#characterizations are unimportant to their relationship is just like stupid and ignorant of the way narratives work. or are supposed to work

[fizzlehead]

this is beronica if you took away everything that makes them interesting and who they are which actually makes their relationship more special because uhhhhhhhhhh ????

[pomegranates-and-blood]

Ours (500 Celebration)

500 Celebration Masterlist

Pairing: Hvitserk/Reader

Prompt: From the Quotes category: “I crave the simplest of love with you. A cold night, warm sheets, and your skin against my own. Certainly, that is all I could ever ask for.”

Word Count: 4279

Warnings: AU, fluff, angst, suggestive themes/implied sex (no smut), most likely OOC, other (canon-typical, but no spoilers of the show past 4b) warnings might apply but I’m choosing not to add them for spoiler reasons, so beware. Consider this a ‘Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings’ work.

A/N: Hi, yeah, another Hvitserk piece. He’s less intimidating to write and I feel very rusty atm so I’m almost afraid to try to tackle Ivar and fuck up his characterization and stuff, so I need a bit more time. Though, hopefully, I’m posting another entry for the 500 Celebration sometime soon, and that one is for Ivar, pinky promise lol

As it often is, this is an Alternate Universe where everyone lives and the Great Army lasted longer (because fuck canon), but you don’t need to know much of any of that. Established relationship, but kinda.

Hvitserk can’t quite remember what he was doing -or what he was supposed to be doing- before he caught a glimpse of you out of the corner of his eye, but he cannot say he minds how easily you catch his attention, how quickly you manage to make everything else unimportant in his eyes with nothing but your presence.

“What are you doing here?” You ask, but the wide smile betrays you.

“Your sister let me in before leaving,” He offers, seemingly certain and ignoring the voice in the back of his mind that doubts his own words, that questions truly how he got here. But it does not matter, you are walking towards him and seeking his warmth to escape the cold of the world outside this home, and not much aside from how it feels to finally have you in his arms matters much. “You are freezing.”

Tilting your head up, your lips curve into a smile that even after all this time still manages to put him under your spell.

“Warm me up, then.”

His answering chuckle is stifled against your lips, smiling lips against your own as you kiss him with that careful balance of hunger and adoration that pulls tight at his chest.

He drags you with him to the entirely-too-small bed, greedily keeping his hands on your body and almost managing to make you both stumble because of it. But you smile against his lips, and breathe a laugh by his ear when he lets himself fall on the mattress dragging you with him so you’re straddling him, and he can’t find it in him to regret his inability to let you go just yet.

He allows himself to get lost in you, chasing the thrill of hearing his name as a breathless plea, of tasting the evidence of your desire for him, of seeing your eyes darkened and dazed as you look at him.

The cold of the world past this house seeps inside as time goes by, but under warm sheets with your body pressed against his, he can barely feel anything but warmth.

Kisses that were previously ravenous are now slow, but still make pleasure shoot down his spine when your tongue brushes against his or your teeth nip playfully at his bottom lip. Hands that were desperate to grasp and touch at whatever expanse of skin they could now idly trace over your skin with the kind of awe only having you in his arms can evoke in him.

“I missed you.” He is telling you, lazy kisses on the curve of your neck, pretending not to shiver at the light caresses of your hands up and down his back.

“Mhm, I missed you too.” You answer, and it really shouldn’t, but your words feed the stupid fantasy he has had for a while where ‘I missed you’ is between you two another way to say ‘I love you’. At least, for him it is, and he substitutes in these three words the ones he cannot bring himself to say.

“Where were you today?”

“I went to the market, there were new shipments from the east and I wanted to buy some herbs.”

“Does that mean you’ll make that smoked fish soon?”

“No,” You pointedly say, but he hears the smile in your voice. When Hvitserk settles on his side, you do the same, burrowing close. “I am saving these, I will plant them and keep them inside.��

“What for?”

