#*( matches my url ~

[bajablastable]

yippeeeeeee year of the dragon.

[jeff-the-innkeeper]

I really love drawing armour

prints • commissions

[3dogbones]

i know u and my husbandwife... this must be heartbreaking for u...💔 Condolences

however...

theres.. this

WAIT HWRSDDLJHBAEDKHUB KEYNIARD SMASH WAIT WHA

@freshlyepic WHA??? BRUH??? WHY??? NO NO NO NO DON’T LEAVE ME WITH ALL THE BRAINROT HERE WAIT NO, NO NO NONONONOO

on the same day I was gonna invite you to play Roblox with me also… 💔💔💔⛓️‍💥⛓️‍💥⛓️‍💥💔⛓️‍💥 heartbroken and disheveled…

Don’t do it.. plez… you can’t do this to me 😭😭😭😰😰😰🥺🥺 what would Andrew Tate think… fantasize about the Mr beast challenges you would have to fail… cocomelon and t series would beat Pewdiepie fr without you… 😔😔😔 my sigma alpha 💔

(but at the same time I also don’t wanna back you into a corner or make you feel like you are forced to do anything if you get where I’m coming from, I’d be chill with you without the brain rot also since you’re my friend and I care about you, but like pretty sure the dropping brain rot thing is /j anyways❓❓❓can’t tell LMAO… bruh the tone indicator part of my brain is so bad sorry 😅)

[cockringvarric]

catboysolas -> cockringvarric

in HONOR of a real one

[crowlixcx]

[thelikesofus]

THE DAY OF GREAT CHANGE HAS COME! 🎉

Aka I was finally brave enough to remove the dash that has plagued my URL for almost ten years

the-likesofus → thelikesofus

tagging so mutuals to share the news xx

@spotsandsocks @lilbuddie @bekkachaos @loveyourownsmiilee @monsterrae1

@rewritetheending @thosetwofirefighters @lonelychicago

@elvensorceress @tomlinpun @rogerzsteven @wheelsupin-five @dr-shortsighted-owl

@spaceprincessem @singlethread @hippolotamus @ronordmann

@thekristen999 @sibylsleaves @bidisasterevankinard @honestlydarkprincess @daffi-990

[baenakinskywalker]

am i bad, or mad, or wise?

When her eyes finally flutter open, it’s the sitting room ceiling she finds. Instead of her bed, she’s on the sofa, buried amongst the deep velvet throw pillows. Soft morning light streams through the linen curtains, and Feyre watches dust float in the air like glittering stars. She sits up, stretches her arms above her head, and frowns. Do I sleepwalk? And that’s when she casts her gaze toward the hallway and sees him. Rhysand, the High Lord of the Night Court…painting? He’s sitting on a stool before a great easel, blocking out shapes on a towering canvas. As she stirs, he turns — a lazy grin pinned across his devastatingly handsome face. “Hello, Feyre darling. Awake so soon?” or what happens if Feyre has a good dream after exchanging magical notes with Rhysand during ACOMAF. 

rating: m

words: 2,966

a/n: originally posted for @officialfeysandweek, but i realized there was a missed opportunity for a moodboard. thank you to pinterest, taylor swift, and sjm herself for this one! read under the cut or on ao3.

I was under duress, his next note read. If you want, I’d be more than happy to prove you wrong. I’ve been told I’m very, very good at licking.  I clenched my knees together and wrote back, Good night. A heartbeat later, his note said, Try not to moan too loudly when you dream about me. I need my beauty rest.

- A Court of Mist and Fury, chapter 29

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Sometime between getting the last note from Rhysand and readying herself for bed, shame starts to bubble in Feyre’s stomach. It creeps up slowly, steadily replacing the joy from earlier and making her doubt every decision made on that magical paper. By the time she slides into bed, there’s no trace of happiness left in her mind. Just three words, repeated ad nauseam. 

Killer. 

Traitor. 

Whore. 

