#Mythic Soul Link

[xxmythicravenxx]

This is Blitz! Nicknamed for her favorite form of attack, Blits is an alternate version of Myth who is a part of Nocturna's pack of Hooligans.

Blitz is very similar to Killer but she tends to be less murderous and more into causing chaos and mass panic in Nocturna's name.

Name: Blitz

AU: MythicalKillerTale

Mythic Link: Blitz herself can turn into a Three-tailed Scorpion Gorgon, but her link itself is a Scorpion Hive.

Pets: Two Ferrets named Hysteria and Calamity. 😂

Pet peeve: She despises being ignored.

[steve-s-slut]

👅

[casperghosty]

Am I the only one feeling empty now that GME is over?? All that anticipation and speculation of what might happen the planning the getting up early to watch it, all of it....just over, gone, now all we have is just regular GMM 😔

[obsidian-pages777]

Pick a Card: A Love letter for an Introvert.[Pick a mythical aesthetic]

Pile 1-Fairy core, Pile 2-Water Nymph core, Pile 3- Witch core. Left->Right

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Introduction

These are love letters to each one of you that picks a pile and if you happen to be an introverted soul walking on this earthly realm of existence give this reading a glance. I hope this works as a perfect- pick me up- for anytime of your day, whether you are stuck with massive amounts of boredom, back home from a tough work day or school day or even if you happen to be trying to find that quiet corner that you feel the most comfortable in, in this loud bustling world. Hope this gives you a sense of reassurance and peace.

The Music to help you today is in the link below:

Aurora- Your Blood

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Pile 1

Dearest Gentle Soul,

I write to you today with a heart full of admiration, for I have watched you navigate the winding paths of life with such grace and quiet determination. You have some qualities that you may not always see in yourself, but that shine brightly to those who take the time to look closely.

You have accomplished so much, my fren. The battles you’ve fought, though often silent and unseen by others, have shaped you into the remarkable person you are today. The world may not always recognize the quiet victories, but I see them in every step you take. Each obstacle you’ve overcome has been a testament to your resilience, a reminder of the power that lies within you.

Be proud, for you have come so far. You have faced challenges that others may never understand, and you’ve emerged stronger, wiser, and more compassionate and determined. Your journey is one of quiet triumphs, and though the road ahead may still hold its share of trials, remember that you are more than capable of continuing to rise above them.

With every achievement, no matter how small, you are crafting a life that is uniquely yours—a life built on the foundations of strength, courage, and self-belief. So take a moment, to bask in the glory of all you have done. Let pride fill your heart, for you have earned it a thousand times over.

With all my love,

Your Fairy Companion [wink wink]

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Pile 2

Beloved Introverted Heart,

Today, I find myself compelled to remind you of the extraordinary beauty that lies within you. Your soul tells a tale of someone with a soul as deep and vast as the ocean, filled with nuances and subtleties that are rare and precious.

Your uniqueness is a gift, a treasure that sets you apart in a world that often celebrates the loudest voices. It is your quiet nature, your introspection, that allows you to see the world in ways that others might miss. You notice the details, the small moments of magic that others overlook. You bring thoughtfulness, understanding, and a calm presence that is a balm to those around you.

There is a power in your stillness, a wisdom in your reflection. You are not meant to conform to the expectations of others, for you are a rare gem, one that sparkles brightest in its own light. Appreciate these qualities, for they are what make you so incredibly special.

Do not seek to change or mold yourself into something you are not. Instead, embrace the beauty of your introverted nature. It is in your quiet strength that you find your true power, in your gentle spirit that you touch the lives of others in profound ways. It is okay to retreat from this loud world from time to time. The world needs your unique light, and it shines most brilliantly when you allow yourself to simply be.

With appreciation,

Your Friend from Seas Apart

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Pile 3

Dearest Kindred Spirit,

I see the path you walk, and I am here to tell you that you are doing incredibly well. The cards reveal a journey that is not always easy, but one that you continue to face with unwavering dedication. You work hard, often without the recognition you deserve, yet you keep moving forward with quiet determination.

I want you to know that your efforts are not in vain. Every step you take, every task you complete, brings you closer to the life you are striving to create. It is in these small, consistent efforts that great achievements are born. You may not always see the progress, but it is there, building with each passing day.

Take heart, darling, for you are on the right path. Your hard work is a testament to your strength of character, your commitment to your goals. Even on the days when it feels like the weight of the world is on your shoulders, know that you have the power to carry it. You are stronger than you realize, more capable than you give yourself credit for.

Do not lose faith in yourself, for the journey ahead is bright with possibility. Keep pushing forward, even when the road seems long. Your dreams are within reach, and your hard work is the key that will unlock them. Remember, you are not alone on this path—your angels walk with you, cheering you on every step of the way.

With unwavering encouragement,

Your Witchy Companion.

[nicolekart]

Jentry Chau vs the Underworld – Kit theory 

Okay, so I recently finished watching “Jentry Chau vs the Underworld” and got a little hyperfixation about it, but I see that not many people are talking about this cartoon.

And since I don't have a chance to do any fan art for the time being, I'll at least do a little bit of writing.

A small disclaimer: This is not a super specific theory, but more of a loose thinking and musing about additional storylines, because I think these characters and the story had much more potential than was tapped, or they were given to tap. I know I'm probably reading too much into things, but let's just be delusional for 5 minutes. You know… for fun.

I guess I don't need to say there are spoilers?

So, what if the plan for Kit's character was a bit different beforehand, or if we have some hint of what will happen to him next?

It's just that, I admit, I feel that his plot could have been handled better, more deeply (like many things in general), and I can't shake the feeling that there is a certain inconsistency that scratches at the back of my head - which is the bird motif.

1. The theme of a bird with 1 wing from another post

Link to the post.

When I saw this post, some way into the early episodes, I began to pay more attention.

It is about a mythical Chinese creature in the form of a bird with one eye and one wing, which has to unite with another bird in order to fly. The author of the post draws attention to this sense of incompleteness, of lacking something, which Kit has in regard to the lack of a soul.

The creature's other name is Jian, and it is also described as a good omen, a symbol of protection, a messenger between the divine and mortal realms.

2. His design

Link to the post on IG

 One of the character designers shared concept art of Kit, in which he has a medallion signed as using this very creature's theme. In the end, Kit appears to have a plain pink necklace.

However, the wing motif remains on his shirt.

In the shirtless art, we see a scar (which didn't make it into the series either), but it's on the same side as the missing wing would have been. Also, the design on the shirt. 

Maybe the plan was to rewrite the Jian myth, where he didn't just have one wing, but lost it?

2 Kit's character in the intro

And while the design thing can be explained by the fact that it was an old concept that didn't make it into the final version, why were some of the wing motifs left, like his shirt (but about that in a moment).

The main question is, why was it left in the intro in such a literal way? Just for aesthetic reasons? Didn't they want to show what kind of demon he is right away? Why are his eyes purple when he has white ones in the show? On the other hand, Michael's eyes when he has visions are identical to those in the episodes?

In the post, the artist mentions that the theme of the one-winged bird is a tragic story, and yet Kit is a tragic character in a way, and that he looks so dramatic in the intro... But doesn't it seem a little off to you? I mean, as much as possible... it might have been the only reason to use such a motif, but all in all, why would one demon have the attributes of another demon/mythical creature?

4. The feather theme of the woman in the vision

 As I mentioned, there are still the feather/wing motifs.

In episode 6, in the visions that Cheng haunts Kit with, there is a woman who first turns into dark feathers, and then has a medallion that might resemble a stylized wing. 

They say everything in animation is intentional, so why?

5. Torn pages from the bestiary

This is probably the least solid guess, nevertheless....

It seems that most demons in the bestiary have 2 pages dedicated to them. (Even probably Ed considering that the one on the page next to him is his picture).

However, the Painted skin demon only has one page, and the next pages are torn out. I know that this could just be a hint as to the further plot of the episode, and the whole scene was just to show Jentry the missing pages. But if I remember correctly, they weren't addressed anymore in the plot (like a lot of things in general but well).

The point is that why would the pages torn out of BESTIARIUS contain anything about Jentry's powers if they originated from the Yellow Emperor and, as Gugu suggested, are worthy of a god. I would assume that the power that some mythical emperor might have possessed would rather have come from the Gods, which is why the demons fear it so much, or the Mogui who crave it so deeply, since such power is not available to Diju beings.

So what if these pages are a continuation of the Painted Skin Demon chapter. What if he wasn't always like this? Maybe there is a further (earlier) part of the legend? What if they combined two of the myths together? Like the Fallen Good Omen, for example, that's why he loves people so much and wants to be among them again.

Although in the scene at the end of the episode his chapter is already on another page, not next to the torn out pages....

6. Potential rebirth/return to the former form/getting his soul back from Diju

What if Jentry was right and the soul is not a uniquely human thing. I'm not saying that all demons have a typical soul, because they would probably have already figured it out. But maybe they can develop/ grow one? Or something similar to it. Gugu says they'll give them a funeral... all of them. That means Kit, as well. What if, thanks to this ritual, his soul could pass to the afterlife, or to Diju given that he did however kill some people and generally has things to repent for?

Maybe in a later storyline they could get his soul back, he could be reborn. Or, theorizing about bird motifs, he could return to favor as a good omen.

From other stories, like Journey to the West, we know how often Heaven liked to punish celestial beings (and that's how the one-winged bird is described – a celestial being, not a demon) by turning them into demons, or how often animal-like creatures escaped into the human world and took the forms of demons.

That's pretty much it. I just wanted to point out a few things that I found interesting.

