#attraction is a myth to me but I'll believe that you guys go through that

[a-court-of-moonlight-and-ire]

So, I usually read acotar on the bus and during class and then I come home and write these posts but I had a Certified Mental Health Moment and couldnt go for the entirety of last week and I didnt feel like reading during that time, so yeah

Anyway, Ive made it through chapter 30 I think (sry i forgor and i dont feel like taking the book out of my bag rn to check) so Ive just gotten to the point where Feyre arrived UTM through that weird interdimensional (?) shortcut and then a hand grabs her and then the chapter ends. That means Ive finally had my proper introduction to my literary mortal enemy, the man, the myth, the legend, Rhysand Nolastname, and also Feyre's sisters as actual characters instead of the weird caricatures they were previously

The stuff with Nesta and Elain is honestly baffling to me, like was there not an editor to suggest maybe adjusting those first few chapters when she decided to flesh them out more? One of the acotar critiques I watched before reading was this one by a podcast called Unresolved Textual Tension and one of the hosts kept remarking that sjm "couldnt go back to change things" in reference to her constant retconning of characters with very little elaboration, but like, why? First of all, I dont think thats literally true; to my knowledge (which is admittedly limited so feel free to correct me here) sjm had her start on fiction press with the first throne of glass book, posted serially chapter by chapter, which got really popular and was then traditionally published in 2012, but every book after that was always intended to be published as a whole work went through the whole traditional publishing pipeline with editors and whatnot. So the issues with ACOTAR cant come from it being a serialized story that wasnt properly planned out and then wasnt fixed up in editing, right? And the only other thing I can think of is that she just didnt have an editor (or atleast not a very thorough one) which, people say that a lot of her more recent work (CC series, ACOSF) feel unedited because of how they drag and how often the prose seems to repeat itself and by this point shes popular and influential enough that Im pretty willing to believe that, but was she that popular back in 2015 from TOG alone? Idk if anyone can tell me anything about this I would appreciate it

I already have a lot of thoughts about Rhysand (spoiler alert: none of them are positive) but I think I'll save those for when we get to Those Scenes UTM. For now, I just wanted to ask all the Feylin girlies who read this book before ACOMAF came out or who went into the series without spoilers: didnt it feel incredibly weird that Rhysands beautifulness was so emphasized when, as far as you were aware, Feyre and Tamlin were meant to be endgame? Like, I think Feylin is cute and all but Im not really too invested in it because I dont find either of them on their own or their dynamic together that interesting, but it still felt a little disrespectful if thats the right word. Like, I know love triangles are a Thing in YA and I know they tend to be incredibly clear-cut and its usually very obvious whos gonna get the girl from the getgo, but in those cases the protagonist generally has some kind of actual relationship with The Bad Boy to justify a weird attraction to an obviously dangerous guy, in ACOTAR Rhysand has talked to Feyre exactly one time and then he sent over a head on a spike and here she is, talking about how indescribably beautiful he is while hes making her friend and the man she will claim to love in the next chapter go down on their knees to beg for her safety. Idk man it just feels so weird

[tribade-veneration]

I’m that anon from the wwtichscum blog (I know it’s late because i only came across her very aggressive and empty response just now)

To answer your “where’s this lesbian utopia do you live in?” question, welp the question is the answer itself

I don’t live in an lesbian utopia and I don’t have to live in one to be… actually lesbian

My family *is* religious and extremely conservative, but even then they can’t change me so can you blame me for thinking a bihet woman who gets gangbanged on the daily then suddenly decides she’s a lesbian is not… in fact a lesbian? Is it that wrong to believe actual lesbians exist?

I can't prove you're the same anon, and I don't fully believe you are, but I'll act as if it's the case.

Firstly, speak about women in a less sexualized way than "gangbanged on the daily". Your brain is porn-rotten. That's gross and very embarrassing for you. It makes me not even want to continue answering this because what's the point if you're probably not even going to listen because you're dealing with internalized misogyny that makes you think women always enjoy the sex they seek out? But I'm going to try anyway.