What if she’s all three? What if everyone in Prythian thinks the same, or even worse? What if her traitorous human heart costs them all this war?

As sleep barrels toward her, Feyre braces for a night of turmoil. Of nausea forcing her to the toilet in the early hours of the morning. Please, she begs someone. Anyone. 

Her eyes finally close, and she sees violet before complete darkness.

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When her eyes finally flutter open, it’s the sitting room ceiling she finds. Instead of her bed, she’s on the sofa, buried amongst the deep velvet throw pillows. Soft morning light streams through the linen curtains, and Feyre watches dust float in the air like glittering stars. She sits up, stretches her arms above her head, and frowns. Do I sleepwalk now? 

And that’s when she casts her gaze toward the hallway and sees him. Rhysand, the High Lord of the Night Court…painting? 

He’s sitting on a stool before a great easel, blocking out shapes on a towering canvas. As she stirs, he turns — a lazy grin pinned across his devastatingly handsome face. “Hello, Feyre darling. Awake so soon?” 

There’s paint on his hands, curling up his arms and stopping just short of where the sleeves of his crisp, black shirt are rolled up. When did Rhys learn to paint? Feyre thinks dimly, trying to recount any mention of him favoring the arts. But then he’s crossing the room, and before she can ask out loud, he’s leaning down and —

Rhys is kissing her. Actually kissing her. His lips find hers easily, like he’s done this a million times before. Like he could do it blind. And it’s not the fiery, all-consuming kiss she sometimes imagines in the dead of night, either. His mouth is feather-soft against hers, moving slowly and sweetly in a good-morning greeting.

It feels like they’ve done this before. 

It feels good.

“Sweet dreams?” Rhys asks when he pulls away. “Must have been. I think I even heard some snoring from the general direction of the couch.” He presses another quick kiss to her mouth, then the tip of her nose. 

“I do not snore,” Feyre huffs. Her head spins. 

Rhys laughs, and her heart clenches. Has she heard him laugh like that before, so completely unbidden? “I think I would know,” he says. “After all, one of us” — he shoots her a mock glare — “falls asleep like that these days.” He snaps his fingers and nods, still smiling. “I hear plenty of cute snoring from your side of the bed, darling.”

Her side of the bed? Snoring? 

“It’s a good thing you’re finally up,” Rhys continues. “I need your help with this painting.”

She cocks her head to the side. “What on earth are you painting?”

“Only my favorite subject.” A wicked grin spreads across his face.

“Yourself?” Feyre asks, one foot back into familiar territory. The banter between them makes sense even if other details don’t. 

He laughs again. “My lady wounds me,” he says, voice gliding like the nighttime breeze through the mock-hurt on his face. He gestures at the canvas, where there are a few rudimentary shapes certainly meant to become a portrait. 

Feyre squints at the soft oval meant to be the face. The delicate points of two ears. Already, a sweeping of freckles where the cheekbones will be, as if the painter got ahead of himself. She tilts her head and steps back, eyes going wide when she realizes that the canvas is no more than a mirror. Rhysand is painting her.

She raises her brows. “Me?”

“Is there anyone else?” Rhys asks, suddenly earnest. Something shines in his violet eyes, something other than star-flecked night. Something warm and healing and —

In a flash, it’s gone, replaced by that all-too-familiar smirk and mischief she’s come to know since living in the Night Court. “I thought it a fitting anniversary gift for my favorite artist.”

“Our anniversary?” Feyre breathes. The kiss. The ease of conversation, how Rhys has heard her snore. What sort of wicked dream is this? It must be a dream. She looks down at her left hand and spies the ring retreated from the weaver’s cottage. 

Cauldron boil her. 

“Did my sweet wife forget?” Rhys muses, yet another smile playing at the edge of his mouth. “How should I punish her?” 

His smile turns wicked. The glint of his canines sends a spark down Feyre’s spine that she’s seldom felt before. Not with Tamlin, as much as she’s tried to convince herself otherwise. And certainly not with Isaac. From the roots of her hair down to her toes, she feels a flush that’s no doubt painted her beet red. 

