ae-neon

[ae-neon]

The Valkyries of Velaris

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[ae-neon]

How fucking annoying is it when you feel so restless with creative energy but you can’t decide what to do with it and when you finally try to create something it comes out shit so you just give up and sit there being all creatively annoyed and jittery.

[ae-neon]

"it seems the story is mad that Tamlin doesn’t act like Feyre’s father (I would also love to elaborate on that)." Please do!

Hey anon!!!

to me, because of the age-gap between feyre, tamlin, and rhysand, the story can never fully see feyre as their equal, neither does the fandom. rhysand and tamlin are expected to do the majority of the emotional and physical labor in these relationships--we are not conditioned to see them as two pairs of equals with complicated emotions. so - they take on paternalistic roles.

the story seems to hold this paternalistic view of tamlin. tamlin's failure as a partner seems to echo papa archeron's. both are men in the story who 'fail' to 'protect' feyre. these protection(s) also seem to mirror one another: papa archeron doesn't teach feyre how to read, he doesn't feed feyre, and he fails to 'protect' feyre from tamlin. tamlin's failure are similar: he doesn't 'stop' feyre from dying, he doesn't 'feed' her, he doesn't 'teach' her how to read. in short - tamlin isn't her father in the 'right' way. more emphasis is put on tamlin's failure to notice feyre's issues, than feyre's navigation of those issues. so - although both of them have undergone extreme amounts of trauma, the emotional labor is on tamlin. with rhys - its simply expected that he push his own trauma aside to accommodate feyre...and he does. he rarely has outward, negative signs, and when he does, they are not acknowledged. the story doesn't care. it doesn't care to explore the trauma in a meaningful way.

the problem ends up being the obvious...tamlin and rhysand are not feyre's father. they don't owe feyre their lives, their livelihoods, their anything. but the story treats it that way. feyre goes utm, against tamlin's directions, but she's angry that once she gets down there....tamlin's warnings hold true. he cannot help her. the paternalistic reading demands that tamlin's action. his regard for his own pain, autonomy, and suffering come second fiddle to feyre. he is supposed to sacrifice himself, as parents are supposed to sacrifice themselves for their children (see: papa archeron's death). and this expectation is seared into sjm's other works, probably even more so. look at how parents are usually charcaterized (spoiler: they die, they sacrifice, they suffer for their children).

and the story exacerbates this by putting feyre at such a disadvantage: she has never truly been socialized, she CANNOT read, she can't cook, etc., so much has to be taught to her by virtue of her position. she has to rely on either rhys or tamlin to...tell her how to do these things. and the story tries to circumvent this by making feyre 'sexually liberated' (i.e. she isn't a virgin), but it literally does the exact same thing by putting feyre at the mercy of these men. like yeah...feyre has had sex...but she can't do some of the most basic human functions. it takes rhys to like....convince feyre she needs to learn how to read, not...yknow... the near death experience.

this stilted position puts both tamlin and rhysand in a tough spot. they can never truly hold feyre accountable for anything because she simply...doesn't know. rhysand can't have negative coping mechanisms because he has to be emotionally available for feyre. his actions utm become recontextualized as moments of sacrifice for feyre. he can't possibly be bitter, angry, or sad. he couldn't have possibly just...not have liked feyre at the moment, or done those things out of jealousy or rage. they become reinvented as moments of love. rhysand can never be a character because feyre's just at such a disadvantage. she'd always...be the victim.  i believe that -- if you really look at the actions, the catalyst for the actions, rhysand does a lot of the heavy lifting in his relationship with feyre. even when feyre is mean, negative, or outright wrong -- rhysand talks to her like a father consoling his petulant daughter (see: the fey/mor argument scene). he doesn't critique feyre -- he just justifies the behavior (see: the high lords meeting). you can tell the narrative is uncomfortable with the idea that rhysand might lash out, be angry, talk to feyre like an adult who is of equal standing. and this wouldn't be a problem is the story hadn't made feyre NINETEEN. they look like dickheads either way, yknow?