“So I don’t need to buy more. I always wanted a garden of my own,” You are musing, “Especially after that traveler from the East brought those herbs. He taught me to care for them, you know. With my own garden, I could grow them myself.”

He has had you with him since before he left with Bjorn for the Mediterranean, though he will admit you have had his heart for much longer than that. And though each spring he leaves with his brothers back to England, and he has spent one winter in Repton as well, you are always there, waiting for him to return to you.

He has promised you he always will, and he intends on fulfilling that promise for as long as you will have him.

And yet, for a while he has been battling with himself on whether he dares ask for more. He will be the first to admit he is too often plagued by uncertainty, but it isn’t uncertainty what keeps him from asking forever out of you, from promising you the rest of his life if you promise him the rest of yours, no.

Hvitserk has regrettably found out that he would rather have this, with no promises and no certainty, words of love kept trapped on his throat and unheard to the dismay of his heart; than risk asking for more and lose what he has, lose you.

It has certainly never stopped him from imagining it, from hoping for it. A home of just the two of you, a family of your own, children with his eyes and your smile.

And now, drunk on you and still half-delirious with the pleasure and warmth he can only find with you, in your arms; with his hands still greedily tracing every curve of your body, not any longer with the passion of lovemaking but with the inexplainable craving he has for feeling you soft and warm beside him; Hvitserk finds he cannot keep the words from leaving his lips, from betraying his longing, his hopes.

“You could,” He ventures, pretending to be entirely focused on the lock of your hair he is playing with so he can continue to avoid your eyes. “We could, uh, have that.”

“Oh, you’ll build me a house then?” You taunt, laughter seeping through your tone.

Hvitserk takes a breath, tells himself to meet your gaze, and tries, “Buy it, maybe. It would take too long to build it, and winter is upon us, I wouldn’t want you to get s-…”

“Wait, you are serious.”

His smile is hopeless, and he shrugs, praying his voice doesn’t sound as shaky to your ears as it does to his own, “Y-Yeah.”

Silence.

Just as he takes a breath to say something -he isn’t sure what, his thoughts are too jumbled and his heart is beating entirely too fast-, you sigh, pulling back to look him in the eye.

“Hvitserk…”

He resists the urge to flinch, to move away. Perhaps if you think he is unaffected by your rejection, you can ignore he ever dared ask for more, and he can keep you with him.

“You don’t have to-…we can pretend I never asked, yeah?”

He shouldn’t have asked, he should have known better. He…he has ruined this, hasn’t he?

“Is that what you want?”

“N-No.” He can’t lie to you, not even now.

“You want…a house? For the both of us?”

He nods, even though he didn’t need to. That isn’t really a question he could answer no to, not now, not ever.

“Is it…something you want?”

Your smile soothes his still quickly-beating heart, and the hand you lift to cup his cheek makes him realize that he hadn’t known warmth until you touched him, that he hasn’t known warmth since he last felt your touch.

“I want you.” You reply, with ease, with nonchalance, as if it truly is that easy, as if it is that simple for him to get to keep this, keep you.

“I-I will get us one with a garden,” He promises, stumbling over his words, thoughts jumbled. He wants to make sure you know he will make it worthwhile. “You can plant all the herbs you want, and anything else you want. And, uh, and during the winter we can bring your favorites inside so they are safe from the frost.”

Hvitserk is vaguely aware he is still talking, listing things you can do as if you don’t know how gardens -or houses- work; but he can’t stop.

He isn’t sure what it is that compels him to speak so freely now, what it is that lets the edge of his thoughts soften and the prick of uncertainty when daring admit such things lessen.

Perhaps it is the warmth of this home that seeps into his very bones, staving off the cold of this land of rain and mist, letting him forget of a world past the limit of this small house.

But he gathers it has more to do with the way you are looking at him, a softness in the curve of your smile that makes his heart -no longer his, really- stutter a beat, a love of the kind Hvitserk isn’t sure he was meant to have or could ever deserve shining clearly in your gaze.

