Re: Asexual loves ACOTAR but doesn’t tell you why

Oups, looks like i forgot to actually engage with my topic last week (sorry)

Jul 06, 2025

Last week I spent a whopping 2,100 words explaining why i loved the re-use of fairy tales in A Court of Thorns and Roses, but i didn’t actually answer my own question: why is it that as an asexual1 person I didn’t get upset or annoyed at the sex scenes in those specific books2, when I immediately close any other in the romantasy genre. I raved about the comforting predictability of the story and how the author subverted all the romance tropes and structures which kept me on the edge of my seat, … but I somehow refused to engage with the actual topic: SEX SEX SEX SEX.

So let’s go back to the sex scene in A Court of Thorns and Roses, and understand why they didn’t give me the ick and make me close it immediately.

Before that, a tiny refresher on the plot for those who haven’t read it (but honestly my post from last week does the trick so much better 👀):

In book 1 (also called ACOTAR3), our main girl Feyre (“FAY-ruh”, she’s not the fairy one though, completely human) gets into a Beauty and the Beast scenario where she’s captured by Tamlin (a Lord of the fairies) and has to fall in love with him to rescue his kingdom from the villain – she does, she nearly dies, she becomes a fae, all is saved, YAY
In book 2 (also called ACOMAF4), turns out Tamlin is an abusive asshole, and Feyre escapes with a magic trick that allows Rhysand (another Lord, how else would she become a Lady duh) to kidnap her to his castle one week a month. He opens her eyes to the situation, she leaves Tamlin, falls in love with Rhys, turns out they’re fated mates. He nearly dies, she nearly dies, (+ a political magical plot behind the scenes with new villains they need to fight), all is saved, YAY

A gentler YA start

As is so often the case for women who write fantasy, Sarah J. Maas was pushed to tone down A Court of Thorns and Roses so it could be sold as YA5. The logic from her publisher was the usual mix: men don’t read fantasy by women, your Throne of Glass readers are already YA, and the romance makes it too soft for proper fantasy anyway. Despite the marketing, ACOTAR became a massive success with adult women — so massive that it kicked off a whole wave of fantasy-romance crossovers now branded as romantasy.6

I think that YA angle played a big part in why I got hooked in the first place. Book 1 leans hard into YA territory: less sex, less groping, fewer constant reminders that the characters are hot and desperate to get into each other’s pants. I don’t like those parts too much – have I said I was asexual and sex-adverse already? – so the YA packaging worked like a protective shield. It gave me space to get to know the characters before the clothes started flying off. Yes, the sex does show up eventually, but even then it’s dialed down enough that I could skim past without losing my place in the story.

What’s funny is that even with aphantasia, I can still wince at some of the most popular body descriptions. A lot of romantasy authors play in the bigger, bolder, gigantic-er field – to the delight of their readers! But even without a mind’s eye, I imagine that a cock so huge you couldn’t wrap your hands around it would be... uncomfortable. The YA-friendly edits kept that kind of talk to a minimum, and body parts relatively realistic (if you look past the bat wings), so it was much more approachable for me.

Book 2 is where the Adult label kicks in. I suppose the success of Book 1 with adult women convinced the publisher to drop the pretense7. That said, I sometimes wonder if Book 2 started off aiming for YA too, and then got upgraded with bonus sex scenes later. What strikes me now is that those scenes aren’t actually necessary to the plot. In a lot of romantasy, some crucial information – the prophecies, the schemes, the magic loopholes, etc – gets exchanged mid-thrust, which makes skimming dangerous. I personally hate it. I don’t want to do more than glance at those pages because otherwise I’m turned off entirely. But if I do that, I risk losing track of what’s going on.

It’s not that Maas writes those scenes better than anyone else in the genre. Let’s put aside the garbage books rushed to cash in on the trend, because that’s not productive. But even the decent ones lose me if they don’t have that YA buffer at the start. I also tried Maas’ new series Crescent City after I DNFed8 ACOTAR (more on that abandon later), but it was so filled with romance and sex from the get-go, tightly integrated into the plot, that I couldn't get into it.9

Intimacy in a Safe Place

Now let’s finally, actually address the fae in the room: sex. A Court of Thorns and Roses is not a demure, closed-door fairy tale: it birthed the fairy porn genre for God’s sake! As an asexual person, I often react to graphic sex scenes in fiction with anything from boredom to mild discomfort.10

I worried ACOTAR might be too much for me when the clothes started coming off. And indeed, there were moments I felt like an awkward eavesdropper more than an enraptured participant, but crucially, I never felt truly alienated. In fact, I was struck by how comfortable I was skimming over the intimate scenes, even if they didn’t arouse me in the way they might an allosexual11 reader. I’m still skimming because i don’t like to read the details of it, but the experience ended up being almost academic at times – observing how two characters connect physically, parsing what it meant for their relationship. It’s more like moving over the historical background of, say, the origin of thread used by peasants in 13th century France, in order to get to the part that interests me: what did their clothes look like. The origin of thread (or the details of sex) isn’t bad to read, or factually (morally) wrong, i’m just a bit bored and don’t really see the point.12

But then, why are those specific sex scenes not alienating to me, when so many others are? I think it’s because ACOTAR’s depiction of intimacy felt safe to me, in multiple senses.