When lesbians talk about lesbians who have sex with men before (or even after) realizing that they're lesbians... We aren't referring to women who are happily, enthusiastically having sex they enjoy with men they're attracted to, getting bored of it and saying "Well that shit's boring now, I'm a lesbian". Obviously that's not a lesbian. If you'd taken the time to recover your brain from all the horrible shit you've been taught by your conservative family before saying horrible shit yourself, you might be aware that women enthusiastically enjoying all the sex they have - even if deliberately sought out - is a patriarchal myth. Even straight women routinely force themselves through shitty sex. It's kind of a major part of rape culture.

Women are raised, from infancy, to believe that we are objects of service. I'm sure you know that, growing up in a conservative family. This extends to sexual service.

That mixed with heteronormativity can make it hard for women to even know they're lesbians. We grow up surrounded by women who force themselves through bad sex with gross men. We grow up surrounded by women who hate their husbands, who nervously laugh and fail to give a clear answer when asked what they find attractive about men. We grow up with mothers who say, when the father isn't around, that men are stupid and disgusting. And sure, there's also plenty of women who are very happy to say exactly what they find hot in a guy, but if those women who are just forcing themselves through it are straight, then as a young lesbian it's easy to not realize that *your* disgust towards men is different.

Some of us grow up raped, a lot, on a regular basis, starting as a baby, which can definitely impact perception of sexual orientation. Some of us go through corrective rape. Some of us are explicitly told while being assaulted by men that we need to learn to like men. I'm one of those lesbians. While I never ended up having sex with men by my own volition, I did think I was bisexual for a long time because of my experiences, and once or twice sought out sex from male friends (which they declined, thankfully). I sought this out as a form of self harm. I *thought* I was attracted to them but no, I was not. I was just confused about what attraction even was. And I wanted to experience the suffering I associated with sex with men and with watching porn, which I did a lot of at the time, because as any self harmer knows, pain can be very addictive.

Had those male friends of mine said yes, I'd be branded a fake lesbian by the likes of you... For retraumatizing myself? For not understanding what attraction even is and mistakening a response of arousal from thinking of rape (which is exceedingly common in rape victims) as being attraction to men? Seems pretty ridiculous to me.

Enough of me, however. I like lists. Here's a list of reasons a lesbian might seek out sex with men. Some of these apply to me (I don't seek out sex with men but the feelings of wanting to do so sometimes remain), some don't.

- She doesn't know she's a lesbian yet and thinks it's normal to push yourself through unwanted sex with men (because it is, sadly, the norm).

- She's been through conversion therapy, corrective rape, etc. and is training herself to tolerate men as part of her conversion efforts.

- She lives in a culture where arranged marriage is common and, knowing she's likely going to be married off to a man soon, seeks out sex to train herself to tolerate it.

- She is prostituted and seeks out "normal" sexual experiences because she's upset by always having a price tag.

- She knows she hates it, she knows she's a lesbian, and she is specifically seeking out to be put through sex she hates as a severe form of self harm.

- She is aroused by rape due to sexual trauma and confuses that for sexual attraction.

- She knows she's a lesbian but is trying to learn to tolerate rape/sex she despises because she feels it's an inevitability she'll be raped again and hopes she can get used to it.

- She depends on the men she's having sex with; anything from small stuff such as occasional gifts consisting of things she can't afford, to relying on those men for food, housing, and transportation.

- She doesn't know homosexuality is a thing and thinks *every* woman is attracted to women and finds men unappealing, but certainly some day that that biological urge to reproduce will kick in, and she's just a late bloomer.

There's obviously more but these are a few examples.

Maybe you haven't dealt with any of this. But you're not every lesbian, are you?

Every lesbian has a different life. The only thing that makes a lesbian is sexual attraction to only other women. Actions - including sex with men - have nothing to do with it, or wouldn't that imply conversion therapy works?

I hope your brain gets well soon.

[pencilofawesomeness]

I saw a previous ask about ships and as someone that loves gen stuff I highly appreciate how you decided to focus on family and friendship, the world needs more gen fluffness so I love you for that. That being said, I think the fixed ships I saw for now are jerza and zervis? You said the ships weren't going to be a spoiler or anything, so is it alright if I ask?

Yesss gen fluff for the win! I just want to write friends and found family man.

That said, for plot and character reasons, and since this series spans over the course of years and with tons of characters, I can't really avoid it. (And, I mean, there's a few ships I do enjoy. Just passively and stuff.)

