Okay, but imagine a medieval adventure fantasy where asexuals sell their services to parties who have to travel past sirens/incubi/succubi in order to fulfill their quests.
Imagine young witches and warlocks going through a final wizardry test where they have to square off against every magical creature they’ve ever learned about, and everyone is really confused as to how that one team just strolled past the sirens/incubi/succubi, and also as to why afterwards they high-fived, said “Aced it!” and then laughed for ten minutes straight.
Imagine a villain dousing a hero with a love potion and then unshackling her, expecting mindless devotion, only to have her then stab him and say “I’m aromantic, actually.”
Imagine an incubus carefully choosing a target and ending up on her couch with a tub of ice cream as she assures him that he is really good at his job and he can’t help it that he happened to pick an ace target.
Imagine an ace sailor who has to tie up his companions in the hold and sail the ship by himself whenever they encounter mermaids, and since it’s just him it’s really slow going, and he spends the entire time griping about allosexuals to the mermaids, who in turn gripe about how sick they are of having to target sailors before the sailors target them.
Imagine a love god trying to set up a pair of aro ace soulmates and putting them in increasingly romantic and/or risque situations, only to pull his hair out in frustration as they ignore or fix every situation and just become better and better friends.
Just like, fantasy asexuals, y’all.
I have a story in mind because of this post, guys. I adore this. Ace power!
Fantasy is silver and scarlet, indigo and azure, obsidian veined with gold and lapis lazuli. Reality is plywood and plastic, done up in mud brown and olive drab. Fantasy tastes of habaneros and honey, cinnamon and cloves, rare red meat and wines as sweet as summer. Reality is beans and tofu, and ashes at the end. Reality is the strip malls of Burbank, the smokestacks of Cleveland, a parking garage in Newark. Fantasy is the towers of Minas Tirith, the ancient stones of Gormenghast, the halls of Camelot. Fantasy flies on the wings of Icarus, reality on Southwest Airlines. Why do our dreams become so much smaller when they finally come true?
We read fantasy to find the colors again, I think. To taste strong spices and hear the songs the sirens sang. There is something old and true in fantasy that speaks to something deep within us, to the child who dreamt that one day he would hunt the forests of the night, and feast beneath the hollow hills, and find a love to last forever somewhere south of Oz and north of Shangri-La.
They can keep their heaven. When I die, I’d sooner go to Middle-Earth.
George R.R. Martin (via indisposablehero)