First, from a narrative standpoint, the sexual content in ACOTAR is framed in a very consensual and emotionally-driven way between the characters we’re meant to root for. The first time Feyre and Tamlin become intimate, it unfolds after a significant build-up of trust and mutual longing. It’s heated – yes, furniture gets clawed and there are passionate bites involved – but Feyre is a willing, enthusiastic partner. The scene is written to be erotic, yet it didn’t strike me as vulgar or gratuitous; it felt like a natural culmination of their simmering tension. Crucially, consent and care are always evident.

Even later in the series, when the sexual encounters get more frequent and more explicit, the characters communicate and prioritize each other’s comfort. As someone who has no personal interest in sexual activity, I really appreciated this emphasis. It allowed me to read on without that internal siren going “this is gross or problematic – bail out!” I’ve encountered other books where dubious consent or hyper-realistic descriptions made me extremely uncomfortable. Romantasy in general gets a very bad rep, because most of the sex scenes are incredibly badly written, and say stuff like “a cock so big it can’t fit in my hands” or climaxes achieved through mind control, but i feel that ACOTAR thankfully steers clear of those pitfalls.13

In fact, Maas does something interesting by externalizing the truly predatory or abusive sexual behavior onto the villains, where it’s clearly condemned. For example, the main antagonist, Amarantha, rapes several of the male characters, including Tamlin and Rhysand. Notably, these violators,both male and female, are depicted as unambiguously evil, and they meet fittingly nasty ends.

The men are kinda nice?

Maas also creates a somewhat odd but effective dynamic: the male heroes are given vulnerable backstories such as having endured abuse, and the narrative firmly positions non-consensual intimacy as abhorrent. This is especially visible in Rhysand’s redemption arc. Once we learn that he was abused so badly for so many years, it’s easy to believe he does have good intentions, and there’s little doubt he means it when he speaks of consent to Feyre.

I also quite like how the male survivors were given trauma in a male-specific way. For example, for a significant portion of Book 2, Rhysand denies — even to himself — that he was raped, insisting instead that he went along with Amarantha’s demands to protect his people. And in a way, he did: he chose not to resist, hoping to spare his cities from her wrath. But that doesn’t make it any less coercive. His response mirrors real-world patterns, where men often struggle to name their experiences as harm — instead framing them as sacrifice, strategy, or duty. The narrative doesn’t mock him for this or brush it aside; instead, it gives him space to reckon with it on his own terms. His eventual confession of the pain he endured marks a turning point, deepening the connection between him and Feyre — both of whom have been abused, both of whom are trying to learn how to be safe again. This mutual vulnerability becomes the emotional spine of the book, allowing their relationship to develop not through savior dynamics, but through recognition.

By contrast, Tamlin never articulates his own trauma — it lingers as subtext, manifesting instead through control, silence, and emotional shutdown. His refusal to acknowledge the harm done to him ultimately isolates him. He doesn’t have space to grieve, and doesn’t really have much of a friend circle to rest on for help. His mental health is neglected and his trauma results in emotional suppression and silence, which keeps him in the cycle of abuse.

It’s not about me

What remained on the page for the romance was intimacy with a halo of safety around it – something passionate, yes, but also tender, protective, and based on trust. That made it far easier for me to engage with. I could vicariously appreciate the idea of that physical closeness without any of the real-world fear or distaste I might normally feel. It’s fiction; it’s sanitized passion. There’s no risk, no lingering discomfort once I shut the book. Everything is neatly confined to the realm of fantasy where no one gets an STI or has an awkward convo about boundaries – those things either don’t exist or are glossed over in this world.

Reading these romantic and sexual scenes as an asexual, aromantic person, I had the comforting distance of knowing it’s not about me. I wasn’t imagining myself in Feyre’s place (I never “self-insert” when I read; the concept of wanting to be swept off my feet by a domineering fae lord is frankly more terrifying than titillating to me). Instead, I felt like an observer in a safe bubble, almost like a researcher watching an exotic animal do its mating dance – fascinated, maybe a little amused, but untouched.

One asexual acquaintance of mine quips that she reads romance like she’d watch a documentary about mountain climbing: utterly intrigued by the feats on display, but with zero desire to participate herself. That captures my experience perfectly. ACOTAR let me watch these characters fall in love and consummate that love with all the poetic fervor in the world, while I remained curled up on my sofa, an impassive if not intellectually engaged onlooker. And because I don’t visualize the scenes , I experienced them almost entirely as words and emotions, not as a vivid sexual slideshow.

