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#rhysland
kataraavatara · 6 days
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“rhysand + ic have EVERY RIGHT to NEVER forgive Nesta for letting Feyre go out provide for their family at fourteen” please. look at hewn city. rhysand and the ic are literally the reigning champions of watching little girls suffer and not doing a thing to help them. so if anything it really should have been a bonding moment.
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rhysand bringing utm up around feyre then getting visibly upset when she tells him not to
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pestiset · 2 years
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uni is kicking my ass at the moment so in order to make myself feel better I’m tossing an upcoming chapter excerpt into the void. 
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Now
At Rhys’ command, her hand flared blue and she pressed it to the door, the smell of eezo, lyrium, and now faebane filled her nose, the lock clicked, and she fell through, landing on her hands and knees in the doorway. Scrambling in, she threw the door shut and leant her head back against it, eyes closed. 
Did she notice? 
Rhys was silent for a long moment. 
No, he eventually sent. 
Good. Go have a bath as soon as she lets you leave. 
The sound of movement caught her attention and she opened her eyes to find Lucien swaying on his feet, somehow still managing to hold an armchair in the air, legs out towards her. She grinned. 
“Hello there.” 
“Get out,” Lucien snarled as he lunged the chair towards her, only to stop short as he began to lose his balance. 
“Oh for fucks sake. Lucien put the chair away and sit down before you fall down. I’m here to help you.” 
“I don’t need help from anyone from Night,” he snapped at her, the ferocity in his words undermined as the chair began to wobble in his grip. 
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ascendgravity-moved · 9 months
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GENTLE FINGERS PRODED at Feyre's furrowed brow. Rhys hoped to smooth the lines there. "What's wrong?" he whispered, tugging his mate towards him as they sat on the couch in the river house. @iilvecchio
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altomer · 1 year
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Third Wheel (Part 1)
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Cassian X Reader X Nesta (TamlinxSister!Reader)
Warnings: Polyamorous relationship if you don't like it you don't have to read this fic thank you.
This is inspired by The Missing Piece By @violet-shadows
When the bond snapped I thought I was going to throw up.
Those strands snapping into place felt like a tidal wave against my shields. 
Cassian kept on chatting away and Nesta just sat. 
“Shit.” I thought. I stood excusing myself before rushing through the hallway of the vast palace. My heart was in my throat and tears stung my eyes. They were thrilled together if anything they completed each other. I on the other hand like Lucien had left the Spring Court after Feyre had left it in nothing but shambles. Tamlin was my brother but not even I could excuse the things he’s done. But that also meant that nobody here trusted me.
I looked up out of the huge windows onto the beautiful sparkling city below trying to calm my nerves. Azriel cleared his throat as he entered the room, glancing in my direction. Apparently, my sudden departure left more questions in the spy’s mind. He made his way to the chair a few feet behind me.
“What's going on?”
I threw him a look over my shoulder the last thing I needed was an interrogation no doubt Rhysland’s doing. Azriel just held my stare his questions burning in hazel eyes. 
“I’m just overwhelmed.” it wasn’t a lie the bond was strong at least for me it was like nothing I ever felt before. I heard Azriel stand. “What do you know about a Triad mating bond?” I turned to stare straight into his eyes not letting any bit of uncertainty cross my face. It was a dangerous question to close to the truth that if Azriel was smart- which he was- he would be able to put the pieces together.
But I needed to put all of the pieces together myself I had read small passages here and there but nothing prepared me to be in one, and Azriel well he was Azriel. He scrunched his brows giving me a wary look.
“Why?”
I held his stare
“For a friend.”
He took a moment to scan my face, he didn’t trust me. No one here did, and with Lucien in the human realm.
“Nevermind.” I just turned and walked away. I didn’t want to watch him pick me apart with one look. I knew he wouldn’t tell me and he would probably run right to Rhysand anyway. I had to do this on my own at least until the bond snapped into place for them. I stopped in the middle of the hallway.
What would happen when the bond snapped for them?
I closed my eyes, they were happy they had each other. 
Was I destined to be without them? Was this some final sick joke from the universe?
I had found my mate or mates, but they thought I was a spy, a traitor, a monster. Just how they saw Tamlin and Ianthe. I was going to be sick. 
I didn’t sleep that night or the next two. It finally got so bad that Azriel found me asleep face down on a plate of food. The bags under my eyes were noticeable and finally I was cornered by the spy.
“Why haven’t you been sleeping?” He questioned his arms crossed over his chest his siphons sparking.
Nesta looked up from where she sat reading and my heart jumped. I looked back to Azriel and he hadn’t budged
“Nightmares.” I said bluntly trying to push past him. He stood firm raising his eyebrows, 
“Are you sure.” he said almost mockingly. I took a step back a baffled look on my face. Nesta had closed her book by now and was fully listening.
“Excuse me?” I almost laughed. I was exhausted I couldn’t sleep because everytime my eyes closed I saw us. Me, Nesta, Cassian we were happy and in love. It could be us wandering through the city. Or it was us fighting. Side by side fierce and strong together. 
It killed me. Or it was working on it. Azriel gave me a smirk. “Here, it's a book on Triads,” he said handing me a very old book before glancing to Nesta and walking out. I stood there book in my hand. Why? I thought Why would he help me?
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adelindschade · 2 years
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A Thousand Cuts
dedicated to @c-e-d-dreamer and @obsessedwithallthingsbookrelated for 2 things: the snippets and the short multi-parts that have me gripping the edge of my seat. So, I shall add my own to add to punishment. Part 1 of likely 2 or 3 until I overcome my writer’s block. 
@a-court-of-valkyries, @theladyofbloodshed, y’all give me life with your good shit, too, so let me repay you for all the comfort fics! 