[ae-neon]

cassian randomly stopping to admire lucien’s work ethic and his ability to manage his three roles and still look good and dress well while doing it is so funny 😭😭.

the word choice being immaculately is really what’s killing me here.

and not to mention whatever this is.

or this other moment where yeah cassians fighting the urge to punch eris but he also thinks hes pretty 🤨?? this is what i like to call cassians unhinged thoughts about the vanserra brothers 🙏.

[ae-neon]

Day 2,556 - Food for the Worms (Part V)

Read on Ao3 :)

Summary: What had it been like for Eris, Under the Mountain? What games had he played—what had he endured?

Taglist: @buffy-vanserra /

The ballroom was cold.

Faelight shimmered from its high stone arches, catching the hundreds of paper-thin crystals that floated overhead, like snow frozen in place. They twinkled gently, absurdly, suspended in glamour.

Music wafted through the cavernous space, slow and spiraling. A trio of Night Court musicians played from the shadows, glass-eyed. Their hands moved, but their faces did not.

The sound was beautiful, Eris thought. 

The polished obsidian floor reflected the tips of his boots, the glint of his rings, the thin bronze thread along the cuffs of his dark jacket. The room gleamed. 

He hated it.

The shine, the perfection, all of it was too pristine for him. He had long since realised what it reminded him of.

Teeth.

He stood just beyond the crowd, unmoving. 

“Eris,” came the voice he had been waiting for, low and precise. Every syllable was sharp in her accent. “You always come alone.” 

Amarantha’s magic pressed against him like a cold hand hovering just above his skin. Her presence always announced itself before she did. He inclined his head in a shallow, flawless bow.

“My Lady.”

She laughed, quiet and pleased. “So polite. It’s almost charming.” She circled him like a cat, her nails clicking faintly against the stone pillar she passed. Her perfume was thick and the sound of her skirts dragging over the obsidian was grating. “It’s a shame,” she murmured. “You never relax, do you?”

Eris didn’t answer. Her hand ghosted past his shoulder, not quite touching. 

“You carry your power like a blade you’re afraid to draw,” she whispered, just behind him now. “Don’t you ever wonder what it might feel like to use it?”

He didn’t turn his head. “I use it as needed.”

“A lie,” she said sweetly. She appeared in front of him again, her face alight with amusement. The red of her mouth was too bright, like blood beading on broken glass. Her crown was nestled in her curls, made of bone. “You’re too careful, Eris Vanserra,” she said. “One might think you’re afraid of what happens when the leash slips.”

He almost smiled. “I’ve seen what happens when others let it slip,” he said with an elegant shrug. “It’s rarely impressive.”

Her eyes narrowed in interest. “Oh, Eris,” she sighed. “Always so tragic.” Her hand slid over his arm, deliberate. “You haven’t danced with me. Not once. Not in all these years.”

“There hasn’t been cause.”

She tilted her head. “And if I told you tonight is cause enough? We are celebrating an anniversary.” Her scent curled around him like a noose. “Did you know,” she murmured, leaning in, “that today marks exactly seven years?”

Day 2,556.

“I know,” he replied.

She studied him. “Of course you do. I imagine you count the days like a pious thing counts prayers.”

“I’m not the praying sort,” he said.

She hummed. “Pity. I’d like to see you on your knees.”

He met her gaze without blinking. “Imagine it.”

A pause, then her smile spread, pleased and sharp. “You really do make things interesting,” she said. “No snarling. No begging. Just that quiet little fire. I see why Beron keeps you close.” She leaned in, slow. “What a waste.”

Eris let his rage simmer just beneath his skin, keeping his words just behind his teeth. 

“You wear the years well,” she added. “They’ve turned you into something sharp. Something lovely.” Her fingers brushed his cheek. “Will you dance with me tonight, Eris?”

“Of course,” he said. “My lady.”

Her smile grew.

She tapped his lower lip with one pale finger, a touch both mocking and intimate. “Tell me... where do you think Rhysand is tonight?”