I was more invested in what it meant for Feyre and her love interest – how it signaled a shift in their relationship, how it affected their trust – than in any physical sensations described. In a way, I think my detachment actually heightened my appreciation of the writing and emotional beats. I noticed the metaphors, the little moments of vulnerability in the dialogue post-sex, the way those scenes were less about body parts and more about two lonely people finding solace in each other. It was intimacy painted in broad, dreamy strokes, not gritty realism. And that, to my surprise, I could not only tolerate but actually enjoy as part of the story’s tapestry.

Perhaps the simplest way to put it is this: I never felt excluded by the romance in ACOTAR, even if I couldn’t relate to it from personal experience. The book invited me in as a spectator rather than demanding I empathize as a participant. That made all the difference. I could care about the romance without yearning for it. I could be moved by Feyre’s happiness without once desiring a similar situation for myself. It’s a delicate balance, but when a story nails it, it creates a truly inclusive kind of magic – one where even a loveless soul like me can bask in the glow of fictional love.

Roses in Reality vs. Roses in Fiction

At the end of this journey, I found myself reflecting on the nature of fantasy versus reality in a new light. I’ve often been asked, sometimes skeptically, why I even bother reading or watching romances if I’m aromantic and asexual. Isn’t it boring or off-putting? I usually answered with something along the lines of, “Well, I enjoy the characters or the humor,” or “I like some romances in subplot doses.” But now I think I have a better answer, one crystallized by my experience with A Court of Thorns and Roses: I can enjoy fictional romance precisely because it’s fictional. Its unreality is not a bug – it’s a feature.

In real life, the kind of passionate love depicted in ACOTAR is something I will likely never feel. And I’m okay with that; it’s not a source of sorrow for me, just a fact of who I am. But in fiction, I get to witness an idealized version of romance, one unencumbered by the parts that repel or alienate me. The fictional romance remains perfect and untouchable – an untarnished ideal – because it’s not mine. I can savor the rose without pricking my finger on any thorns. There’s an almost poignant irony in this: I, who have never experienced romantic or sexual desire, found myself swooning over a romance novel. It didn’t change me or “cured” anything (trust me, I closed the book still entirely asexual and aromantic), but because it allowed me a safe window into that world of feeling. Through Feyre’s eyes, I could taste the adrenaline of falling in love, the solace of finding a partner who truly sees you, the triumph of a love that beats the odds. None of it is real, and that’s exactly why it works.

When I finished A Court of Thorns and Roses, I had to laugh at myself a little. Here I was, an French aro-ace reader who typically disdains romance, feeling a warm glow because two imaginary faeries got their happily-ever-after. The me from a few years ago might have cringed; the me now has made peace with the paradox. Loving a romantasy story doesn’t make me any less asexual or aromantic. If anything, it underscores how one’s orientation isn’t a simple on/off switch for what stories we can enjoy. We don’t need to want a romance for ourselves to appreciate the narrative beauty of one. Sometimes it’s precisely our not wanting it in reality that makes it beautiful in fiction. For me, romance in books can be like a work of art in a museum: I can admire its colors and composition, be moved by it, even cherish it – all while never once feeling the impulse to take it off the wall and make it part of my everyday life.

And so I admit it: I loved A Court of Thorns and Roses. I loved it for its thrilling fantasy adventure, for its subversive take on fairy-tale love, for its indulgent trope-fest that made me giggle and gasp in equal measure, and yes, even for its intimate moments that gave me a peek into a human experience I’ll never quite share. It swept me away and then gently returned me to my own world, unharmed and perhaps a little wiser. That’s the promise of a good story, isn’t it? – to let us live a different life for a while, with no lasting consequence except insight and empathy.

In the end, I remain what I was: a woman who does not feel romantic or sexual attraction. The difference is, I no longer feel like romance is an alien language meant for others. I can read it fluently, even if I don’t speak it natively. I can take joy in its telling. Feyre’s happily-ever-after remains unsullied in my mind, a vivid myth that hasn’t been dulled by any messy reality of my own. Perhaps that’s the secret: for those of us who stand outside the garden of love, fictional roses are the ones that never wilt, never draw blood. They are, in a word, perfect – precisely because we will never pluck them. And so we can love them, in our own curious, detached, and wholehearted way, for as long as we wish.

So, what did you think? Leave me a comment below (public) or reply to this email (private, only i see it)!

Did I manage to give you another perspective on romantasy, if you weren’t the target audience? Are you interested in reading ACOTAR now?
And if you are the audience, how do you experience those books? Do you lap it up, skim some bits, don’t feel anything? I’d love to compare notes!

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