Trigger warning: suicide, cutting, blood loss. Bonus: healing, comfort, and the valkyries. 
The one where Nesta is taken seriously after a close call and Cassian takes immediate action to make things right. 
Nesta was grateful for the robe to conceal her bandages. The wraps around her wrist were unsettling to look at, and likely to evoke curiosities from the braver of the warriors of whom they accompanied around the fire.
She winced at the towering flames kissed the sky, a pyre built in memory of those fallen from the blood rite. In the rare occasion, males and females mingled – those traditional roles remained, with the latter subservient and placating them with a bounty of prepared food and plenty of drinks.
Emerie kept her company, aware of her hesitation to be within audible distance of the awful crackling and snaps the fire made – sparks flying when blackened wood became too brittle and worn to remain upright. It clattered when it made its descent, feeding the fire higher, and a resounding cheer rejoicing at the sudden liveliness it adopted in a spurred moment.
In the shadows, under low limbs, Emerie and Nesta sought shelter from afar, and watched the festivities. The ascent was slow and painstaking, as Nesta hobbled on her braced leg – still healing from the shattered bone that transpired after her fateful fall down those damned stairs. Her second unsuccessful attempt at ending her misery, the first thwarted by Azriel when he spied how she lingered too close to the ledge, assessing the height as he correctly surmised that she was preparing to throw herself over – as if the plummet would kill her with her winged ‘guardians’ standing vigilant watch. One of them would scoop her up and locked her up for good.
Which they did, under the guise of recovery. She was quick to act when her first attempt had been thwarted. Throwing herself down the staircase was a miserably, awful, and botched attempt to end her suffering. It only amplified it, as she rattled her head and shattered her leg. It remained unnaturally bent for quite some time as she agonized in bed, a captive under the ruse of nursing her back to health. No privacy, no freedom, and all the aches one could imagine as she endured a barrage of visitors.
It was the last one that sent her in a panic, overcoming the anguish of applying pressure to a leg that could not stand on its own, and desperately seeking salvation in the form of finality. A fool proof plan unlike the ones before it.
If Cassian and Azriel couldn’t properly look after her, Rhysland would himself, and with Feyre fretting over her health, she’d enjoy having her eldest sister near and under her watch. The prospect of being their prisoner had propelled her to seek whatever means necessary to prevent that hellish ordeal.
They made a grave error of leaving a pitcher in her room. She didn’t care for the water inside it, or the food that had been left untouched on the tray discarded on her dresser. She smashed the pitcher, knowing the commotion would compel them to clamber up to her quarters, and intervene once more. They already denied her a dignified death in the human lands despite casting her own vote – she would not let them take this from her, too.
It had to be quick. Once the cut was made, it was only a matter of precious minutes before she’d bleed out. She had be determined and make it deep, too deep to cot. The initial strike against her skin stun, and it drew blood, but not enough to pool. She had to go in again, scraping, and whimpering behind clenched teeth to hold back the screaming she wanted to unleash as every fiber in her body cried out, begging for her to drop the porcelain piece. Her fingers were slipping as the slick red substance coated the glossy white finish, unable to keep straight as her fingers and wrist trembled.
She had to be certain this would leave no room for error. With one wrist maimed, and aching, she bit back a howl as she employed the same carnage onto the other, stabbing crudely and dragging it down. The blood poured unlike the other, as Nesta seemingly learned from her mistakes. The bloodied kitchenware clattered between her knees as she slumped by the bed, watching her own life source drain out. She allowed the warmth to consume her, and her eye lids flutter shut, grateful for sleep as fatigue began to numb the searing pain stemming from her arms.
Her breathing haggard and her vision began to list, in and out, and not quite centered. Her head spun and yet felt like a ginormous weight on her shoulders. She made the mistake of tipping back in a slump and falling backwards, landing hard on the floor with a notable thud.
She was alarmed no one had come to investigate yet. The clatter of broken porcelain ought to have alerted them something was amiss. Cassian had been a persistent shadow under her door for days while she was on the mend, refusing to indulge him or any other visitor besides Gwyn or Emerie, of whom she felt compelled to profusely apologize for. It wasn’t their fault she wasn’t well or deserving of their friendship. It was wasted. Her life was a waste.
She was grateful for Azriel. He had insisted on allowing them to visit, arguing against Rhysland’s orders to keep the matter private. He had been informed about Nesta’s witnessed attempt to throw herself to certain death, and how she found a second means to do it. To prevent a third, she was confined, and it helped she only had one viable leg to stand on. She was condemned to isolation, until Azriel spoke up, and Emerie and Gwyn were admitted into her dank quarters.
She’d miss them, she thought in what she had believed to be her final moments. It was too rushed, spurred by panic, for her to consider a heartfelt note to either of them for their kindness. With hazy eyes and last remnant of strength, she fought back a scream as her wrists throbbed. In her own blood-stained fingertips, she could barely see what she was scrawling on the floor. It was shaky and nothing like Nesta’s neat script that had been beaten into her. Far from perfect, she etched her best apology, and laid limp on the floor as she accepted what would be her final demise.
Or so she thought.
The distant pounding in her head had been the battering of thundering fists atop her door. She was too far gone to even pry her eyes open. She welcomed the sweet lull of sleep and ignored the noise.
What happened between then and how she landed in Emerie’s closet room was beyond her comprehension. She shouldn’t have been alive. She should be dead. A sob wrecked her throat, and she bellowed a wail as she realized she had failed again. There was no escape. Then Emerie had said the most soothing words: You’re staying with me.