“Oh, Feyre darling,” Rhys croons, paintbrush appearing in his hand out of thin air. “Then I suppose we should make this portrait a nude.” He dusts the brush down the bridge of her nose, traces the edge of her mouth. Her lips part, and Rhys finds her tongue with the soft bristles. A question. A challenge. 

Though he’s her husband in this topsy-turvy world, though they must have gone to bed together before, Rhys makes no move that she doesn’t want. It stumps her. What on earth is this fantasy she’s living in?

It’s not like Feyre hasn’t thought about it. Thought about Rhys like this. On Calanmai, even though it felt traitorous to think, he was easily the most beautiful male she’d ever seen. And back in Spring after Amarantha and everything they’d all been through, sometimes violet eyes were what she saw in Tamlin’s bed. 

Since living here in Velaris with Rhys, getting to know his family — well, those eyes have made more appearances in her daydreams. And in her fantasies. So maybe this is the culmination of all of that. Of the flirting, the dancing around each other like something inevitable is just beyond the horizon. 

Is that so bad? 

Is she so bad for wanting Rhysand?

He’s still before her, waiting to see what she decides.

Without another though, Feyre closes her mouth around the paintbrush and hollows her cheeks. Her eyes stay on Rhys, and she watches how his eyes darken, how all the air in his lungs disappears. She hears his groan, and then the paintbrush is gone, his hands are on her, and his mouth — 

Mother above.

Gone is the sweet greeting kiss from earlier. This one is a roaring fire they’ve just thrown a log on. Smoke and embers and sparks everywhere Rhys’ mouth presses, everywhere his tongue sweeps. Feyre’s knees go weak as he parts her lips with that cunning, devilish tongue, meeting hers with a curl that has her seeing stars. 

It’s so much better than she could have imagined.

Rhys pulls away, breathing heavily and smiling. She wants to commit that perfect smile to memory, wants to paint it a thousand times until it covers the walls of the townhouse — maybe even plaster it on every street in Velaris. Everyone should be so lucky to see this smile. “Wicked, beautiful thing,” he croons, gaze dropping to her swollen lips. “You’ll remember I asked for your help, Feyre.”

“That you did.” A challenge for him.

He flicks his wrist, and her nightgown is gone. 

All of her clothes are gone.

Somehow, standing stark naked in front of the High Lord of the Night Court doesn’t scare her. Doesn’t embarrass her. Feyre feels strangely powerful as Rhys takes in every inch of her body. So powerful that she cocks her head and asks, “What did you need from me again?”

He smirks. “There are a lot of things I need from you, darling. You can start by sitting down, so I can get a better look at that face.” 

Feyre sits on the stool just in front of the canvas, covering her bare breasts with her hands. “Since you’re only interested in my face,” she says. “There’s no need for these” – she squeezes, delighting in how Rhys’ eyes go wide – “to be on display.”

That rips a growl from his throat. “We’ll see,” is all Rhys says as he walks to the other side of the room. “To make sure the composition looks right,” he adds.

On the stool, Feyre wrinkles her nose. Then sticks her tongue out. She crosses her eyes, bares her teeth, and then scrunches her whole face, eyes squeezing shut. Trying out poses like a good model. “Any of those work for you?” she asks. 

“I see something that works quite nicely,” he says, drawing near her again. When he’s barely an arm away, he gives the command. “Lean back, Feyre.”

Against the canvas. The freshly painted, wet canvas. “But your hard work will be ruined,” the artist in her says. She’ll surely smear the paint, making the few shapes behind her completely unrecognizable. 

“My hard work has barely begun,” he answers, looking down at her hungrily. “Now lean back.” So she does. With a sharp inhale when her bare back touches the cold, wet paint behind her. Rhys’ paintbrush is back in one hand, and he has a palette with fresh paint in the other. He dips the brush in a dark, inky indigo, and starts painting her. Wherever the his lips land, the brush follows, from her forehead to the tip of her nose, finally reaching her hands — still covering her breasts. 

