#forced. i say. when im here wholly out of my own free will doing a degree i choose myself

[offorestsongs]

born to draw gay people, forced to study for uni 💔

[kcatta-wodahs]

Making Lore Out of the Angel Event

Im the definition of 'its not that deep but I'm going to dig a hole to make it that deep'

In this case its me making it that deep because otherwise this event is upsetting so I'm making some dark lore theories to make it make sense to me.

I'll have a lot of spoilers below. For the event and everything I know, which is up to like lesson 32 I think.

Basically, TLDR; this was an attack by Michael/their Father on Devildom. Simeon and Diavolo have successfully negated the threat by turning it into a game.

TLDR Thesis; The Celestial Realm is governed through careful mind control. The Demon Bros are not "avatars" because of being demons- they have been cursed by their Father to suffer as no other demon nor angel has to.

First we hear direct from Michael, and he's giving these bangles that appear to brainwash the main cast.

This was an attempt by their Father to bring them back under his control. By control, I mean this literally.

I've felt for a long time that the way the Celestial Realm seems to be run is... shady. It's a utopia to outside appearances only, and those who have been most deeply embroiled in the Great Celestial War know this.

The Great Celestial War was over free will, rather than the specifics of Lilith's situation. She was the catalyst for a long-time-coming revolt against the rulers of the Celestial Realm.

My logic for this:

The reason for Lilith's expulsion goes against the current action plan of the Celestial Realm. Peace between the realms? Sure, but their Father is bound to realize that you put angels, humans, and demons together you're going to end up with more angels like Lilith, who fall for other races. Why would he accept this truce if he lost his favored children over an issue that is very similar? Did he have a change of heart? Heavens no.

Luke's behaviour towards the demon's seems case-and-point. Luke is not the strange one out of the angelic transfer students- Simeon is. Not only that, Simeon is chosen not in an attempt to promote peace, but to protect Luke from being influenced. (Which is, again, the whole point\of the exchange program.)

That time we went to the Celestial Realm for real - Lucifer was worried. Scared, even. This can be explained by, you know, the War and Lilith.. but I wonder if it may be more sinister. Like perhaps being brainwashed.

Diavolo and Barbatos weren’t required to wear bangles to become less “demon-like” for the “party”. This is because the bangles were a ploy to get the brothers back.

My theory is that when an angel begins to show signs of rebellion or questioning the divine order, they are forcibly stopped. Michael is that enforcer, and these 'gifts' are a method of stopping them.

The bangles cause a person to act *perfectly angelic* against their free will. The people affected become all smiles and sunshine, so clearly nothing could be wrong with it, right? They’re happy, right?

No. Very not right, and we can see that through Satan.

Poor Satan is always the exception to the rule of the Brothers, as his circumstances are different from everyone else's.

In this case though, he's the one who provides insight on this mind control. 

Let me remind you of the quotes Satan gives us during this time:

“I feel worked up.” “I don’t feel like myself at all.”

“It feels like something foreign is forcing my heart to be calm.” “Like my heart... becoming tranquil.”

Satan has never been an angel. He has never experienced this before. He has something the other brothers don’t: self-reflection. Satan can tell the difference between his feelings and feelings that are being imposed upon him. He tells you what he feels - “worked up” and “not like himself” and he is not smiling during this. He’s clearly unhappy, even though an angel might say he should feel unburdened by losing his anger.

He even mentions this.

“Normally, that wouldn’t seem like something bad, right?” “Something isn’t right.” “Maybe you shouldn’t come near me when I’m in this state.”

Satan is under the effects of the bangle, being forced to act angelic, but he can tell something “isn’t right.” He clearly shows that he thinks this is a “bad” thing, not because being calm is bad, but because it’s not “normal”. And can I remind you that he’s the Avatar of Wrath? The Sin that is most likely to be dangerous to be around - and yet it’s only when his anger is forcibly quelled that he thinks you should stay away from him. He knows that this is not something to desire. He knows that it is not happiness.

“I can’t concentrate on reading today.”

I mean, he’s obviously going through a lot, so that’s fair. But I have the theory that if he were to try and research this condition he wouldn’t be able to either. I have a theory about the Garden of Eden. My theory is about Paradise.

Remember when Eve ate the fruit? Do you know what that fruit was? Sin?

No. That fruit was knowledge.

Specifically, knowledge of good and evil. Now, why would this knowledge be something to keep from those under the control of the Celestial Realm? It sounds rather like they might be able to then make their own decisions of what is right and wrong.

Satan has known this from the beginning. Knowledge is power. The Ruler of the Celestial Realm, the other demons’ Father, knows this, too.

Why are there no other Avatars?

Sin was not something inherent to Devildom. Sin is a judgement sent from the Celestial Realm. There are no other Avatars because they are a wholly angelic creation. There are other posts that have examined the Sins as outlets, and how each of the brothers are attempting to find ways to allow themselves to express their sin so it does not overtake them.

From the get-go, we are shown that these Sins are a defining point for the brothers, but we’re also shown that they cause more trouble than anything else. Again, part-and-parcel of being a demon, right?

So why aren’t other demons like this?

Look at Diavolo and Barbatos, or even just the background demons who work across Devildom. Look at No. 2. They are all far more complex, and could even be considered normal. No. 2 is specifically meant to be based off of Mammon and his greed, but is much more rounded when we interact with it.

If Diavolo is meant to be the ruler of demonkind -- the paragon of what a demon should be -- then why would he not be the epitome of all of these Sins in one? What is Diavolo, instead?

Diavolo is accepting.

Hold up a moment here. What? Sorry y’all but it sounds to me like Mr. Demon Daddy King trusts his son enough to pass the kingdom on to him... so that must mean that Diavolo is behaving as a demon should.

Barbatos doesn’t question Diavolo’s choices. Nobody does. He’s an all around popular ruler. Devildom seems to be quite.. the opposite of what we’ve been trained to expect, huh? Trained by who exactly?

What are the Demon Brothers?

Cursed. They don’t act like other demons because they’re not like other demons. When they rebelled against their Father, they were punished for this act, but I posit that the punishment and the exile were two different acts. Their Father knew that leaving the Celestial Realm was not punishment to those who desired free will. So instead, he gave them Sin. Something that Demons are not normally bound to.

But how would the brothers know this? They only know what they’ve been taught by angels about demons. Surely these new, pressing desires come from turning into demons..? 

So, why was this not taken seriously?

Short answer: it was. But in the way that aligns with Diavolo’s ultimate goals.

Diavolo wants peace. 

Let’s Talk About Simeon

Simeon is an enigma and a half isn’t he?

Simeon is close with Michael, closer than Luke in any case. Now, I’ll be honest, I can’t remember if it was a fanfiction I read that said this or if it was canon so uh - forgive me. But Simeon was chosen to accompany Luke as an exchange student so that Luke would get some education. Simeon says this is to help relations, as Diavolo wants, but of course that’s what you would say as a sleeper agent?

Now, don’t get sad. Because we love Simeon here and we support him.

Simeon is wise and neutral. He seems to support the brothers, and even still wishes to foster a relationship with them. This could be seen as an attempt to bring them back, or some such, but I like to think that Simeon knows what’s wrong with the Celestial Realm.

Simeon, however, doesn’t think that a revolt can solve it. Simeon is working with Diavolo to create a form of peace - and has been transparent about the fact that Michael chose him to prevent Luke from being corrupted. I like to think he’s also been transparent with Diavolo about Michael’s actual goal. 

Simeon believes that the races should co-exist and love freely. How could love be evil, after all? Whether or not this is a new concept to him (because of his falling for you) or if this is just who he is, I’ll leave up to you and your preferences, but since he is now no longer undateable, it is established that he does not believe love between angels and humans to be bad - as his Father did with Lilith.

What happened, then?

My theory is that Simeon told Diavolo that Michael had given him a task - to give these bangles to the brothers to remind them of the joy they were missing by disobeying the Divine Order. Either that, or to brainwash them into coming back home. 

Simeon’s position would be revealed to Michael if he didn’t give the brothers the bangles, but he does not want to instigate another war either. So he told Diavolo Michael’s plan. 

Diavolo wants peace, and he knows that with time, the brothers can overcome this mind control as they had in the past - especially with his help. 

So thus comes the “party”. 

An excuse to make the bangles seem like a “harmless” gift, that had only gone wrong because of strange magical interference, when really they had done exactly what they were supposed to.

And a wonderful way to maintain peace while leaving the Celestial Realm to stew in their own pots. 

Simeon gets to maintain his facade for everyone - and put on a show for Michael as being loyal. He also gets to show Luke that perhaps being wholly angelic isn’t the way for some people, letting him learn a little more about peaceful coexistence. Nothing happens to ruin Diavolo’s grand plan for peace, and he gets to learn more about the curse that is set upon his friends - One that he hopes to be able to break someday, so they can live their lives unfettered by their Father.

[the-lonelybarricade]

Loved your latest chapter and Im so excited to see what happens under the mountain!

I was wondering if I could request a one-shot?(up to you how long and you can do it in your own time)something along the lines of:

Feyre( from either ACOWAR, ACOFAS or ACOSF) time travels back to ACOTAR, but instead of finding herself back in her human body i the spring court, she's still in her fae body and ends up trapped in velaris, having to explain to the rest of IC who she is and why she cant go free their highlord(add some mistrust from the IC)

🙈🙈Id its very similar to what youre doing rn with your other fic but, if you find the inspiration sometime could you please do this? Ive wanted to read a fic for ages were feyre rime travels and meets pre-acomaf inner circle who dont know/trust her, but Ive never found a fic like that

Thank youuu

Hi lovely anon! It makes me so happy you enjoyed my latest chapter! I’m supposed to be working on a project for uni, but I couldn’t resist gratifying my lovely friends (because you're anon and won't be notified I was getting sad at the idea of you checking my blog and not seeing me respond) <3 I’ll admit I’m a bit scatterbrained at the moment, so I hope it’s okay!

I was having trouble brainstorming a reason for Feyre getting sent back in time because I didn't want to borrow the reasoning from ACoFD. So I was vague and twisted the pre-existing rules around the Ouroboros, and ended up getting quite carried away with the story since I don’t like not giving things a happy ending (even though it’s a little cheesy, sorry)

Anyway, I hope this is what you were looking for! I know you wanted the angst of not being able to save Rhys but... I couldn't just leave my poor bat-boy behind, you know? ;)

Also if this didn't quite scratch that itch, I'm always happy to take more requests

Word count: 4,446

The Ouroboros.

It was a massive, round disc—as tall as Feyre was. Taller. And the metal around it had been fashioned after a massive serpent, the mirror held within its coils as it devoured its own tail.

Ending and beginning.

From across the room, Feyre could not see it. What lay within.

She forced herself to take a step forward. Another.

The mirror itself was black as night—yet… wholly clear.

She watched herself approach. Watched the arm she had upraised against the wind and snow, the pinched expression on her face. The exhaustion.

She stopped three feet away. She did not dare touch it.

It only showed Feyre herself. Nothing.

Feyre scanned the mirror for any signs of… something to push or touch with her magic. But there was only the devouring head of the serpent, its maw open wide, frost sparkling on its fangs.

Feyre stared and stared, but all she saw was herself. There was nothing else. Then—

Feyre woke with a gasp, sitting up in bed to shake away the cobwebs of sleep and the strange, foreboding feeling that felt draped around her shoulders like a weighted cape, pulling her down. It hadn’t been a particularly horrifying nightmare. In fact, it was perhaps of the tamer dreams she’d had in the last year.

Yet something about it clung to her, perhaps a lingering agitation that she’d yet to retrieve the mirror the Bone Carver had requested. That must be it.

The bed space beside her was cold. The sun peaking through the window was not high, it couldn’t be long past dawn. However worrisome her own dream, her mate’s must have been worse to draw him from sleep so early. Worse still for him to sneak away.

Feyre rose from the bed, reaching absently for Rhysand’s dressing robe to wrap around herself. She always loved to steal her mate’s clothes, to be wrapped in his scent.

With gentle steps, she made her way to the study, where she could only assume Rhys had sequestered himself in the lone hours of the night. She’d noticed the weary draw to his shoulders, the dark circles under his eyes. This war was weighing on him heavily, and he was nervous. Feyre wished he didn’t insist on shouldering the burden alone.

“Rhys?” Feyre called softly as she got to the study, knocking on the door before she cracked it open.

Peeking her head around the door, she was met with the sight of Rhysand’s abandoned study. The scattered papers and war maps that had become characteristic of his desk space were surprisingly missing. In fact, the whole space had been cleared away and there was a thick layer of dust on every surface as if no one had been in here in years.

Feyre frowned at the sight, and how different it had been just the day before. Where had all the dust come from? And more importantly, where was Rhys? Perhaps he’d taken a morning flight to clear his head.

Where are you, love? She called to him through the mating bond, but was met with silence.

“Who are you?”

The voice was cold and venomous. Feyre turned, coming face to face with Mor, whose face was twisted into a threatening scowl.

“Mor?” Feyre asked, confused by her friend’s cold demeanor. “What do you mean? Have you seen Rhys?”

Mor’s face turned deadly, a look Feyre had only ever seen from Mor in the Court of Nightmares. “Is that some kind of joke?” she snarled.

Then, before Feyre could process what was happening, Mor had gripped onto Feyre’s wrist and they were enveloped in darkness. They stepped into the House of Wind, into the dining room where Cassian and Azriel abruptly stood up.