“How can I be certain you aren’t getting me a garden so I’ll cook more often?”

You startle a laugh from him, and the happiness that bubbles in his chest compels him to cross the distance between you, tilting his head towards yours as he captures your lips, his hand tangling in the hair at the back of your neck as he kisses you softly.

“I promise that isn’t the reason why,” His eyes open to find you smiling, a teasing glint in your eye, and he amends, “That isn’t entirely the reason why.”

You accept his words with another soft kiss, delicate fingers tracing over the side of his face. Hvitserk finds his chest aches, a dull and distant kind of overwhelm, at the adoration he sees shining in your gaze as you let your fingers trace his profile.

“So, a house of our own,” You venture. He is sure he is smiling like an idiot, lovesick and adoring, but he doesn’t much mind. “With my own garden.”

He nods, a little dumbly, realizing a few moments later that you might want words in response.

Clearing his throat to get rid of the sudden tightness of it, Hvitserk promises, “If that is what you want.”

Your fingers are tracing aimlessly over the ink traces of his chest, leaving behind a trail of goosebumps to chase after the almost-phantom touch, and with a breathy tone that betrays your tiredness, you add,

“Mhm, I do. And a big bed.”

Hvitserk knows, and he is certain you know as well, that anything you want to ask from him he will agree to, as long as he gets to have you to come home to, as long as it keeps you with him. But, for appearances’ sake, he argues,

“What for?” To further his point, he runs his fingers over the forearm you’ve wrapped around his waist. There is no night he can remember spending with you where you weren’t entangled with one another, your skin against his and the safety and warmth you offered seeping into him even in your sleep.

“Big family, big bed.” Is all you mutter as a response, as if truly is that simple. As if it is so simple, so effortless, for you to promise him what he has always wanted.

When you burrow closer, legs intertwined with his as your hold on him tightens momentarily, Hvitserk is struck with a realization that for some reason makes a dull ache blossom somewhere in his chest.

For all he may talk and hope and plan, for all the small details he might dream up of a future with you, for all the idyllic images he may give shape in between hoarse whispers in the quiet of night; he truly doesn’t need ask for anything other than this, than you.

Perhaps that is what he is asking for after all in these quiet promises, because daring imagine a world where he gets to keep you, where he gets to have all these small pieces that make up the future he scarcely dares admit to wanting, seems so outlandish, so…unattainable; but if he thinks of them as something as ordinary as a garden, if he thinks of them as tangible things he can make real, that he can give you, then maybe it isn’t so unattainable of a future.

Hvitserk has never quite managed to convince himself he is enough to keep you with him, and in these shared promises of a home of warmth and love and belonging, he finds he can dare ask for what he couldn’t in any other way.

For now, he can ignore the looming dread of having to face you with nothing to offer you other than himself. He isn’t Bjorn, he doesn’t have his brother’s fame and renown, he isn’t Ivar, he has nothing to his brother’s sharp mind or his ambition; the pride you could feel at having them by your side Hvitserk knows he could never even try to compare to. And he isn’t Ubbe, too often it is you who offer strength and certainty to Hvitserk when he has none instead of the other way around, he isn’t Sigurd, he can’t promise devotion and love in the flowery way of poets when too often his thoughts stumble over each other when he tries explaining how he feels; he knows he could never keep you safe and happy the way they could.

But if for now you want him, if for now you love him, then it does not matter. For now, either because you are indulging him or because you haven’t yet realized that he could never be what you deserve, you are promising him the future he has always wanted. A future with you, a future of you, and he can’t ask for nothing else, for nothing else than countless nights like these, for nothing else than the images of a life together that you have made up tonight.

He gathers it really shouldn’t have taken him this long to get it, but…you were the one that proposed the bigger bed. It is foolish, such a small and inconsequential thing you asked out of him, but he dares believe you crave these small promises of a future as much as he does, he dares imagine that you hope for a life together as much as he does.