Someone had neatly done her wrappings, and her brace reset with the promise of improvement now that Nesta could come to a rise with the aid of a crutch tucked under her arm to alleviate some of the weight. She hobbled around, getting used to the mechanism, and preferring long sleeves to avoid looking at the damage she self-inflicted. She relegated herself to bookkeeping, as mobility was still a challenge.
She received gifts. Visitors, not so much. Balthazar was a welcomed stranger who’d soon become a friend, a common face who bid good wishes and cheer. She liked his humor, and he wasn’t scared of the big, bad witch she had been rumored to be in those mountainous parts. Gwyn had sent numerous letters, with Nesta eagerly replying with positive updates to keep Gwyn’s optimism high. Her energy was contagious, and her encouragement tenderly embraced.
The gifts were obvious. The sender unseen. Cassian kept his distance, warded by Emerie who told him his presence may evoke the opposite response than what he had hoped. Nesta needed patience, and space, and he reluctantly obliged, as Nesta saw no sign of him beyond just the carefully wrapped parcels he left in his place.
Books from her collection, which he wrote in his scribe to keep her company and in good spirits. New books that he supposed were similar to those he found in her shelves. Unopened letters from her sister that she couldn’t bring herself to read. Correspondence with the High Lord himself, which she found insulting. Much like Feyre’s words, his went unacknowledged, and she went so far to toss it in the fire, cursing his name.
After Emerie reiterated how unwelcomed the High Lord’s ‘well wishes’ had been to Azriel, on an unassuming day he swooped down to her shop to inquire about Nesta’s development, the letters stopped immediately after. Nesta’s health depended on it, it was decided. No one wanted to risk provoking another trigger to send her into an episode.
When asked if she was willing to meet some other faces, Nesta reluctantly agreed. Azriel was the first to be greeted and the exchange was awkward. Physical contact was scarce until the last moment when he enveloped her, careful not to squeeze too hard. She stood limp and confused. He had been worried, and then grateful, to see she was on her feet and had color in her cheeks. He promised his next visit he’d accompany Gwyn for a proper reunion between friends.
Even Azriel knew better than to ask if she’d be open to meeting Cassian after her failed attempt. Emerie was the one who eventually bridge the gap in her memory, with Azriel feeding her details while Nesta nestled away in the shop.
Cassian had felt it – what she had done to herself, he felt it. He rose in a panic and raced up to her room, beating on the door and demanding to be let in. Something – a force – had obstructed him. The smell of blood had sent him into a flurry, able to break through the barrier with the assistance of Azriel and Rhys who pummeled into the room, and into a nightmare. The blood was the first thing they saw, and smelt, in abundance. Nesta’s pale, ashen feet stuck out from the foot of the bed. They had to stumble over each other to see where the bed itself shielded the rest of her body, and discovered her pale, would be corpse barely clinging to life as her nightgown absorbed the awful red which stuck to her limbs.
Feyre had to be held back by one of them while Cassian administered aid, quickly tearing at the sheets to tightly tie around her wrists and removing Nesta from the scene to further examine her for wounds.
It was a miracle she survived – but then again, the Goddess of Death couldn’t just die, could she? It was a dreadful curse. The Cauldron cursed her when she scraped out her dreaded magic. She punished it and it ruined her.
How she ended up in Emerie’s was still puzzling, though Nesta had been informed Cassian advocated for it – inspired by how Nesta perked up when she saw her friends after Azriel lead them in.  Rhys contested it but Azriel must have stepped in to vouch on Cassian’s behalf – and in turn, Nesta’s. Feyre would agree to anything if it meant her sister could get better, so Rhys conceded.
It was not in vain. Nesta was making leaps and bounds under Emerie’s tentative care. No hovering, no demands, just pleasant company, and assurances to boost morale.  
Eventually, Emerie succeeded where others had not, and coaxed the recovering Nesta out to celebrate. Carnage wasn’t something she could understand was worth the festivities, let alone slaughtering for status, but the Blood Rite had been a traditional engrained in these parts for centuries – and as set in time as seasonal changes. It was a way of life, just as war had been. These trials were something significant, and while she may not agree, she was in no place to speak out against them when she herself was a foreigner.
It was an honor to share a piece of Emerie’s home and participate in their celebrations. Balthazar wasn’t a champion, but he was a survivor, something worth a toast as they reunited briefly. Hugs were discouraged with so many prying eyes, which was disheartening.
“Next year,” Emerie toasted. “We’ll get the Valkyries together and we’ll beat them at their own game.”
“This is terrible,” Nesta grimaced as she took a sip. She tried to hold back a choke, but it came out as sputter, poorly concealed behind her hand. Emerie chortled at her disgusted expression.
“It’s an acquired taste,” Emerie grinned, taking a second lug. “What do you say? We take the peak and call ourselves champions?”
“Carynthians,” Nesta corrected, sharing a short-lived smile with her friend, “and I wouldn’t mind giving it another go. I really dropped the ball on the Valkyries, didn’t I?” she mellowed out, frowning. Her shoulders buckled.
“You weren’t well. Don’t blame yourself too harshly. We don’t,” Emerie assured. “One day at a time,” she promised, clasping a hand over her shoulders. “You’re doing great.”
Nesta noticed how alert Emerie had become, narrowing her eyes suspiciously to the skies. A lot of the Illyrians flew, much to the disparage of the females whose wings had be crudely maimed – including Emerie’s, who’s tattered skin on her own prized wings twitched out of habit.
“Are you okay?” Nesta asked, concerned.
“It’s not me I’m worried about. We got company. You know who else is attending tonight.”
Nesta looked up, apprehensive. Her breath caught in her throat, and she sat stiff, petrified. It was a big event – and she knew Rhysland, Cassian, and Azriel were prominent victors. Their appearance was very much required as it was a social obligation as leaders. Rebellion was too much of an imminent threat to not implement their presence.