What do you guys think? I haven't written anything like this for years and I feel a bit weird 😅

And please, if you haven't already, watch JCVTU. We need season 2. 💗

[knight-hiccup]

𝐌𝐀𝐄𝐋𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐌 | Hiccup x Fem!Reader ₁₀

This is Chapter 10 to this Hiccup series -> Masterlist here. Previous Chapter : Next Chapter

Pairing: Hiccup x fem!reader Genre: romance, fantasy, suspense, drama, angst, dark, vioIence, friends to lovers, dark themes, heavy Viking lore, Norse mythology, canon divergence, slow burn Word count: 12.3k Warnings: This will have the lore of the films + shows but with much darker themes. Gore/blood, mentions of death, Norse mythology, some realistic dragon themes, more realistic scenarios, and mature themes starting at the point httyd 2 ark comes in, so, ofc NSFW. Any other warnings will be properly tagged upon story progression. A/N: Reader description not described besides clothing true to Viking/httyd fashion from time to time.

CHAPTER 10

In the hours since you'd left the Great Hall's yard, word had spread like wildfire through Berk: Stoick had rallied the island to war. Every soul—man, woman, warrior, and smith—had been summoned to the ships, their faces etched with grim resolve as they obeyed the chief's command.

You and Hiccup had watched, helpless, as the docks transformed into a hive of frenzied preparation. Longships lined the water's edge, their sleek hulls carved from oak and pine, reinforced with iron rivets that glinted dully in the daylight. These were vessels of legend—drakkars, their prows crowned with snarling dragon heads, a nod to the Norse gods who watched from Valhalla.

Each boat stretched thirty paces stem to stern, their sides bristling with oars and shields hung in tight rows, painted with runes of protection: Algiz for defense, Tiwaz for victory. Barrels of dried cod and smoked mutton jerky were hoisted aboard, their wooden staves bound with iron hoops, alongside casks of mead that sloshed faintly as they were secured—provisions for a month's voyage to and from into the abyss of Helheim's Gate, the mythic threshold to the dragons' nest.

Weapons followed, a clattering arsenal hauled by sweat-slicked hands: broadswords with hilts wrapped in leather, their blades etched with serpentine patterns; axes with crescent heads honed to split bone; spears tipped with blackened iron, their shafts hewn from ash wood.

Catapults loomed among the cargo, their frames of sturdy yew lashed with rope, their arms poised to fling boulders or flaming pitch into the enemy's maw. The Vikings moved with a precision born of centuries of war, their grunts and shouts mingling with the creak of timber and the clang of metal, a symphony of impending doom.

Yet it was their eyes that cut deepest—glaring up at the cliff where you stood with Hiccup, their stares venomous, lips curling into snarls of contempt. Hiccup flinched under each one, his shoulders hunching as if to shrink from their judgment, but you squeezed his hand, your grip firm and unyielding, a silent reminder that he was more than their scorn. He steadied then, his jaw tightening, though the flicker of shame lingered in his green eyes.

The scene below grew darker, more brutal, as the Vikings turned their wrath on Toothless. The Night Fury's wails pierced the air—high, keening cries that clawed at the soul, striking a chord of anguish in any heart still soft enough to feel. They'd bound him in chains, thick iron links that rattled with every thrash, and ropes that bit into his obsidian-like black scales, leaving raw, red welts.

When he fought, rearing against his captors, they struck back—fists slamming into his jaw, boots driving into his skull with sickening thuds that echoed up the cliffs. A new head-brace followed, a cruel contraption of rough-hewn wood bolted tight around his neck, pinning his head immobile, his jaws forced shut.

The dragon's resistance faded, his body slumping as if the fight had bled out of him, his eyes—once bright with defiance—dimming with an inward weeping that no sound could convey. The sight was a dagger to the gut, a raw, visceral cruelty that laid bare the reality of your world: Vikings and dragons locked in a dance of blood and fire since the days of Odin's first breath.

Hiccup's knees buckled, the weight of it too much, and he sank to the cliff's edge, the damp grass soaking through his trousers. You dropped beside him, your arms encircling him, pulling him close as his hands clenched into fists, knuckles whitening against the strain. His jaw locked, eyes squeezing shut as if he could block out the pain unfolding below—Toothless's pain, mirrored in his own chest, a wound that throbbed with every muffled whimper from the dragon.

You pressed your forehead against the side of his head, your breath mingling with his in short, ragged bursts, tears welling in your own eyes as you tried to anchor him through this. The salty streaks burned your cheeks from the already endless tears shed earlier, but this was different—sharper, laced with the helplessness of watching a creature you'd come to love brutalized before you. Your hands tightened around Hiccup, fingers digging into his gilet, a futile shield against the brutality that had always defined your people.

As the sun dipped lower, its rays bleeding crimson across the horizon, the longships began to move—one by one, their oars dipping into the water with a steady, mournful cadence. The dragon-headed prows sliced through the waves, sails unfurling like the wings of carrion birds, dyed red and black with runes stitched in gold thread: Eihwaz for resilience, Uruz for strength.

The fleet stretched across the harbor, a flotilla of war bound for the dragons' nest—a place whispered of in sagas, sought for generations by chiefs who'd fallen to its fire. Toothless was lashed to the lead ship, his chained form a dark silhouette against the fading light, his head bowed under the wooden brace.

The Vikings' chants rose, low and guttural, invoking Thor's hammer and Freyja's wrath whilst they hit their shields with their chosen weapons in beat to the drums, a battle hymn to steel them for the journey into Hel's domain. The sea swallowed their wakes, the boats drifting into the haze, and the cliff grew still, the wind carrying away the last echoes of their departure.

Hiccup remained seated, his gaze fixed on the vanishing fleet, his face a mask of numb despair. Blame gnawed at him, a relentless beast that whispered this was his doing—his secret with Toothless, his defiance in the arena, his failure to bridge the chasm between his father and the truth.

His hands rested limp in his lap, the calluses on his palms stark against the pallor of his skin, and his breath came slow, as if each inhale cost him something vital. You stayed beside him, your hand still clasped in his—the other wrapped around his shoulder, the warmth of your touch a faint tether against the void swallowing him whole.

Tears lingered in your eyes, unshed now, as you watched the horizon claim the ships, the weight of war settling over Berk like a shroud. The cliff's silence was oppressive, broken only by the distant crash of waves and the rustle of grass bending under the wind—a requiem for the dragon lost, the boy beside you, and the island teetering on the edge of its own destruction a reminder of reality.

Hiccup's mind, glimpsed through that omniscient veil, was a battlefield of its own. Guilt lashed at him, a scourge sharper than any Viking whip, each blow a memory—of Toothless's trust, of your faith, of the moment he'd chosen to reveal the dragon and unraveled everything.

He saw the nest in his mind's eye, a jagged maw of stone and flame in the pits of a volcano that revealed a beast so great like from the tales of old, a place where Níðhöggr might gnaw at the roots of Yggdrasil itself. His father led this war, driven by a fury Hiccup had sparked, and the cost—Toothless' suffering, Berk's blood—now rested on his shoulders.

Yet your hand in his, steady and warm, was a lifeline he didn't deserve but couldn't release. He'd lost so much, but you remained, and in the hollow of his chest, a flicker of resolve stirred—not enough to banish the blame, but enough to whisper that he'd fight to make this right, whatever the cost—somehow.

The sun sank fully, its last light bleeding into the sea, and the cliff grew cold, the wind sharpening as twilight draped Berk in shadow. You and Hiccup sat there, two figures etched against the darkening sky, hands entwined, no words exchanged, watching the empty seas that carried war and sail away—bound for a fate no rune could foretell.

Three days had bled into one another since the longships carved their path into the sea, leaving Berk a skeletal husk of its former self. The island's remnant souls—those too old, too young, or too broken to join the war—drifted through the village like specters, their eyes averted whenever Hiccup's shadow fell across their path.

The air hung thick with unspoken scorn, a miasma that clung to the cobblestones and thatched roofs, seeping into every corner he once called home. Mildew, that gnarled old wretch with a face like curdled milk, became a fixture of malice—his sneers sharp as a blade's edge whenever Hiccup dared venture into town. The man's yellowed teeth bared in a grimace, his staff tapping the ground with deliberate disdain and spit to the ground as Hiccup passed, head bowed, footsteps quickening to escape the weight of those venomous glares.

Hiccup had retreated from the public eye, a self-imposed exile that you watched unfold with a growing ache in your chest. He'd asked—quietly, almost ashamed—if you'd bring him food rather than force him to face the village's judgment, and you'd agreed, offering your home as a refuge after Stoick's disownment had stripped him of his own. The boy who'd once been a spark of defiance against the odds now bore the mantle of outcast, a title that settled over him like a leaden cloak, dragging him deeper into himself.

You saw it in the way his shoulders slumped, the way his hands trembled when he thought you weren't looking—depression gnawing at him, slow and relentless, breaking the spirit that had always burned bright despite the world's disdain. It was a quiet shattering, a million jagged pieces scattering before your eyes, and each day the light in him dimmed further, swallowed by a darkness you couldn't reach.

Mornings became a ritual of futile hope. You'd bring him breakfast—warm oatcakes drizzled with honey, paired with a strip of smoked herring—its scent wafting through your small home, a faint promise of comfort. But he'd only pick at it, nibbling a few reluctant bites before sliding the plate aside.

Menace, who you decided to sneak back to your home so you could care for them both—plus her lack of company in the cove—would pounce on the scraps with a gleeful yap, tail wagging as she devoured what Hiccup couldn't stomach. You'd watch, jaw tight, as the food disappeared, the act a silent testament to how far he'd fallen.

Hours stretched into bleak eternities where he wouldn't leave the bed, his lanky form curled beneath the furs, staring at the rough-hewn wall or the ceiling's cracked beams—motionless, hollow, a statue carved from despair. The worry festered in you, a coal smoldering in your gut, until it flared into something fiercer, a fury that refused to let him waste away.

On the third afternoon, you'd had enough. With a sharp yank, you tore the fur blankets from his frame, the heavy pelts thudding to the floor in a tangled heap. His protest came—a weak, rasping "Hey!"—but you ignored it, seizing his hand with a grip that brooked no argument. His skin was cool, clammy against yours, and you hauled him upright, dragging him toward the door despite his dragging feet.

The afternoon light spilled through the threshold, a harsh golden flood that stung his eyes, unaccustomed to anything but the dim shadows of your home. He squinted, flinching against the brightness, his voice a low mumble as you pulled him toward the forge.