“Mor?” Feyre questioned when the blonde didn’t release her steel grip. She looked to Cassian and Azriel quizzically. “Guys? What’s going on?”

Cassian crossed his arms, assessing Feyre with a hostility that put her on edge. “Who’s this, Mor?” he asked gruffly.

Feyre frowned as she watched Azriel reach for Truth-Teller.

“Is this a joke?” she asked, flitting her eyes to each of her friends. Where she sought that friendly warmth in each of their gazes she was met with hard stares, filled with distrust, ready for a brawl. She couldn’t make sense of it. Was this an act Rhys had put them up to?

“I found her in the townhouse,” Mor said. “I don’t know how she got in there. She was in Rhysand’s study.”

“And she’s wearing his dressing gown,” Azriel noted dryly. Cassian did a double glance, his eyes going wide, then narrowing with a rage Feyre had never seen from the male. Certainly never directed at her.

There was a whisper of shadow, then suddenly Azriel was behind her, Truth-Teller poised at her throat.

Feyre startled. “Azriel!” she said sharply. Even if it was a joke, Feyre couldn’t imagine Rhysand would sanction this kind of threat. And the energy in the room was off, the tension too thick. “Stand down.”

“And who are you,” he breathed in her ear, his voice coated in shadow and nightmare, “to command the Shadowsinger of the Night Court?”

“I’m your High Lady,” Feyre answered steadily, not letting Azriel’s shadows, nor cunning voice, shake her resolve. “Now, I don’t know what is going on with the three of you, or what strange joke you’re trying to pull, but you will listen to what I say. Put. Your. Knife. Down.”

“High Lady?” Cassian repeated with a snort of disbelief. “You’ve got balls, little girl.”

Truth-Teller danced across the skin of her neck, pressing lightly enough to intimidate without breaking skin. “Do you even know to whom you speak? You should be bowing before the acting Queen of the Night Court.”

Too stunned to properly resist, Azriel kicked his feet out to knock Feyre to her knees in front of Mor. His fingers slid into her hair, gripping it tightly to pull her head back as Truth-Teller resumed its threatening position at her throat.

“Breaking into the High Lord’s personal residence, impersonating a high position within the Night Court, lying to the Morrigan’s face,” Azriel listed, increasing the pressure of the blade with each transgression. “You throw our High Lord’s generosity and protection in his face, something we as his acting Court do not take lightly.”

“Acting court? Acting Queen?” Feyre repeated, feeling as if she’d woken to a different reality. “What are you talking about? Where’s Rhysand!?”

“We’re the ones asking the questions here,” Cassian growled.

Feyre looked to each of her friends, studying their faces. Beyond their militant expression, she could see their grief. Could smell it. She repeated, “where is Rhysand?”

She felt the snarl that rumbled through Azriel’s chest behind her, vibrating against her back. When the question was once again unanswered, Feyre abandoned all sense of patience.

Darkness exploded through the room. She heard Mor gasp as the walls of the House shook from the might of her power. Feyre folded into the shadows, winnowing out of Azriel’s grasp so she stood in the center of the three of them.

“Az, Cass, Mor, you are my friends and I do not want to hurt you. But I am also your High Lady and you will answer me this instant, where is Rhys? Where is my mate!?”

Siphons gleamed red and blue through the thick tendrils of night, illuminating the Illyrian males’ faces. Cassian’s jaw had fallen open, while Azriel was studying her through narrowed eyes, wisps of shadow surrounding him. Feyre wondered what they were whispering to him.

“Mate?” Cassian echoed, the first to break the heavy silence.

Mor took a cautious step forward, her countenance completely changed. Her pupils were blown wide, twin brown depths churning with sorrow and gentle astonishment. Azriel went rigid at Mor’s approach, but no one moved to stop her as she came face to face with Feyre.

“Where did you get this?” she whispered, taking Feyre’s left hand, eye fixed on her mating band. On the sapphire-star ring that once belonged to Rhysand’s mother.

All eyes befell the subject of Mor’s attention. Cassian swore softly in recognition.

“It’s my mating band,” Feyre answered measuredly, still puzzled that the inner circle, her family, didn’t seem to have any memory of it. Nor of her. “I won it from the Weaver, as was the task set by Rhysand’s mother. But you were all there for that. I don’t understand what’s going on. Where. Is. Rhys?”

“Under the Mountain,” Mor whispered, her voice soft and pained.

The darkness ebbed away like a receding tide. Feyre felt her heart sink as she tried to process this information. “He—What?”

“He’s been Under the Mountain for the last 50 years,” Mor said, firmer this time. “And if you were his so-called mate, you would know that.”

“No,” Feyre said, shaking her head vehemently. “No, that’s impossible. We got out. We—”

This was a nightmare. It had to be a nightmare, and she just hadn’t woken up from it.

“Amarantha’s dead,” Feyre insisted, mostly in an attempt to console the unparalleled grief and panic that were raging inside her. “She’s dead, and Rhys and I got out.”

The grim faces of her friends said otherwise. They stared at her, in unbearable mixtures of pity and horror.

“I think she’s having a mental break,” Cassian said, not unkindly. “Should we get a healer?”

“Let me show you,” Feyre said meekly, casting her magic out to tap on their mental shields.

They all tensed, clearly not aware they’d been in the presence of a daemati. Trained well by Rhys, they all cracked their shields just enough for Feyre to send her conjured memories through. She showed them going Under the Mountain as a human, winning the trials and being resurrected, falling in love with Rhys, and eventually becoming High Lady of the Night Court. In turn, the three of them pushed back their own memories, of the current state of the world. Of Rhysand sacrificing himself so that his Court and Velaris would be safe.

A sob broke out of Feyre. “How is this possible? How am I here?”

It was Azriel who immediately went for the jugular. “More importantly, if you’re here as a High Fae, how is Rhys going to get out? How do we stop Amarantha?”

Feyre fell to her knees, grief-stricken by this realization. She was no longer human. She couldn’t stride in as Tamlin’s human lover and undergo the trials. Feyre had her powers, but they were untested. Would she be able to take on the whole of Amarantha’s court?

“What do I do? How do I save him?” she whimpered, staring in mute horror at her mating band.

Mor tentatively reached forward, laying a comforting hand on Feyre’s shoulder. “Rhys sacrificed himself to keep the people he loves safe. He wouldn’t want you getting yourself killed trying to save him.”

“I have to try,” Feyre answered desperately. “Amarantha she’s…” Feyre couldn’t bring herself to say the word, rape. Not to his family, who wear his sacrifice for them like an open wound. “She’s doing unspeakable things to him. He’s suffering so much. I can’t leave him to that fate. I have to try.”

With renewed conviction, Feyre accepted Mor’s outstretched hand and picked herself to her feet. “Rhys said it himself once. Amarantha’s biggest weapon is that she keeps the High Lord’s power contained. She can’t access them herself. But I… I have access to all the High Lords’ powers. And that bitch has my mate. My wrath will be plenty to take her down.” She faced her friends, who watched her warily. “You have my word as your High Lady,” she swore to them. “The High Queen of Prythian is going to fall by the night’s end.”

⟡⟡⟡

Winter had not yet fallen in the Mortal Lands. Feyre wondered if across the world, there was a version of herself curled in a bed with her sisters, clinging to any shred of warmth and survival.

That version of Feyre was very different from the version who strode up the sloping hills of the Spring Court with Azriel by her side. Rhys would be furious that Feyre had allowed him to accompany her. Should anything go wrong, it would destroy her mate to know his family had been put in harm's way after everything he’d done to protect them. Which was why it was only Azriel who came with, the only compromise she could reach with his Inner Circle, who insisted on coming with.

Who better to sneak into the Mountain with than the very soldier who taught Feyre the art of stealth. He was the obvious choice, since Mor needed to stay to rule the Night Court and Cassian was too heavy-handed to handle such a delicate task.

Their footfall was silent. Feyre wrapped them in the shadow of Night as they winnowed through the cave network. Her heart hammered in her chest, panicked to be back in the source of so many nightmares.

But Rhysand was more important than her fear. For him, she would not falter.

With the Shadowsinger by her side, Feyre snuck through the winding tunnels until she came to a familiar passageway. They slid into a massive, dark bedroom, lit only by a few candles.

To attack Amarantha in the throne room would be too messy. Too many variables to contend with, should Amarantha have enough wit about her to use any faeries as a shield. Especially Rhysand.

After several hours of waiting, the lock on the door clicked and swung open. Darkness swirled around the room as Rhysand took in the sight of Feyre and Azriel on the bed.

Immediately, the door slammed shut.

“No,” he whispered, voice dripping with horror. “No.”

“Rhys—” Feyre started, but her mate wasn’t paying any attention to her. He was looking at Azriel as if his whole world had shattered.

“Leave,” he said, his voice cold and commanding. This was no happy reunion between brothers. This was Rhysand’s worst nightmare. “Leave this instant, you stupid fool. That is, if you’re lucky enough to have avoided detection when you passed under her wards.”

“I took down the wards,” Feyre said. They weren’t particularly strong, either. Amarantha had gotten lazy, perhaps thinking herself secure with the only spell-cleaver under her control. Or so she believed.

Rhys turned that quiet fury towards her. “And who are you?”

“Your mate,” Feyre answered steadily, tipping her chin up.

Rhysand laughed. A desperate, humorless sound. “Then you are just as foolish as my idiot brother. And you have both sealed your deaths by being here. Do you understand that?”

Feyre scratched along those familiar adamantite shields. Rhys’s eyes flickered in surprise, but otherwise he looked unruffled as he cracked a sliver open for her.

It would be unwise to underestimate me, mate.

I wouldn’t be going around boasting about such a thing, if what you claim is even true, came his icy response. And I wouldn’t count on a few party tricks to save you, either.

And what if I told you, she purred, that I possess the power of all seven High Lords?

That, at least, garnered a reaction from the stoic male. He narrowed his eyes in disbelief, studying Feyre carefully. His gaze caught on her hands, at the lace tattoos that flowed to her fingers. And the mating band she still wore.

Feyre watched those violet eyes go wide, the silver constellations dancing in astonishment at the sight of his mother’s ring.

Where did you get that?

It’s a long story, love, but you’re going to have to trust me. She lowered her mental shields completely. Have a look for yourself. I’m telling you no lies. I am your High Lady, and I am here to free my husband.

She felt those familiar talons wrap around her mind. A foolish thing to do, to give a daemati unrestricted access to her mind. And if it were anyone but Rhys, it would have been. But his touch was gentle, and he took only the information he needed.

“I don’t understand how this is possible,” he whispered, breaking the silence of the room. Azriel had been waiting patiently, but looked relieved to be included in the conversation once more. “And I hate that you’ve put yourselves in danger for this, but it could work.”

Rhys considered for a long moment, then he looked between Feyre and Azriel and said, “do it when she’s sleeping. That bitch has been playing dirty for 50 years, you might as well level the playing field to give yourselves the best chance. Let’s do it tonight. I’ll leave the door unlocked, wear her out, and signal you once she’s asleep. Her spell prevents me from harming her, but I’ll make sure she’s restrained. All you have to do is drive the ash dagger through her heart, but have your magic ready for damage control.”

⟡⟡⟡

Feyre and Azriel waited in Rhysand’s bedchambers for his signal. There was a revelry tonight, as there was every night Under the Mountain, and Rhys was expected to be in attendance. Afterwards, he’d join Amarantha in her bed and make sure she was, in his words, “thoroughly exhausted”.

It was torturous for Feyre. To know exactly what the implication in those words were, to have to use her mate’s body in such a way. She wanted to roar at the Mountain, at the Cauldron, at anything that would listen, but instead she was next to the quiet, brooding Shadowsinger, and lamented in silence.

She’d begged Rhys to reconsider, to perhaps help them stage a more physical encounter that didn’t rely on his own suffering. But he’d denied any plan but the one he’d proposed, insisting it would cause him more anguish to but Feyre and Azriel in harm's way.

So they waited the long, agonizing hours until she felt a delicate pull at her chest. She’s asleep, Rhys called. Be on your guard.

He sent her directions to Amarantha’s bedchambers. There were guards outside, but Feyre and Azriel winnowed past them, cloaked in night and shadow.

Amarantha’s bedchambers were huge. Feyre had never been inside them before, but she was unsurprised to see they provided any luxury a High Queen could wish for.

Atop a large bed of red, silken sheets, lay her mate and Amarantha, both stark naked. The smell of sex clung to the air, Rhysand and Amarantha’s scents intertwined. Feyre thought she might be sick.

Even more sickening was the sight before her, of Amarantha’s arms restrained to the headboard in cloth. A clever way for Rhys to restrain her under the guise of sex, but horrifying nonetheless, to see the proof of what they’d been up to. The female was fast asleep, so convinced of her authority that she could fall asleep tied-up and not feel vulnerable doing so. How satisfying, Feyre thought, that such arrogance would be her downfall.

Feyre warded the room, putting up a shield of darkness so that no sound would break through to alert the guards. Rhys watched their approach warily from where he perched beside Amarantha, so still Feyre was convinced he held his breath.

He wouldn’t risk moving to wake her up, which terrified Feyre. Should something go wrong, her mate would be susceptible to Amarantha’s wrath. Naked, vulnerable, and completely under her control. It was such a dangerous game they were playing.