“They won’t – will they?” Nesta stammered, holding in her breath.
“They promised they wouldn’t, but you know Cassian will hover,” Emerie mused disgruntledly. “He’s worried and this isn’t exactly the safest place. His instincts will be on high alert. He won’t be able to help it. He’ll want to see you’re okay. You should – maybe – just once, so he can see for himself…” she struggled to say.
“I’m not ready to see anyone,” Nesta replied nervously, fiddling with her cuffs. The bandages were more so to prevent her from looking at the scars. They wounds have closed up, no longer bleeding, but the physical reminder was ghastly. She would be wearing long sleeves and gloves for the remainder of her existence, embarrassed to explain her ugly marks were self-induced.
“Give yourself a chance to prove you can do it. Small steps. I’ll be with you the entire time. Nothing to be afraid of. He’ll be glad and he’ll respect your space once he knows you’re okay.” Emerie persisted.
“Azriel can tell him,” Nesta grumbled, having been used to the routine.
“Cassian needs to hear from you. You don’t need to make conversation. He just wants to see with his own eyes you’re improving. Maybe he has some things to say that would interest you. You can’t hide forever,” Emerie consoled, tucking back a strand of hair.
Nesta had decided to leave it down, finding it a pain to braid it when it required her to look at the extensive damage she committed to her own flesh. The bandages wound come undone and she’d see just how deeply she cut, horrifying Nesta immensely. Ever since, if Emerie couldn’t braid her hair, she opted to pin it back behind her ears, and hide the rest of the length under the hood.
“Cassian barred the High Lord from ever visiting here, except for tonight, of course, but he fears his brother’s proximity might inflict more harm than good. He was to remain far, far away from you, and Cassian made good on that promise. If it’s the High Lord your fear, it’s unfounded.”
“Cassian doesn’t tell Rhys no,” Nesta refuted.
“He does when he nearly lost his mate. The High Lord knows what happens when one loses their mate. He does not want his General to go mad, so he relents to the request. I consider that a notable show of respect.”
Nesta froze. “Mate?” she whispered, gripped in terror. Her knuckles were ashen.
“It takes great restraint for a one to keep away from their cauldron chosen. He loves you dearly to honor your wishes. Cassian wants nothing more than for you to get better. You ought to show him it’s not in vain. He’ll be glad to see your improvement.”
“No, no, no,” Nesta rejected in a flurry. “We’re not mates.”
“Forgive me. Azriel said…” Emerie stumbled over her words. Her eyes widened in akin panic.
“Azriel is lying! We’re not – no, it’s not possible!” Nesta shrilled, startling nearby critter into a scurry.
“Any louder and you’ll give away our location,” Emerie hushed. “I misspoke. I apologize.”
Nesta caved, crumbling into herself. She had no choice, did she? The cauldron took it all. Her weeping sounded like the wails of a widow, deafened by the hurrah of the celebration below them. She wanted to hide forever, in these mountains with the brutes, and far from Velaris where she would be a hostage to her sister’s cruel court and all their strange customs, deemed by entities who have done nothing but strip away her humanity.
She wept into Emerie’s chest when the latter tugged her into a hug, cradling her face as Nesta’s teeth clattered, tasting salt as her tears cascaded down.
“That is something you must decide for yourself. To accept or reject the bond, that is up to you, but let him speak his case before you make that choice,” Emerie consoled, stroking her hair. “If you did not know, or doubted it, that there are more pressing matters you should address before making a conclusion. If he had his reasons, hear him out before passing judgement.”
“I’m not ready,” Nesta sobbed, wrapped around her. “I just can’t.”
“Nesta.”
“No.”
“Nesta!”
“I can’t!”
“Look!”
“Not yet!”
“The fire! Look at the fire!”
Nesta heaved her head from Emerie’s chest to see the blame – once bright and orange – suddenly tinted silver and the coldest of blue from within. Everyone grew quiet around it, stunned, and Nesta watched in awe as it danced and flickered soundlessly.
There, in the front line, with nothing else making noise, Nesta’s wailing had caught the attention of three significant heads that towered over the rest of the locals. The siphons stood out – glowing brightly to rival the magic seeping from the strange colored fire.
The red stood out the brightest, but the blue stood the closest. Rhys made the first move, but Cassian growled loud enough to rival a clap of thunder, warding his High Lord off.
“Let’s leave, please,” Nesta begged.
“No, you’re not a coward, Nesta. Not anymore.”  
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azayakanna · 1 year
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preview of one of the looks I shot wearing these epic angel wings ! It’s giving Rhysland’s ginger sibling who has the wings of a crow…or is it just giving Lady of the Night Court ?? Anyway, this is my pitch to the folks writing the TV adaptation that my no name-ass should be invited to an audition.