"I'm not in the mood," he muttered, the words barely audible, but you shook your head, undeterred, your boots crunching over the gravel path.

"I refuse to watch you wilt," you said, your tone firm, cutting through the sluggish haze he'd wrapped himself in.

The forge loomed ahead, its stone walls blackened with soot, the air around it heavy with the lingering scent of charred wood and molten iron. You guided him inside and sat him on one of the cold wooden chairs, its surface worn smooth by years of use. He slouched there, a pitiful figure—lanky limbs folded in on themselves, his tunic wrinkled and askew, dark circles smudged beneath his eyes like bruises, a testament to sleepless nights and a mind gnawed raw by stress. His gaze drifted, avoiding yours, fixed on the scuffed ground as if they held answers you couldn't give.

You stepped before him, the forge's dormant hearth casting long shadows across the room, and sank to your knees, the rough stone biting into your skin through your trousers. Gently, you took both his hands in yours, their chill seeping into your palms, and lifted your eyes to meet his—a quiet plea woven into the gesture.

He resisted at first, his head turned aside, but slowly, reluctantly, he met your gaze. Those green eyes, once alight with restless curiosity, now searched yours with a dull, weary emptiness, as if seeking something he'd lost the will to find. Your thumbs brushed over his knuckles, tracing the familiar ridges and scars, a soothing rhythm that eased the tension in his fingers, though it couldn't pierce the sorrow cloaking him.

"Hiccup, talk to me," you said, your voice low but steady, cutting through the forge's stillness like a blade through fog. The words hung there, heavy with the weight of days unspoken, a lifeline tossed into the abyss he'd fallen into. The air between you thickened, laced with the faint metallic tang of the forge and the earthy musk of the damp wood around you both. He said nothing, his lips parting only to close again, but his eyes held yours—searching, questioning, a flicker of the boy he'd been struggling against the tide of what he'd become.

Hiccup's mind was that of a omniscient veil, like a storm-ravaged sea, of hitting waves of guilt and isolation crashing against the fragile hull of his resolve. The island's—his fathers—rejection had flayed him open, each sneer and turned back a lash that echoed Stoick's disownment—a wound deeper than any dragon's claw.

Toothless' absence gnawed at him the most, a constant ache that pulsed with every memory of the dragon's wails, and now, cast out by his own people, he felt the weight of his choices crush him. Your presence—your hands on his, your voice calling him back—was a beacon he didn't deserve, a warmth he feared he'd snuff out with his own darkness. Yet as your thumbs moved over his knuckles, a thread of something stirred—faint, fragile, a whisper of the fight he'd once had, buried beneath the wreckage but not yet lost.

The forge stood silent around you, its tools untouched, the fire unlit—a hollow shell mirroring the boy before you. Outside, the afternoon waned, the sun dipping behind the cliffs, casting the village in a muted glow that filtered through the open doorway. Your knees ached against the stone, but you held his gaze, unwavering, the plea in your voice a quiet anchor in the storm that threatened to swallow him whole.

The air hung so heavy, thick with the scent of cold iron and the faint char of extinguished embers in a cold stillness that pressed against you as you sat there on your knees. His voice rasped into the silence, brittle and halting.

"I—," he began, but the words snagged in his throat, dry as the dust that hung in the air.

You reached for the waterskin slung at your side—a precaution you'd carried for moments like this—and pressed it into his hands. He took it with a faint nod, sipping slowly, the leather creaking as his fingers tightened around it. Water glistened briefly on his lips before he shook his head, eyes squeezing shut, a long, weary sigh slipping from him like the last breath of a dying fire.

"I don't know what I'm supposed to do," he murmured, the admission heavy, sinking into the space between you.

You tilted your head, listening—truly listening—because that was all he needed, even if it wasn't his usual spark of ingenuity lighting the way. "I think you do," you said softly, your voice a steady thread in the dimness.

"No—I don't, not this time," he countered, his tone fraying at the edges. "Everything is. . .gone. Look at the mess I created."

His hands gestured vaguely, a helpless sweep toward the unseen horizon where the longships had vanished, then fell back to his lap, limp and trembling.

"I thought I could fix things—make them see dragons aren't the enemy. But it's all gone now. The village hates me, Toothless is chained up somewhere, probably suffering—probably not eating, and I can't—." His voice cracked, and he swallowed hard, the sound rough against the quiet.

"I can't undo it. I don't even know where to start. It's like I've torn everything apart, and there's no hammer big enough to put it back together."

He paused, his breath hitching as the weight of his words settled, and then the floodgates creaked open, slow at first, then rushing forth at last—as you waited.

"My dad—Stoick—he's always had this vision of the perfect son. Someone strong, you know? A Viking who'd stand tall, swing an axe like it was part of him, and lead Berk into battle with a roar so fierce even Thor would take notice. That's what he's wanted me to be, what he's tried to shape me into ever since I could walk."

He pauses for a long moment. "But that's not me. It never has been. I'm the kid who stumbles over his own feet, who'd rather sketch gears, tinker with ideas, and sharpen blades than fight. The one who thought—naively, maybe—that I could end centuries of war with just a dragon and a crazy, half-formed plan!"

A bitter laugh escaped him, sharp and jagged, the awkward Hiccup you loved flickering through the gloom. "He disowned me. . .because I couldn't be that son. Because I messed it all up—everything—and now he's out there, sailing to that dragons nest blindly—not knowing what he's brought upon himself, fighting a war he can't win, and I'm just. . .here. Useless."

His rant spilled out, a torrent of worry and stress that had festered for days, his voice rising and falling in that familiar, stumbling cadence—earnest, raw, and painfully honest. You watched him, the boy who'd once faced down dragons with nothing but wit and a wild heart, now unraveling before you, his freckled face taut with anguish. The forge's shadows stretched long across the stone, the afternoon light filtering through the open doorway in a muted haze, catching the dust motes that danced in the air like silent witnesses to his confession.

He glanced at you then, his breath easing into a faint, weary sigh. "Just come out with it," he said, voice low, threaded with a mix of curiosity and resignation, as if he knew you held something back.

Your fingers brushed the workbench beside you, its rough edge biting into your skin as you hesitated, the words teetering on your tongue. "Do you really want to hear what I have to say?" you asked, your voice catching briefly, a tremor of uncertainty beneath the calm.

His green eyes flicked up, steady despite the shadows bruising their depths. "Pretty much all the time," he replied, the faintest quirk of his lips betraying the Hiccup buried beneath the weight.

"Alright then," you said, letting out a slow breath as you met his gaze, silently willing him to listen.

"You're not useless, Hiccup—not even close. You're the strongest person I know, something only I've had the privilege of seeing—and them? They haven't truly seen you for who you are—and they won't, not unless you let them. And I think your dad cares more for you than you realize."

The words lingered in the air, raw and honest, as you shifted closer, the chill of the stone floor seeped through your knees.

He tilted his head, brow furrowing, confusion carving lines across his face. "What makes you think that? After all he said."

You steadied yourself, the air thick with the tang of metal and the memory of his father's fury. "Look, Hiccup—it's hard to say this out loud, but when has Berk ever valued you until those trials? Not that it's a bad change, but your dad's the chief. He's got to juggle their respect, their fears, with what he feels for you—and that's a burden heavier than any longship. They've always wondered if you'd ever fill his boots, and before, that seemed impossible."

You hold his hands tighter, eyes and brow furrowing with so much emotion. "Your ideas, your inventions, they didn't match their mold of a Viking. Stoick's been caught in that bind—protecting you from their doubts while proving you're one of them. He knows you're different, not like him or them, and I think he's always seen it. He's been carving a space for you, pushing you to fit, not to change you, but because he loves you. Don't let their expectations—or his—blind you to that. But don't let them twist who you are to earn it, either."

Hiccup's eyes fluttered shut, a shaky breath rattling through him as he swallowed, the sound thick and raw in the forge's hush. Then, in a sudden, unguarded surge, he leaned forward, his forehead pressing against your neck—his warmth seeping through your skin and sleeve, his auburn hair brushing your skin like a fragile tether. The world shrank to the space between you, the villages distant hum fading into a stillness that clung to the air, heavy with the unspoken. His shoulders trembled faintly, the weight of your words sinking in, and you felt the heat of his breath against you.

"Why do you always know what I want to hear?" he whispered, voice quivering, barely more than a murmur against your skin. "Always know what I need?" His fingers twitched on his lap, hovering as if yearning to grasp this moment, to hold tighter to the lifeline you'd become.

You drew a slow, shuddering breath, your heart thudding loud and insistent against your ribs, a drumbeat urging you toward the edge of your confession that needed to be said.

"Because. . .Hiccup I lo—" you started, the words cracking under the strain, each one a step into the abyss you'd buried for too long.

But before they could spill free, a clamor erupted outside—boisterous laughter and the sharp clatter of boots on stone as a gaggle of teens stumbled past the forge, their voices slicing through the quiet like a flung axe. You faltered—all boldness leaving, the moment splintering, your breath catching as the noise yanked you both back to the world beyond the forge's walls.

Hiccup's head lifted slightly, his eyes blinking open, the spell broken but not lost. The teens' chatter faded down the path, leaving the forge steeped in silence once more, the air still tingling with the weight of what you'd almost said. His gaze lingered on you, searching, a flicker of curiosity sparking through the haze of his sorrow—a thread of the Hiccup you knew, tugging at the edges. 

"I loathe the thought of you becoming some hollow version of yourself that isn't you," you said instead, redirecting the tide of your thoughts, your voice steady but laced with a quiet fervor.

The confession you'd nearly spilled retreated, buried once more beneath layers of caution, though its echo lingered in your chest, a dull ache of what might have been. You squeezed his hands, your thumbs pressing harder against his knuckles, grounding yourself in the roughness of his skin—a lifeline to tether you both to this moment.

Hiccup's brow twitched, a faint flicker of something crossing his face—disappointment, perhaps, though he couldn't name why. The shift in your words left a hollow space he didn't understand, a vague longing for something unsaid that tugged at the edges of his battered spirit. He opened his mouth, a breath of protest forming, but before it could take shape, you moved—instinct guiding you where words had failed.