The room was as quiet and still as the bewitching hours of the night, their footsteps silent as they picked across the room. Azriel held the ash dagger. If Rhys could not kill Amarantha, his brother wanted to do it on his behalf. Meanwhile, Feyre summoned tendrils of night that carefully wrapped around Amarantha’s legs, slithering up her body like a snake, ready to constrict and restrain.

The female stirred in her sleep, perhaps feeling the ghostlike touch of Feyre’s magic. But she did not wake. Not as Azriel raised the dagger over her chest, and not as he plunged it down.

Amarantha’s eyes shot open as the dagger pierced her chest. She let out a shriek of agony and ire, moving to claw at her attacker. She raged against the restraints, spewing obscenities until they died at her lips as the blade sunk into her heart.

Rhysand’s chest was heaving as he watched the female still, then slump. He looked from her dead body, to Azriel and Feyre.

Feyre’s heart sank as she watched her mate process that it was truly over. There wasn’t a trace of elation in his eyes at being liberated, but she understood why. Rhys would finally be returning home, but as a much different man than the one he had been. He’d survived, but not unscathed, and he’d need time to process this.

Feyre came to him, reached towards her mate with the hand that bore his mother’s ring. Rhys looked to it, then up to her. His eyes were clouded with sorrow, with a melancholy she could only hope to chip away at in time. But she could see stirring beneath it was a breath of hope, perhaps the first he’d allowed himself in a long time.

“Let’s go home, Rhys,” she said gently.

Slowly, Rhysand nodded, moving to grasp her hand. She felt him jolt at the touch and, as she glanced at him questioningly, she saw his lips part in wonder.

I suppose you weren’t lying about being my mate, he whispered, the words a sensual brush in her mind. Thank you for coming to rescue me, High Lady.

Feyre grasped onto Azriel, and together the three of them stepped into darkness.

Then, they were above the House of Wind, tumbling through the night sky. Feyre unfurled her wings before Rhys could move to catch them, worried that her mate would struggle after 50 years without flight.

Both males stared in astonishment at the sight. Rhysand’s eyes danced in awe as Feyre, albeit clumsily, carried them to the training ring on the roof.

Rhys snapped his own wings open as they landed. Feyre watched him tilt his head back in rapture as he felt the wind against his wings for the first time in decades. Then he opened his eyes, his expression shifting to reverence as he beheld the night sky.

“I was beginning to think I’d never see it again,” he whispered, his voice a heartbreaking blend of exaltation and disbelief. “And for this gift… for my salvation to be courtesy of my mate and of my brother… I’m a bit overwhelmed,” he admitted sheepishly.

Feyre hesitated. If this was the Rhysand from before, the one to which she was mated and married, she would come to comfort him. But this version of Rhys had only just been freed from enslavement, and she didn’t know what he needed.

As though sensing her hesitation, Rhys cast his eyes back to the sky. “I know they’re all waiting for me downstairs, but I’d like a little bit of time with the stars. Will you let them know, Az?”

Azriel nodded, though he seemed conflicted. His reunion with his brother was perhaps not as merry as the male had expected. But right now, she knew the Inner Circle would hardly deny Rhys anything. Perhaps for a long while yet. So Azriel headed downstairs to inform their friends, who were sure to be anxiously awaiting their arrival.

Rhysand regarded Feyre carefully once the two of them were alone. “Mate and High Lady,” he mused. “You seem to wear many hats.”

“You forgot ‘wife’,” Feyre said lightly.

“Yes, and ‘Salvation’, ‘Queen Killer’, ‘Most Beautiful Female in Prythian’, it seems there’s many things I could call you. Could we start with your name, perchance?”

Feyre was shocked. She’d assumed he’d taken such information out of her mind earlier, but it seems he’d been even more respectful than she’d expected.

“Feyre,” she answered. “My name is Feyre.”

He looked wonderstruck. “Feyre,” he repeated, testing the name on his lips. A gentle smile curled at the corners of his mouth, the first she’d seen from him yet. He extended his hand towards her. “Would you like to watch the stars with me, Feyre?”

It was an offer she couldn’t refuse. Her hand found his with all the casual grace of a dancer, as if it were a routine they’d been perfecting their whole lives. Their fingers interlocked and as one, they stared up at the dazzling night sky.

This reality wasn’t perfect, Feyre thought. This Rhys was different from her own, and he still had a lot of healing to do. But if she could be there for him, to help him in a ways she hadn’t before, then she would be grateful to the strange eddies of the Cauldron for bringing her here. For allowing her to end his torment early. For giving them this extra time.

She watched a shooting star dart across the sky and smiled as it passed. There was nothing she could wish for except that her mate find peace in all that he’d endured the last half century.

His deep, velvety voice cut through the silence. “Do you often wish on stars, Feyre?”

She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. He was watching her with a heart-wrenching wistfulness.

“Only when I have a wish worthy of the stars.”

“And do you?”

Feyre looked to the northernmost star, which shined brightest in the sky. “I wished for a light in the darkness,” she told him. “I don’t think the stars would ever begrudge such a wish.”

Rhysand nodded solemnly. “It’s true that they would be begrudging themselves in doing so. But I see no need for you to wish for such a thing.”

Feyre looked to him. He was still watching her, but something in him had shifted. He was smiling at her gently, that lingering sadness already receding. “Why’s that?” she asked cautiously.

That gentle smile widened, showing off his brilliant teeth. “Why, Feyre, to find such a thing, all you’d need to do is look in a mirror.”

[lavendersb]

Provider

Din Djarin x reader

Summary: Din wants to give you the universe. Making you see stars seems like a good place to start.

Warnings: Smut, this is str8 up sin, fingering, soft!dom Din, service!dom Din, overstimulation, so much praise, i wrote this at 3am so if this is hardly literate im so sorry :)

@maybege​ i have you to blame for encouraging my sinful behaviour 

Din doesn’t know how he survived before you.

Of coursed he coped, he hadn’t become the best bounty hunter in the parsec without a certain level of diligence. His structured Mandalorian upbringing had taught him the importance of being capable and organized, of always being one step ahead.

But the child had brought with him its own unique set of challenges. Din could deal with the bounty hunters and imperial forces, they where nothing new to him. The joys of parenthood however had taken some getting used to.

He was an angel most of the time. Din could spend hours with the little womp rat and not encounter the slightest hitch, but when the fancy struck him, the child could turn into a little terror of angry gargles and twitching ears. The fact that he could also throw items around the crest with his strange magic powers didn’t make these tantrums any easier for Din to handle.

That’s when you had arrived. Offering your services as caretaker and claiming to be a half -decent mechanic as well, Din had hired you almost instantly. The child was almost as taken with you as he was, and from that moment on, Din never looked back.

He learns quickly that you had been very modest about your skills. Not only where you capable of handling whatever the child threw your way, you could also help with just about any problem the crest came up with. Din also learns that you’re not bad in a fight, and on the odd occasion he invites you out on a hunt with him. You work together like a well-oiled machine, united by a common goal of protecting the child. Protecting each other.

Perhaps it was your caring and capable nature that drew Din closer to you than he ever expected he would. Regardless of what it had been, Din has never felt as happy as when he comes home to see the love of his life waiting for him with his strange little son.

This is where his mind has wondered as he trudges through the swampy mud back to his ship. The bounty was on planet thankfully, so Din never had to worry about bringing the quarry near to his safe haven. The safe haven in question, the metallic body of the razor crest, peeks out at him through the trees and Din’s feet just can’t move fast enough.

Din lowers the ramp, and as he reaches the warmly lit interior of the hull he can’t help but pause a moment in shock.

The hull when Din had left it was a state. On the previous planet you had returned to the crest just as a team of Jawas had started to tear it apart. Thankfully Din had managed to scare them off before they could cause any real damage, but a fair few interior wall panels had already been unscrewed and tossed aside. This morning Din had left the hull in that same state. Now it was as if there had never been any damage at all.

But there, in the centre of the hull is the thing that makes Din’s heart clench beneath the beskar. You’ve set a small metal container on the ground, filled it with some warm water which gently steams, and placed the little green child inside for a bath. He watches where you kneel beside the tub, grinning at the child as he holds one of your fingers in one tiny hand, and splashes the water with the other.

“Hi,” you say through a slight laugh, snapping Din out of his reverent staring “we’re almost done here”

Din walks forward, coming to stand beside you and bending to press his forehead to yours softly.

“Did you fix the ship?” he asks softly, though he knows the answer.

“Yes,” you confirm, pulling away from him reluctantly. The child, now wholly interested in the return of his father, reaches out to Din and begins to babble uncontrollably.

“We’ve had a busy day, haven’t we? But you’ve been such a good helper,” You say to the child, and Din watches you fish the wriggling child out of his bath and wrap him up in a soft towel. He notes that the task of fixing the crest must have taken almost all of the day, and having to keep the child entertained at the same time wouldn’t have made it easy for you.

“Mesh’la, have you eaten today?”

Din takes your silence as an answer and his happiness falters just a little. Of course you would prioritise your task and the child before yourself. Sometimes he wonders how you would survive without him.

“I wanted to wait” you reassure him weakly “enjoy my break when the work is done”

“I’ll take him from here, you should rest” Din says, leaving no room for argument.

He takes the child from you, now dressed in a freshly cleaned robe (another task you’ve completed that he wants to thank you for). Din sees a moment of doubt pass over your face as you try to argue with him, but the feeling of tiredness creeping into your bones wins you over. With an acknowledging smile, you kiss the child on the head and disappear towards the nearest bunk.

Din takes care of the last few jobs of the day, content in the knowledge that his love is resting nearby. He makes the jump to hyperspace first, cradling the child in his arms. The little bundle is still warm from the bath, and Din watches his big glossy eyes blink slowly at him, trying to savour the last moment seeing his Buir’s shiny helmet before he falls asleep.

Once the child is safely asleep in his cot, Din goes to fish through his bag, producing one of the fresh bread rolls and a selection of berry’s he bought before he returned. He plates them with the last of the soup that’s left, and once he’s finished his own portion and secured his helmet back in place, he calls out to you to join him.

Woozy and half asleep, Din watches fondly as you float towards the little kitchen set-up. The sleep in your eyes is replaced with excitement as you catch a glimpse of the fresh food on the table.

“Din,” you breathe “you shouldn’t have”

“It’s the least I can do for everything you’ve done today”

Din watches as you happily devour the food. He listens intently as you tell him all of the things you and the child got up to that day. How long it took to fix the panels, how the two of you played out in the muddy swamp for a while before you brought the child in for a well needed bath. This domesticity is something so new to him, but you make it feel easy. Just like you made it easy for him to fall in love with you. He would give you the galaxy, Din thinks, if only he knew where to start.

When the food is finished, Din clears the plates away but there’s a feeling deep down in his soul that he can do more for you. There’s still something else he can provide. As he sees you walk away towards the refresher, he knows he must act fast.

Din crowds you against the wall, pressing you against the panels you’ve just diligently fixed. A hand that rests at the back of your head prevents you from hurting your skull, and Din lets his fingers wind through the strands beneath them. Your eyes are wide as you stare up at his visor, surprised by his sudden movements and hopeful, Din can tell, that he might be about to pull unspeakable pleasures from you.

“Have I taken care of you? He asks quietly.

“Y-yes”

“No,” Din chastises “I haven’t. Not yet. Tell me what you need”

Your lips flutter as the words Din seeks dance around your mouth. He encourages your response by fisting your hair a little harder, not to be cruel, but to ease you into his instruction.

“You, Din” he finally hears you gasp “I need you”

Pride swells in him at your words, and he moves the hand in your hair to wrap around the small of your back and fasten on your waist, pulling you close to him whilst he presses you to the wall.

“Then you’ll have me”

Din uses his free hand to pull at the obstructing fabric that keeps him from the apex of your thighs. Softly, but without preamble his hand dips to your heat and makes a gentle swipe through your folds, groaning when he finds it warm and soft and so very wet already.

His fingers find your clit and with tiny, firm little circles he plays with it to his hearts content. Din feels you tremble and sag against him, enjoying how accepting you become to his touch.

“My sweet girl,” Din breathes, and it’s said so reverently it makes you tremble and mewl just that bit more.

“My sweet girl, you’ve worked so hard today” The movements against your clit slow and you whine in complaint. Din chuckles and shushes you “I think you deserve a reward, don’t you?”

“Yes,” you whine desperately, moving to grip the arm that reaches between your legs, hoping to encourage it to move again.

Din smiles beneath his helmet, satisfied with your compliance as he returns to your clit with vigour, plucking from you tiny gasps that draw his hungry eyes to the way your pretty chest rises and falls.

“Then cum mesh’la. Come so I can fuck your pretty cunt with my fingers”

And oh how that filthy promise pushes you off the edge. He feels you stiffen in his arms and pulls you closer to him until you feel crushed by his solid presence. You can hardly register it though, too lost in the waves of pleasure that don’t seem to ease at all. Din doesn’t stop playing with your clit until your pretty moans turn to gasps and pleas to stop.

He doesn’t remove his hand from you, simply sliding his fingers down to trace that little fluttering hole he loves so dearly. He watches your face the whole time, enjoying how slack it goes when the first finger makes a teasing press against you.

“Pretty girl you take such good care of us, but you neglect yourself” he teasingly scolds, pressing into you a little further with his finger and watching you keen at his tone.

“Would you like to be taken care of? Is that what you need?”

“Yes, Din, yes” you nod frantically, squirming in his firm grasp.