photographer is @ sarahgatesphoto on Instagram ⚔️❤️
https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZTRstthSJ/
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ripdragonbeans · 11 months
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Thanks for the tag @talesofoldandnew @marthawrites !!! Oof let's see where this goes
I really had to rack my brain for fandoms I've been part of 😅
No pressure tags: @arcielee @aemondx @osferthsbussy @sapphire-writes @valeskafics @theold-ultraviolence
10 fandoms, 10 characters
1. AEMOND - House of the Dragon
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2. FEYRE AND RHYSLAND (we know they're always a package deal) - A Court of Thorns and Roses
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3. EPONINE - Les Miserables
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4. 11TH DOCTOR - Doctor Who
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5. BRIENNE OF TARTH - Game of Thrones
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6. PERRY - Phineas and Ferb
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7. ALPHONSE ELRIC - Fullmetal Alchemist Brotherhood
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8. RAYMOND HOLT - Brooklyn 99
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9. WANDA MAXIMOFF // SCARLET WITCH - Marvel MCU
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10. DR. TEMPERANCE BRENNAN - Bones
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rhysandman · 1 year
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˙  ˖  ╱   ⊰⠀ 𝐁𝐀𝐃 𝐁𝐎𝐘 𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐍   ⊱  não é surpresa contar com a presença de RHYSAND LOUSNTAK TRIGUBOFF no instituto de rosis esse ano! todos sabem que ele é um DUQUE, vindo da AUSTRÁLIA, porque aqui as fofocas correm rápido. ouvi dizer que apesar de seus VINTE E SETE anos, ele pode ser bastante EGOCÊNTRICO quando está de mau humor, mas sua ASTÚCIA compensa. além disso, se parece muito com uma celebridade do antigo mundo chamada JACOB ELORDI. você não acha?
 * 𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬.  * 𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐬. * 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬.  * 𝐭𝐚𝐠 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝.  
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primeiro filho da austrália ⠀ :⠀      
about⠀ :⠀       Rhysand veio ao mundo na iminência do nascer do sol ; seu nascimento foi relativamente tranquilo, o maior estresse vindo de sua chegada tão cedo pela manhã. Ao encarar a criança de olhos avelã com manchas parciais de prata como a luz das estrelas, o governante da Austrália profetizou que o filho estava fadado à grandeza. Até o segundo nome carregava um significado oculto, sendo ele ‘’coroa de luz’’, indicando que o Triguboff teria um futuro promissor   —  nascido com um título que teria sido mais fácil de suportar se o medo de quebrar as expectativas criadas pelo pai não fossem tão grandes. Sendo o primogênito, ele cresceu mimado até o âmago. Não havia nada que não estivesse acessível à seus dedos e ele se acostumou a ter suas demandas atendidas. Quando ainda era apenas uma criança, Rhysand costumava ter acessos de raiva que podiam ser ouvidos em todo o oeste.
⠀ ⠀       Uma das poucas coisas que sempre conseguia acalmar a tempestade sob sua pele era o treinamento. Ele gostava da fisicalidade, da maneira como podia se concentrar em seu corpo em vez de em sua mente acelerada. Ele aprendeu a usar uma espada muito bem, mas é ainda melhor com adagas  —  sente como se fossem extensões de si mesmo, um conforto escuso de quando acerta seus alvos. E é claro que por trás de um bom lutador, tinha um mentor experiente. Seu tio era dono de um espírito livre capaz de aliviar o peso dos ombros que Rhysand sentia constantemente e tornaram-se próximos o suficiente para o mais velho o tratar como um verdadeiro filho. O levou para viagens desde muito jovem, sob o pretexto de estabelecer conexões com outros países e procurar possíveis noivados para Rhysand, mas na verdade só ensinou para o sobrinho como a vida era muito melhor por trás dos muros.
⠀       Seu primeiro coração partido foi quando precisou assistir o tio ser exilado como prova de lealdade, o que foi motivo de deixar Rhys revoltado e implacável em suas ações. Ele já não era a criança fadada à grandeza como seu pai determinou em seu nascimento, e o medo de decepcioná-lo foi trocado pelo receio de ter sua liberdade e independência censurada. Quase como um Oraculo, ele previu o que estava por vir. Seu segundo coração partido foi quando cometeu os mesmos erros do homem que tanto admirava, apaixonando-se por uma Venéfica que conheceu por acaso, mas mentalizava que apenas poderia ter sido destino. Sua sorte não durou muito tempo já que os pais descobriram seu caso secreto e proibiram o romance de perseverar ; estava pronto para arrumar as malas e esperar o comunicado de exílio, mas os progenitores o presentearam com um castigo pior: a intimidação. Advertiram que Rhysland precisava ser mais prudente, afinal, ele ainda era o primogênito e precisava estar preparado caso seu nome fosse o sorteado para ser o próximo governante da Austrália. Caso contrário, a Venéfica com quem tinha se relacionado, misteriosamente, desapareceria.
⠀ ⠀       Rhysland atribuiu a si mesmo como lobo em pele de cordeiro para despistar os pais de sua personalidade irreversível. É um tanto arrogante, pois ele sabe exatamente o quão bonito é, ocasionalmente fazendo piadas e comentários sobre sua beleza estonteante. Ele é extremamente sombrio em termos de seu comportamento e tem um ar de mistério e sensualidade em torno dele. Lida com tudo com um certo nível de casualidade, cortesia e graça que é tão selvagem e perigoso quanto bonito e notável. Contudo, a maior parte disso é apenas uma máscara. Sob ela, Rhys é uma pessoa amável, generosa e humilde. Ele é um "paquerador descarado" e é especialista em manipulação, engano e mentiras. Além disso, o Triguboff também é capaz de esconder suas emoções perfeitamente. Sob as sombras e a frieza que parece retratar sempre, ele ama ferozmente as pessoas com quem realmente se preocupa e sacrificaria qualquer coisa para mantê-las seguras e ilesas.
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wepurge-rpg · 1 year
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Mi partner ha dejado el rol por los comentarios que se hacen aqui / Ojalá haya sido Gael/Billie / Gael fue a Palm Bitch, es Rhysland
palm bish
R.
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kataraavatara · 12 days
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“rhysand hates nesta because he can never forgive ANYONE who hurt feyre for ANY REASON” meanwhile in book one he’s yanking feyre’s exposed arm bone around like it was a joystick. so it seems forgiveness is possible.