So yeah, list! No problem. Not everything is super set in stone, though, and it's pretty background I promise you. Mostly because I am Terrible at writing romance. I don't understand it, lol. So even though they sneak in there, I'm not going to write the romance part in the fore front.

Zeref/Mavis are sprinkled in there, for sure, largely because their romance kinda is a big plot point, what with the mutual cursing each other and all.

Jellal/Erza also, as you said. I pretty much just see them as super close and kinda mushy while also being awkward. I am told that that's attraction, lol. Pretty much what you see now already is what you get. Them being mutual confidants and what-not. Maybe a little too codependent, but getting better.

Gajeel/Levy will probably also make an appearance, but I have also found that I am incapable of writing them as anything but Best Friends, with teasing that probably edges the line into flirting. I think. Close enough.

Alzack/Bisca are still a thing. I don't really mess with them from canon much, lol, so I can't see it differently. Besides.... Asca.......

This is is a maybe, because it's sneaking up on me, but Cana/Juvia might be a thing. I'm sitting here drafting dynamics and every time I leave it for five minutes, I turn around and squint at it, trying to figure out if that crosses the line into romantic or nah. They're playing red-light-green-light with me in my story planning, I swear.

That's it really. Or at least all I can think of. Otherwise it's like... past-past stuff, or way in the background. Like people's parents and what not. Essentially I'm mainly sticking with fairly established stuff here, character-wise, with the exception of Juvicana potentially jumping from platonic to romantic when I'm not looking. Or it'll stay platonic, but just deeply so, like intended. But that one is probably gonna stay "interpret it however" because not even I am a good judge on that one. Granted it's early. Things evolve when I start actually writing it, lol.

And, uh, confession time with slight future spoiler: I'm mainly in it for the potential of kiddos. Romance is a means to an end. I want to go full circle and get some little ones running around and maybe make Acno a granddad by the end of this shebang. The only reason I cross the line from "it's in the background so interpret it however you want" is because I can't hide the fondoodling I need to get the babies. Which is sooooo very not gonna happen on screen don't worry. But you know. That's it.

[stereksecretsanta]

Merry Christmas, @aqua-ref!

Read on AO3

******

Give Me To A Ramblin' Fae

In the middle of winter, when the moon is heavy in the sky, dripping with milky light and offering, whole and raw, its' power, the Hale Pack gathers around the Nemeton, they dance and they sing, and they shift into their animal skeins to frolic, to chase each other with yipping howls and laughing barks.

Derek has Laura's throat held gently between his maw, and she whines at him to let go, but rumbles approvingly, because he doesn't often win these games of theirs; it is not a matter of low power, more of the target he chooses. The Alpha's heir will, after all, be more difficult to beat than the others. She nips at his ear playfully, urges him along, and they weave through the barren, wind-beaten trees, their paws soaked with snow-melt, muddying the crunchy ivory-fluff that chills the ground beneath them.

There's an undulating, calling, rejoicing howl from their mother that has them leaving a chestnut hare to its' frightened peace in order to return to her, to the Pack.

Through the branches, they can see the sky, all adorned in twilight, hosting, now, a parade of riders, their pandemonium an awe and a terror. Spectral beings ride black mares and stallions, ominous dogs of bared teeth and frothing spit and hideously haunting eyes are careening, entwining and twisting around toned legs and pristine hooves as the steeds gallop forward, heedless. Blackbucks and stags dash, their riders luminescent smoke and vicious intent. Creatures with starlight-encrusted, stained-glass wings, and horns which they blow to hail their passing, fly gracefully around the nocturnal horde, singing or shrieking, cavorting and cackling.

It's a dreadful, terrific sight, that streaks through the night sky, and when the Pack's howl breaks out, full-force, hopeful and evocative, every wolf lifting their song to the ghastly, ghostly peoples as they pass, some of those dragonfly, stardust folk descend, screaming and giggling, a gaggle of raucous temerity, as they gather the wolves in their airborne festivities, and launch them toward the procession.

The whimsical, urgent needs, and maddening power that surround The Hunt quickly seeps into the Pack, makes them drunk and giddy, all of them running with ancient spirits, wildlings, Fair Folk of every type.