Rising slightly from your knees, you leaned forward and pressed your lips to his forehead, a long, deliberate kiss that lingered against his skin. The warmth of him seeped into you, his faint scent of leather and forge-smoke filling your senses, and for a heartbeat, the world beyond him dissolved—all swallowed by the quiet intimacy of the gesture.

You pulled back slowly, standing to your full height, the stone floor cool beneath your boots as you straightened. Hiccup's eyes widened just an inch, a subtle flare of surprise that broke through the fog of his despair. His heart stuttered, then surged, a frantic beat thundering in his chest—faster than it had ever raced, even in the face of dragons or his father's wrath.

The kiss, so simple yet so uncharted, left a warmth blooming across his forehead, a mark that tingled against the cool air of the forge. He stared up at you, his breath catching, the dark circles beneath his eyes stark against the flush creeping up his freckled cheeks. For a moment, he was unguarded—raw and open, the boy you'd always known flickering back to life beneath the weight that had crushed him.

A flush crept up your neck, a warm prickle beneath his unwavering stare. He looked at you, unblinking, his eyes widening just enough to reveal a glimmer of something unguarded—surprise, maybe, or the stir of a quiet realization finally come to light. The air between you thickened, heavy with the scent of cold iron and the faint char of the unlit hearth, a stillness that hummed with the weight of what just happened. You nudged his leg with the toe of your boot, a gentle prod accompanied by a nod, urging him past the moment's fragility.

"I want you to eat something," you said, your voice firm yet soft, cutting through the silence. "You've barely eaten."

His lips twitched then, curling into the smallest smile—a fragile, fleeting thing, the first you'd seen in what felt like an endless stretch of days. It was a crack in the gloom that had cloaked him, a glimpse of the Hiccup you'd feared lost to Berk's scorn. He rose slowly, following your lead, his lanky frame unfolding from the chair with a creak of wood against stone.

You guided him out of the forge, the afternoon light spilling across the threshold in a golden wash that stung your eyes after the dark shades. The path to your shared spot wasn't far, a familiar trek over gravel and patchy grass, the wind sharpening as you climbed, carrying the briny tang of the sea and the distant cry of gulls wheeling overhead.

At the cliff's edge, you stopped, the harbor sprawling below in a restless expanse of deep blue, its waves glinting under the waning sun like shards of broken glass. Hiccup stood close, his shoulder brushing yours, a quiet tether as you reached into the pouch at your side. From it, you drew a small bundle wrapped in cloth—his favorite breakfast muffin, a creation you'd crafted just for him.

Its dense, warm blend of egg, melted cheese, and tender strips of smoked meat, its aroma rising in a faint, savory curl. You handed it to him, and his face broke into another smile—wider this time, a spark of recognition lighting his green eyes—and his stomach rumbled. He took it, his fingers brushing yours on purpose, and stepped nearer, closing the small gap until his presence was a steady warmth at your side.

You both ate in silence, standing there atop the cliff, the wind tugging at your hair and the muffin's flavors grounding you in the moment—rich yolk, sharp cheese, the faint salt of the meat melding into something comforting, something yours. The ocean stretched endless before you, its ceaseless rhythm a counterpoint to the stillness between you, and after a while, you let your head rest against his shoulder.

The fabric of his tunic was rough against your cheek, carrying the faint scent of leather and forge-smoke, and his frame steadied beneath your weight, a quiet strength you'd missed. The world felt smaller here, the village's judgment and the war's shadow fading into out of your minds but for a moment, leaving only the two of you and the cliff's unyielding embrace.

The peace held, fragile and precious, until the crunch of boots on gravel broke the spell—a deliberate, measured sound drawing nearer from behind. You turned, lifting your head from Hiccup's shoulder, and saw Astrid emerging from the path. Her blond hair caught the fading light, strands whipping in the wind, and her axe hung at her hip, its iron head glinting dully.

Her steps slowed as she approached, her sharp blue eyes flicking between you and Hiccup, assessing, calculating, a purpose brewing beneath her calm exterior. The cliff's edge grew taut with her presence, the air shifting as if the sea itself held its breath, waiting for what she'd bring to this quiet reprieve.

Hiccup saw her and tensed. Astrid's arrival tugged at the edges of that fragile calm, a reminder of the world he'd been cast out from. He felt the weight of her gaze, the unspoken questions it carried, and though your shoulder against his anchored him, a thread of tension coiled in his chest—bracing for what she'd say, what she'd demand of the outcast he'd become.

The cliff's edge trembled with the weight of the moment, the wind curling around you in sharp gusts, tugging at your hair and carrying the briny sting of the sea. Astrid stood a few paces away, her boots grinding into the gravel, her blond braid swaying as she shifted her weight. The fading sun painted the horizon in streaks of amber and shadow, casting a faint glow across her face as she broke the silence. You nodded, a subtle tilt of your head inviting her closer, and she stepped forward, closing the distance until she stood beside you both.

"Hey," she began, her voice rough-edged, faltering as if unsure where to land. "Haven't seen you around. Thought I'd come check on you." Her blue eyes darted between you and Hiccup, searching beneath her steady gaze.

You shifted slightly at Hiccups side, the grass beneath your boots slick with the day's damp. Hiccup's shoulder brushed yours, a quiet reassurance, and he spoke, his words clipped, evasive.

"Been thinking," he offered, a thin excuse that veiled the depths he'd sunk into—depths you'd only just hauled him from, though he wouldn't let that slip. His voice rasped, still dry from days of silence, a raw thread woven with the turmoil of the past several weeks.

Astrid's gaze softened, though her words cut sharp. "It's a mess," she said, her tone blunt but not unkind. "You must feel horrible. You've lost everything—your father, your tribe, your dragon."

She listed them like blows, each one landing heavy, while you tried to wave your hand to stop her and Hiccup's head snapped up, his brows furrowing in a mix of confusion and irritation. He stared at her as if she'd sprouted a second head, then lifted his brows, unamused, a faint wave of his hand punctuating his reply.

"Thank you for summing that up," he muttered, the sarcasm dry as bone, though it carried a faint tremor of exhaustion.

Astrid flinched at herself, her hand hovering awkwardly mid-air, unused to softening edges or lifting spirits. She glanced at you, a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes, but you held steady beside Hiccup, your presence a quiet bridge between them. He turned his gaze to the sea, its restless waves glinting far below, and his voice dropped, raw and jagged.

"Why couldn't I have killed that dragon when I found him in the woods?"

The question hung there, aimed at the horizon but meant for you both. His eyes slid to yours, and you met them with knitted brows, worry etching lines across your face—you knew exactly what he meant, the memory of that moment a shared memory between you.

"Would've been better for everyone," he went on, his words rough with self-reproach, the weight of his fathers scorn and Toothless' chains dragging them down further.

You opened your mouth to respond, a breath drawn to counter his despair, but Astrid spoke first, her voice cutting through.

"Yep! The rest of us would've done it. So, why didn't you?" She paused, watching him, then pressed again when he hesitated. "Why didn't you?"

Hiccup's jaw tightened, his hands flexing at his sides. "I don't know. I couldn't," he said, the admission quiet, almost lost to the wind.

"That's not an answer," Astrid shot back, her tone firm, unrelenting.

He rounded on her, annoyance flaring as he stepped to the side, away from both your gazes. "Why is this so important to you? And all of a sudden?" His brows furrowed, his voice rising with a brittle edge, the stress gnawing at him again.

Astrid glanced at you, and you gave her a subtle nod, an exchanged look urging her to press on. She squared her shoulders, her eyes locking onto his. "Because I want to remember what you say, right now," she said, her words deliberate, carrying a weight that stilled the air.

Hiccup threw his head back, a groan rumbling from his throat as he rubbed his face with both hands. "Oh, for the love of—"

He sighed heavily, the sound scraping against the silence. "I was a coward, okay? I was weak. I wouldn't kill a dragon!" The confession burst out, sharp as his voice cracked under the strain.

Astrid tilted her head, catching the shift. "You said wouldn't that time."

"Whatever!" Hiccup snapped, his tone spiking as the stress clawed back, but your fingers tightened on his arm, a gentle pressure to calm the tide from rising in him again. He exhaled, the fight draining as he continued, voice raw but steadier.

"I wouldn't! Three hundred years, and I'm the first Viking who wouldn't kill a dragon!" He turned to you, his breathing slowing, his green eyes searching yours for something—forgiveness, understanding, a lifeline.

Astrid paused, letting the words settle, then spoke after a long beat. "First to ride one, though."

"And a Night Fury of all dragons," you added, a faint smile tugging at your lips—his voice trembling with awe, not despair.

Astrid nodded, her gaze sharpening as she edged him on. "So?"Hiccup's eyes flicked between you both—first to Astrid, then to you, your head tilted in quiet curiosity—before settling back on her. 

"I wouldn't kill him because he looked as frightened as I was," he said, calmer now, the fire in his voice tempered by a dawning clarity. "I looked at him, and I saw myself."

You smiled then, a soft curve of your lips as those familiar words echoed back—remembering the day he'd first told you something similar himself, a memory of the boy who'd dared to see beyond Berk's bloodlust.

Astrid's brows lifted slightly, her question cutting through the stillness. "I bet he's really frightened now. What are you going to do about it?" Urging him to do something about it.

He glanced at her, then to you, your steady presence beside him a silent prompt, before returning to Astrid. A new fire flickered in his eyes, faint but growing.

"Uh—well, probably something stupid," he said, a trace of that awkward Hiccup breaking through as he began to walk, his steps purposeful now.

You and Astrid fell in behind him, matching his pace. "Good. But you've already done that," Astrid reminded him, a dry edge to her tone.

He smiled again—small, but real. "Then something crazy," he said, breaking into a run, his boots pounding the earth as the cliff stretched out behind him.