He squeezes your hip in warning, before sliding his finger deep inside you. Both of you groan at the feeling of your soft heat welcoming his finger. He starts to pump into you, his pace direct and precise, hitting against that soft spongy spot with each push. Din wanted to give you the galaxy, making you see stars seemed like a good place to start.

“I knew from the first minute I saw you that you’d be so warm and soft everywhere” Din says as you cry out for him “and I was right, wasn’t I mesh’la? Your cunt might be the warmest, softest thing in the whole galaxy”

As he adds another finger, Din swears he’s never felt more whole then when he’s breaking you apart like this. Letting you be tender and vulnerable. You break apart for him so well he muses.

“Won’t you cum for me?” he says, and stars you’ve never wanted to come so bad in all your life. Not just because you think you might explode at the way his fingers are aiming for that spot that makes you cry out in pleasure, but also because you want- no need him to know how much you love him. How grateful you are that he treats you so well.

When you do cum its electric. You reach for Din’s pauldron for support, gripping the metal as you rock against his hand. He feels you soak his palm and groans, shamelessly grinding himself against whatever part if you he can.

He doesn’t pull his fingers from you, instead he massages your walls gently watching you twitch when he rubs that special place inside you. He waits until you meet his eye through the visor, expectantly waiting for him to withdraw his fingers.

Instead he presses his thumb back against your thoroughly abused clit and holds you tighter as you give a startled jolt against him.

“Din,” you whine, and he smirks at how wrecked and helpless you sound “I can’t-“

“You can” he insists, picking up the pace of the fingers inside you “You’ll cum again because I’m telling you to. Because I’m taking care of you, right?”

You can barely nod in response, your body to busy trying to cope with the overwhelming feeling of overstimulation. Din gazes at your face, taken by the way your brows pinch and fat tears fill your waterline and weigh down your eyelashes. 

The sight of you has him desperate, and he removes the hand from around your waist, using his torso to pin you to the wall so you don’t collapse. He tugs the cowl away from his neck to expose the tanned skin of his neck. You don’t need his instruction to know what to do next, and with what little energy left in your body, you lean forward to press messy, fluttering kisses to the skin over his pulse.

Din grunts, truly blissed out by the feeling of you on him doubles his assault on your sensitive heat. He barely hears your gasping warning before he feels you come utterly undone against him. Your cunt squeezes his fingers so tightly, and he makes sure to tell you that, though he’s not sure you can hear him. Your face is still pressed against his neck, breathing against him, and he swears he feels a wet tear drop against his skin.

“I love you, sweet girl” he says, pulling his fingers from you softly.

The hum that comes from your heavy, satisfied, and sleepy body tells him he’s done his job well. He lets himself feel proud. Upstairs, his child sleeps soundly in his crib. Well protected and well loved. Here, in his arms, lays his love. Soon she’ll be asleep in their shared bed, and Din will find himself wondering how he was blessed with such a wonderful and loving partner.

[jimlingss]

O SHOOT REQUESTS !!! ill take my chances and ask for a zombie apocalypse or pirate au ft. hoseok 👀 i couldnt choose between the two aus and im hoseok biased but i can honestly see any member so do as who u see fit. i will not let my pairing/au choice limit the authors talent 😤 and i dont doubt anything from you will satisfy. and pshhh,, where are my manners. please and thank u! love u 💛

↳ Crocodile Tears

1.8k || 98% Fluff, 2% Angst || Jung Hoseok || Pirate!AU

“Look what I nabbed, Cap’n.”

Gunner Taehyung’s grinning with all teeth, a golden chain wrapped around his fingers that’s so shiny it’s blinding with the sunlight. Hoseok’s intrigued and flips the locket in his hand. It’s heavy with a wild rose engraved on the front and once he pops it open, there’s a faded painted portrait of a young woman inside.

“It’s a booty, eh? Caught if off milady right over ‘ere.”

Hoseok hums and narrows his eyes on the wrench tied in rope sitting amongst the captives. Your face is dirtied, hair drawn in a bun at your crown but with many strands fallen around your face. Your gown rat’s coloured, dull gray. You are entirely unremarkable. Like any other peasant.

But it’s not often captives have something of value on them.

“Bring her to my cabin.”

“Aye, aye.”

The ship sets sail again. Taehyung keeps the captives quiet with the threat of throwing them overboard while the cabin boy Jungkook swabs the poop deck. Helmsman Seokjin mans the helm with navigator Namjoon by his side. The ship’s heading to dock at Port Galigeo to get a pretty penny for all the loot and treasures they’ve gotten after four months’ voyage.

Once steep waters are reached and everything’s been taken care of, Hoseok resumes to his cabin. There, he finds you, sitting in the corner on the floorboards with tears in your eyes. You gasp as he enters and shuts the door.

“Please! Spare me!” you beg sorrowfully. “Let me go!”

“Why should I?” Hoseok tosses his hat onto his table and his coat to his rickety chair. You look so frightful, even when he’s still in his drawers and shirt, held together by the red sash.

He fiddles with the many golden rings across his fingers, a habit since he began his adventures, and he comes over to you. Hoseok’s boots are heavy against the floorboards, and he crouches down to meet your trembling eyes.

“I-I am just a peasant,” you sob. “I have nothing to give to you! My father is merely a farmer.”

“Oh? Then what be this here?” Hoseok dangles the priceless locket in front of you as the corner of his lip curls. It catches the light from the tiny window of the cabin and the gold gleams against your eyes, practically sparkling like a jewel. 

Your eyes flicker from it to him, hiccuping and frame quivering like a damn leaf. “It’s my grandmother’s. She left it for me before she passed.”

Hoseok hums a low note. “An’ if this be your grandmother’s, how she pay for such a treasure? Unless she been a thief.”

Your downcast head shakes. “I don’t know, I don’t know.”

He pops the locket open before taking a good look at it. “This here be a portrait of you, isn’t it? You look different. Lavish. Like a noble’s daughter.”

“T-That isn’t me.”

“Then who?”

“I don’t know.” 

There’s something rather pretty in the way tears drip down your cheeks, so soft and gentle like jewels of their own right. But Hoseok has seen many women, children and men cry. It’s nothing astonishing.

Hoseok smirks, a rush of air leaving his nose. “I’ve been cap’n of this ship for nearly a decade, dearest. I’ve held treasures you could only dream of, been in battles that nearly lost my leg, sailed ‘cross the seven seas with me mates. I know when a wrench lies.”

His eyes are narrowed in on yours. And Hoseok comes closer, hand lifting to grab a hold of your chin. But before he can, before he can blink or breathe — suddenly, you brandish a piece of glass against his exposed neck. 

The ropes around you clatter to the ground. Hoseok feels the sharp edge of the glass digging into his skin, a moment away from nicking him and drawing blood. But more notably, your eyes are aflame. Your expression is dark and you’re scowling at him. 

Gone is the fragile little girl weeping for mercy.

“Don’t come closer,” you warn in a low voice without a single tremble.

He leans back, but his gaze stays on yours. “You reckon you could kill me?”

“I wouldn’t hesitate.”

Hoseok’s mouth curls, grin stretching into his cheek. His interest is piqued. He knew there was more to you beneath the surface, and he’s happy you haven’t disappointed.

His hand latches onto your wrist to force your hand away. It's a battle of strength. One that he ultimately wins as the piece of glass goes clattering on the ground out of your reach. He sees it’s part of a broken bottle. But Hoseok’s much too put off guard and when your leg kicks out at him, he’s smacked square in the chin.

He grips it as he lands on his ass, sharply exhaling. But then he bursts into chuckles.

“You got some mean spirit in you, sweetheart.”

Unfortunately for you, Hoseok has far too much experience in combat and capture. Even if you try to kick, strike and even bite him, it’s not too difficult to get you tied into ropes again. Except this time, he makes sure to use his special knots and get you so wound up, no sharp edge could free you. 

“Let me go, bastard!”

“Settle down. You’re only gettin’ yourself riled.” Hoseok crouches in front of you again and comes to wipe away the stray tear on your cheek with the pad of his thumb. You angrily scowl at him, chest rising and falling. Crying won’t get you far now, not when he knows they’re just crocodile tears. “Don’t get yourself worried about someone hurtin’ you. Everyone on this ship swears by our code, me included.”

You scoff. “As if I’d trust a pirate.”

Hoseok smirks. “If I wanted to hurt you, I would’ve done so already. It isn’t pleasin’ for me to force a girl like yourself either. Not when I have plenty o’ gold to play with a wrench at the dock. Now I suggest you behave or my Quartermaster’ll throw you overboard.”

“Then do it!” you shout at him with your entire body, only to flop over to the floorboards.

He grips the knob of the door and looks over his shoulder. “No. You’re too much of a treasure, sweetheart.”

The sun is falling over the horizon when Namjoon approaches. “Everything go well with the girl?”

Hoseok hums and turns with a glint in his eye. “Tell all hands to keep her separate.”

Port Galigeo is reached within two days time. The waters are calm without storms and the stars are clear at night. The sailing is smooth and so the docks are reached faster than ever before.

The men aboard are eager to sell the loot, to spend a few days ashore, spend nights at the brothel and replenish the rum. As follows, their steps are quick and they move the crates of jewels and tools to the harbour. Seokjin also takes care of the captives, leading them in a straight line off the gangplank to be sold.

“Cap’n! What ‘bout the beauty ‘ere.” Taehyung points to you.

Hoseok meets your eyes and you’re seething, glaring back at him. The corner of his mouth curls in amusement.

“Leave her. Tell the lad to watch over her till we return.” He points to Jungkook and Taehyung nods with an ‘aye, aye’. 

Most of his crewmen take care of business, getting as much gold for the loot as possible. But Hoseok fiddles with your pendant in hand and heads to a jeweler. Said jeweler is an old man who quivers upon seeing him, Namjoon and Seokjin in his shop. He hides behind his table and cries, “Please! Spare me! Take what you must!”

Hoseok sighs. He doesn’t know why everyone thinks so badly of him. Maybe because he’s a pirate and he and his crew have pillaged countless. That’s fair, he supposes.

“Stop yer quivering,” Seokjin spews out, leaning against his table. “We need you to look at somethin’. Hurry before I steal your silver!”

Hoseok lifts your golden locket, letting it dangle from his hand. 

The old man eventually slinks out when he realizes they won’t do anything, and he takes out his magnifying glass. He motions for him to bring it forward and Hoseok does. The old man hums, studying the locket before flipping it over in his hand. His thumb brushes against the wild rose engraving.

“Where did you get this from?” he asks.

“Don’t matter,” Namjoon says curtly. 

Hoseok studies the man’s face and leans closer. “What is it?”

“It is a very valuable locket. I happen to recognize this symbol as well. It is the emblem of the Crochetta Kingdom.” He pops the locket open to the portrait of the young woman and looks up at Hoseok, clearing his throat. “I believe this locket belongs to the youngest princess of that kingdom. The runaway.”

Hoseok’s brow cocks.

The three of them leave in a hurry. 

Seokjin’s eyes are glazed as his mouth starts to spew how Lady Luck is truly on their side, how they’ll be able to get their hands on a high ransom or sell you for countless riches. Namjoon is perplexed at how a princess like you managed to get here when Crochetta was countries away.

But Hoseok remains quiet. He doesn’t plan to trade you. He doesn’t ask questions.

He is entirely and wholly intrigued. Like never before.

“Blimey, the ship!” There’s a shout at the docks and Hoseok is torn from his thoughts. Taehyung has his hands in the air, cursing aloud. And Hoseok’s eyes trail from him to his ship that’s off the dock and disappearing over the horizon. “It’s sailing away!”

Seokjin is aghast. “How?!”

“Who’s still on?!” Hoseok shouts, looking around the dock to all his shocked men and their mouths drawn open big enough to catch flies.

“That girl,” Namjoon says, looking at the captain.

Hoseok tied you tightly, he made sure of it. Unless you freed yourself again. But it’s not possible that you lifted the anchor. 

No. You must’ve cut the rope.

“Where’s Jungkook?”

At the same time, there’s a high-pitched shriek in the distance. All of the men are held to their spots on the docks as they watch a tiny figure in the horizon get pushed off the ship’s deck and then plopped into the waters. 

There’s a loud splash.

You stole the ship.

Hoseok is quiet when his men turn to him. They don’t dare utter a single word, far too afraid their captain is boiling with anger. But what frightens them far more is when Hoseok suddenly bursts out into chortling laughter.

He laughs and grins as he watches his ship sail into the distance.

You were truly a treasure hard to find. He knew it when he saw you.

And now, he’ll just have to catch you again.

[cicada-bones]

Could we get a snippet of The Warrior and The Wildfire please?

Hi! so first of all im so sorry for leaving this in my inbox unanswered for like 2 months, second of all i have graduated!!!! So now ive got some free time!!!! Extra long snippet for you guys as a treat (and perhaps a bit of a bribe lmao) for being so patient and nice to me ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎

Rowan spent the better part of dinner trying to convince Aelin to say something, anything, about what their next step was. How he could help, what she was doing with the money she get from the bank that day, even just what she planned for them tomorrow morning.

But Aelin just smiled that pretty smile of hers, and munched on a spare bit of toast. Apparently, all she could cook was breakfast. Rowan had to keep himself from smiling, and remembering all the ruined meals she had made back at Mistward. Those few nights they had spent around the fire, beneath the trees. He really should have tried harder to teach her how to cook.