“Where is he?” Eris echoed, voice neutral.

She waved a hand. “Busy. Tucked away. Purring. You understand.”

He did.

“If he’s a good little High Lord,” she added, “I might even let him leave this mountain for a time.”

Eris said nothing, but he understood the offer behind her words. 

The noose, always tightening.

“You wear restraint like silk,” she said when he remained silent, stepping back to admire him. “It clings to you in all the wrong places. One day I’ll see what lies beneath it.”

Eris allowed his lips to twitch. “Of that, I’m sure.”

Amarantha laughed sharply, delighted. “Save me a dance,” she said, already turning. “I promise to make it worth dying for.”

She vanished into the crowd, skirts trailing like blood in water. 

Only then did Eris exhale.

His fingers twitched at his sides. He felt the echo of her touch like a bruise.

Day 2,556.

Eris imagined setting Amarantha’s crown on fire and watching her scream.

He slipped from the edge of the dance floor, pushing through the glittering swarm of courtiers toward a corridor that led nowhere, but promised a brief silence.

He nearly collided with someone.

Sea-green silk whispered across the back of his hand.

Cresseida.

She blinked up at him, calm but unreadable. Her eyes, cool brown like riverbed stone, met his, steady. Her lips parted, as if she might speak, but closed again just as fast.

Their hands almost brushed.

Then she turned without a word and melted into the crowd.

For one second, one heartbeat, Eris forgot to count.

Then he turned and kept walking.

He found Ronan on the upper balcony.

His brother didn’t look up. Just passed the wine bottle over, wordless. He took it and drank deep. The red was dark and bitter, stinging his throat on the way down.

The wine bottle was heavy in Eris’s hand, the glass slick from Ronan’s grip, still warm from his brother’s palm. The balcony was darker than the floor below, tucked beneath arching ribs of stone. From above, the dancers looked small, like painted dolls, delicate and meaningless.

Ronan stood like he’d been carved into place, broad-shouldered, jaw clenched, eyes distant. He leaned over the railing like he was flirting with the idea of falling.

A thick golden ring pierced the septum of his nose, like a bull’s, like a challenge. Eris couldn’t remember if he’d worn it before the Mountain or after.

Probably after, he thought. 

“You reek,” Eris said, handing the bottle back.

Ronan grunted. “You smell like Amarantha’s perfume.”

“I suppose we both make poor choices.”

Ronan laughed, short and sharp. “I’d rather drink myself into the floor than let her touch me.”

“I don’t let her,” Eris snapped. 

Ronan shot him a look, said nothing. 

Eris leaned on the rail beside his brother, their shoulders nearly touching. The heat coming off Ronan’s body was startling, like he was a forge that refused to cool.

The ballroom glittered beneath them like a dark cage.

“She said it’s been seven years,” Eris murmured.

“You already knew,” Ronan said. 

“I never forget,” Eris said.

Ronan’s jaw flexed. “Feels like longer.”

“It does.”

Eris watched him, the way he held the bottle too tightly, the way his knuckles had gone white. More silence followed as he drank, below the music shifted again. 

Ronan wiped his mouth on his wrist. His hands were too steady for how much wine he’d had. That was always the problem, Eris guessed, it never worked fast enough.

Ronan’s eyes were bloodshot. There was a smear of wine, or maybe someone else’s blood, on his collarbone.

“You should clean up before you go back down,” Eris said quietly. “You look feral.”

“Good,” Ronan muttered. “Maybe I’ll scare someone.”

“You scare everyone.”

Ronan laughed again, bitter and tired. 

Eris closed his eyes for a moment. Just one beat. “You shouldn’t drink so much.”

Ronan snorted. “You shouldn’t give advice I didn’t ask for.” His throat worked as he drank again, but the bottle was nearly empty.

He let out a harsh breath, like it hurt.

Ronan tilted his head back, eyes closed. “Sometimes I hope she kills me.”

“Do you mean that?”

“Sometimes.”

Eris didn’t look away. “You’re not allowed to die.”

