i love these books ok

Finished ACOWAR and the only real thought I have right now is that Azriel, the infamous spymaster, the badass shadowsinger, my sweet lil’ bby bat, better find the love and happiness he deserves in one of the spinoffs because Azriel ‘Be careful how you speak about my High Lady’ is the real fucking mvp of Prythian

Rosaline needs someone who will choose her.

Benvolio needs someone who will choose him.

And that’s the funny thing - because they don’t choose each other, not at first. They’re forced into this partnership. But every time they choose to spend time together - to plot together, work together, stay together - they are choosing each other.

And that’s why, to me, this is such a lovely pairing. Because Benvolio has lost everyone, except an Uncle who abuses him, and Rosaline has devoted so much of her love and care into others (mainly her sister) - they both need someone who reciprocates their love and trust and respect.

And they find it in each other. Because those parallels - they’re orphans, living with relatives who hate them. Their cousins die. They want to marry for love, but they’ve accepted that it will never happen to them. They want freedom, choice for their own lives, but their Uncles won’t let that happen - so they give it that up too, Rosaline for Livia and Benvolio because he has no other option. They hate each other’s families, but they also hate this feud, and they hate each other - and they’re smart and clever enough to figure out how to end all of this madness.

So, they choose to work together. They choose to respect each other. They choose to listen and trust each other. Whether they realize it or not - every time Benvolio remembers something Rosaline says, or every time Rosaline realizes she’s judged Benvolio too harshly - they’re learning to respect and to trust each other.

They’re choosing to be partners.

They’re choosing each other.

Of Hidden Talents (Feysand Fluff)

So this just popped into my head last night when I couldn’t sleep. Set post-ACOWAR and contains nothing but fluff.

“You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?” Feyre found herself commenting, smiling slightly as she tried not to groan in pleasure under Rhys’ hands.

He chuckled from where he was seated behind her, the sound sending a thrill through her spine, even decades into their relationship. “I should hope so; I have to keep my High Lady entertained somehow. Wouldn’t want her eternity to get boring.”

“Boring? How could I ever get bored with a mate who thinks so much of himself?” She shot back, though its effect was lost when she leaned further into him, her hands running over the legs that were on either side of her. She could feel the delicious heat of his bare chest so close behind her, the thin nightdress she was wearing a poor barrier between them. 

Rhys’ fingers continued to comb through her hair, expertly separating it into three equal parts. “I take offense to that.”

Feyre let out an aborted snort. “No, you don’t.” 

“No, I don’t,” Rhys agreed, in a blithe voice.

They fell into a comfortable silence then, built on years of learning how to just be together. Neither of them felt the need to always fill the air between them with pointless chatter. Oh, they liked to joke and bicker… but they also knew when to let words fade away and just enjoy each other’s company.

It had been happening more of late, likely because Rhys had refused to leave Feyre’s side for the past few months. He was a constant presence at her side, though he did his best not to hover too much (he knew all too well how she loathed feeling locked in, how it still made her bones lock up in fear, even after all this time). He needn’t have worried; Feyre never, never felt tied down by her mate, never felt confined by him. She knew that even now, when he was so concerned about her, he would give her space if she asked.

(He’d once told her, in a fit of hopeless romanticism, that he would give her the very stars above Velaris if he could. Feyre had believed him, of course, if only because she said she would do the same for him.)

So Feyre was quiet, letting Rhys gently braid her hair as if he’d done it hundreds of times before. She’d been utterly surprised when he’d offered to do it for her earlier, after he’d heard her curse in front of the mirror while she struggled with trying to tame her wild locks into something more manageable. Feyre was so tired these days and sore too, the heavier she got. And she was constantly hot then cold, her hair always in the way and, Cauldron, she didn’t care for it much now and all the work it took to keep it neat, not when she was already so uncomfortable. She’d been beyond tempted to just chop it all off, had Rhys not stepped in when he did with his innocuous offer.

At first she tried to deny the existence of a problem but she really couldn’t hide anything from Rhys; he knew her too well, felt her struggles through their mating bond and tried to ease her discomfort as much as he could. (Rightly so, Feyre sometimes thought when she particularly annoyed with how limited she was lately, considering he’s the one that put me into this situation in the first place.) 

So here they were, Rhys’s gentle hands working wonders on Feyre’s nerves, his fingers softly tugging at her hair as he built the braid into something spectacular; Feyre herself was usually no slouch when it came her hair (at least when she wasn’t so cranky), but she had the feeling that Rhys was even better. So many hidden talents, this mate of mine.

“Where’d you learn to do this?” she finally asked, curiosity getting the better of her. She’d felt his hesitancy when he first offered, that pang of grief that he’d been unable to conceal from her.

“My sister,” Rhys said after a long pause. His voice had lost that light-hearted edge from earlier, filled instead with wistful regret. “She’d come to me when our mother was too busy for it. She could have asked the servants, of course… but she liked to spend a few moments with me, I think. She continued to ask even long after she could do it by herself. I never had the heart to say no.” 

Feyre’s own heart ached for her mate, for the family he’d lost so long ago. He rarely spoke of the little sister she’d never meet, even less so than his mother. From what she’d gleaned over the years, his sister had been quite a bit younger than him, had looked up to him in a way no one else ever had. Feyre couldn’t even imagine what it had been like for him to have to bury her broken body.

She rubbed her thumbs comfortingly over the sides of his knees. I’m sorry, she sent softly to him through their bond. I’m sorry

Rhys’ mind caressed hers. Me too.