Derek's lungs are stung by the rush, his blood electric with the adrenaline when an ephemeral, fey, svelte-lithe boy with bull's horns, skin like cream sprinkled with cinnamon, and mosaic wings that inspire the feeling of fertile soil and fields of growing, healthy, rain-soaked things, comes to him. His oak-silk curls are plaited with holly and mint, a leather-bound necklace hangs heavy around his long, dainty, breakable neck, a crescent moon-charm at the hollow of his throat, surrounded by crystal orbs and autumn leaf-charms, brass acorns and pine-cones, he wears nothing else, unashamed in his nudity.

"Hello," the boy says, bright and sweet, his voice like the delicate silk-dew mist of a cumulus cloud, and Derek feels himself tilt closer without even meaning to. "You're gorgeous. I wonder what you look like in your human form? Honestly, I wonder what everyone here looks like in their human forms. We all have one, you know?"

Honestly, no, he didn't, he was kind of caught up in the romanticism of it all.

All scents are clouded by the musk of wild, old magick, stained by an odd, dense-soil ecstasy, and a part of him, vivid and, for one, fanatic moment, overwhelming, wants to eviscerate the aroma The Wild Hunt carries, if only so he can learn what this boy might smell like.

"Everyone who sees us thinks we're malevolent or scary, but, honestly, dude, we're just escorting the spirits Grandmother Death didn't have the time or patience to get to to their respective homes. We've all still got day jobs—I mean, you have a day job, pretty wolfling that you are, don't you?"

Numbly, helplessly, and a little more sober, now, Derek nods.

The boy grins at him, crooked and terribly endearing, fire-light eyes sparkling in the dim, mist-fog, shadowed light.

"See?" He says, gesturing, "Even Odin's got one, Odin, the God of knowledge, inspiration, creative and intellectual pursuits, the dead, fucking road rage—that guy, the head honcho, the one at the head of this whole operation. Like, in this economy, where barely anyone has the Sight anymore, and the number of people left who believe are too few and far between, what else are we supposed to do? It's not like causing havoc and stealing things is going to garner us any good-will, man, so here we are, doing the good work, and then tomorrow we'll go home and agonize over our bills just like everybody else." The faerie heaves a sigh, before blinking and seeming to realize himself, his cheeks burn a vivid, enchanting crimson when a harassing, incredulous, exasperated wail sounds from above.

"Oops," he breathes, a nervous giggle edging in, "I am so not supposed to do that, and I've just been rambling at you, and—" the wail comes again, more pressing this time. The boy groans, eyelashes fluttering down in mortification. "Sorry, I'll see you later, maybe?" Fragile, paper-thin wings flutter, and bone-nimble fingers tangle in the fur at Derek's flank to help the faerie wade close enough to press a candied, chaste kiss to his wolven cheek.

He says, "I'm Stiles, by the way," and grins like he isn't aware of how dangerously beautiful that expression is, before he zooms away in a sweeping, upward glide.

Derek gets a small glimpse of another fae, donned in a flowing, powder-blue toga-dress, with moth-like wings and magma curls flowing down to her waist, admonishing Stiles exhaustively, before their speed, much more than the wolves and the steeds and the dogs, has them blurring out of sight, catching up to a cluster of swarming fae up ahead, too far to spy on any longer.

Derek tries to get his thundering heart to calm and wonders why he ever thought love at first sight was a superstitious, optimistic myth, if not an outright lie.

Days later, after all the Dead have been put to their proper rest, a few offerings of milk and cookies meant for 'Santa' were traded for faerie favors, and quite a few more rogue, feral creatures were stolen and re-sewn into ravens or crows or hunting dogs, of the ilk to sleep the whole year away, and only wake when The Wild Hunt, again, takes place—Stiles is trying, valiantly, to focus.

His mind keeps tracing back to eyes like stars winking to tenacious life, to obsidian fur and sinewy muscle, a warbling wolf-song that lilted like a lullaby, all hymn-hope, resounding howl, to the way sharp, ink-fluffy ears kept flickering to him, listening and curious and three shades shy of entranced. He doesn't know why he's so caught up on it, this is the sixth year he's been old enough to participate in The Hunt, and they have wolves with them every time, thousands of Packs from all of the world join them, so why was he so attracted, distracted, by this one?

