travelling clothes.
The chatter of Ferelden’s nobility falls away.
On the far dais, King Alistair turns, his genial smile frozen on half-formed words. He forgets to breathe. One step, then two, stumbling – he wobbles on disbelieving limbs – but she’s here, past the point of almost all hope he had of seeing her again.
Straight-backed, head high, she comes to him, grit and steel and the stately determination that let her face down an archdemon and live, each solid plant of her foot a defiance to the blisters and the bruises. She’s here, she made it back, she will never be parted from this soil again.
Nobody quite sees the moment their self-control breaks. Steps become strides become running into each other’s arms. They grip so tight, Alistair lifting her armour and all clean off the ground, her sword still buckled and swinging round to slap the back of her knees as she buries her face into his neck and whispers words for him alone. What care they for the startled disapproval of their onlookers, for courtly propriety? She has been gone so long, and loneliness has gnawed at both of them like ice at a mountain.
You cut your hair.
I think I like the beard.
A thumb brushing away tears down a cheek. A palm searching for a heartbeat under layers of cloth. A forehead touch, knowing they will never be lost again.
Mayerine 