“Because you care?” Ronan asked, dark eyes flickering sideways, his voice like rusted iron.

“Because it would be inconvenient,” Eris said, and let a ghost of a smile pass over his lips.

Ronan laughed, and Eris remembered that he had been kind once. 

The silence between them stretched, comfortable. 

Eris tilted the bottle, saw it was nearly dry, and passed it back. Their fingers brushed, and Ronan’s hand was rough with little scars. 

“You’ll outlast all of us,” Ronan said eventually, his voice quieter now, less sharp.

Eris didn’t answer right away. He wasn’t certain if it was a curse or a compliment.

The next song began below, a slow, aching waltz.

Amarantha stepped into the center of the floor. She turned her face upward, and her gaze found him across the distance.

Eris didn’t move.

Not yet.

Her smile was already waiting.

He could feel Ronan watching him.

Eris straightened, smoothing the line of his jacket with one steady hand. The obsidian rail beneath his fingers felt like ice.

“I’ll see you later,” he said.

Ronan gave a noncommittal grunt, but his eyes followed Eris as he turned to go.

He paused once at the edge of the balcony, the song curling up toward him like a siren’s voice.

Day 2,556.

Eris descended the stairs slowly, already imagining the dance if he were braver, how he’d take her hand, smile just so, and snap her neck in time with the music. His own quiet performance.

[ae-neon]

red death🩸

[ae-neon]

🛑Urgent appeal 🛑

Ahelp us , we need you to spread our story to the world

Please Share Or Replog Or

Donate to save my life

My name is Marai. I write to you with a heart filled with despair and hope, clinging to my belief that kindness still exists in this world.

My family includes: Me Marai, my wife Haneen, my 3-year-old daughter, Eileen and my 4-month-old son Ali. We are displaced in a tent in Mawasi Al-Qarara after being forced to flee from Khan Younis. 

My family and I are stuck in Gaza, where every day feels like a battle for survival, and the future seems more uncertain than ever. Genocide and relentless attacks have torn our world apart, and the displacement crisis has left us with nothing but fear and grief. For eleven agonizing months, we have lived in the shadow of war—airstrikes, shelling, and destruction on all sides. We wake up each day unsure if we will see tomorrow.

I am now homeless, trying to protect my family of four, but Gaza has become an unbearable prison.

[ae-neon]

Sometimes fandom is like I wish I could find it in my heart to tolerate your guy. You look like you’re having such fun chewing on him.

[ae-neon]

It’s okay big guy! We will get you patched up

[ae-neon]

some organizations working on the ground in gaza right now

gaza soup kitchen

the sameer project

salam charity

watermelon relief

[ae-neon]

the perks of apathy

Able to work on two stories I said I wouldn't do because 1 isn't a ship I care much about and the other is a premise I find really daunting and kinda uncomfortable

[ae-neon]

i do appreciate the way that we tumblr users have evolved our language to discuss our feelings related to The Character/The Guy. you used to have to just say he was hot or he was making your ovaries explode or he was a precious cinnamon roll even if he looked bad or was just kind of standing there or whatever. now you can say things like “the creature” or “he looks so sopping wet here” or “i want to chain him to my radiator” like it’s just more inclusive and adaptable to the situation

[ae-neon]

odysseus and diomedes would be terrible coworkers. the office mean girls who hate their jobs, are overqualified, and only like each other

pictured: ody and diomedes plotting palamedes’ death

[ae-neon]

ODYSSEUS AND DIOMEDES

Please, if you like my art, I would appreciate it if you followed me on Twitter where I am much more active. I PLAN TO UPLOAD A LOT OF CONTENT FROM THE ODYSSEY, THE ILIAD, EPIC THE MUSICAL, AND OBVIOUSLY I WILL CONTINUE UPLOADING MORE OUTLAST CONTENT!!!

[ae-neon]

AYRA STARR ↳ Commas

[ae-neon]

"What do you hear in my song?"

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[ae-neon]

(Making small talk) yeah I’ve been having some new and intriguing stomach issues lately