The light of the fires is so dim it is almost extinguished by now, and absently playing with your hair he wonders if he should get up and revive it, just so you don’t get cold. Though, if you do wake up because of the cold you might wake him so he warms you up, and that sounds much more inviting than leaving the warmth of your arms now.

Still, Hvitserk reaches with one arm and drags one of the furs over you, making sure you stay warm. You take advantage of the movement to snuggle closer to him in your sleep, a slurred word that sounds a lot like his name leaving your lips as you settle with a sigh.

Hvitserk doesn’t remember feeling this happy, this content, in such a long time. Being away from you for so long every year as winter passes has become harder and harder the longer he has had you beside him, waiting for him at the docks each winter, kissing him goodbye each spring. And now he can’t remember when it was the last time he allowed himself to be with you while forgetting the inevitable farewell, either because of the approaching spring or because of the treacherous voice in his head that tells him if he dares ask for more he will lose it all.

And now he can stave off this restlessness, this strange anguish starting somewhere hollow in his chest. Hvitserk blinks quickly, telling himself it is to get used to the darkness and not to get rid of the pinprick of tears in his eyes, and searches your face.

Quietly, with a trepidation that makes his voice and his heart tremble, he calls your name, holding his breath as he waits for a sign that you hear him, that you’re still here.

You hum in response, sleep still clinging to your voice. You burrow closer to him, your hand between you trailing up his chest until you rest it lightly over his heart, the soft and loving touch making his heart feel as if someone were cruelly squeezing it.

Hvitserk doesn’t hesitate to reach with his own hand, trapping yours in his hold, the restlessness in him demanding he do something to keep your touch with him for even just a moment longer.

“We…we will have that, won’t we?” He asks, and if his words are clipped and half-broken, if the desperate need for reassurance is clear in the tremble of the hand that holds yours, he doesn’t much care for it anymore. “W-What we talked about, the…the big bed, and your garden, and a-a family of our own. Tell me…tell me we will have that.”

“Hvitserk…”

He doesn’t want to close his eyes, he doesn’t want to stop looking at you, especially not now that the warmth in your gaze feels like the only thing keeping him tethered to sanity; but he cannot help it, squeezing his eyes shut at the sudden but not unexpected realization that the ground underneath him will crumble to nothing.

“I want that,” He admits, voice raspy to his own ears. Disuse, lack of water, he isn’t so sure of the reason anymore. “I want that, I-… something…something simple, just…something ours, we can-…” He opens his eyes, meets your gaze and pleads, voice barely above a whisper, “Tell me we can have that.”

But you only look at him, lips curved into a sad smile, eyes shining in the low light of the room, and shake your head.

“You cannot stay here, my love.” You sit up on the bed, and he tries following suit, but he cannot seem to make his body obey him anymore. He feels sapped of strength, and can only watch with wide eyes as your figure becomes the only clear thing he can see, the edges of his vision darkening. Panic grips him by the throat, and he tries speaking but no words leave his lips.

Your hand is soft on the side of his face, soft and so, so warm, that he feels like he was buried under the ice before you touched him.

His lips form around the silent shape of your name, trying fruitlessly to stop you. Because he knows goodbye when it is looking him right in the eye.

And he knows when you pull away he will be left alone again, buried under the ice again, so cold he can barely feel his own heart beating.

You make no note of any of it, resolve intertwined with sadness as you pull away from him, leaving him behind.

There’s clear and white light threatening to blind him that still is nothing against the comfort of warm lights and dying fires, and the stone wall at his back is much more solid and hard than the softness of your bed; yet the world seems dimmer, less real, to him regardless.

Your words exist for a few moments longer than you do, the last remnant of a ghost as the world around him fades and Hvitserk finds himself on the cold ground with nothing but damp stone walls around him.

You have to fight; you have to live, Hvitserk.