Rowan would never regret coming to Rifthold, even though it had been against her direct orders. But he wished he could spirit her away from here, from this dank city, crawling with people and shrouded in the scent of monsters. Wished he could be back in the wild again, where the air felt clean and open all around him. Where his magic wasn’t crushed deep within him, so tightly that it made his skin crawl.

He had slowly gotten used to the feeling, though it was still uncomfortable. And every now and then, tremors would still wrack his muscles, making him shiver in discomfort. But they were getting less and less.

He could adapt, he could endure.

Aedion kept silent through most of his cajoling, either still nursing a grudge from their fight this morning, or already accepted it as a lost cause.

Aelin had decided to keep them in the dark, and Rowan would just have to figure out how to live with it. He just wished that he could explain to her that she didn’t need to bear this burden on her own, that the reason he was here wasn’t only because he wanted to be. She deserved help, and so much more than he could offer her.

So once again, they separated after dinner, Aedion moving into his bedroom while Aelin pulled Rowan into hers. Again, he grumbled as she insisted that he share her bed, but he put up far less resistance than he knew he should.

Aelin went to wash her face in the bathroom, and Rowan turned to the window, stripping off his weapons and extra clothing. It was dark in the bedroom, so he knew no one could see in. But still, he scanned the nearby streets and rooftops, watching and listening for anything untoward.

Of course, he didn’t notice anything. But when had Lorcan ever been known to leave a trace?

Rowan sighed and turned to slide between Aelin’s cloud-soft sheets, forcing down the guilt that pooled in his stomach. He knew it was a mistake to let her get so close, to let their scents get even more tangled up in each other. But he just couldn’t help it.

It was an inexpressible comfort, to have her so close, almost wrapped in his arms. It made him settle, feeling the undeniable truth of her safety.

Or it would settle him, if she wasn’t so insistent on provoking him with her scandalous clothes every night.

This time, the nightgown was a delicate blue. The soft silk hem stroked over the tops of her breasts like petals, and those paper-thin straps barely held the dress in place on her shoulders.

So narrow, so light, so easily brushed out of place –

Rowan shook himself, barely keeping his gaze from dragging down further, and glimpsing what awaited below. But that meant he couldn’t miss the brazen confidence of Aelin’s smile. As if she knew he was fighting a battle doomed to loss.

Aelin slipped into place beside him in bed, the silk billowing over her chest as she turned on her side to face him. “So, what do you think? Pink, or blue? Personally, I’m more fond of the pink, but I figured I’d test this one out, see where your preferences might lie.”

Rowan just clenched his jaw, scowling at her.

Aelin laughed at him.

···

 Within a few moments, she was asleep, her breathing calm and even, eyelids fluttering with night visions. But once again, Rowan lay awake. Trying in vain to calm his blood.

It kept seeming to get worse and worse, more and more difficult. He had wanted her in Wendlyn, during those many nights they had spent together in the fortress. But his ties to Maeve had kept the desire in check for him. He had wanted her during those nights they had traveled together back from Doranelle, especially that first night, the night he had given her that tattoo. But abstaining, keeping himself and what he wanted in check, hadn’t been so difficult.

Now, it felt like trying to move mountains with his bare hands.

And seeing that ghost of Lyria today, seeing that remnant, that reminder of her, it had pulled all of his fear and doubt right back into place.

Hearing Lyria in his head again, those screams of agony…it had been far more complex than just pain. There was so much guilt there. And not that old, familiar guilt of his unforgivable failure. It was new guilt. Fresh and hot and roiling in his stomach.

The guilt of having fallen for another. And seeing Lyria, or at least this facsimile of her, and not being cleaved in two, not being rent through with agony – had him stunned in place. Unable to move.

Not with pain, but with shame. It was only the echo of a remembered hurt, one he had held on to for far, far too long. But one that Rowan knew he should still be holding on to. One that he knew should weigh on him until his deathday. And it honestly scared him more than he could admit, scared him senseless, scared him motionless, that this wouldn’t be true.

He had betrayed her once again. Betrayed Lyria in death, even. And Rowan had no idea how he could possibly atone for such a deep, yet wholly unexpected, betrayal.

And then Aelin had taken him to the theater. She had taken him to this small sanctuary from her past and she had reminded him of just how beautiful she was. And not the beauty of her body, but the beauty of her very soul.

And Rowan knew that he couldn’t help but love her. No matter who it betrayed, no matter if it was a tearing of his own soul, of the partner of his heart, of the only person he expected waited for him in the Afterworld.

It was like the movements of the tide, the phases of the moon, the rising of the sun in the east and setting in the west. Uncontrollable, unstoppable. He couldn’t help but love her.

And gods, he wanted to kiss her.

But Rowan just closed his eyes and turned over in bed, forcing himself into an unsettled, disquieted sleep.

Until, in the deepest part of the night, he felt the covers rustle slightly as Aelin silently slipped out of bed and across room, heading right for her black armor.

[lettersofsky]

An Agreement

Ok, so I have two characters that I’ve been fleshing out and developing on their own and decided to try writing them together as they’re supposed to be for once! So I wrote something to try playing around with the two of them and another of my characters in a fun little thing to actually get myself back into writing. Especially to make myself try to describe characters more as I write them which I’m pretty awful at XD

Mihal, Duelek and Orrin are all mine This is a kind of mythical creature/monster au of sorts! Mihal and Duelek are both kinda finned snake people things. Enjoy!

Ko-Fi

~

“Ya shouldn’ta bothered with ‘im.”

“He needed help though.”

“Ain’t no problem a ours none.”

“I be known but still… ain’t wanted ta leave him out there like that.”

“Woulda been his own fault.”

Orrin groaned, alerting the two arguing voices to the fact that he was returning to consciousness from the empty darkness of rest accompanied by a vicious pounding in his skull. He lifted his hand to his glass-covered clenched shut eyes, trying to further shade and protect them from the weak spring sun above him trying to pierce into his skull aided by the lenses that usually assisted him in the task of perceiving the world around him, only to find his path blocked by a different pair of hands, cold and wet and… off in a way he couldn’t quite make sense of.

“Ya real shouldn’t be touchin ‘im.”

“Hush yaself,” the snap was soft, distracted and from somewhere directly over Orrin’s face, contrasting the rougher voice that sounded a bit further away. Then there’s an odd cooing accompanied by the feeling of thumbs rubbing the skin of his cheeks, nails of some kind as well. “He’s needin help, we should be givin it.”

“I tried.”

“I said hush,” a sharp edge entered the voice above his head and Orrin flinched ever so slightly, drawing attention back to himself and a shadow over his face. “Ya alright?”

“I… do not believe so,” he groaned again, blue eyes squinting open so he could see exactly who was above him. “My head feels—” He cut himself off as the individual shading him from the shadow over his face came into focus.

A human face, skin dark in colour than Orrin himself was, if not for the purple scales lining it, settled around eyes that were dark and empty similar to that of a snake and fanning across sharp cheeks and their forehead leading into long, dark brown water-soaked curls. There were a set of fins to either side of the face above him, fluttering and fanning out in rapidly increasing motions.

This certainly wasn’t a human.

The creature drew it’s hands back towards itself at Orrin’s silence and inspection, curved fangs biting into it’s bottom lip as Orrin looked to them itself of the face over his. While humanoid at a glance it was obviously that instead of fingers it had claws, each one ended in a chipped nail far longer than any Orrin had ever seen before and covered completely in scales in every shade of purple from the elbow to the joint of it’s fingers.

“Told ya ya was better off leavin ‘im be.” The voice comes from somewhere behind the individual over Orrin and it turns back to hiss at the other voice, a short, low sound reminiscent of an annoyed or irritated snake.

“Shut up!” The fins on the side of it’s head flared out in a striking contrast of colour against the darkness of it’s hair. “S’just a little scared, s’all.”

“Scared and gonna tell people ‘bout this shit.” The other shot back, sounding much calmer than there was any right to be whilst implying that it was better to dispose of Orrin than not.

“If I could interject,” Orrin spoke around a pained noise as he forced himself to sit up, finally getting a better look at the first individual as well as his first on the other in the scenario, carefully pushing himself back from their proximity ever so slightly. The other was very similar to the first, if a bit sharper in it’s face and the sharp line of it’s shoulders, or what Orrin could see of them from where it was reclining on the shore of the nearby lake, arms folded and chin resting upon them. It’s hair was shorter than the first’s as well and closer to a black than the deep brown of the other. Both of them had long tails where their waist and legs should have been, bright scales glittering and shifting in colour tone before his eyes as they twitched and shifted gently, tipped with a pair of fins similar to those at the side of their heads.

Wholly inhuman and nothing Orrin should have ever involved himself with. Though how he had come to do so was a mystery to him.

“I will not—”

“Nah.”

“Excuse me?”

It was the other one that had spoken and cut him off, chin rested on scaled claws, nails scoring into the wet soil at the edge of the lake. It’s eyes were half-lidded, hair fallen into it’s face and remaining stuck there in clumps of water-soaked strands. It rolled empty eyes at him, lips pulling back just enough to show off rows of needle-sharp teeth.

“Ain’t caring ‘bout whatever ya have ta ‘interject’ with,” it said, tail moving lazily in the water, a blur of formless purple. It’s lips pulled back further, baring more of it’s teeth and the stark white of it’s gums. “So shut yaself ‘fore I drag ya back under.”

“… that is incredibly rude of you.”

It’s all Orrin can really think in that moment and it’s far from what he wanted to say to the thing that was threatening him. It seemed that the two of them weren’t expecting to hear anything like that either if they way they both turned to stare at him in question was to go by, fins fluttering and head tilted similarly to a dog’s.

“Tryin ta be amusin ain’t helpin ya much.”

“We can’t just be makin threats afta savin ‘im!”

“I can,” the farther one dropped further back from the inquisitive lift it’d taken up at Orrin’s words, placing it’s chin back onto it’s folded arms, peering at Orrin from the corner of it’s eye, face turned towards the other. “I didn’t save ‘im.”

“Ya can’t—!”

“What if I swear myself to silence?” Orrin questioned, cutting off the softer of the two off as he felt that things were taking a turn for the dangerous. “Swear to not saying anything about either of you to anyone? Would that be enough?”

“Shake on it.”

“He doesn’t need ta—”

“He does.” The words rung with finality and Orrin felt his heart freeze in his chest, unsure of wht exactly what the rougher of the two was suggesting entailed but not sure he liked it either way. “If he don’t then Imma drag ‘im back down. No matta what ya want.”

“But…”

“I will do it. I will shake on it.”

The two creatures turn back to him, the sharper looking pleased with his decision while the other’s face fell. His decision made Orrin chose to focus on the sharper of the two, meeting half-lidded eyes as levelly as he was able.

“Good. Go on bro, he’s wantin ta make the deal.”

The softer of the two looks between Orrin and the other, fins fluttering before they pressed close to its skull and it turned back to Orrin, face turned towards its own hands.

“Ok.” It breathed, tail stretching out as it shifted closer to Orrin, offering it’s claw towards him. “Promise not ta be speakin’ ‘bout us ta no other and shake.”

Orrin hesitated a moment, just a moment as he looked at the outstretched hand, offering his own when he heard the noticeable sound of water moving and taking it, the tone of his own skin a lighter contrast to the creature’s own.

There’s a sting, a bite where the tips of its nails sink shallow indents into Orrin’s skin, his eyes move away from the one watching the proceeding to see something like ink curl from the indents into a band at his wrist, cleanly encircling the flesh in a brand that would lead to nothing but question.

“Is that all?” That didn’t really seem to have much of any kind of purpose really, aside from the ink on his wrist that the creature holding his hand had raised his captive arm towards its face to inspect.

“S’alright,” there was an air of contentedness about the onlooker’s voice as Orrin’s hand was releasing, the creature stretching it’s torso out on the edge of the lake in a lazy sprawl. “Ain’t gone be able ta get ta chatterin with that, free ta do what ya want now.”

Orrin blinked, opened his mouth to say something only to stop as the one closest to him spoke up. “So he can stay, yeah?”

“What?” “Excuse me?”

It wilts a bit at both of their attention focused onto it, shoulders hunching up closer to the fins pressed tight to the side of it’s skull once more, voice losing volume and becoming shaky as it continued. “Iffin… Iffin he wants a course… ya said he could do whatever he wants now that he’s…” it trails off into mumbling that Orrin can’t catch and catch be sure that the onlooker didn’t.

“… suppose yeah.” Orrin’s attention snapped back to the onlooking creature who seemed uninterested in the situation once more, inspecting the nails of it’s own claws with a languid pace. “Iffin he be wantin’ ta.”

Remaining here for any length of extended time did not really sound too appealing to him, but saying so outright might be rude and he didn’t know how either would take such an abrupt and clear dismissal of his continued presence on their lakefront.

Even more so when the softer of the two turned back to him, a gleam in it’s eye and small, hopeful smile on it’s face. “Mayhaps… ya could stay a bit? S’not… S;probably s’not real good ta move too soon, yeah? Ya should stay here a bit and rest, yeah?”

“I think I should leave.”

It’s smile drops and its fins droop, arms crossing over it’s torso as blank eyes turned away from Orrin to focus on some point at the ground.

“Oh.”

“Lookit you bein all heartbreakin afta he saved ya ass, rude.”