What was so special about him?

Other than the, you know, sand-escaping-his-fingers, barely tangible, general everything.

Stiles sighs despondently, and Lydia, who's probably been talking about Important College Things, hits him upside the head promptly.

"A—ow!" Stiles rubs the back of his head, glaring balefully at her. Her hand retreats to flick her hair over her shoulder in one fluid, deflecting motion, as if to dissuade anyone who might've noticed her uncouth action from registering it as more than a figment of their imagination, nothing to see here, folks!

He loves her, he does, but some days he wants to strangle her.

Just a little.

"You were sighing again," she points out, lashes grazing her cheeks as she looks down at her book, flips the page flippantly, like studies on how mathematical algorithms affect neurology bore her. "It's starting to get annoying, Stiles."

"Shut up. It's not like I can even do anything about it," he laments, complaining even though he knows it'll only be a study in disappointment and masochism, at this point. "Who is he? where does he live? work? For all I know, I'm infatuated with some Turkish Lord who I won't even have the slightest chance of seeing again until next year."

Lydia snaps her book shut with a sound that manages to be both refined and abrupt enough to startle. "What on earth were you doing galavanting with the lower-tiers, anyway? We aren't supposed to talk to them, Stiles—"

"But, he was—"

"If he had been a ghost instead of a solid, you could've been lost to the spirit-tide, and you know The Hunt doesn't discern when it comes to a close—you could be on the other side of the Veil by now, instead of sitting here, fawning!"

She's heaving by the end of her rant, cheeks flushed, sea-glass eyes glittering angrily, and Stiles knows her fury is borne from worry, from a very real fear. He remembers his mother, how she was all love and sweet-tempered fire, how she gave coins to the more corporeal spirits, gleefully hugged and spun yarns and danced with all the riders, always careful of the spirit-tide, of getting caught in its' undertow, until she got sick, and couldn't remember to be.

Neither Stiles nor Lydia had been old enough to go, yet, and Stiles' dad was human. Lydia's grandmother, they think, tried to stop her, to save her, but ended up just as lost and mourned as she.

He feels guilt curdle in his chest and exhales heavily. "I'm sorry, Lyds, I am. I don't know why I did that, I'll—next year, I'll stay in the upper-tiers, like I'm supposed to," he inclines his head solemnly, reaches across the library table to hold both her hands in his, "I promise."

She squeezes his fingers, sniffs, her voice evaporated misty at the edges, "You damn well better, you idiot."

He offers her a sincere, sorrow-tinged smile, and tries to put the entire thing out of his mind.

It's New Year's Eve, and Stiles is exhausted, between studies and random research stints and trying to keep the Kelpies three doors down from killing and/or getting killed by the vampires that live in the apartment downstairs, he thinks he has every right to be. Still, though, Lydia put at least a quarter of her heart and soul into organizing this party, and if he hadn't come, he's sure she would've had him flayed.

So, here he is, sleep-deprived, delirious, eying the bar and wondering if getting drunk when all he's been living off of for the past three days is coffee, is at all a good idea. It isn't, it really fucking isn't, but...

But he's got nothing else to do, and tomorrow it'll be a new year, right? Might as well live a little.

Derek smiles briskly at the lady with a bird's nest of raven-black hair as he hands her her drink, and purposefully ignores the blonde at the end of the bar who's been whistling and snapping at him imperiously for the past fifteen minutes.

He's half tempted to text Cora and ask her what the hell she was thinking, pulling him behind the counter to fill in for her so she could go after the strawberry-blonde party hostess with a number and a cheap pickup line caught in her too-sharp teeth, because, yeah, he's got enough experience not to flounder (he'd found himself hiding from the rain in a drag bar while he was still in high school, and they let him hang out despite his age because he was a good enough cook that as long as he didn't touch the alcohol, they didn't care, and when you're in that sort of close-knit, street-smart gritty, overprotective Pack-like environment, it's impossible not to learn the tricks of the trade), but his customer service has always been shit.

With someone like Peter as an Uncle, he's capable of plastering on a smile and flirting a pretty lie with the best of them, he just doesn't fucking liketo. In fact, it's something he actively avoids unless lives are in danger.