“Brother,” He hears the call, hoarse and choked, squinting his eyes and seeing Sigurd quickly darting towards him through the old door he just opened. So that was the light. He had feared the Christians were right after all for a moment there. “Ubbe, over here!”

Hvitserk watches as Sigurd scans the space around them, seemingly in search for any sign of someone else, and he wishes he could make his body obey him to tell his brother there is no point in looking for what is already gone.

In the distance he can hear a familiar voice urging people to move out of his way. Before he can think for too long on why he’s on a cell now, before he can mourn the loss of a house and a warmth he’s doubting were even real, Sigurd is kneeling in front of him, eyes wide as he reaches above him.

Hvitserk isn’t sure where exactly it is his brother touches, he just knows it hurts like a bitch. Try as he might, he cannot squirm away from the pain, body too sluggish to obey his commands.

His arms drop to his sides, and he realizes the pain was the movement as the shackles that held his arms above his head released him.

His gaze seems to focus for too long on the dark and caked blood on his wrists, on the unnatural way his left forearm bends, because Sigurd calls his name, an urgency that makes worry prick at the back of Hvitserk’s mind, almost piercing the fog.

“Hey, don’t look at that. Look at me.”

He blinks bleary eyes and Sigurd’s face is replaced by Ubbe’s, and the pain returns with a vengeance as his brother lifts him and drapes him over his shoulders.

He hears people passing them by and talking amongst each other, hears the rhythmic taps of Sigurd’s feet as he jogs ahead of them both, hears something about sending word to Repton as Ubbe drops him unceremoniously on Ivar’s chariot.

Hvitserk lingers on that, cannot help but to.

Dazedly, he remembers Ubbe embracing their mother on their first return from England and the watery smile on his lips as she sniffled against his chest, he remembers Ubbe clasping a hand on his shoulder as Hvitserk admitted to being in love with you and the raspy voice of his brother offering him reassurance about deserving you when he had none.

Ubbe has always been gentle, at least when it comes to his family. This much, Hvitserk knows.

Perhaps that is why he lingers for so long on the hurried and almost callous way he dropped him on the chariot.

Hvitserk sees the trees over his head moving as they ride back wherever it is they are going, and slowly his mind returns to him. He isn’t sure if he wants it to, but it does.

He is remembering now, flashes of an ambush in the dense forest near Thetford, an arrow grazing his side, some bastard’s sword slashing at his back, a heavy boot taking advantage of his pain and forcing him on the ground, the edge of a metal shield stopped by the arm he raises just in time.

His memories of what happened afterwards are escaping him, like sand between his fingers, and he cannot quite hold on to anything long enough to make sense of it. He thinks he remembers taking gasping breaths and finding no air as the Saxons drag him somewhere with a rope around his neck, he thinks he remembers fighting against the iron chains set on his wrists until his hands went numb. He knows he remembers thinking it would be over soon enough.

He remembers quiet, after that. After the thrill of having him captive ended and so did the torture, after with the absence of pain came the absence of everything else. He doesn’t want to believe he remembers the cold, the fear, that seeped to his very bones when he realized they would let him die quietly, without a fight, without anyone by his side.

But he still remembers that house, warmth in your eyes and in your arms, the sound of a giggle you muffle against his lips, the enveloping feeling of safety and peace in that small house of dim fires.

Hvitserk isn’t sure if both are real, he just knows which one he wishes would be.

“You better not die on the way home, hm?” Ivar tells him, drawing his attention to his younger brother. “Made us go through all this trouble to find you, so you…you have to…”

Ivar’s words die when his voice chokes on nothing, when strength falters even as he tries not letting it. He feels Ivar’s hand, the awkward gentleness of someone not quite used to it, on the top of his head, offering a caress and murmured words Hvitserk doesn’t understand.

He lingers on that too.