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finae-bookshelf · 3 years
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Mor whenever a mate reveal happens with an Archeron and is called to winnow them away
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anawoods · 3 years
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Best Friends, Right?
Flirty texting back and forth
For all the heavy petting we can’t afford
Heavy breathing through the phone
Always being careful of our tone
Deprived of sweet release
Our words putting each other at ease
So call me a brat so I can call you a tease
The only thing I want is to please
I can almost feel your touch
But we both know it’s far too much
Back to friends we go
Think of me when you’re alone
Just a pretty picture on your phone
I know it’s risky
But baby we can’t get frisky
So I’ll lean forward and show off
Just begging for you to rip my clothes off
Cause you’re just a tease
So willing to please
Things get hot, too much
So I drive off without a touch
Regret on my mind, back to friends we go
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merrosa · 3 years
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Idk where else to talk about this but I finished the second book in ACOTR series and I understand why everyone hates Tamlin
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tallulahseidel-blog · 5 years
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This song give anyone Feyre and Rhys on Starfall vibes?
Credit to whoever coloured the picture below.
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adelindschade · 2 years
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A Thousand Barricades (A Thousand Cuts, Part 26)
Nessian Talk about Rhysland (and their mutual grudge). 
Windhaven had become fortified. Cassian confirmed as much as he inspected the great wall erected around the camp’s perimeter. It stretched miles upon miles. At first glimpse, it was unassuming enough. Any winged Illyrian should be able to surpass it, as he did so effortlessly, but his siphons burned the brightest hue as he neared the boundary. Magic didn’t just create it – it tainted it with something more. There was an unforeseen wall cast from the stone foundation, reaching high into the sky.
The air around it felt heavier and foreboding. The kind that carried storm clouds and howling winds, warning those not to trespass. The sight troubled Cassian, as it did Devlon. Cassian didn’t miss the bandage around the veteran’s hand either, nor the swelling and red searing marks that maimed his palm and knuckles when Devlon exposed the wound to quell Cassian’s curiosity.
The damn witch did it, the elder hissed through his teeth. The fresh injury hindered him for the rest of the day, unable to even tolerate water as it blistered open. Devlon breached a boundary with Nesta, and he paid for it painfully. Cassian would have punished Devlon himself if Nesta hadn’t already left her damning mark.  
“Perhaps it’s a way Nesta is protecting herself, and the people she treasures most, without realizing it. The Cauldron voiced that it’s protective of her, acting on her behalf whether she wishes it or not,” Gwyn provided in their rare walks together. “This could be its way of making Windhaven, well, a haven.”
That could explain the sudden erection of buildings and their furnishings. A months work was narrowed to days. Wards that required centuries of bloodlines and knowledge implemented just as quickly as Nesta’s beloved main street. The Cauldron prized Nesta for a purpose, sheltering her, and warding off those who sought to do her harm. Ironic how something she feared, something she stole from, was now providing everything her heart desired.
Cassian had wanted Nesta to embrace his home, but he never imagined she’d do so in such a way.  He wasn’t sure what to make of it. Did this mean she had no intention to leave? Or maybe the Cauldron wanted her to have no reason to leave – and if so, what was the reasoning behind it?
He knew there was nothing left in Velaris for her. No apartment, no friends, no family she felt comfortable around, and no source of income to rely on. With Windhaven, a war camp of all places, Nesta had nurtured everything she couldn’t in Rhys’ city of dreams. In many ways, Windhaven had become what Gwyn assumed it had been: Nesta’s personal sanctuary. Cassian didn’t celebrate it as much as he wished to because he also understood Nesta was withdrawing herself and enforcing stronger walls beyond just the physical component.
The only difference was she had allowed a handful in, and Cassian couldn’t take for granted he was one of them. What kind of state was his family if she felt more at home with brutes and heathens? Not that she saw Illyria as such, not in the way Rhys and Azriel and the rest of them did.
Nesta chose Illyria because of Emerie, and Cassian was fortunate enough to be granted a second chance. Azriel always had a place in her good graces and Gwyn was now amongst them braving the world outside the library. Nesta had everything she needed here – and the plans she intended were just beginning. Cassian wanted to rejoice in her enthusiasm, but another complication nagged at him.
What if she couldn’t break away from the barrier she subconsciously enforced? What if she was tethered here for good – or the new developments she made relied on proximity, so that she needed to remain stationary for them to exist? What if Nesta didn’t want to part for Windhaven, even if only for a holiday? It’d be like cutting the heel of a horse – hindering any chance at reconciliation he hoped for the sisters. No solstice celebrations, birthdays, or ceremonies – none of them of which she would attend, not if it meant leaving her fortified city.
The side-by-side comparison to Velaris was startling. Rhys had the same ambition for his beloved city, protecting it avidly with wards and oaths of secrecy. Windhaven was a known camp but nothing worth chatter outside it’s grizzled reputation; Nesta had plans to make something of it, and by the looks of the barrier, few would be permitted to see exactly what.
Rhys had his home, made centuries ahead. Nesta was making hers, catching up quickly. And Cassian was wedged between the two.
“Or maybe the Cauldron has something else in store,” Gwyn proposed. She was the one filling conversation while Cassian mulled in his head. “Maybe it’s using Nesta to stake a claim on this place and fulfilling her whims to distract her from it’s intention. Nesta did say this thing craved a blood sacrifice of some sort, or retribution maybe – but for what – I don’t know. If it desires war and destruction, a war camp would be the perfect place for it to hide. It wouldn’t need to do anything – just wait for another battle and feast on the bloodbath that ensues.”
Illyria was already on the cusp of rebellion, and Windhaven and Ironcrest were divided down the middle. If it played a hand in relocating Nesta to where bitter war waged, Cassian wouldn’t doubt it, and Nesta would be none the wiser as she was too occupied trying to revitalize the place to help it’s clueless inhabitants.
