tonights acotar thoughts are with the Illyrian women and how rhysand has utterly failed them despite his supposed efforts
Hes ‘allowed’ them to become warriors if they wish. But thats not even the bare minimum. from my memory he acknowledges that he doesnt enforce the wing clipping laws (smooth move) so that’s basically useless and as to be expected of a man, he misses the point of feminism and equality laws. WHERE are the laws and protections for women in marriages?? if the illyrian are so ‘brutal’ and ‘backwards’ the assumption can be made that divorce isn’t a thing unless the man requests it. No women requested divorces and probably no such thing as no fault divorces. As well as forced marriages (which also brings up the consent age) Adding on, what about abortions and other pre natal and natal laws and protections? again, assuming women arent allowed to have abortions or simply any bodily autonomy, where are those decrees rhysand? Im not even getting into the potential of LGBTQ+ illyrians and their rights (Logically there are LGBTQ+ illyrians but ofc sjm wouldn’t mention them)
He makes such a fuss about it being a womans choice (a hypocrite as we see in acosf) yet unless a woman is able too or wants to fight he doesnt seem to care. Which is also a major flaw of sjms writing, women only gain their independence if they can kick ass and fuck as they want. Which is of course valid but thats a very shallow way to view feminism and equality. The whole point is that a woman can choose, wether its to be a warrior or a stay at home mother, but theres nothing done for those women who want that lifestyle.
This has influenced me in my fic writing a lot to where a this topic has become a major focal point in my fic somewhat by accident. I think that logically there would be a rebellion from mostly illyrian women against rhysand, hes promised them so much yet has delivered so little.
114 notes
·
View notes
The lovely @piranhaincaps shared the above with me, and I... Hng. Nikprice, Nikprice, Nikprice.
It's a quiet summer evening and Nik stumbles across his captain reading about princes and scarlet sails.
cw: none.
Nik finished stacking the dishwasher and stretched his back, hands pressed to the base. The captain's cooking had improved significantly since they had settled in Meols, but he still used every bowl, pan and utensil their small kitchen could stock and the clean up operation was always significant.
The old grandfather clock in the hallway chimed eight o'clock and Nik considered the open backdoor. John had left to water the plants about an hour ago, which meant he had been distracted by something. Nik grabbed his bottle of beer and headed out to make sure he wasn't about to embark on yet another building project.
The summer air was still warm, even though the sun was disappearing on the horizon. Being so close to the Irish sea meant there was always a fresher tang beneath the heat, and Nik drew in a deep breath as he studied their small garden.
John hated neatly trimmed grass, which had surprised Nik given his military background. No, he liked wild flowers that attracted the bees and butterflies, and growing vegetables they could cook. Their garden had ended up a colourful mishmash of organised chaos, both beautiful and utilitarian. Like John. Nik loved it.
But there was no captain toiling amongst the blooms. Instead, he sat on the patio beneath the awning, bare but for his khaki cargo shorts. A cold beer sat on the table next to him, the pint glass glistening with condensation where the summer heat clung to it, and he held a cigar between two fingers, the smoke drifting lazily into the warm ombre of the sky.
John was just as handsome as the day they had met. He had been a sergeant back then, fewer lines, less grey, but the same serious, bright blue eyes he had now as he read the novel propped on one thigh. As they had aged together, those blue eyes had filled with shadows but Nik had fought to make sure they had also filled with laughter in equal measure. His captain deserved that.
Nik wandered over and deposited himself in the second chair, grinning at the title of the novel. "Scarlet Sails. A romance, John," Nik teased.
A Russian classic, and written in its mother tongue. John had started learning Russian when Nik had started courting him, and now that he had retired he was chewing through Russian literature with a voracious appetite. They were a little more highbrow than the Dan Brown and Tom Clancy novels otherwise cluttering their overburdened bookshelves.
"This one better have a happy ending, Nik. The last one ripped my heart out my arsehole," John murmured, pausing to take a drag from his cigar. Nik watched the smoke leave his nose and was reminded of an aging dragon in repose.
"You forget, so many of these tales were written by men surrounded by anger and austerity. It is difficult to write about hope and happiness when you cannot conceive of these things." Nik's bare toes curled against the warm paving beneath them.
John looked up and fixed Nik with narrow eyes. "Is this a bloody tragedy too? You told me it was a fairytale."
"No tragedy, happy ending, I promise. Grin took his characters far away so he did not have to write something... ideologically driven by the realities of the USSR. It is an ending more suited to your tastes."
"Hmm," John grabbed his bookmark - a folded leaflet advertising a nearby fishing hotspot - and let the novel close. "How did you survive in that environment and still," John waved his cigar in a vague circle, "become you."
"Become me?"
Nik liked this game. John found words of an emotional nature challenging, and he flushed red, became flustered, when Nik pressed him. It was like stroking the soft centre of a noble turtle. "Like, you... uh, kind, and... funny."
"Spasibo," Nik replied, with a grin.
"Pozhaluysta." John obscured his flush with a sip from his pint.
"My father travelled around the satellite states a lot. The closer you were to the West, the easier it was to get hold of the music, the stories, the... hope."
"West isn't exactly a bastion of hope itself, mate."
"Da," Nik conceded, "but to a young man full of energy and dreams, the West was like a fairytale in comparison to the Soviet Union, a world so grey that Alexander Grin had to make up a whole new one, without even Russian names, to conceive of happiness and love that was not doomed to tragedy in the end."
John hummed and Nik let the comfortable silence settle as he mulled over Nik's words. A gentle hand found his on the table, battle roughened fingers impossibly tender as they stroked across the back and into his palm. "You're happy here, right?" John asked as they watched a bee hover over a cluster of wild flowers.
"Da, captain," Nik said softly. "I expected a Tolstoy ending, but... this, this is a Grin."
John smiled, his eyes crinkling, his whiskers twitching around his mouth in that mischievous way that Nik adored, and he lifted Nik's knuckles to his lips. Nik 's heart swelled in his chest and he fought the urge to scoop his love from the chair and carry him inside to show him just how happy he was. John rubbed his cheek against Nik's fingers after the kiss, blue eyes lidded, like a large cat scenting his territory, before returning their clasped hands to the table.
Later, when the night was cooler and John had finished his beer, Nik would guide him to their bed and they would make love. Nik would kiss and taste the summer heat on his skin and listen to his voice crack around his name, entreaties sweeter than the words of Tsvetaeva. But, for now, Nik was content to bask in the gentle quiet of their own happy ending.
63 notes
·
View notes