You followed, your breath catching as you ran, a grin tugging at your lips. "There you are Hiccup," you whispered to yourself, the words lost to the wind as it whipped past, unheard by either of them but settling warm in your chest. The three of you raced forward, the sea a boundless expanse at your backs.

Your boots pounded the earth, gravel crunching beneath each stride, and you shouted after Hiccup, your voice slicing through the rush of air. "So? What's the plan?"

He didn't slow, his lanky frame weaving through the path with a newfound urgency. He glanced back, breath heaving, but his words came steady and sure as you veered toward the arena, its iron gates looming in the distance.

"We're going after them," he said, his tone laced with a clarity that hadn't surfaced in days. "The longships have a four-day start, heading for the dragons' nest, and we're not letting them get there alone—not with what they're about to face."

His gaze flicked between you and Astrid, a fierce trust burning through the exhaustion. "I only trust you two right now. You—" he nodded at you, "stay with me. We'll prep the dragons here. Astrid, I need you to round up the gang—Fishlegs, Snotlout, Ruffnut, and Tuffnut. Only them."

Astrid, then back to the path ahead, the arena's gates now in sight. Her brow lifted, her pace unwavering as she processed his orders. "Why just them?" she asked, her voice sharp with curiosity.

Hiccup clenched his jaw, his eyes squinting as the wind whipped against his face. "Because they're the only ones who didn't turn their backs," he said, his voice firm. "The others—they'd smirk and whisper behind your back whenever I was nearby." He glanced at you, his expression hardening. "And ever since Stoick disowned me, they've treated me like I'm contagious, avoiding me completely. But these others? They didn't mock me still. We need people we can count on, ones who'll stick with us to the end. I trust them."

Astrid nodded, a glint of resolve in her blue eyes. "Got it," she said, peeling off toward the village without breaking stride, her boots kicking up dust as she vanished around a bend, braid bouncing and jaw set with determination.

The air grew stiller as she disappeared, the wind's howl softening, and you and Hiccup pressed on, the arena's iron gates looming closer with every step. The village faded into a muted hum behind you—empty streets, averted eyes, the weight of Berk's rejection a shadow you outran together. You reached the arena alone, the vast circle of stone and chain eerily quiet, its stands deserted under the gathering dusk. No guards, no lingering villagers—just the two of you and the faint rustle of dragons behind their prison.

The space was a hollow shell, abandoned since the war party sailed, its silence broken only by the distant crash of waves and the creak of settling timber. You moved in tandem, hands fumbling with the heavy locks, the metal cold and gritty against your palms. Together, you heaved the gates upward, scraping against their hinges as they rose and the clank of metal echoing through the empty pit.

Inside, the air thickened with the musk of burnt wood and the lingering heat of dragon breath, the cages lining the walls silent but alive with coiled potential. Hiccup turned to you, his brows furrowed, a flicker of intensity in his green eyes.

"Before they get here," he said, his voice low but firm, "we're going to need ropes. Can you grab some from the bin by the wall?" He gestured toward a weathered wooden crate nestled against the stone, its edges splintered and stained with pitch.

You nodded, starting to turn, but his hand caught yours—a sudden, warm grip that stopped you mid-step. "No matter what," he said, his tone softening, a quiet intensity threading through it, "you ride with me."

His lips curved into a small, earnest smile, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes, and your own smile mirrored it, a spark of warmth blooming in your chest.

"Always," you replied, squeezing his hand before slipping free, your boots scuffing the dirt as you crossed to the bin.

The ropes were there, coiled in rough, hempen loops, their fibers coarse against your fingers as you hefted them onto your shoulder. The weight settled heavy, a tangible piece of the plan taking shape, and you turned back to find Hiccup standing by the Monstrous Nightmare's cage. He waited there, his lanky frame silhouetted against the iron bars, no trace of the nervous boy who'd once faced this beast with a trembling shield.

Confidence radiated from him now, a quiet assurance born of understanding—no danger lingered here, not for him, not anymore. He stood before the gate, hands resting lightly at his sides, the dragon's low rumble vibrating through the bars as he waited.

You joined him, the ropes digging into your shoulder, their coarse fibers scratching through your tunic. He glanced over, a nod of thanks passing between you, his eyes catching the dim light filtering through the arena's high slits. The silence stretched, taut with anticipation, until the crunch of boots on stone broke it—the gang arriving, their voices a low murmur as they stepped into the pit.

Fishlegs lumbered in first, his round face creased with confusion, followed by Snotlout's swaggering bulk, then the twins—Ruffnut and Tuffnut—trailing with their usual chaotic energy, heads tilted as they took in the scene. Their eyes darted from the open gates to Hiccup, then to you, questions simmering beneath their bewilderment.

Hiccup straightened, his voice cutting through the quiet as he faced them all. "Pack a bag—something light, just what you need. We're going after the longboats. They've got a four-day start, heading for the dragons' nest, and we're not letting them get there alone." His words carried a fire, steady and unyielding, the plan unfolding with a clarity that belied the days before.

"Exactly why are we going after them?" Snotlout asked, his tone sharp with confusion.

Hiccup's face softened, the tension easing as a small smile curved his lips. "We're stopping this war," he replied, his voice steady with quiet resolve.

The arena's walls seemed to lean in with tension, the air thick with the musk of dragons and the faint tang of rust, as the gang exchanged glances—Fishlegs nodding slowly, Snotlout grunting approval, the twins smirking with a spark of mischief. The pit stood silent around you, as the gang lingered, waiting for Hiccup's next move, and you adjusted the ropes on your shoulder, your gaze steady on him—the boy who'd defied an island, now ready to defy a war.

Hiccup's plan still echoed in their minds—his voice steady with his resolve a tangible weight grounding you as the others processed his words. Fishlegs broke the quiet first, his broad frame turning toward the gates, a spark of defiance flaring in his tone.

Hiccup's plan still echoed in their minds—his voice steady with his resolve a tangible weight grounding you as the others processed his words. Fishlegs broke the quiet first, his broad frame turning toward the gates, a spark of defiance flaring in his tone.

"Well, if you're planning on getting eaten," he said, his voice edged with a rare bite as he glanced back at Hiccup, "I'd definitely go with the Gronckle." He pivoted fully then, starting for the exit, his steps heavy with doubt, his shoulders hunched as if already retreating from the fight.

A spark of anger flared within you, hot and fierce, surging through your chest like a bellows stoked to life. You stepped forward, your boots scraping the stone with a sharp, deliberate grind.

"Go then," you commanded, your voice ringing out, a clarion call that cut through the arena's stillness and halted him mid-stride. "All of you if you're too cowardly."

The others froze, their eyes snapping to you, and you drew a breath, the air sharp with the tang of rust and anticipation. "Just remember. You all watched Hiccup tame these dragons through the trials—every one of you. You saw him stand where no Viking in history has ever dared walked toward, bending fire and fury to his will with nothing but his hands and his heart."

You turned, sweeping your gaze across them—Fishlegs, wide-eyed; Snotlout, arms crossed; the twins, leaning into each other; Astrid, steady as stone. "So, why doubt him now?" you pressed, your voice rising, each word a hammer strike forging conviction from the air.

You gestured sharply toward the cages, where the dragons' deep, rumbling growls echoed through the stone walls. "Hiccup's taken chaos and spun it into peace, turning enemies into allies while the rest of Berk clutched their axes and cowered in fear. If you think turning your back on him—walking away—is the answer, then go ahead and leave. But hear this: Hiccup's no coward—Unlike others. No—He's a dragon master, forging courage in a place others only see as weakness because they fear it. Anyone who abandons him now isn't just blind—they're the real cowards, too weak to stand in the fire he's kindled for us all. And mark my words, they'll soon regret it."

Your words crashed like thunder, echoing through the pit, and you stood tall, the ropes draped over your shoulder like a cloak of determination. Hiccup hovered just a few feet away, his lean frame motionless as he gazed at you—his green eyes glowing with a quiet, growing wonder.

To him, you were a revelation, a Valkyrie emerging from the haze of his hopelessness, your voice a sharp sword slicing through the mist that had clouded his mind. His chest tightened, a fresh wave of admiration unfurling within him as he saw you in a new light—not merely his loyal companion, but a fierce presence, forged from the same untamed spirit that had tied him to Toothless.

The others stirred, their uncertainty cracking beneath the weight of your resolving conviction. Fishlegs hesitated, then turned back, his round face softening as a flicker of shame melted into quiet inspiration; he gave a slow, thoughtful nod. The twins shared a quick look—Ruffnut tilted her head with a grin of approval, while Tuffnut's eyes gleamed with reckless excitement.

Astrid's lips twitched upward, a rare glint of admiration piercing her usual composure. Snotlout unfolded his arms, staring at you with a newfound intensity, as if truly seeing you for the first time—not just the quiet figure beside Hiccup, but a woman forged of steel and flame. He nodded, deliberate and grudging, respect carving itself into his posture.

You turned to meet Hiccup's gaze, giving him a steady nod. He held your look, still reeling from the force of your words, a soft flush spreading across his freckled cheeks as awe lingered in his wide, green eyes. 

Tuffnut shattered the moment, strutting forward with an exaggerated swagger, his grin twisted and shadowy as he leaned into Hiccup's face. "You were wise to enlist the world's most lethal weapon," he said, his voice sinking into a dramatic, ominous growl as he waggled his fingers between them. "It's me." With a wild, toothy grin, he stepped back, striking a pose with a flamboyant flourish.

Snotlout barreled in, shoving Tuffnut aside with his bulk, sending him stumbling as he locked eyes with you, then Hiccup. "I love this plan," he announced, his voice ringing with sudden enthusiasm, fists tightening at his sides. "I'm so ready."

Ruffnut jabbed an elbow into Snotlout's ribs, her rough laugh slicing through the air as she leaned in close, her tone gritty yet playful. "You're crazy," she said, pausing as her eyes narrowed and a smirk curled her lips, her flirtation bold and unapologetic. "I like that. . ."

Astrid stepped in then, her braid swaying as she moved with purpose, pulling Ruffnut aside with a swift, practiced flick of her arm. She faced you and Hiccup, her gaze keen and focused, cutting through the chaos. "So, what's the plan then?" she asked, her voice a firm tether, grounding the group back to the task at hand.