“I am completely soaked,” Orrin continued, ignoring the cold near snarl from the water. “I more than likely have an untreated concussion and I need to go be looked over and change before I freeze to death.”

The closest of the two perks up at his words, brows furrowing and mouth twisting as it splayed it’s claws out towards him, missing Orrin’s flinch even if the further of the two creature’s didn’t, motioning him off with small, quick motions. “Ya right! Ya warm blooded ones get cold and sick from the water, ya should go, it’s bein for the best.”

“Ya just—”

“It’s for the best.” It repeats, tail stretching out more from the curl of it Orrin had yet to notice as it pressed closer towards him, putting it’s face only a scant few inches from Orrin’s own as if to inspect him better. “Ain’t wantin ta waste hard work by ya gettin sick on us, yeah? Then ya really wouldn’t come back.” It chuckles the last little add-on but it rings hollow and aching, accompanied by it’s fins fluttering and flaring away from the side of it’s head.

Orrin looked between it and the other, teeth biting into his bottom lip and considering what to do now. It would be simply enough to take the opportunity granted and leave, escape and never come back. It wasn’t as if these creatures could really come and track him down, at least he certainly hoped they wouldn’t, whatever they were.

He was free to go, free to stand up and leave the lakefront and never look back on or think about it again. It was so easy to do.

“I will… try to return when I am… able to stay longer.” Or perhaps he could put his foot into his mouth and give another promise to these creatures, as if the first hadn’t been enough to cement how awful an idea it was to do so into his head.

It brightens up the creature in front of him though and it grins at him, showing off the odd backwards curve of it’s teeth towards the back of it’s own throat.

“Then we’ll be waitin ta see ya again!” It pauses, brow furrowing at Orrin. “Ain’t real knowin’ what ta call ya.”

“Orrin,” he doesn’t mention anything about his last name and that seems to be more than enough for the creature to return to grinning at him.

“Orrin.” It repeats, the name sounding a little off on it’s vocals. “Ya can call us Mihal and Duelek, yeah? For next time.”

“I will… keep those in mind for when I return.”

[verumace]

                                    P S A

         as most of my friends know I don't usually respond to any anonymous hate that I get. fortunately, there has been little of it since I returned to tumblr rp 2½ months ago. . . . . . . but at some point yesterday afternoon/evening, someone sent me a rather blunt. “ assessment ”. the only reason that I'm addressing it at all instead of sending it through the virtual paper shredder is because I want to say something.

     ^-^-^-^-^-^-^ The above is that which I speak of. Apologies for their crass wording, and definitely that this need even be on your dash out of necessity.               Now, first and foremost you should remember. . . . This is my blog, my muse. One who has had ( 358/2 days non withstanding) all of thirty minutes screentime AT MOST, and whose character I have spent well over a decade studying. Does this mean that I am wholly confident in my writing for him? No, but this is due the fact that I have little faith in general when it comes to my writing. It's something I'm attempting to work on, but regardless. . . I've been rping Luxord for 14 years and not a moment goes by where I don't try to do him justice.          But I digress. The point being here that you think I've ” ruined ” his character “ by making him ” someone who “ flirts with every girl ”, when that's a rather nasty exaggeration. I can count on both hands the women he has been openly flirting with, and the amont of fingers raised on the second hand is less than three.

         I'll try to keep this as short and simple as possible. As a character given less time in the spotlight than most of the others, and who is shrouded in mystery, he's a little more open to interpretation. Based on my own observations and beliefs, what feels right to ME and that which doesn't clash with the information we do have, he is a flirt. Whether as Rould or Luxord. Yet he isn't a lecher, he doesn't force himself on anyone, and if the woman in question shows or indicates she has NO interest in him/in any man, he is respectful of that.          He is a naturally charming man with a tongue of silver, a voice that could melt steel, and a gentleman. Being a pirate doesn't negate that or mean he is a cad. A rogue, but not a blackguard. His flirting is out of genuine interest in the woman, for th7 for FUN. Women are gorgeous and enchanting entities, who he enjoys complimenting and teasing and charming; those that draw him &&/or his interest, at least. Rould is a romantic at heart though, and there is certainly an echo of that in Luxord.

                      There are a few things I want to say in closing this.          This blog is mine. The portrayal is mine. I will not change that for anyone.          If we have interacted at all ( even if just through memes so far or we only have a couple replies between us ) and he is shamelessly/subtly flirting with your muse && it makes you, the mun, uncomfortable, please tell me. Please.          If you have any thoughts/opinions on this subject, feel free to comment on this post, send in asks/ims, or message me on disc.or.d.

[alyssastarlight]

Title: Sweet Like Candy to My Soul Author: Nikayla For: @gaycrouton, the Valentine’s Fic Exchange on Twitter Pairing: Mulder/Scully, MSR Set During: Season 4 cancer arc, though there’s very little acknowledgment of it Word Count: 4,900 Rating: M/NC-17

She swallows thickly and he can hear the faint smack of her lips when they part to take another breath. Suddenly he’s fascinated by those lips. Wholly immersed in their plumpness; the flush of their coloring, the shine left behind when she nervously licks along her top lip. Even more suddenly he’s consumed by a need to touch those lips, his hand reaching her face before he’s entirely realized the whim — fingers skimming along her jawline as his thumb whispers underneath the protrusion of her full bottom lip. Her mouth closes on an ‘M’ that doesn’t end up forming anything more.

A/N: I’m horrible at following prompts but I hope this will fulfill your v-day wishes regardless. The concept came to me in that place between awake and sleep and developed itself pretty much against my will and I hope that you and everyone else will like it. Happy Valentine’s Day! ATTHS!

FF.NET | AO3

What a way to spend Valentine’s Day. Not that it really amounted to anything that different from how he normally spent it, with no girlfriend to speak of. But being caught in a blizzard at the tail end of a lackluster case, forced to stay holed up in a motel room when stepping foot outside ran the risk of coming back with icicles for eyelashes was still fairly low on his list of fantasy holidays. Were it not for the redhead whose room his adjoined to, he might have actually gone completely stir-crazy here, in a town he’d never have chosen to visit otherwise. But about said redhead.

On Hour 5 of their forced confinement there was a small rap at the door separating their rooms, the ravishing creature responsible inviting him in to hers to go over the field report she’d been typing away at. It was a welcome reprieve from flipping through the three different channels he’d managed to pull in, each one not much more than a snowy reflection of the blustering weather just outside.

Entering her room he was greeted by a handful of new sensations. The room was warm; probably no more than his but it had a sort of inviting air to it that his stale quarters lacked. Though that may have had more to do with the room’s inhabitant than whatever temperature she’d set her thermostat to. Second, the room smelled infinitely better. Again, something easily attributed more to his partner herself, as there were no candles, incense or the like around to have accounted for it otherwise. And then — there she was.

Casual Scully wasn’t something he got to experience very often. Even in a presumably casual setting she was still often found in a tailored jacket at the very least, if not a full-blown FBI regulation suit. Doing a very unregulated job of hugging her in ways he shouldn’t let himself take note of, but was guilty of nonetheless. But here in Nowhere, North Dakota, stuck in a crappy motel, Casual Scully had made her way out since he’d last spoken to her.

Wearing leggings and an old chopped up t-shirt, with her hair half clipped out of her face; a few wayward pieces breaking free to dance at her cheekbones, though he could hardly fault them for that. It was an indiscretion he himself had been guilty of; breaking away from propriety at times, indulging himself in sweeping the backs of his fingers along her cheek, hidden beneath a guise of either comfort or kindness — brushing a strand of hair from her face before she’s even noticed it had fallen out of line. Casual Scully made it more difficult than usual to resist staring, his gaze lingering in all kinds of ways inappropriate for interoffice partnerships. It was this fact that led him to notice her ten little red painted toes — the only sign he could see of her acknowledging the occasion.

As he surveyed the rest of the room he noted the mat set out just beyond the foot of the bed. She’d taken up yoga a number of weeks before — she’d told him as much, but this was his first actual glimpse into her new ritual. “I was just about to do some stretches,” she mentions offhandedly, before doing a much less off-handed job of whipping her t-shirt over her head, revealing a sports bra to match her workout bottoms. “Be my guest,” his voice does a terrible job at parroting her tone, sounding deeper and fuller than intended; though thankfully, she doesn’t seem to notice.

Retiring to the relative safety of the table in the corner of the room, her report left open on her laptop’s screen for him, he once again took the opportunity to spend more time watching her than paying attention to the work in front of him. He looked on with a kind of silent fascination — watching her small but strong form leading itself from one stretch into the next; muscle molding beneath skin. The vision she presented proved far more enticing than words on a screen, and he indulged himself deeper into this welcome distraction.

“Mulder?” Her voice rings out, and he’s certain he’s caught; that the old pretending to read a file gag has failed him. As fate would have it, he’s safe, with her gaze still angled away from him while his has lingered both inconspicuous and yet carelessly — he’s read maybe 12 words of this file and none have been subsequent. “Can you tell me if my back is straight?” She sounds forthright yet idyllic; an odd combination given the situation, but he’s not one to question it.

“Pretty close.” He answers quick, too quick — too obvious that he hadn’t just looked up when she spoke but had been following closely along as she moved from stretch to stretch. He has no idea their names but he can recall in perfect clarity exactly how she looked in each of them.

“Can you adjust me?”

A lump threatens to overtake his throat at her request, strangling his voice before he can cover it with a cough. “Shr—uhum—Sure Scully.” Moving to join her, kneeling just beside her prone form, he’s all at once taken aback by just how small she is. Tough as nails, his Scully, and yet no bigger than a sixth grader. Her size betrays her strength, he knows. He’s witnessed it. He could even say he’s witnessing it now, as she holds herself in a plank position, muscles taut and straining but strong; powerful. He knows she could knock him out if she ever wanted to. Hell, sometimes he wishes she actually would.

“Am I close?” Once again she pulls him back from whatever internal fantasy he can’t seem to let go of; her voice holding a focused innocence his can scarcely claim.

“You tell me.” Having overcome the lump, he sounds more wanton than anticipated. “Sorry...bad joke.” Deciding it would be best to move things along quickly before she can have a reaction, he finally takes in her position from a — fleetingly — objective mind. The next stretch requires a straight back, he tells himself clinically; easy enough. A warm hand lands against her and he marvels momentarily at this new perspective. He’s touched her here almost every day and yet seeing it — seeing the way his hand almost spans her right the way across, how fair and soft she is beneath her suits, the faint smattering of freckles that decorate the area... He doesn’t realize just how long he’s fallen silent; staring, cataloging, until her voice shakes him back to reality once more. “Mulder?”

“Sorry,” he mutters absentmindedly, and moves on to the task at hand.

He’s gentle with her — not that he needs to be; but the compulsion is there all the same. He’s delicate as he maneuvers each area, setting her shoulders just so, pressing softly against her mid-back to correct the slightly convex curvature there. Reaching her lower back again he is struck just as he’d been the first time, summarily distracted from his task of righting her spine’s position; lost within the creamy expanse of Scully skin. He feels more than hears her intake of breath when his fingertips gently wander down her vertebrae, re-misaligning her upper back, requiring he correct it once again.

“Sorry.” She mimics him from before, and her voice holds a quality he somehow can’t quite pinpoint; a borderline somewhere between distraction and...something else. Continuing where he left off, he passes over her lower back, memorizing the curve without the hindrance of fabric to interrupt his mapping of her. Her spine is slightly bowed here, dipped inward from the posture she’s trying to achieve; and he realizes the only way to actually right this is to reach beneath her, palming her stomach to ease her into alignment. He leaves one hand behind to provide a counterbalance, the other bracing itself just over her navel, feeling the rigidity in her abdominal muscles as he finishes repositioning her.

“Looks good to me.” There’s no way to disguise the way his voice has lowered since he last spoke; an all too obvious indication of what touching her could do to a man. He can’t help noting how she looks to be fairing no better, with a slight tremor visible in her stance as she attempts to control her breath. “Thank you.” Her voice shakes just as perceptibly as she is; slight, but it’s there. She holds the stretch for a thirty count, and he’s made no move to leave her side even when she’s finished. She drops a knee to the mat and lets out a languished breath, then turns to sit facing him. Neither has said a word for the last minute or more, and electric molecules buzz in the air like the flurries just outside her window.

She swallows thickly and he can hear the faint smack of her lips when they part to take another breath. Suddenly he’s fascinated by those lips. Wholly immersed in their plumpness; the flush of their coloring, the shine left behind when she nervously licks along her top lip. Even more suddenly he’s consumed by a need to touch those lips, his hand reaching her face before he’s entirely realized the whim — fingers skimming along her jawline as his thumb whispers underneath the protrusion of her full bottom lip. Her mouth closes on an ‘M’ that doesn’t end up forming anything more.

Her eyes are deadly focused on his, though his own have taken up a residence alongside his thumb for the time being. He watches diligently at the way her lip gives under the insistent pressing of his thumb; her breath a hot little cloud moistening the digit along with her lips. Growing braver or perhaps just more foolish, he moves up, to fully experience the satiny impact of her lip head on — feeling her breath shake all the while she allows him this great indulgence. And indulge he does.

