thesistersarcheron
i cry a lot but i'm so productive
elle. 27. she/her. lesbian librarian.
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my first favorite hobby is yapping. second is being extremely quiet and not talking ever at all ever.
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Pairing: Feysand
Rating: E
Tags: Smut, Angst, Necromancy & Resurrection, Ghosts & Haunting, Morally Gray Rhysand, Silver Fox Rhysand, Dark Magic, Halloween, Breeding Kink, Beast!Rhys, Biting
Summary: Feyre swallowed her horror and raised her tattooed hand. “The bargain was only for the rest of my life.”
Rhysand's grip on her tightened as he rested his chin on her shoulder. “Tamlin and I didn’t shuffle your corpse around for a week every month, if that’s what you’re thinking. I had to do some good old-fashioned graverobbing to get you, Feyre.”
Her spine stiffened. Prick!
(Or, what would have happened if Feyre wasn’t resurrected Under the Mountain?)
Read Chapter 3 on AO3 now! Snippet below the cut.
A beast of scales and spikes and fangs loomed large and black over Feyre.
Ice crackled through her veins and tensed the limbs that had just been rendered deliciously lax. Frigid terror warred with the desire that had turned her molten beneath her mate’s tongue, and base human instinct froze her body into place—the same that had once brought her eye-to-eye with a faerie wolf.
Fight or flight.
And, Cauldron fry her, she had never been one to choose flight.
“Rhys?”
“Yes, love?” the monster above her drawled—and Feyre saw what she didn’t before.
The familiar upward sweep of the beast’s cheekbones. The slant of the dark, slitted-pupil eyes. The elegant, regal line of his strange maw.
Each of us has a beast roaming beneath our skin, roaring to get out, Rhys had told her the day she spent cleaning lentils out of his hearth Under the Mountain, offering a glimpse of talons and shadowed wings while she brandished an iron poker at him. While your Tamlin prefers fur, I find wings and talons to be more entertaining.
Entertaining. Fucking hell, there was nothing entertaining about this horror in the slightest.
If she had any breath left in her lungs, she might have laughed hysterically and uncontrollably at herself. At the memory of the mortal girl who thought that a wolf, a Wyrm, and a half-transformed High Lord with only the dregs of his power were frightening. Those little spectacles had been nothing. Less than nothing.
Because now, above her? Rhys was terror given form, the primal fear at the heart of every nightmare in the flesh. He was a predator, built for rending limbs from bodies and tearing hearts from chests.
He was Winged Death.
Feyre swallowed, looking closer.
The golden brown skin she had waited centuries to touch was gone. All that remained now was a broad, massive body covered in layer after layer of rippling ebony scales. Ridged and almost featherlike, they blanketed him in impenetrable armor that stretched as far as Feyre could see. And where the scales ended, the massive, membranous wings of a demon began, jutting upward from his back—austere, violent appendages tipped in claws that glinted like daggers in the low light. The sharp, dark edges of them, of all of him, faded into the swarm of shadows that surrounded their alcove.
His shadows. The lethal camouflage of a male who bent the night to his will.
His hands curled around her waist, and she felt the razor-keen talons he had once leveled at Amarantha prick her sides. When she dared to glance downward, her eyes skimming his trim waist, she found that his even feet were transformed, replaced entirely by grotesque, clawed appendages she had no name for.
But that was of little importance once the rough, strange underside of his cock slid through her oversensitive, slick folds again. Made her suck in a sharp breath as the bond twinged and he lifted himself off of her so she could see that too.
Gods, he—
Her mouth went dry at her first glimpse of his considerable length, hanging heavy and hard over her stomach. It was the same midnight shade as the rest of him, her own wetness glistening like stars in the night along its length. But the coloring, the size, weren’t what snared her mind.
It was the ridges.
Her heartbeat accelerated to an uneven, excited patter in spite of herself.
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Rhysand’s Top 10 Sexiest Moments
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lol i hate today’s era of absolutely zero nuance takes. a friend didn’t behave exactly as you’d wanted them to? cut them off. a guy didn’t text you back instantly bc he has his own life? he’s just giving you breadcrumbs. doing something makes you uncomfortable? don’t do it anymore. someone isn’t instantly available for you? disinterest. just absolutist statements that often don’t apply to the multilayer situations of everyday life. like. stop. literally just stop it
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Pairing: Feysand
Rating: E
Tags: Smut, Angst, Necromancy & Resurrection, Ghosts & Haunting, Morally Gray Rhysand, Silver Fox Rhysand, Dark Magic, Halloween, Breeding Kink, Beast!Rhys, Biting
Summary: Feyre swallowed her horror and raised her tattooed hand. “The bargain was only for the rest of my life.”
Rhysand's grip on her tightened as he rested his chin on her shoulder. “Tamlin and I didn’t shuffle your corpse around for a week every month, if that’s what you’re thinking. I had to do some good old-fashioned graverobbing to get you, Feyre.”
Her spine stiffened. Prick!
(Or, what would have happened if Feyre wasn’t resurrected Under the Mountain?)
Read Chapter 3 on AO3 now! Snippet below the cut.
A beast of scales and spikes and fangs loomed large and black over Feyre.
Ice crackled through her veins and tensed the limbs that had just been rendered deliciously lax. Frigid terror warred with the desire that had turned her molten beneath her mate’s tongue, and base human instinct froze her body into place—the same that had once brought her eye-to-eye with a faerie wolf.