You shifted the ropes on your shoulder, feeling the rough fibers bite deeper into your skin, and glanced at Hiccup. He drew himself up, the spark in his green eyes igniting into a fierce blaze.

"We prep the dragons," he said, his voice solid now, rough around the edges but unwavering.

"You and me," he nodded at you. "We'll get them ready while they pack light, and after that we fly out. The longboats have a four-day lead, but since Toothless knows where they're going, he'll get them there sooner than a week, not a month—however since they're all on boats we have the advantage, these dragons are faster. We catch them before they reach the nest, free Toothless, and end this war."

He turned toward the Monstrous Nightmare's cage, as the arena thrummed with fresh momentum, the gang's voices buzzing as they split off to their tasks. Fishlegs mumbled calculations about flight ratios under his breath, Snotlout shouted commands to the air, and the twins squabbled loudly over who'd claim which dragon.

Astrid shot you a brisk, approving nod before striding off to collect supplies, the faint clink of her axe ringing at her side. You stood next to Hiccup, the weight of the ropes grounding you, your earlier words still hanging in the air—a rallying call that had forged their hesitation into unbreakable resolve.

Hiccup's mind churned with gratitude and resolve. Your speech had struck him like Mjölnir, rekindling the embers he'd thought snuffed out for a moment—your voice a beacon, your faith a shield against the abyss. A warrior—a Valkyrie—of words and will who'd rallied his fractured crew. He watched as you worked to untangle the ropes, his gaze tracing your movements before settling on your lips. Almost without thinking, his feet started moving, drawing him closer to you, step by steady step.

Before he could step in front of you, a blur of motion cut through the scene—Snotlout barreled back into the pit, his broad frame jostling the stillness, a rough-hewn sack slung over his shoulder. His wild grin stretched wide, his eyes gleaming with a manic, childlike thrill, as if he'd just unwrapped a long-awaited gift.

"Alright, I've got what I need!" he bellowed, his voice booming off the walls as he skidded to a halt beside Hiccup. "Which dragon do I get?!" He bounced on his heels, the bag thumping against his back, his excitement a stark contrast to the arena's brooding weight.

Hiccup blinked, shaken from the trance of your presence that had woven around him. His head tilted, a faint shake as if clearing a fog, and his eyes darted to you again—briefly, involuntarily—catching on your lips for a heartbeat too long. A flush of confusion, of want, flickered across his face, a pull he didn’t quite understand, before he wrenched his gaze away, flustered. He turned to Snotlout, rubbing the back of his neck with a quick, awkward motion. 

"Um—we'll let the dragon decide that," he said, his voice steadying as he regained his footing, though a trace of that rattled edge lingered.

Snotlout clapped a hand on Hiccup's shoulder, grinning wider, undeterred, and stood beside him, practically vibrating with anticipation.

You caught the shift in Hiccup's demeanor—the fleeting glance, the faint hitch in his breath—and a warmth stirred in your chest, mingling with the adrenaline still coursing through you. Snotlout's eagerness buzzed beside him, a chaotic counterpoint to the quiet intensity threading between you, and the pit stood poised.

The air hangs thick with tension as the others trudge back, boots scuffing against the gritty coarse stone floor of the arena. Hiccup stands resolute, his wiry frame silhouetted against the fading amber light of dusk. He gestures sharply, a silent command, and they shuffle into a rigid line before him—shoulders tense, gazes flickering between each other, a wave of unease rolling through them like a chilling gust.

Above the pit, your hands grip the rusted iron lever, the metal biting into your palms with a chill that seeps into your bones. At Hiccup's steady nod, you wrench it upward, muscles straining against the stubborn latch of the Monstrous Nightmare's cage. A groan of hinges echoes through the cavernous space as the log rose up and the heavy door grinds open. From the shadowed depths, a pair of slit eyes glints like polished embers, cutting through the gloom. The dragon's gaze locks onto Hiccup, unblinking, its massive form coiled in the corner—a predator sizing up an enigma.

Minutes crawl by, heavy with silence. The beast remains statue-still, its scales shimmering faintly with each slow breath, a living furnace of restrained power. Hiccup shifts, reaching into a burlap sack at his side. He pulls out a glistening cod, its scales catching the last slivers of sunlight, its fishy scent of salt and sea wafting into the air. The dragon's pupils flare wide for a heartbeat, a flicker of hunger piercing its stoic mask, before narrowing again as it weighs the offering against the boy who dares to stand so close.

Hiccup's movements are deliberate, his voice a low murmur barely audible over the distant crash of waves beyond the arena walls. He extends the fish, arms steady despite the weight of the moment, his posture soft but unyielding—a quiet declaration of peace. The dragon's nostrils flare, tasting the air, its ember-like eyes tracing every nuance of the boy's intent. Fear lingers in its taut muscles, a mighty creature worn thin by captivity, yet there's a spark of curiosity too, glinting beneath the surface.

A low rumble vibrates from the dragon's chest as it shifts, claws scraping faintly against the stone. It edges forward, each step a cautious dance between instinct and trust. The arena holds its breath as the Monstrous Nightmare looms closer, its jagged silhouette towering over Hiccup. Then, with a gentleness that belies its fearsome maw, it parts its jaws and takes the fish from his hand—teeth brushing the air inches from his skin, deliberate and restrained.

The dragon retreats a step, the cod vanishing in slow, savoring bites. Scales ripple as it chews, the sound a soft crunch against the stillness. Its gaze lifts to Hiccup once more, and with a tentative nudge, its snout presses against his empty hand—warm, leathery, and insistent. A plea born of hollowed hunger, etched into the gaunt lines of its frame, speaks louder than any roar ever could. It's been too long since it last ate its fill.

A faint smile cracks Hiccup's guarded expression, softening the sharp edges of his face. His fingers hover, then settle lightly on the dragon's snout, tracing the rough texture of scales worn smooth by time.

"More very soon, I promise" he whispers, the words a vow carried on the salt-laden breeze, meant only for the creature before him.

The dragon's eyes half-close, a low hum thrumming from its throat, as if it understands the weight of that promise. Hiccup steps back, slow and measured, his boots scuffing the dirt in a rhythm that coaxes the dragon to follow. The Monstrous Nightmare hesitates, then moves, its massive form unfurling from the cage's confines. 

Claws click against stone, wings twitching as they taste freedom for the first time since that match. The sunset spills across the arena, painting its scales in hues of molten gold and crimson, a breathtaking contrast to the shadows it leaves behind. Together, they cross the open space, a boy and a beast bound by something unspoken yet palpable.

From their rigid line, the others watch, breaths held tight in their chests. Awe wars with terror in their wide eyes, the sight of Hiccup guiding a dragon—a Monstrous Nightmare—too surreal to fully grasp. Snotlout trembles more than the rest, his broad shoulders quaking as he shifts his weight from foot to foot. Sweat beads on his brow, glistening in the dying light, as the pair draws nearer. His hand twitches toward the ground, fingers closing around a jagged rock small enough to conceal but sharp enough to wound.

The dragon's head tilts, oblivious to the threat, its focus tethered to Hiccup. Before Snotlout can lift the stone, Astrid's hand clamps onto his wrist. Her voice is a low hiss, cutting through his panic.

"Drop it." His jaw tightens, defiance flaring, but her grip holds until the rock slips from his grasp, clattering harmlessly to the dirt.

Hiccup stops a few paces away, his eyes flicking to his cousins' pale face. He reaches out, taking the boy's arm despite the resistance that follows.

"Wait!" Snotlout's voice cracks, sharp with fear, as he yanks back, boots skidding.

Hiccup's grip remains steady, gentle but insistent. "Shh. Relax," he soothes, the words soft as a lullaby against the chaos of Snotlout's racing pulse. "It's okay, it's okay."

With care, Hiccup guides Snotlout's trembling hand forward, pressing it to the dragon's snout. The scales are warm, almost searing, and the Monstrous Nightmare rumbles—a deep, resonant purr that vibrates through Snotlout's bones immediately taking a liking to the boy and his firm strength. 

Snotlouts' breath hitches, caught between dread and wonder, as the dragon leans into the touch. In that fleeting moment, an invisible thread weaves between them, fragile yet undeniable in a connection that made the boy smile—a real smile—in awe of the new friend before him.

Hiccup steps back, his boots crunching faintly, leaving Snotlout alone with the Monstrous Nightmare. The dragon's purring fills the air, his vibrations felt through the ground, a low vibration that rattles the stillness. Snotlout's eyes stay glued to the beast, his chest heaving as a high-pitched yelp escapes him.

"Where are you going!" His voice cracks, sharp with nerves, his gaze never wavering from the creature's ember-lit eyes, as if breaking contact might shatter the fragile peace.

Hiccup doesn't answer immediately. He strides toward a neat stack of ropes you'd coiled earlier, their coarse fibers glinting faintly in the dimming light. One by one, he lifts them, the weight familiar in his hands, and passes them out to the group. Each rope thuds softly into their palms—Snotlout's fingers twitch as he takes his, the others grasping theirs with varying degrees of reluctance.

Hiccup's grin breaks through, bright and unburdened. "You're going to need something to hold on to, aren't you?" His tone carries a spark of mischief.

A metallic screech cuts through the moment as you haul open the latch to the Hideous Zippleback's cage. The air grows thick, heavy with the acrid tang of smoke that billows out, curling in tendrils across the arena. Visibility fades, the sunset's glow swallowed by the haze.

Hiccup, undeterred, presses two slick, silvery fish into the twins' hands—Ruffnut and Tuffnut exchanging a glance, their bravado a flimsy mask. He guides them to the center, arms outstretched like offerings to the unknown. Their shoulders stiffen, chins jutting out in feigned courage, but their eyes betray them—wild, flickering with panic beneath the surface.