He remembers his little brother watching from his chair as he and Ubbe embraced Sigurd on their return from Paris with a strange look in his eye only to move away and ask questions about the war when they moved to hug him too, he remembers Ivar visiting him in almost secrecy the last night before he left for the Mediterranean with Bjorn and offering him a dagger and warning him not to die far from home.

Ivar has always been a complicated person, shunning and yet craving softness like no other, and Hvitserk has been witness to his gentleness, rare as it is. But he usually masks it with roughness, intertwines it with distance, until there isn’t much gentleness left after all.

And so Hvitserk lingers on it, on Ivar’s fragile gentleness, on Ubbe’s desperate harshness.

On the way all his brothers’ hands shook as they approached him, touched him. On the reason why.

He lingers on that, and wonders if he will die even now that they found him. He wonders if the Gods would be as cruel as to let him die now, feeling the pain and the absence.

Feeling the cold that seems all the more biting now that he has felt such warmth, feeling the world that suddenly is all the more unknown now that he has dared voice the desire to have something be his.

Yep, I’m not even sorry. I hope you liked this, I would love to hear your thoughts, thank you for reading!

Btw, you can choose to believe that she is very much alive and he only hallucinated her, and now he’s going home to her to finally ask for that forever; or you can choose to believe she is dead and since he was close to death they could talk one last time and he could ask what he didn’t when she was alive. I know which one I prefer as a writer, which is not the same I prefer as a reader, so the choice is yours 😅

500 taglist: @youbloodymadgenius @xbellaxcarolinax @1950schick @ietss @peachyboneless @encounterthepast @maggiescarborough @fae-sedai @zuxiezendler @crazybunnyladysworld @stupiddarkkside @northumbria @sagyunaro @aprilivar

Hvitserk taglist: @deans-ch-ch-cherrypie @adrille88​

[oddlyhale]

Why Twiins' Video Doesn't Work (For Me.)

While I've never been thoroughly invested in Adam, as I am with James, I do see that there are major problems with the video itself. Even for someone like me who got into the FNDM pretty late and had to rewatch all the volumes to catch up, something about Adam's character never sat right with me.

What I wanted to talk about is how Adam's character feels trapped in a limbo of what was V1-V3, as well as the Black Trailer. We have no idea what to think about him, and so we have to grasp for clues and straws to make sense of him. It's the same thing Twiins does in her video - grasp for clues and straws that make something coherent.

In fact, I'd wager that all the characters had no identity throughout V1-V3. We hardly know anything about them, because they were constantly side-lined to give other Team McGees spotlight. Team RWBY didn't do anything remarkable either. Especially not Blake.

Remember, the writers said that V4 was where the real story began. So, does this mean everybody before V4 is irrelevant? I certainly hope not, and I don't think the writers wanted it that way. But then again, these are people who never watch what they say, so how can I trust them when they changed Adam's characterization into crazy ex? I can't.

When we arrived at V4, there was a drastic change in the air. Now, this was where Monty had passed, so of course, the writing would be immensely different without him around.

Ruby, Weiss, and Yang became different. Ruby became an ignorant little angel, Weiss became even more blank, and Yang just became a huge bitch.

Adam's character completely changed after V3. I am sorry to say it, but it's the truth. There was set up for something about Adam and the WF in the very beginning, only for it to suddenly do a switcheroo once V3 was done. He went from being adamant about Faunus rights to being anal about his stupid ex.

And Blake became even more irrelevant than before.

That's the thing. Blake became so irrelevant that her story only seemed to matter when it had anything to do with Adam or the White Fang, or both. If Adam revolved around Blake to be relevant, then Blake's character also suffered by having her existence revolve around him.

When Adam died, Blake became a nothing character. A filler character that should belong in the background. She just became unimportant, and the funny thing is, the only time Blake is deemed important enough is when it has to do with Yang. Blake's character growth didn't change at all. She just put her burden on somebody else after Adam died.

If it weren't for Yang, Blake would be incredibly useless and scrutinized to no end.