Then a voice, one he remembers, all whispered silk-cotton dream-thread collecting raindrops in its' seams, starts murmuring a sugary melody in his periphery, and his eyes snap to its' source with a breathless, near frantic urgency.

And there he is.

Like Fate.

Like a fucking miracle.

He looks different, horns and wings gone, still with the wind-swept, earthy curls, though their holly-mint braids are nowhere to be found; dressed in a long-sleeved, charcoal gray shirt that cling to his lithe, agile-built muscles, an unzipped crimson hoodie layered over it, skin-tight jeans and ridiculous, neon-orange vans, but there's that leather-bound charm necklace, heavy around the length of his pretty throat, with a crescent-moon hanging just at the hollow, and it's him.

The rambling faerie he met on The Wild Hunt, absently humming a tune as he messes with his phone, patiently waiting for a bartender to notice him, at a college party on New Year's Eve.

The surreality of this is... not lost on him.

"Hello," Derek greets, sliding into the boy's- Stiles', if he remembers right- space.

"Oh, uh," he looks up from, and pockets, his phone, a little bashful, "I always thought you had to make eye contact to get, like, served, or whatever, but, um, hi?"

Derek tries to bite back a smile.

Fails.

"Hi," he repeats, and the boy blinks at him dumbly for a solid five seconds before just breathing:

"Wow. You're gorgeous."

And Derek can't help it, he barks out a laugh. "You said that last time."

"I did? Wait, I did? When?! I've met you?" he sounds outraged, on his own behalf, scandalized, even. "No," he denies, "no way, I would've remembered meeting someone like you and then doing something as stupid as calling you gorgeous to your face without any sort of filter—and, wow, smooth sailing, me. I am so sorry about that, by the way, color me extremely embarrassed, but. Yeah, no. No way in hell I've committed the same social faux-pas twice with the same person, I refuse to believe it."

Derek smirks, even as something warm and giddy and compelled sets up camp in his heart, with a kind of tenacity that says it'll be staying a long while.

"Well, I wasn't exactly a person at the time," he points out, "but I appreciated the compliment both times, Stiles, so you... really shouldn't worry about it."

"I—you—" Stiles sputters, freezes, mouth agape and molten-caramel doe-eyes very, very wide, before he seems to reboot. "You are kidding me," he says, feelingly, before pitching forward over the counter to grab Derek's face with his hands, searching his eyes intently.

Derek tries to be anything other than amused and endeared.

Fails, again.

"Wolfling," Stiles accuses, awed. "I didn't think I was ever going to see you again."

"Rambling fae," Derek muses, hushed, leaning further into Stiles' space even as he pushes the boy down into a bar-stool, because while he might not take offense, the other on-duty bartender, or, even, the party hostess, might. "Neither did I."

Stiles sucks in a very deep breath, and then spills out any number of tangential, spiraling questions, what's your name? Where do you live? Are you a bartender? can I have your number? I'd really like your number. Are you—

Derek crushes the rest in a kiss that tastes like sunlight and cherry-tart and ozone, Stiles melts into it with a helpless, keening whine, his spine curving up, shoulders opening, head tilting, whole body blooming like a flower, begging to be plucked, held, kept, known.

He answers what his fleeting thoughts will let him, mutters the words into Stiles' warm, slick-wet, receptive mouth, his name, that his Pack lives in town, that he isn't, but his sister is, and he's covering for her. With a drawn-out sigh, he does force himself to pull away, eventually.

Probably not soon enough, honestly.

"Take me out," Stiles says immediately, dazed, lips kiss-bruised enchanting, and then flushes that same, deep, candied, lascivious red as before. "Or. I mean. I want to date you. Can we go on a date? Not right now, obviously, but—"

"Yes," Derek grins, overwhelmed, blood champagne-effervescent, "yeah, I'd really like that."

Stiles exhales heavily, laughs, a little incredulously, shakes his head at himself, and then smiles, soft and marshmallow-fluffy up at him, "Awesome."

Derek begins to think that, maybe, he needs to give Cora a fruit-basket. Or, possibly, Odin, and that's... well.

That may well be the cherry on top of an incredibly strange, unusual, wonderful meeting.