Gwyn shrugged.
“Nesta is death incarnate. Or Cauldron carved. Whatever you want to call her,” Gwyn said. “Her powers are stronger where death and misery breeds.”
Cassian stopped in his tracks and struggled to find his breath. Gwyn’s theory was like a punch to his gut. It would explain a lot. The sudden burst of power that she had otherwise neglected. The extremity of the barrier. The way she could materialize and manifest whatever she fixated on. The severity of her scorching fire and the calamity it could cause to those she harbored ill towards.
Cassian believed it to be a defense mechanism, impressed with her sudden control as she embraced it in the latter weeks. There was no personality change to indicate that her progress with the deep magic could have been anything insidious. If anything else, he praised her because the degree of magic she wielded was unlike any other he encountered. It demanded to be mastered. Nesta was good as any to control the wickedness she hollowed from the Cauldron. He firmly believed in her.
And despite his newfound fears Gwyn sowed, he still did. Nesta was still his Nes. Nothing about her had shaped itself into a stranger he disliked. Time has only fostered his adoration of her, grown into something unshakable – love. He could still recognize her down to the root.
He loved her, even if he was scared to say it aloud, too frightened the word would send her running away as he knew she, too, was ill-prepared for the ramification such a sentiment held. The connection was undeniably there. Neither refuted it. The bond was intact. Stronger than ever.
“So you think the Cauldron intends to keep me captive in Windhaven?” Nesta asked when Cassian mustered the courage to breach the topic.  He liked their honest conversation. They were fluid and not wrought with trepidation. There was no anger or anxiety to curb either of them. It was a long road to get there but he was grateful they could make the journey.
“It’s a theory,” he wagered, lounged before the hearth over a Bears’ fur. “I believe Gwyn is correct to assume the reason your magic is manifesting stronger here than anywhere else because of the fact it’s a war camp. The centuries of slaughter and misery here is palpable. You’d have an endless supply of death to fuel your magic.”
“Windhaven would be like a… somewhere to recharge?” she mused, taking in his words seriously. She was captivated and it was a strange, foreign feeling to have her full, undivided attention. No ridicule or scoffing to dismantle his pride. No insult to spar to bruise his ego or dismiss him.
“A base,” Cassian redefined. Somewhere to protect, not like Velaris which was a prize that Rhys held above all else. Windhaven was a fortress impossible to penetrate. A place to call home for few and feared by those who resided outside its walls for what it contained. Never in a million years would Cassian think Windhaven could inspire hope and shed its skin to become something far more formidable, let alone to become a nightmare worthy of all courts to rightfully shudder at the prospect of.
His brows knitted together as he tried to mend the vision Nesta aspired, and the horrific possibility Gwyn proposed earlier. Windhaven held potential but for whom? A new beginning for his people or a nightmare for all of Prythian?
“Should I be scared?” She asked. Her voice did not tremble. He couldn’t bring himself to answer and he felt shame for his hesitation. Cassian meant well with his silence, but he did not want to frighten her with his own doubts. “I’m not nor will I be,” she swore. “I’ve been a captive my entire life. My mother’s, my sister and her husband’s, but I swear it on all the Gods that preside over us, the Cauldron will not be my next master.”
Nesta’s absolution shook him to his core and his body struck stiff. The blue-silver fire that danced before them reflected in her eyes, as if waiting for her command.
“I took from it as revenge. I cannot get back what it took from me. That has been made clear and it will no longer hold it as leverage over me. That’s how we parted and that’s how it will remain,” she declared with an iciness to rival winter itself. “I made a promise I’d sooner die than be a prisoner. The Cauldron denied me that right, so I will deny it it’s ambition.” She turned, entrancing him with a stare to cut down armies. “It made a mistake spitting me out rather than swallow me whole, and it will regret it for the rest of its miserable existence.”
The fire in the hearth softened, and then shrunk, until it was nothing, but an ember and the room filled with darkness. Cassian held his breath.
“I felt violated, and poisoned,” Nesta spoke, cutting through the heavy silence. “I feared the Cauldron and its terribleness, and I allowed that fear to dictate me. I swallowed it down rather than acknowledge my triumph, to admit I was changed for good. I hoped perhaps a piece of my humanity could be salvaged, a trade to be made, but I no longer seek to gain what I lost. It would be in vain. I took something that wasn’t mine, Cassian, but it took something that didn’t belong to it either. One wound for another.”
The ember grew, brighter and brighter, and his skin pricked with heat as it touched the outer stone. Before it could kiss their feet, it redacted itself into the hearth as it once did. She was demonstrated her mastery, fixed on the fire with a steely gaze.
“This magic I have, it’s mine,” Nesta raised her chin defiantly. “I’m no longer a spoil of war. This magic I have was won rightfully fair, and if the Cauldron thinks it can best me a second time, it is sorely mistaken.” She growled out the last syllables, and the fire shrunk back further as her anger seeped through.
Cassian swallowed apprehensively.
Nesta made a fair point: she bested the Cauldron and there was no reprisal for the latter to regain higher ground. She defeated it, took her reaping, and left it to tend it’s wounds. There would be no way it’d outmatch her, not now as she began to indulge in the possibilities of the coveted weapon she had in her arsenal.
He turned to the fire, wondering if it illuminated his expression. He feared for Rhys, wondering if her vengeance went beyond the Cauldron. If it wasn’t for her sisterly affections towards Feyre, what recourse would Rhys have to protect himself from her wrath after his indiscretions?