From the smoke, a single head emerges, sinuous and deliberate, its scales glinting like oil on water. The gas head of the Zippleback slithers toward Ruffnut, its movements serpentine, hypnotic. Her head tilts slightly toward Tuffnut, seeking reassurance, but Hiccup's voice cuts through the tension, steady and calm.

"It's okay," he murmurs, his hand gently steadying her arm. "Let it come to you."

She swallows hard, obeying, her arm trembling as the dragon's snout hovers closer, nostrils flaring as it scents the fish. Its breath brushes her skin, warm and faintly sulfurous, before it dips lower, inspecting her face. Her eyes squeeze shut, a reflex against the intimacy of the moment, until its jaws part delicately, claiming the fish. A rough, long-slit tongue flicks out, grazing her hand, hungry for more as it licks her palm.

Tuffnut's attention snaps to his sister, worry etching his features, until a glint of movement draws his gaze. The spark head emerges, its eyes narrowed with a mix of anger and curiosity, locking onto him. He freezes, the fish dangling from his grip as he lifts it slightly, a hesitant peace offering.

The dragon's head rears high, scales catching the light, its stare piercing. Tuffnut mirrors it, his own eyes wide and searching, a silent question hanging between them. Slowly, the spark head descends, its scrutiny unrelenting, until it blinks—a single, deliberate motion—and snatches the fish in one swift gulp, the tension easing like a held breath released.

The gas head nudges Ruffnut again, its touch gentle now, almost affectionate, while the spark head lingers on Tuffnut. Their gazes hold, a quiet acknowledgment passing between them, a bond taking root in the shared stillness. The smoke swirls, a witness to their tentative truce, as the twins stand bound to their twin-headed companion.

Next, Fishlegs shuffles forward, his bulk betraying him with every quaking step. His legs wobble visibly, knees knocking as Hiccup raises a hand, signaling you above. The latch of the Gronckle's cage groans open, and the arena trembles with the dragon's arrival. It doesn't emerge with caution—it bursts forth, a furious buzz of wings and a snarl of defiance, slamming against the cage's edge before launching into the air. Dust kicks up in its wake, the sound of its flight a low roar that sets your teeth on edge.

The Gronckle hovers, its stubby wings beating against the smoke-laden air, its beady eyes darting between the other dragons and their newfound riders. Confusion stalls its aggression, a flicker of doubt in its bristling posture. Then its gaze lands on Hiccup, and instinct takes over.

It dives, a familiar charge aimed straight for him, its growl reverberating off the stone walls. But Hiccup only smiles, unflinching, his hands already cradling a fistful of dragonnip. The scent hits the air—earthy, pungent—and the Gronckle falters mid-flight. Its tail wags, a comical pendulum, and it crashes to the ground with a thud, belly flopping against the dirt in eager submission.

Hiccup's laughter rings out, clear with joy, as he turns to Fishlegs. The boy's hands shield his face, his frame shrinking as if he could vanish into the shadows. Hiccup steps closer, pressing the dragonnip into Fishlegs' clammy palm, and nudges him forward.

"Hold it out," he urges, voice soft but firm.

Fishlegs complies, arm trembling as the Gronckle bounds toward him, its tongue lolling out in a frenzy of delight. The dragon's rough licks coat his hand, slobber glistening in the fading light, and Fishlegs' nervous giggle escapes—tight and shaky at first, then blooming into something genuine, a burst of joy as the Gronckle's tail thumps the ground like a drumbeat.

Astrid stands apart, the last in line, her stance a careful balance of anticipation and restraint. The air feels heavier around her, tinged with the memory of a past encounter—a sharp strike she'd once landed on the Deadly Nadder's head. Her fingers flex at her sides, betraying the excitement that thrums beneath her guarded exterior, tempered by a quiet hope that the dragon's memory isn't as long as her own. She shifts her weight, the dirt crunching beneath her boots, her breath shallow but steady.

Hiccup steps closer, his presence a grounding force amid the chaos of scales and smoke. "It's alright," he says, his voice low and even, cutting through the knot of tension in her chest. "Let her come to you. Just be calm and hold the salmon out. Show her you mean no harm." His words carry a quiet certainty, as she nods once, sharply, and turns her focus forward.

Above, your hands find the final lever, the cold iron slick with the day's dampness. With a firm pull, you release the latch, the mechanism grinding open with a reluctant creak that echoes faintly across the pit. Inside the cage, the Deadly Nadder stirs, roused from a slumber so deep it might have been mistaken for a hen brooding over an unseen clutch.

Her eyes flutter open, blinking against the intrusion of light, and she stretches her wings—vibrant feathers catching the last embers of the sunset—before stepping out. Her head tilts, first one way, then the other, her vision adjusting as she surveys the unfamiliar expanse.

The scent of the salmon in Astrid's hand wafts through the air, rich and briny, drawing the Nadder's attention like a lodestone. She moves forward, talons clicking against the stone, her gait steady and unafraid. Astrid mirrors her, determination hardening the lines of her face, her wide blue eyes locking onto the dragon's yellow ones with an intensity that feels almost tangible.

The Nadder's jaws part wide, a silent invitation, and Astrid tosses the fish with a flick of her wrist. It arcs through the air and lands perfectly, swallowed in a single, graceful motion as her head tilted—like a bird swallowing its meal.

Astrid lifts her hand, palm open and waiting, the gesture fragile yet bold. The Nadder pauses, her head cocking as she studies the offered palm with a flicker of confusion. Then, slowly, she leans forward, nostrils flaring as she sniffs the air, the warmth of her breath brushing Astrid's skin.

At last, she presses her snout into the hand, scales cool and smooth against flesh. A laugh bubbles up from Astrid, bright and unguarded, and the Nadder responds with a gleeful flap of her wings, the sound a sharp rustling chirp that cuts through the arena's stillness.

Around them, the other riders meld into their new bonds—Snotlout's hesitant pats growing surer, the twins trading wary glances with their Zippleback, Fishlegs still chuckling as the Gronckle nuzzles his hand. Hiccup drifts among them, offering quiet guidance, his silhouette weaving through the haze like a thread stitching the scene together. The dragons' rumbles and chirps blend into a strange harmony, a testament to the fragile trust taking root.

Your boots hit the arena floor as you descend from the upper ledge, the impact sending a faint jolt up your legs. You weave past the burlap sack of fish, its damp fabric brushing your arm, and pluck one from the pile—its size modest, perfect for what waits ahead.

The final cage looms before you, smaller than the rest, its latch a simple bar you lift with ease. The Terrible Terror inside bursts forth, a blur of scales and speed that forces you to spin on your heels to track it. Larger than your own Menace, yet still compact, it skids to a halt, nostrils twitching as the fish's scent hooks its attention.

You sink to your knees, the stone cool beneath you, and hold the fish out, your voice a soft coo that lilts through the air. "Come on, little one, it's yours."

The Terror's eyes—bright, inquisitive—fix on the prize, and it scampers closer, claws tapping a rapid rhythm. Hiccup approaches, his steps measured, and kneels beside you, close enough that the warmth of him brushes your side. He watches as the dragon takes the fish, its tiny jaws working slowly, savoring each bite with a deliberation that belies its earlier haste.

A gentle laugh escapes you, light and unforced, as the Terror's tail flicks in contentment—much like Menace you thought. Hiccup's gaze shifts from the dragon to you, his smile softening into something deeper—fondness etching itself into the corners of his eyes, the curve of his mouth. The arena fades for a moment, the clamor of dragons and riders dimming, leaving only the quiet space between you.

Hiccup's hand finds yours, his calloused fingers wrapping around your own with a quiet urgency as he pulls you both to your feet. The dirt clings to your knees, a faint grit against your skin, as he leads you toward the others. The night has settled fully now, the last traces of sunset swallowed by a sky thick with stars and the pale glow of the moon. Shadows stretch long and jagged across the arena, the air cooling with each passing moment.

"Get ready to fly," Hiccup calls out, his voice cutting through the murmur of dragons and riders. His tone is firm, laced with purpose. "Once we're back with what we need, we're leaving."

The group shifts, their silhouettes tense against the dark—Snotlout clutching his rope a little tighter, Astrid smoothing a hand over the Nadder's scales, the twins exchanging a quick, nervous glance. Hiccup turns to you, a nod sealing the plan, and together you stride out of the arena, the crunch of gravel underfoot fading into the night.

Outside, he pauses, the moonlight catching the sharp angles of his face. "Meet me a few steps from the arena," he says, his gaze flickering with something unspoken. "I need to tell you something." Before you can respond, he's off, his lanky frame disappearing toward his house, leaving you standing in the cool, quiet dark.

You make your way to your own home, the familiar path lit only by the moon's silver sheen. Inside, the air smells of baked bread and smoked fish, a comfort you quickly set to work dismantling. Your bag lies open on the floor, and you pack with ruthless efficiency—sacrificing space for the essentials.

One spare set of clothes is all you allow yourself, the rest filled with spices and herbs tied in small bundles, extra cloths for wrapping food, the last of your dense loaves, strips of jerky, and the smoked cod you'd prepared for journeys like this. The weight of it all presses against your shoulders as you hoist your largest—full leather waterskin, its contents sloshing faintly.

Menace chirps from her perch near the hearth. You scoop her up, her scales warm against your hands, and settle her into the leather carrier you'd crafted—a snug sling that straps across your back, designed for flights with Hiccup and Toothless. She nestles in, cooing with contentment, her tiny claws flexing against the material as you shoulder your loadon the opposite shoulder and head back into the night after having put the fire in the hearth out.

Hiccup waits where he'd promised, a small bag slung over his shoulder, a pouch of dragonnip tied to his hip, its earthy scent drifting faintly on the breeze. His waterskin hangs at his side, and a spare set of clothes bulges the pack slightly.

"Hey," he says, a warm smile cutting through the dimness as he steps toward you.

"Hey," you answer, shifting the load on your back. "Brought the food since I know no one else bothered."

He chuckles, the sound bright and easy. "Did you at least pack some clothes?"

"Of course," you retort, a grin tugging at the corner of your mouth.