Fight or flight.
And, Cauldron fry her, she had never been one to choose flight.
“Rhys?”
“Yes, love?” the monster above her drawled—and Feyre saw what she didn’t before.
The familiar upward sweep of the beast’s cheekbones. The slant of the dark, slitted-pupil eyes. The elegant, regal line of his strange maw.
Each of us has a beast roaming beneath our skin, roaring to get out, Rhys had told her the day she spent cleaning lentils out of his hearth Under the Mountain, offering a glimpse of talons and shadowed wings while she brandished an iron poker at him. While your Tamlin prefers fur, I find wings and talons to be more entertaining.
Entertaining. Fucking hell, there was nothing entertaining about this horror in the slightest.
If she had any breath left in her lungs, she might have laughed hysterically and uncontrollably at herself. At the memory of the mortal girl who thought that a wolf, a Wyrm, and a half-transformed High Lord with only the dregs of his power were frightening. Those little spectacles had been nothing. Less than nothing.
Because now, above her? Rhys was terror given form, the primal fear at the heart of every nightmare in the flesh. He was a predator, built for rending limbs from bodies and tearing hearts from chests.
He was Winged Death.
Feyre swallowed, looking closer.
The golden brown skin she had waited centuries to touch was gone. All that remained now was a broad, massive body covered in layer after layer of rippling ebony scales. Ridged and almost featherlike, they blanketed him in impenetrable armor that stretched as far as Feyre could see. And where the scales ended, the massive, membranous wings of a demon began, jutting upward from his back—austere, violent appendages tipped in claws that glinted like daggers in the low light. The sharp, dark edges of them, of all of him, faded into the swarm of shadows that surrounded their alcove.
His shadows. The lethal camouflage of a male who bent the night to his will.
His hands curled around her waist, and she felt the razor-keen talons he had once leveled at Amarantha prick her sides. When she dared to glance downward, her eyes skimming his trim waist, she found that his even feet were transformed, replaced entirely by grotesque, clawed appendages she had no name for.
But that was of little importance once the rough, strange underside of his cock slid through her oversensitive, slick folds again. Made her suck in a sharp breath as the bond twinged and he lifted himself off of her so she could see that too.
Gods, he—
Her mouth went dry at her first glimpse of his considerable length, hanging heavy and hard over her stomach. It was the same midnight shade as the rest of him, her own wetness glistening like stars in the night along its length. But the coloring, the size, weren’t what snared her mind.
It was the ridges.
Her heartbeat accelerated to an uneven, excited patter in spite of herself.
#feysand#feyre archeron#rhysand#feyre#rhys#a court of thorns and roses#acotar#my fics#poltergeist darling#a court of thorns and roses fic
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i love the…. almost horror aspects of this album. all the references to ghosts and death…. and sonically, the unexpected shrieking in WAOLOM and the banging and screaming during “old habits die screaming” and even the way the tension subtly builds across the sixteen tracks and by the end you’re so stressed and shaken it’s like! losing your sense of self and feeling like you’ve become a monster is horror. and i’m sooooo glad she leaned into it
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FORTNIGHT music video
Taylor Swift ft. Post Malone
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Hi Elle! This question comes out of genuine curiosity because I've been thinking about fiction and how we relate to romantic relationships across boundaries and real-life personal preferences, and I wanted your feedback. As a lesbian, what draws you to fictional heterosexual relationships? Are you drawn to them more frequently than fictional homosexual w|w relationships, or do you like them under specific circumstances and through specific art?
That’s a great question. It’s not one I’m going to spend a lot of time answering, just because you’re an anonymous internet stranger on a website that is often a glimpse at hell on earth and I don’t know if this is some sort of convoluted gotcha! where you try to revoke my lesbian card.
As I’ve gotten older and more confident in my identity, I find I’m drawn more toward character archetypes and relationship dynamics than I am to the characters’ sexuality or the general feeling of being represented. I also prefer larger fandoms where relationships are established, simply because I find canon divergent fics and fan works that play off of those to be the most compelling and active form of fandom.
I also don’t think I have to go into the dearth of established sapphic relationships in popular media or the somewhat tone deaf way they are most often presented. I’m immediately much less interested in a couple if I get the sense that they mostly exist to win representation points also, because I find it makes their stories feel really disingenuous to me. (*coughMorcough*) As someone who came out in the 2010s queerbaiting era and had half a dozen of those books/movies/shows shoved at me by well-meaning aunts and friends to prove they were allies, they just feel distasteful to me, as well, and I have far less grace for the people behind poorly written sapphic women because it often feels insulting to me, as one myself. That’s a personal opinion.
My taste for fiction is far less black-and-white than my preferences for my partners IRL. I tend not to conflate the two, and anything I do or say about fictional men created by women is always from the understanding that they are fictional and the woman who is behind them is who I’m really appreciating. I think you’ll find I don’t engage with a lot of media written by men.
#answered#anonymous#🤷♀️#i’m also not assuming the acotar relationships are het since 1/2 of them is always 500 years old and have lived several rich lives#and the other half are 20-something women who are still learning and developing their identities
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anyone else feel like theyre on the verge of insanity in an undescribable way
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Vladimir Mayakovsky, from a letter featured in "Love in the Heart of Everything; The Correspondence between Vladimir Mayakovsky & Lili Brik, 1915-1930,"
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Aelin, Feyre and Bryce - TOG, ACOTAR & CC
Artist: @chloscribbles
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