“I have theories of my own. I understand I have a habit of burying my emotions, and it’s a burden. I wound myself, and then I wound others, when it becomes too much to bear. If I don’t express it, my magic will, and if I’m not careful, it’s not my words that will strike, but a far deadlier branch of myself I don’t know if I can undo.” She admitted. He detected a trace of timidness. “It acts out when I don’t. If we are to be one of the same, I need to master my control, rather than suppress it.”  
“You’re saying the fortification wasn’t the Cauldron’s doing but your own?” Cassian bravely inserted himself back into conversation.
“I never had a place of my own that I could consider home and now I do,” Nesta answered. His heart skipped a beat. “I feel safe here, Cassian, and I do not wish to part from it, or the Fae who call it home, too. When Rhys threatened to summon me, I remembered my apartment, and how quickly that had been pried from me. I’ve been stripped away from so much in life. I will not let that happen again, and before I could think of how, the wall must have formed on my behalf.”
“Can you repeal it?” he wondered, ignoring the gnaw of guilt that plagued him as he, too, remembered that dismal abode and it’s many, many locks. Those locks had nothing on the fortification Cassian and Devlon discovered earlier that day. She was strengthening her magic – and enforcing her barriers – and unknowingly, too.  
“Can Rhysland breach it?” she countered sharply. That’s where her priority lied – and Cassian couldn’t fault her given the tumultuous history between her and His High Lord.
An impasse. Her tilted his head, equally curious if Rhys’ magic could rival her own – or even Lucien’s. Was the fortress truly impenetrable? If so, what price would Fae pay to breach it, or wager to replicate it? Cassian smile grimly as he knew Nesta would not take up bribes to do anyone else’s bidding. If she could resist Tamlin’s glamour, there was no way to prevail over whatever her mind composed.
“I say we invite him to attempt it,” Cassian half-joked.
“If he can’t, will he consider me a rebel, too, for barring him entry?”
Good question. She had a right to ask. This time, however, she did not tremble, or even delight as the chance to best Rhys. She was cold, calculating, and Cassian ought to have taken precaution, too, the consequences of testing Rhys’ patience.
“You could propose single combat,” Cassian chuffed in an attempt to keep up humor. “Humble him a bit.”
She dragged out a sip of her tea, making Cassian wonder if she was truly considering it.
“Is that what it will take for him to respect me?” she asked curiously enough. “Is that the only way for us to find peace? If one of us dispatches the other to their tomb?”
It sure felt like that sometimes. Their rivalry was intense.
“You frighten him, Nesta. Take some reassurance in that.” That’s what kept him away so far. The ashes of the Beron still haunted him. If she could dispatch a king, that was one feat; to kill a High Lord with his own magic, with her lack of knowledge, terrified Rhys as he faced the question of his own mortality. Nesta would grow more knowledgeable and confident as the days passed. Rhys’ days would be numbered if he did not swallow his pride and try to make amends. He was playing with fire – literally – if he continued to antagonize and undermine Nesta.
“He saw me as an rival before. Now I’m a threat that needs to be suppressed, much like the rest of the Illyrians,” she mused darkly, fully aware of their standoff.
“But you can’t anymore,” Cassian encouraged, sporting a soft smile. “You’ve been quiet for too long, Nes. If you want Rhys to respect you, as you should, then you need to get on his level.”
The rest of them were obedient and loyal, favoring a friendship built over the centuries. Nesta had nothing else to lose but her freedom – something she treasured above all else. If anyone was in a position to push Rhysland off his pedestal, it was the aggrieved, bitter sister-in-law who’d rather wield the hatchet before she buried it.
Even the score like she did with the Cauldron. Rhys got his licks in since she reluctantly took them in at Feyre’s request, bore the brunt of their condemnation while risking herself to shelter them, and sacrificed all she had – some voluntary, some not – and still dealt with his spite after the fact.
Nesta should not bend the knee before she, too, leveled the playing field. Between that battle and the one on the edge with thousands of Illyrians taking up arms against the High Lord, Cassian wagered Rhys should appreciate the lesser loss of his pride.
“You have a position that the rest of us don’t,” Cassian sighed. “You removed yourself from court. Your only link is to Feyre, and Elain, and myself, I suppose,” he played with his sleeve, “but since you haven’t initiated the bond, you don’t have any particular tie to the Night Court. Rhys can’t dictate what you do without resorting to leverage. Without Feyre, he doesn’t have much to stand on, and I think you should exploit that.”
“You don’t want to see us cross,” she murmured. His pained expression was just as apparent as the heart on his sleeve.
“But he fired the first volley, and this stalemate can’t stand forever,” he acknowledged. “Either concede or fire back. That’s how this needs to end, Nes, and you shouldn’t hold back. Devlon has said it before. Appeasement won’t work. Neutrality can only take you so far. You have to take a stand, Nes, and Rhys put himself in the middle. If he volunteered himself to take up Feyre’s shield so he could make the first strike, you have every right to assume the defensive. As much as I wish to be your champion and take up that fight for you, I know he won’t respect you as much as I’d like him to.”
“It’d hurt Feyre,” Nesta mused sullenly. “Hasn’t she been collateral enough?”
“Feyre stood by and made excuses for his behavior. I made excuses. We have no part in this. Rhys hasn’t felt the full weight of repercussions and I think you are well within your right to deliver them. This is between you two and it should stay as such, but not for long. Figure it out, decide the victor, and leave it behind.”
She paused a long minute. The silence was unnerving, and Cassian exhaled slowly.
“I don’t like violence,” she mustered up, breaking the void. “I don’t like conflict… but I like Rhys even less. Invite him to Windhaven. If he can breach it, that is. I want to see exactly what he’ll resort to before I show my hands.”  
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