Feyre kept running her hands soothingly over him, tempted to turn around and pull him to her, wrap her arms around those broad shoulders of his. She didn’t though; the act of braiding seemed to calm him… like coming home to something he’d thought he’d long forgotten. (Still, she wished she could protect him from all the pain he endured… but that same pain had made him into the wonderful male he was today.) 

When he was finally done, she saw his finished work briefly through his eyes, the image flashing through her mind.

“It’s beautiful,” Feyre said with a smile, reaching up to run her fingers over the intricate pattern he’d managed to weave her hair into. “Thank you.”

Rhys’ strong arms around wrapped around her body, finally pulling her back to rest against his chest. “I figured it was about time I got some practice,” he whispered in her ear as he moved one hand to cover her rounded belly. “I wouldn’t want our poor daughter to be left with an inept father.”

Feyre tangled her fingers with Rhys’, holding them over her stomach, where their unborn baby was slowly growing. “You could never be an inept father, Rhys,” she told him softly. Rhys only pressed kiss under her jaw in response, though she could feel his quiet gratitude for her faith in him. “Besides, how do you know it’ll be a girl?” Feyre continued, turning her head so she could arch an eyebrow at him.

Mischief lit his violet eyes. “Perhaps I asked Elain.”

Feyre leveled a look at him. “Elain would never tell you, even if she knew.” Her sister had become quite the responsible seer over the years, never revealing more than was necessary. (Well, that and Feyre had wanted it to be a surprise, telling Elain in no uncertain terms not to let Rhys charm the answer out of her.)

“Then let’s call it a father’s intuition,” Rhys replied now, unable to stop his grin.

Feyre laughed, leaning her head against the edge of his jaw. “She’s going to have you wrapped around her little finger, isn’t she?” 

“Of course,” he kissed her forehead, his happiness a near tangible thing. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Feyre could only cuddle in closer. She looked at where their joined hands were resting on her belly. Don’t worry, baby, she thought, we love you already, no what you turn out to be.

(A few years later, when their daughter runs up to Feyre, her hair braided in a crown around her head, little flowers carefully tucked in the midnight blue strands, she doesn’t need to ask who did it. Rhys’ proud smile is answer enough.)

My poor heart can’t handle The Hammer of Thor.

I feel I should also doodle Alex at some point because I nearly dropped the book (I think I actually screamed though) when I read that she’s gender fluid.

You know what I love about the foxhole court?

It features a canon lgbt relationship between a gay boy and a demisexual boy, a relationship that isn’t even a main focus of the books but still manages to contribute to both the plot and the character development.

A same-sex relationship that doesn’t end tragically, that shows these two characters staying together for years to come and leading a healthy domestic life with two cats, an apartment and a joint career.

A relationship that may not start out well, that is anything but love at first sight, but grows so much through personal struggles and mutual respect, and results in something worthwhile.

A relationship that places heavy emphasis not only on mutual consent, on learning and supporting, on protection and respect, but also on individual independence.

A relationship that doesn’t cast other characters to the sidelines, that isn’t the main character’s only source of happiness, because it takes more than romance to develop a character.

A relationship with a goddamn happy ending that feels entirely deserving for both characters because this is how they love, this is how they overcome their past, this is how they grow, not dependent on each other but side-by-side.

Just a goddamn happy same-sex relationship that doesn’t end in death or separation and that involves characters actually learning to respect and love each other basically???

6

People actually expect me to believe that if you throw a group of only one sex inside a fucking maze with no memories, no social, cultural or religious discourses forced upon them, no outside influences of any kind for years and years with only each other to grow close too, trust, survive with, protect, build with, bond with etc. 

That eVERY SINGLE ONE WOULD END UP STRAIGHT??????!??!!

Anoshe was a word for strangers in the street, and lovers between meetings, for parents and children, friends and family. It softened the blow of leaving. Eased the strain of parting. A careful nod to the certainty of today, the mystery of tomorrow. When a friend left, with little chance of seeing home, they said anoshe. When a loved one was dying, they said anoshe. When corpses were burned, bodies given back to the earth and souls to the stream, those left grieving said anoshe.

Anoshe brought solace. And hope. And the strength to let go.

6

all for the game posters  ⟢  the foxhole court.

Exy was a bastard sport, an evolved sort of lacrosse on a soccer-sized court with the violence of hockey, and Neil loved every part of it from its speed to its aggression. It was the one piece of his childhood he’d never been able to give up.

4

vfd boys + character posters

“When we drive away in secret, you’ll be a volunteer; so don’t scream when we take you: the world is quiet here.”

9

i don’t ship mcpriceley





i ship nic and stephen friendship 

look ok I haven’t read the cursed child yet but I DO know it is relevant to my interests

Please don’t worry about me.
I’m just a little tired from being strong all the time…. Between dealing with all my own problems, pretending everything’s fine and helping other people with their problems – I sometimes feel like I have no energy left.
Sometimes I imagine what it would feel like to be taken care of… for someone to wrap me up in a blanket, hold me while I cry and tell me that they love me and that everything will be alright. But for some reason, whenever anyone asks me if I’m okay – I always say I’m fine!?
I think deep down I’m afraid…. Afraid that if I reach out for help, I might be let down… or afraid that if open up, all the pain I’ve been holding inside will come flooding out and I won’t be able to stop it.
I think that’s possibly the biggest paradox of having strength… that sometimes you spend so much of your energy being strong for yourself and others that it ultimately weakens you to the point where you feel you have nothing left to give… That’s how I’m feeling right now – but give me time and I know I’ll be okay.
I’ll push through like I always do… because I’m strong….
and I don’t know how to be any other way.