Kneeling before her, Rhys plucks her left hand from her chest and presses kisses to the whorls of magic ink signifying their bargain. He kisses each finger, then draws her thumb into his mouth and sucks, which has her moaning softly. He nips at her skin, and then moves to the right arm, where her hand is completely bare. Not for long, Feyre realizes, as Rhys drags his brush along her skin, painting a mirror of the marks on the left. Each touch is light as a feather, and Feyre squirms as he adds more detail, pressing his hot mouth against any areas without paint. 

Only when he’s finished with her arm, when it matches her bargain tattoo in a way that makes her heart clench, does he look at her breasts, now heaving and heavy with want. 

“These,” Rhys murmurs, taking both in his hands — so large, so warm — and rubbing his thumbs across her nipples, “are simply exquisite.” He pinches one, keeps rolling his thumb across the other, and Feyre can’t breathe. Her body is wound so tight, and he’s hardly even touched her yet. If he uses his mouth, she’ll shatter fast. 

And there’s the mind reading, finally. I’ll just have to take my time, won’t I, darling?

Slowly, so slowly that Feyre could scream, he lowers his mouth to her left breast, pausing before he gets to where she wants him. Needs him, more like. He simply exhales, sending cool air across her skin and making her nipples pinch. “You bastard. Why won’t you just —”

He takes her breast into his mouth and sucks, teeth scraping and lips soothing, and it’s too much and not enough, and her hands fist into inky black hair and tug almost without Feyre meaning to. And suddenly his fingers are coated in paint, and he’s swirling more dark shapes across the rest of her chest, pinching and kneading along the way. 

And just when he’s going to make her come apart — just from this! — Rhys pulls away, eyes heavy and dark, feline smile across his face. “You were saying?”

Before she can pull his hair or pinch him or do anything, he’s nudging her knees apart and giving her a look that says she’s his personal feast. 

But he takes his time here too. Uses that painted hand to roam up and down her thighs, even writing the word mine just below the crease of her right hip. “Territorial?” Feyre asks, voice wobbling from the feeling building in her stomach. 

“I want all of Prythian to know that you’re my” — he pauses, pressing his lips together — “wife.”

If she’s letting herself have this fantasy, why not really enjoy it? “Then why don’t you take what’s yours?”

Rhys needs no other instruction. In an instant, his hands are clean of paint, and he’s got both of her legs hitched over his powerful shoulders. Wouldn’t it be nice to see his wings, she thinks distantly as his hot mouth descends on the apex of her thighs.

The mind reading again as his wings appear dark and imposing and incredibly wide. Does the wingspan match the —

“Oh, you’ll see,” Rhys answers before the first press of his tongue against her clit turns her mind to utter mush. He licks broad strokes across her center that have her legs shaking, then wraps his lips around her and sucks. One hand snakes up to pinch at her nipple, and it’s so much better than she ever imagined. 

So much better than it’s ever been. 

Her thighs are trembling when Rhys slides one finger inside her and curls, hitting that spot that only she’s been able to find before. It wrings moans from her lips that turn into shouts as he adds another finger, working her slowly but surely toward the edge of something. Is she saying his name? Is she praising the Mother? It’s impossible to tell when she feels this full, when she can hear how slick Rhys’ mouth is with her arousal. 

Rhys looks up at her from under his lashes, and there’s a glint in those starry eyes that has her practically begging for more. It’s possible she does beg, but there’s no way for Feyre to tell when she’s on the precipice like this. 

Tell me if you want me to stop, Rhys says through the bond. So convenient that they can communicate while his mouth is occupied. The fingers curling inside her rotate, still filling her so perfectly, and then —

He gathers some of her slick onto his thumb and presses gently at the pucker below her center. 

Don’t you dare stop, Feyre says down the bond. 

Rhys doesn’t stop, just presses deeper, sucks harder, thrusts his fingers further. 