“What made you take up yoga?” He asks as though he isn’t currently tracing his partner’s uniquely perfect pout. But a very unpartner-like behavior only breeds more unpartner-like conduct. She swallows again, the action parting her lips once more; though his thumb has still yet to leave their pillowy expanse, simply moving back to outlining the brim of her lower lip once more. His fingers have taken up a more serious attachment to her jawline, and he makes no indication of removing them to make this any easier on her. He can see the mix of shock dancing in her eyes — shock at what he’s doing, perhaps even shock at herself for so freely allowing what he’s doing, and shock that he’s chosen this moment to ask about her exercise habits.

She swallows again and he can feel the sensation just below his fingertips where they graze against her throat. Her lips look as though she’s going to question him. ‘Mulder what are you doing?’, ‘Mulder why are you touching me like this?’, ‘Mulder why haven’t I stopped you?’. He silently prepares himself for — he wouldn’t call it rejection, but it will certainly end up feeling that way. He’s in this just as she is; shock mixing around his mind, at his own audacity, brazenness, at her lack of rebuff until now. But she surprises him yet again — her voice coming out with what looks like a great effort to remain unaffected, but ending up sounding altogether very, very affected.

“It was suggested to me...” His Scully is stronger than any man or woman he’s ever known. Her fortitude astounds him almost daily, but no more than it does in this moment. Perhaps later he’ll tell himself it was that fortitude that spurred him on — a voiceless challenge to rattle those fortifications, push past those braces before she shores herself up impenetrably. Yes that must be the reason he finds himself tugging her closer, his hand having moved to the back of her neck before he fully realizes it; but how can anyone expect anything of him when he’s just felt the first brush of contact of her lips and his? She draws in a quick gasp of breath at the connection, which he’s almost certain amounted to little more than drawing in his exhale; CO2 invading her lungs as his tongue makes its first bid at invading her mouth.

All at once she lets him, even meets him halfway; her tongue colliding with the wet intrusion of his — a first kiss to end all others. It’s slow and soft, yet achingly erotic. This suddenly sensual creature before him never fails to surprise him. Thinking back he could argue that she’s always been sensual — wholly feminine, more beautiful than he’d allow himself to acknowledge — never wanting to reduce her to a mere sensual being, when she was that and so, so so much more; most especially to him. But the kiss — the kiss cements her in his mind as an utterly beautiful, utterly sensual woman. He’ll be hard-pressed to extract her in any other state now, with the way her hands have suddenly clutched into his t-shirt, leveraging herself closer to him; he’ll be hard-pressed indeed.

“Mulder...” his name finally makes it out, but not like he expected. It isn’t ‘Mulder what are you doing?’ it’s ‘Mulder keep doing what you’re doing or I’ll shoot you again.’ Okay maybe not exactly that, but his mind has a mind of its own now and it’s decidedly run away with him. Taken whatever it was that held him back from her for this long and blown it sky high. His hands reach for her waist and pull her in a swift, clean motion; her slight weight flying across the short distance between them until she’s in his lap, knees pressed in to the carpet and lips at a much better angle for him to kiss. She draws in another quick breath at the relocation, but seems just as appreciative to be closer now than just in arm’s reach. Her hands are in his hair and she’s flush against his chest, and she’s just as intent on keeping this going as he is.

A soft, little sound escapes her lips and goes right to his groin. A moan, you idiot — his brain tells him late. You just made Dana Scully moan with a kiss. The realization suddenly brings a smile to his lips, which makes a momentary mess of their kiss. But then she’s smiling too, as though his were infectious and she’s caught it — lock, stock, and barrel. The only cure is to kiss her deeper, drawing another mewling sound from her throat, which makes the same trek downwards just as her hips shift above him. They both feel it — the palpable inevitability of what comes next if they don’t stop this now. His heart lurches at the thought of stopping anything they’re doing right now, and she must sense it; allaying his fear in a single phrase.

“Bed now.”

Her words come out fast, almost too fast for him to register initially. He hears them late, but his body seems to have a mind of its own too; already having gathered her up, mere milliseconds from depositing her on the bed before it registers that this is what she asked for — her body receiving his with a contented sigh. Her legs wrap around his waist and he’s trapped; locked in to her embrace and he’s never felt better, safer, more accepted than he does in this moment. Scully has always accepted him, accepted his faults, his penchant for running off; she hates it but she accepts it all the same. She doesn’t seem to be hating this now though, when he rolls his hips and makes contact against her, she certainly doesn’t seem to be hating this at all.

The friction throws a wrench into their otherwise picture-perfect kiss. They have a rhythm developed already; born perhaps out of dancing around one another so close for so long — it’s instinctive. They know when the other needs a breath, and when breath is the least of their priorities. A kiss; deep, and long, is of much greater importance right now, and he’s chosen then to throw her off her game. Her fingers clench tighter into his hair, as though to steady herself — he’s caused yet another misalignment from touching her this way, and it’s his responsibility alone to fix it.

Without warning he breaks the kiss completely; her eyes fling open and her breath dislodges from her chest on a sudden outward journey. But it’s just as quickly pulled back in; his lips have only relocated — dropped to her throat to do a more than satisfactory job of kissing her there. He feels her begin to melt beneath his ministrations, turning to magma beneath his lips; molten hot and percolating at his touch. She is in sharp contrast to the rage of weather still outside; all but trapping them here, and at least partly responsible for setting this in motion.

His hands finally take initiative to do the same; moving from her waist to engulf her breasts, causing another moan to plant itself in her throat, and her teeth to bury themselves in her kiss-swollen lip to prevent it from fully surfacing. This only proves to spur him on more. He wants that moan — wants to hear it full force; feel it vibrate his very being and know he was the cause. He finds her nipples through Lycra fabric, kneads at them with his thumbs as his hips drive into hers on a soft roll; and that does it. The moan breaks free and she clutches him tighter. The moan sounds like his name and when he repeats the motion again, it is. “Mulder.”

He decides then and there his name has never sounded better, and likely never will again.

She begins to writhe beneath him, growing impatient and only more aroused the longer he takes to give her anything more than petting through material. But he isn’t quite done with it yet. One hand leaves her breast, much to her dismay. She tells him of such with an impatient whimper and an almost painful grasp of his hair. It turns to speaking when his hand moves between her legs; a supplication to God himself, and he’s almost tickled that he’s caused her to bring Him in to this.

He strokes at her clothen center — the scorch of her emanating through the layers still between them, bordering on incendiary. She writhes again and her hand joins the one still at her breast, grapples at him until he grips her tighter; a vision of desperation he will never get out of his head. He decides suddenly, to put her out of her misery. His hand slinks past elastic and cotton, and finally touches the flaming ember between her thighs. Three large fingers stoke her very core, eliciting the most beautiful moan he thinks he’s ever heard; three parts pleasure one part repose — it says finally, something more substantial.

The pads of his fingers run up and down the length of her, yet to focus on one place. For the time being it seems to be enough for her; as she lets her soft, mewling sounds leave her lips freely now, and tells him in a kind of Morse code through her tightening and loosening grip on his hair when and where it feels just right.

“Get this off.” He plucks at the perimeter of her sports bra, suddenly aware that he has still yet to see her breasts and that that simply won’t do. He sits up just enough to give her the room required to remove it but not so much as to break the connection of his hand between her legs. She seems most appreciative of that fact, and rewards him with a cross of her arms and a tug of fabric; the bra is lost beyond the bed and her breasts are finally free — her panting breath causing them to rise and fall gently, somehow making them appear even more enticing. “God Scully.” It’s the only reaction that comes to mind. Give it up to the big man, if he really is up there; if he really is responsible for these perfect, cherry-tipped breasts before him.

His hand returns to her first — molding along her flesh in a way he’d be lying if he said he never thought of doing before this moment. But as most merely imagined things are, it’s better than he ever could have predicted. She’s soft but firm under his hand; warm, welcoming flesh accepting his touch ardently. She flushes under the weight of his gaze and grasp on her — a pretty, pink tinge trailing out across her skin. But despite the blushed hue she is still his immutable partner. “Need this off you.” She grabs for his t-shirt and he’s forced to let go of her to aid in her removing of it. It’s narrowly out of sight before she’s clutching at his flesh, dragging him back down to her; to her waiting chest and lips. Her hands encircle as much of his back as she can reach, fingers press in to lines of muscle and tendon, and the nails of one hand light sparks along his scalp — actions all intended to draw him close, closer; keep him there, keep him kissing her — as if he would stop unless it were her express wish that he did.

His thumb sweeps along the side of her face, this time needing no excuse or wayward tendril to do so. She hums in contented recognition of the overt tenderness of the gesture; kisses him earnestly, matches him equal in her tenderness, as though he deserves nothing less. His heart clinches momentarily, at the thought that she could love him. That on this day of love and bad greeting cards she’d choose to receive the former from him, and return him hers in commensurate measure. He peppers kisses along her cheeks, her jaw; drawing a giggle out of her the likes of which he’s never heard. He can’t resist retracing his steps to kiss her effervescent mouth — to hold some of her laugh inside him forever, as once it entered him he would never surrender it to the harshness of the world ever again.

Her fingers trace a blazing trail down the column of his spine, ending somewhere near his mid-back as she runs out of arm length to reach any further. Diminutive, he’s reminded; and as if she senses his thoughts through some tongue convertible telepathy, she uses her strength to flip him onto his back. Her eyes sparkle — diminutive my ass, Agent Mulder. His petite, achingly pretty partner has finally knocked him on his ass; and she looks particularly proud of herself for doing so. Her hands reach for his belt and it’s game on again. No more verbose silent soliloquies written like odes unto her beauty. At least not for the moment.

With his belt gone she makes quick work of the button and zip of his jeans; extricates herself from him, much to his dismay, but it’s only in necessity to remove the garment, and drop it in a muffled denim thump onto the carpet. Her leggings are next to go; her hips wiggling side to side as she works the snug fabric down her toned, peaches and cream colored legs. He sits up swiftly before she can deal with the rest herself — he wants this privilege; wants it burned inside his very eyelids, so on every blink he gets the split-second reminder, of just what it was like to strip Dana Scully of the last of her underthings.

He sits at the edge of the bed with her fixed between his legs. He kisses the curve of her waist, drags his mouth along the path to her hip, takes her waistband into his teeth and softly snaps it against her. She laughs again, softly; and tangles a hand back into his hair. She indulges his monumental levels of patience even while she has no such monuments of her own. When he finally raises his hands to grasp and pull the fabric down her legs she lets out a sigh; something between relief and a dash of apprehension. There’s no going back now.

He kisses along her sternum but his eyes are decidedly skywards. But this time he’s not looking to the sky for intangible spacecraft hovering above — he’s looking to her. He holds her in place with the weight of his gaze alone. It says to her that this is about you, us; not just him or what lies between her legs. She dips down just enough to kiss him, with the softest kiss they’ve yet to share. The impossible pillow of her lips accepts his own in a cradle akin only to a cloud. He is truly discovering unidentified objects here; flying along with her to light the way.

Her lack of patience has finally begun to catch up with her; and she tugs at the top of his boxers, the turgid, solid length of him breaking free. His shorts have barely reached his calves before her hand has grasped the fullness of him; taking up a slow, rhythmic manipulation of flesh that leaves him burdened with a desperate sort of longing to surge up into the vise of her grip.

“Scully—” His hands take up a similar vise grip of her waist; the rest of his sentiment conveyed only through the fervor in his eyes. Now it’s her turn to put him out of his misery — when she’s in his lap again and the heat of her is engulfing him inch by solid inch. His lips find her breast as she adjusts atop him; accepts him all the more than she’s already done. Her fingers clutch at his shoulders as she works her way down, back up and down again; each time taking more until he’s buried totally inside her and never wants to come back out.

He kisses her again and swallows up her humming; the soft sounds she’s begun making as she sets out a rhythm with him. His hands hoist her gently by the hips to aid in her cadence, and pull her back down in parallel motion; sinking deeply into her waiting warmth and besetting a quiver into her pliable construction. Her rhythm starts to falter even with his helping hands, strength waning as pleasure takes a stronger hold.

“Mulder...” her bliss-racked voice beseeches him; so he rolls and moves them back up the bed, lets her take residence up below him once again, drives his hips into hers like before but this time the connection is palpable — sweaty and authentic, and he’s in rapture all the more. He looks on in fascination at his length disappearing into her — sees the flush creep back in all over now; a full body blushing and he just has to see her face. She’s grown pinker and more wanton since he’s switched their positions, enjoying her view of his form just as he is hers. They share a lust-addled smile before he’s on her again; kissing her hungrily as his hips roll and smack into hers in a delicious dizzying stroke, touching places within her that make her break the kiss to moan and wriggle before just as desperately returning to his lips for just a bit more.

His hands engulf her breasts again; thumbs thoroughly titillating her pert nipples until she’s using any leverage she has to thrust her hips downwards to meet his halfway — anything to tear more pleasure from their joining. Her sounds have been reduced to mere whimpers now; hands clutching desperately for a hold, something to keep her on the precipice, anything to feel like this just a little longer. He stops the overstimulation he’d committed to her breasts, instead focusing on a caress of her hips, her waist, the middle of her chest and even up to her throat. Whatever he can do to extend her pleasure, he’ll do it. He changes the angle of his hips slightly and she all but yelps. “Right there, Mulder—God.” His thrusts steadily hit her in just that spot and she’s quivering again — teeth chattering, nails digging in to his flesh, her voice growing higher and more desperate than he’s ever heard her. His own pleasure is fast surfacing; a wave ready to break on the rocks at any moment, barely holding back but using all his remaining strength to do so.