Twiins claims that it was Monty's vision to make Adam a certain way, but the thing is - she also doesn't know that. Nobody truly knows, and Shane's letter is still being scrutinized to this day. Nobody will ever have solid proof that things were meant to be this way for Adam.

And anyway, how does the Yang v Adam fight have anything to do with his relationship with Blake? What if she was prompted to attack him because he was hurting, idk, Ruby or Weiss, or just a random victim? Is she in love with them, or is she saving them to save them? Or, did Adam corner Yang and she was prompted to defend herself? WE DON'T KNOW.

Not to mention, the video just focuses strongly on Blake's relationship with Adam. Twiins stated that Adam started with this, "I hate all humans," characterization, and I do believe that's what made people drawn in. He's a freedom fighter using violence to get equality. Blake was just an accessory to him and his story. I wouldn't be surprised if Adam never cared about Blake and it was all one-sided.

Everybody loves a villain that fights for the right things. I mean look at me - I love Ironwood. It's more than likely that fans found interest in Adam for taking on such a task that Blake didn't want to take on. Blake certainly stopped giving a shit about the WF and Faunus Rights after a while, as did the writing. Blake just handed the problem over to her parents and Ilia and skipped away with her girlfriend to do this stupid world-saving mission.

It's what's so frustrating, too. Adam seemed to be the only one speaking for the Faunus and WF. Blake certainly didn't. Adam was the only one doing remotely anything for his rights. Blake seemed to of accepted this passively racist society, hence why she let Cordovin slide with that racist remark. Had to give Weiss Savior a chance to glow and not the Faunus girl? The Faunus girl who's been "preaching" for her rights, but lets somebody else do the talking for her?

BTW let's not forget that Robyn is also being a racist shit towards Marrow. She called him "Wags." That's a big no-no to the Faunus people, that's a slur in their world. But, we don't talk about that...

The writers admitted that they had no idea what to do with the Faunus arc anymore, so they shelved it. This is why Adam suffers as a character because the writers had no idea what to do with this incredibly sensitive topic anymore. They created this arc and they - once again - dug themselves into a hole they had made and wondered why they can't get out.

And that's the big problem with the video. It's all cherry-picking. I would know - I am the cherry harvester of nitpicking.

[feysandandnyx]

Feyre grew up alone, she never knew what it was like to have a friend or people to take care of her. She was simply isolated inside her own home by her sisters. No one ever cared about what she needed even when it was evident that her clothes were reduced to rags. She still needed to hear for years how wild she was, filthy and ignorant to the point that the character felt like she was nobody's priority, that she was unimportant, that the only thing she liked (painting) was stupid and she barely she recognized herself as a beautiful person.

The way Feyre felt contributed to her falling in love with Tamlin and remaining in an abusive relationship, so guess what? She has lived abusive relationships her whole life. She didn't know what it was to love or be loved, she didn't know what it was like to be protected or to have someone who fought for her or that she could trust. All of this for certain stans to insist on reducing her loneliness and the treatment she received as a simple fight between sisters. It is not a simple disagreement when it shapes your personality and leaves wounds that you need to heal.

Abuses are not just physical or sexual. Abuses are also psychological and emotional. Psychological abuse occurs in a subtle way and usually the victim does not notice. It happens a lot among family members and is a way for the abuser to disparage, delegitimize and disregard the other. Some examples:

"Censoring the other's way of behaving or expressing himself, making jokes with the aim of embarrassing him, regulating who his sister may or may not go out with and threatening to reveal a secret to his parents are some common attacks among siblings when recurrent, they can characterize psychological abuse"

" They are intimidation, rejection, threats, humiliation, blackmail, discrimination, criticism of the body, isolation from friends and family and even preventing the person from using their own money. It makes the victim create a distorted perception of himself and reality ”

"The aggressor aims to make the victim insecure and cornered, so he uses a mechanism to attack his morale with curses or threats. "

Nesta was a fucking abuser with Feyre and I will always remember that!