By the cauldron. Never, it’s never felt like this; she’s tense, like a bow about to loose an arrow through the snowy wood. She’s so close, so dangerously close to something entirely new. To being remade. To understanding, to peace, to —

With a gentle scrape of his teeth against her clit, Feyre comes undone. She shatters. Melts. Is everywhere and nowhere at once, anchored to the world by the golden light from her bargain. Rhys licks her through the aftershocks, then draws back slightly and nips at her thigh. Kisses his way up her leg, past the paint claiming her, all the way to her heart. He presses a soft kiss where her pulse thunders beneath her skin and rises. 

In the back of her mind, Feyre swears she can hear his knees creak as he stands. Something to tease him about later, when she can form sentences again 

“Enjoy yourself?” Rhys asks, scooping her into his arms. All the paint has been magically cleaned away, save the mine on her thigh. She’ll tease him about that, too, surely. 

“I think you know the answer to that,” Feyre says, voice husky from screaming her pleasure. She buries her face in the spot between Rhy’s shoulder and neck and breathes. Would it be so bad for this to be her life? To love the man cradling her like something precious after pushing her hard enough to break? He knows she won’t. Rhysand believes in her. She feels it deep in the pit of her soul, whether that soul is black or not. 

He sees her. 

All of her. 

Suddenly, her eyes are heavy. “Let’s get you back to bed,” Rhys whispers. He lays her back in the mountain of pillows she awoke from earlier and brushes her hair from her face. “I love you. My wife. My ma—”

His voice is far off, and she can’t make out the last word. “My ma—”

Or is it, “Fa—?”

“Fa—?”

“Feyre?”

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Her eyes flutter open. “Feyre? Are you alright?”

She’s not downstairs anymore. Instead of the couch, Feyre is back in her bed, clothes on, not a scrap of paint to be found. “Feyre, are you okay? I heard a commotion,” Rhysand says, sitting beside her on the bed. His hair is mussed, likely from a fitful night’s sleep. “I heard you scream.”

Feyre sits up, her thighs sore and slick from her orgasm. “I’m okay,” she says softly. Her voice is still hoarse. 

“Nightmare?” Rhys asks. He looks her over for any signs of hurt. This male who had joked so brazenly about needing his beauty sleep came to check on her in the middle of the night without a second thought. Dropped all pretenses tomake sure she was okay.

Feyre shakes her head. “A good dream, actually.”

His eyes narrow. And then zero in on where her nightgown has ridden up and exposed her legs. 

And the word mine in dark paint.

[femboypussy420]

market research

if you don't follow me i guess you can still vote but no need for my followers to rb this, i'll self rb a few times tho

(disclaimer: i will not necessarily choose what wins)

[puppykechi]

bit suspicious if you ask me

[saudariel]

i am so curious what they will do with the uruk storyline in s3. if they entirely sideline them as mindless slaves of sauron i will be so disappointed. the adar/uruk story was one of the most compelling and unique parts of the show imo. what becomes of glûg jr, huh? i need to know. i'm just an orc girlie at heart honestly. they've always had names and hearts!!!!! to me!!!!!!

[caluski]

🧛‍♂️👍

[cursedslimecicle]

Sometimes the ask box looks like this, and I have to wonder if we’re all part of a hivemind or something

[superscourge]

actually how DID i snag this url before anybody else. i know theres scourge fans on here and i KNOW theres super scourge fans within those fans

[punkbooyahbomber2227]

just finished editing the greeting card my roommate wanted to mail out to her family and friends out in the sea! and now you guys on chumblr get a happy holidays from the both of us!

happy salmonalia, blessed jellyule, happy cohanukkah, merry fishmas, shrimpmas, and squidmas, happy octomisoka, and happy new year. i wish i knew more winter holidays off the top of my head

[ravedose]

i wanna draw more daverose art but not even gonna lie i dont have my finger on the pulse anymore (no pulse anyway) (sad) (i miss 2016) (2022)

[jun-apologist]

i'm defending him in court, i'm egging him on, i'm clapping for him