The inevitable is approaching; fast, and faster still. He knows she’s close but still needs something — that final push into oblivion, and he finds it with his thumb. He smooths the pad of it along her apex, unearths the diamond of nerves at her medial and rubs circles against it until she’s convulsing internally; spasming around him in the most beautiful fashion, and then he’s spilling over too — cresting white waves against the beach, her name on his lips like she were a prayer. And God, for him. She is.

[typhonatemybaby]

I stumbled across this article on twitter the other day and IMO it represents simultaneously the worst and most socially positive elements of what a lot of people think about when they think about scottish independence. Im from Scotland and support independence in the current climate, but for a variety of reasons, some of which are identical to the standard pro-indy platform, some wildly divergent. It starts off well enough, by poking a few holes in Ruth Davidsons generally tepid takes on the broad campaign for independence as well as highlighting her hypocrisy as regards her take on nationalism in general ( cue timely reference to the infamous tank photograph). After this the author takes the tack of using this as a platform for arguing for: “ ...the independence movement to challenge her "thinking" (quote marks very much needed) by giving stronger and more coherent meaning to the philosophy of our cause.“

Which in general is a program i support, especially given that the nature of the mainstream lines of the debate have sort of solidified into entrenched positions since indyref 1.0. However Im broadly speaking an anarchist so any chance of my actual views getting into the rhetoric of the independence debate is pretty slim. Regardless we crack on and Mr Mcalpine immediately starts talking about academic theories and conceptions of nationalism, which i would agree is a fair point to start. However this is also where i start to run int trouble with this article. Instead of using the theories he has outlined to help approach the matter materialistically and even state which of these he believes is closer to accuracy ( though to be fair he does do this later), McAlpine immediately simply lays them out as an offering and moves on to his first major calumny. I find it fitting that he does this after making the error that all online anarchos love to point out : “ oooooh you assumed the nation state is a good model at ALL. you FOOL” etc etc

So what is this first major issue? well:

“Because here's the thing – there is more or less no person in the world who is not wholly reliant on and deeply committed to the nation state system. I get deeply irritated by the 'citizen of the world' crowd who, hypocritically, expect someone else's nation state to provide the police to protect their MacBooks as they check into a hotel in someone else's country using someone else's roads paid for by someone else's nation state raising taxes on their population.

If you are a fascist, an anarcho-syndicalist, a theocrat or a believer in undemocratic kingdoms or empires, or of a single world government, then you have taken a legitimate position from which to attack nationalism. Everyone else is some kind of nationalist.”

Fuck me, bad post op.

First of all this is, for someone who just ragged on Ruth Davidson for not knowing about academic theories of nationalism in human society, this guy displays a total absence of knowledge when it comes to literally any of the ideological positions he’s just listed. Secondly, given the way this guy seems to conceive of nationalism i find the ( I assume rhetorical) claim he makes that  “everyone is some kind of nationalist” to be somewhat farcical. Some people deliberately extricate themselves form this mode of thinking. some never fall into it at all and others merely drift away. Its either that or he is going for the Orwell argument, in which case, buddy, me and my  pal Max have some news for you. 

On the other hand if McAlpine is making the argument that “ we all live within political systems pervaded by the importance of the nation-state” or something along those lines, then frankly that’s one hell of a circular point seeing as he proselytizes the idea of Nation States as inherently legitimate, or at least seems to. If this latter argument is being made here then its not wildly different to that time Louise Mensch got up of Have I Got News For You and complained that anti capitalists protesters were idiots because they’d probably consumed capitalist goods. Not least i find this disgusting because of his insistence on the conception of “our roads” as if humans can cut out cubes of the air and trademark them. A criticism of tourist-colonialism is very justified, i agree, and the idea that the colonized nation, repressed by the colonizer is legitimate in resistance is one that many would say carries some water, but here he turns it utterly on its head, not only by arguing that Scotland is in any way similar to being an imperial colony in any significant degree, but also by turning this argument into a complete unconscious capitulation to the essentialism of the republic. Mcalpine worships the citizen, and now because of it anyone can build upon that ideological failure to wring up whatever evolved form of essentialism they may choose. It is from this that the whole failure of much of the self described civic nationalists springs. Their ideology has replaced the old totem with a new one and now the imagined republic forms what they strive for. It will of course never exist, vote or no. I happily voted Yes once and will do so again, but while i described myself as a civic nationalist last time i don’t any longer. I dont think this article really vindicates why anyone should

In that it is treated differently within the UK political landscape by the powers that be it is more akin to a collection of low priority constituencies, safe seats that neither side is compelled to compete over and thus will not invest in. The vestiges of serious English/Scottish violent tension or the post 1707 internal repression are not actually materially important any more. Scots aren’t being brutally oppressed in that way any more. In the Current material conditions it is about austerity over the course of decades, the aftermath of industrial collapse and regrowth, and cutting away from the worst of liberalism and neoliberalism, into a situation where things are merely bad and not catastrophic.

its for this reason that im skeptical of the premise of his next section: that civic, cultural and ethnic nationalism are fundamentally different. Different they are, but not inextricably so. in fact i believe they are merely faces of each other, and because the idea of nationalism does not allow for people to actually escape that loop, are suited to merely melt into each other as the climate requires. If you cant imagine the “ someone elses roads” rhetoric coming out of the mouth of certain other UK political figures mouths. Mcalpine attempts to escape this by stating that he sees the shades of grey and the nuances inherent in the problems of all these theories, but i would argue that the three distinct ideas of nationalism he has outlined do not form separate trends or tendencies, but that they chase each other in a spiral. I believe they have a dialectical relationship. 

(Getting wildly off the rails I would liken it to Clausewitz’s “ fascinating trinity”, where three separate components of a concept that at first glance each seem the essential component, each rely on each other and by their own presence force the other aspects to relate to them.* The actual philosophical difference between civic and ethnic nationalism is particularly tenuous for reasons which i should not have to elucidate. These are not separate categories. They are elements in dialectical conversation with each other and each exists in the nationalist ideal, if you look in the right places. Creating a theory of the modern nation state isn't like picking different pokemon at the start of the game)

*I am aware of course that this is obscure as hell. feel free to ignore it Anyway getting back on track: I think that by this point another key error in the Civic nationalist platform should be clear by now: the notion that civic nationalism stands somehow as a desperately radical stance against globalization and modern consumerism, or even that it would materially represent a desperately different way of being from such things. Neither of these things are really expressly mentioned in this article as it isn't really the place for that massive discussion yet i personally get the feeling that we should briefly discuss them nonetheless. The Civic nationalist tendency amongst the main camp of the Independence movement in Scotland frequently effectively offers Scottish nationalism/independence as a bulwark, both materially and ideologically against “ the bad capitalism” presuming their own to be so much better. Again this isn't mentioned in McAlpines article, so its not like its at all his fault but i feel the need, as someone in favor of Independence and as an anti-capitalist who takes a Marxian analysis of capitalist economics to reiterate that this position is blatant nonsense

Anyway Mcalpine then knocks it right out of the park with the inclusion of a joke YouTube video, which to be fair takes a nice swing at BBC British nationalist propaganda, which is to be fair pretty horrendous. This section is a little edgy but whatever. He then moves on to complain that Sturgeon has had to avoid the word “ nationalist” in her rhetoric. Frankly i normally have no problem with the idea of nationalism being unpopular, but his point that it is being made unusable by the deliberate propagandist manipulation of the silent nationalism of the British political landscape (lmao) is an accurate one. Nationalism isn't what those people are arguing against. they are arguing for their own nationalism and their own power. Next up, after this worthwhile insight is a quite positive point, the heart of which i understand but at same time cannot stand alongside: The fixed idea of the citizen and citizenry is again raised. Difference and the validity of such is celebrated. All is Utopian. All is then sacrificed. the preponderance of the nation state over the citizen immediately re-erupts onto the scene, as the citizens become components of the national project. Which is inevitably going to cave to bog standard capitalist exploitation no matter how Utopian you make your Tomorrow-Scotland. Surplus Value is still Surplus Value regardless who the extractor is. McAlpine is not willing to accept this however and states:

“ This means that I believe nationalism is a function of people – that the nation state is explicitly a contract between each of its citizens, and not a contract between individuals and 'the state'. “ ...to which i can only respond with “ yeah right”. 

He reiterates his imagined distinction between movement for a nation of citizens and affinity groups and relations, and old school patriotism and rightly criticizes it as a subservience to power, yet fails to reflect on such a notion within a nation.  The rest of this article i cant really bring myself to criticize because it is genuinely clearly rather heartfelt in a way which i too have felt and sympathize with:  snipe though i may I still sympathize with the general platform and the desires behind it: for a better way of living. Further the general premise of the article is made into a rather useful request at the end, even if i still feel that the author failed to live up to it: 

“ If only we could show more courage in defining what our project is about at a fundamental level...” 

Well to the author i say this: if that project is independence please count me as, though a critic, an ally. But if it is nationalism then i would encourage you to see which spooks and phantasms still haunt you and to see which wheels turn in your head.

[qwedfas]

FAM~ How to love yourself and gain confidence? Sometimes I 'act' in front of my classmates without even noticing, and now Im confused of who I really am. Everyone thinks Im quiet and shy but in reality I love to talk but Im just scared what they might think of me so I resort to talking less.I know its stupid but now its almost become a habit that is impossible to break- its rubbed off on my real personality too-it hurts my self esteem and I've become so self conscious,Im a living lie pleasehelp

Hey sweetie,

It begins with you. Is it that you’re scared of who you are, and what you might be - right now? And if you are - why? These are questions that only you can answer. Your real words are precious - don’t let that overwhelming pressure of others, of what they might think of you, silence who you really are. Don’t be afraid of what others think, or how they’ll react to you - your friends may actually find the real you very charming and lovely, and may welcome you even further, if you simply let yourself shine for who you are, let yourself breathe, and be the natural, charming, lovely you that you are- without the limitations and restrictions. Even though you may feel like all of that ‘acting’ has rubbed off on you, and has maybe even changed your personality, that’s not the case - you’re still there, down underneath it all. You haven’t changed, and your ‘real’ personality hasn’t been altered by this. The very fact that you’re aware that you’re being confined by this involuntary pressure to act, and that you know that it’s happening, itself indicates that you’re speaking from who you really are - and that you haven’t lost it. It isn’t impossible to break - it may be a bit of a habit, but like all habits, you can grow out of them.

There’s something blocking you from letting go, and which is stopping you from being who you are - but do you accept yourself for who you really are? Even if it’s different from the constructed, ideal version of yourself, with all of your flaws and imperfections - that is to say, all of you? Unless you yourself are comfortable in your own skin, it may be difficult to break out of that shell - and it’s so difficult, because it takes courage - the kind of courage that so many people in our society aren’t very good at, these days. So if anything, I encourage you: be courageous.  It’s a lot easier said than done, and it’ll take a while, but try to let go of all of the pressure that you feel - every time you catch yourself saying that you ‘should’ do something, try to let it go, and replace it with something that’s more natural to you. Every time that you feel like a foreign characteristic (eg. being silent) comes to you, simply let it pass - and have the courage to let yourself do something that feels more comfortable to you (eg. asking a question, making a verbal quip, talking).

Have the courage to let go of that fear, and that security of being forever hidden under that ‘acting’; simply let yourself be who you are, and let yourself say whatever you would like to say. Start start with five minutes a day: five brave minutes, where you’re just unapologetically you, and let yourself breathe. Forget about anyone else, anything, and what they could think. These five minutes are for you, and you only - forget about those expectations and fears. It’s difficult, at first - it won’t happen straight away. This sort of thing takes time - if not days, weeks, months for you to coax yourself out of that shell again - so don’t berate yourself if things don’t go smoothly, or you’re not suddenly ‘yourself’ again within the first few couple of tries. It takes a lot patience, and there’s a hell of a lot of trusting yourself that you’ve got to do, and it may feel a bit like a step in the dark - but keep persisting at it, and gradually, increase the number of minutes per day where you do this, as you feel comfortable with. And eventually, you might want to start moving this time to school - it could be when you’re alone in the bathroom. Or, take a deep breath - and do it around your friends, for five minutes only. If it’s for five minutes, your friends may not even notice any large changes at first - but as you increase the time, your friends may actually start to appreciate this ‘you’, the ‘you’ who is uninhibited and free to speak whatever you choose and wish to say. If you feel free to be as talkative as you wish, and feel free to say whatever you want, you’ll be so much more relaxed - and people may find you even more charismatic, than you are now.

And to love yourself - it’s simply to be kind to yourself. Be patient, forgiving and honest with yourself. You don’t have to force yourself to be who you are - it’s a natural process, and it’ll come, when all of those restrictions come down. It takes a lot of time to accept yourself, as well, wholly - so please don’t be pressured to ‘love yourself’ - it’s just a matter of letting yourself be you, right now, even with all of your insecurities. Here’s a few tips that we have, that can help you foster those feelings of self-love:

Spending time to do something that you love - whether it be a passion or a hobby (eg. anything from drawing, cooking, sports, reading, knitting, etc.). Let yourself enjoy the activity - as well as yourself, and how you feel at the time.

Keep an appreciation journal - write down all of the things that you’re happy for, and reasons why. Strangely, being thankful of the things around us can also help us be more kind to both others, and ourselves.

Write down a list of positive personal qualities within you. This can help give a bit of a reminder - of how much you have to offer to the world :)

Hope this helps!

Love,  FAM xx