The walk back to the arena is quiet, the moon's glow painting the world in muted silvers and grays. Your footsteps fall in sync, a steady beat against the quiet, until Hiccup falters mid-stride, his pace slowing. His hand twitches, as if reaching for words he can't quite grasp.

You glance at him, brow furrowing. "Are you alright?"

"Oh yeah! Yeah—never better," he blurts, his voice cracking oddly as he flashes a strained smile. His eyes dart to you, then skitter away, too fleeting to linger.

"Hiccup," you say, your tone flat, unmoved by the flimsy lie.

He lets out a breath, shoulders dipping as the pretense fades. "Seriously, I am. Thanks to you more than anything. Am I nervous still? Of course. But I just—I'm starting to realize something." His glance flicks to you again, brief and searching. "And it's strange. Something I'm not really sure of yet."

Concern creases your face, and you pivot, walking backward to face him fully as you both press on. "What is it?" The question lands with weight, your eyes fixed on his, unwavering.

A flush creeps up his neck, faint but undeniable even in the moonlight's soft glow. His mind churns, tangled in the memory of earlier—the sudden, inexplicable urge to kiss you catching him off guard. His best friend. The thought twists in his chest, unfamiliar and unsteady. He rubs the back of his neck, fingers digging into the skin as he wrestles with it—too uncertain to voice, too risky to confess—dangerous to admit—especially now, with a dragon fight looming and the nagging doubt that his mind might just be messing with him.

"I just hope we all get to them before it's too late," he says instead, his voice leveling out as he steers the conversation elsewhere. "And that we'll be okay getting there."

You stop short, making him stumble to a halt mid-stride. Leaning in—closer than he's ready for—your face draws near, your breath a warm contrast to the night's chill. His pulse spikes, heat surging from his neck to his ears, his fair skin betraying him even in the dark's faint cover.

"We'll get there, Hiccup," you say, your words deliberate and firm, a smile tugging at your lips.

"And we'll get there just fine. We have the dragon master with us." You give him a light, playful nudge, stepping back with a glint of satisfaction in your eyes, clearly enjoying the chance to tease him.

His face still burns, the flush scorching beneath his collar, and he silently thanks the darkness for concealing what his skin can't hide. You turn and march off, leaving him frozen for a beat. A shaky breath slips out, one he didn't know he'd been holding until the sound of your footsteps dwindled. With a quick shake of his head, he jogs after you, falling into step as the arena's shadowed outline rises into view.

The others are ready when you arrive, their dragons shifting restlessly in the dark—wings fluttering, tails thudding against the ground, eyes flashing like scattered constellations. They nod at you both, a quiet sign they're ready, their ropes clutched firmly in hand. Hiccup steps up, his smile broad and unguarded, a flicker of thrill cutting through the haze of uncertainty.

"Alright," he says, his voice sharp and steady. "Let's fly."

This is Chapter 10 to this Hiccup series -> Masterlist here. Previous Chapter : Next Chapter

Gifs/edits, dividers + template credit to #uservampyr my co-writer + beta reader ♡

Lovely tag list ~ @kikikittykis | @icantcryicantstopcrying | @teeesthings | @ph4nt0m19

[wooahaeruby]

Master List

Will be edited as time goes on, currently working on getting the chapters up on tumblr too

The main group I write for is ☆Seventeen☆ but Ateez is coming!

Permanent Taglist Form

☆Series☆

One Soul, One Heart

This series will include 12 part series for the members of Seventeen. Note that there are only 12, VerKwan will be a joint story (To You explains why).

List of Seventeen's Soul Bonds

S.Coups/Seungcheol:  All colors in the world got muted and dull Jeonghan:  On the palm of their hand has a counter of how many times they have passed each other. Joshua: Being next to soulmate heals injuries quickly and the injuries that the other gets will leave a scar that appears on the other soulmate’s body Junhui: Both have '5201314' tattooed on them, meaning 'I love you forever' in Chinese text slang Wonwoo: They each have a notebook where they can write back and forth to one another. They can’t give any personal identifiers, but can still communicate things about themselves. Hoshi/Soonyoung: Craves whatever type of food their soulmate is craving (salty food, sweet food, spicy, etc) and a timer Woozi/Jihoon: Countdown timer and the ability to feel soulmate's emotions. DK/Seokmin: Hearing the song the other has stuck in their head. Mingyu: Black and white tattoo that is assumed to bloom with color when he meets his soulmate (Possible change to this) The 8/Minghao: Can hear each other's thoughts in their head/can communicate telepathically. VerKwan: Countdown timers x2 Chan/Dino: Each other's zodiac constellation 'tattooed' on their skin.

☆Finished Works☆

To You

Jihoon/Woozi x Reader

Ao3 Link

Soulmate AU, Canon Divergence, Fluff, Angst, Slow Burn Fluff

Fallin' Flower

I cowrote this with @doahaesunshine

?? X Reader

AO3 Link

Magic AU, Fantasy AU, Trauma, Depression, Manipulation, Angst

☆Works In Progress☆

Blood Stained Hands

Jeonghan x Reader x Joshua (Maybe more? hehe)

Ao3 Link

Mafia AU, Violence, Non-Major Character Death, Mentions of Drugs, graphic depictions of violence

Started/ WIPS but all private currently as I work

Fallin' Flower Vol. 2

Volume 2 of Fallin' Flower, DoahaeSunshine is working on it and I have been helping/going to be editing once more is written

Unnamed Seungcheol Soulmate AU

Soulmate AU, Teacher, Single Mom

Unnamed Wonwoo Soulmate AU

Soulmate AU, Streamers/Influencers AU

Unnamed VerKwan Soulmate AU

Soulmate AU, Idol AU

Unnamed Yeosang Soulmate AU

Magic, Mythical Creatures/Beings

Unnamed Jongho Soulmate AU

I basically am making To You but ATZ and a funnier MC and Ofc different plot

Unnamed SVT Story

Magic, Mythical Creatures/Beings, Multi-Dimension, Poly

[shallyouobeyme]

Castle

Platonic!Yandere Vampire ErasterMic!Family x Toddler!Reader (GN)

Summary: Upon a hill over a small town stands a castle. It's vampiric inhabitants get a sacrifice every generation, but one year, they find a little child bundled up in a blanket at their door.

! Minors Do Not Interact !

TW: Sacrificing a child (you), mention of mugging, fighting, attacks, murder + torture (not descriptive and not towards reader), vampires, being turned into a vampire, illness, dark content, I do not condone this - this is all just fantasy

There was a custom in a small town lying in the valley under a hill which adorned the horizon along with the great castle standing on top of it unshakable, permanent, unaging - just like its inhabitants. There were legends going through generations of people living in the castle's shadow. According to them, the castle housed four very specific, mythical creatures. A man of shadows who could only be seen in the night and whose sight was said to be linked with an imminent death. A banshee who could act like a siren and lure you in, only to them scream with the voices of all the souls who have lost their lives because of him. An undead boy who could make you see things, hear things, do things, which would shake any living thing to their core. And at the last, a girl pale as a sheet, with hair white as snow - a ghost, said to be one of their former victims (according to some even their first), who was hunting the castle to warn others who'd share her fate and remind the creatures who had caused her death of their rotten soul.

Along with the legends and myths, the custom developed as well - it came from a place of fear and dread, from a time when deaths rid the town of most of its people and the only cause they could discern was that they had attracted the anger of their mythical watchers - and now it was common practice for every generation to chose a sacrifice to bring to the gates of the castle to gratify the rage of it's owners. Usually, it would be one of the elderly who volunteered themselves, knowing that they had not long to live and wanting to see what all the legends were about at least once in their life. Because except for the sacrificial rite no one was allowed to climb the hill to the castle.

By the time the most unusual and determinative sacrifice happened, the medics of the town had realized that the deaths they had in the past blamed on the creatures were caused by natural reasons - most crucial, the plague. But still, the custom stayed, because why would they change the habit that had kept the townspeople safe for all these years? There was just one thing that was different by that time - it had probably been the result of more health and people having fewer children - but for the first time in generations, there were no elderly who were close to dying, all the elderly who were around were still healthy and fit. And so, one family offered to make the ultimate sacrifice, as they had a young child of only a few years of age who they'd be bringing to the gates. The child was old enough to walk and talk, but not old enough to understand what was happening. And furthermore, the child was ill and sickly. They had been born with their ailment and the doctors saw no possibility of betterment, giving them only a few more years of life before the ailment would take them.

And so it was decided for the best all to lose their child in exchange for the happiness of all the other children they would have and that were living around them. On the night of the summer solstice, their parents put the child into warm clothes and carry their sleeping form up the hill. They knew that the least they needed to do was bring them away together and spend their last moments on this earth as a family. When they arrived at the gate, they rolled their child in a blanket and laid her down in front of it, before the father took the mother's hand and used the knocker that would never work from that distance at any other house. The parents gave their child one last kiss and then solemnly made their way back down the hill to their lives.

On the opposite side of the gate were a family at dinner - or at least as similar to dinner as it was possible for this family. They were sitting around a table with chalices before them, filled with dark, red, liquid that some might assume to be wine. It was not. The family had been living in the castle for centuries. And it was not the fathers and mothers of the people living in it now, no, it had been the exact same people as were sitting around the table now, unchanged like the building they were living in. Unlike what the townspeople assumed, the family of vampires had no interest in ending the lives of the people below them, they had long since switched to an animal-based diet. Still, they also had no interest in stopping their little habit of sacrifices, because it kept them unbothered, and kept the people of the town just afraid enough to not dare enter their homes. And since the sacrificial humans were usually already smelling of death, they had no issue putting them out of their misery - giving the old humans the happiness of letting them know what they had been wondering about for their entire lives.

As the family was talking about the latest news and interests that had been going on in their very exclusive, very secretive society of vampiric creatures spread around the entire world, Aizawa looked out of the window and sighed. He wondered about how fast the last 25 years had passed, but stood up and went out to the gate nonetheless. He wondered a little bit about the unusual breathing and heartbeat pattern heard coming from the human. It had been centuries since he had bothered with visiting or listening to other humans so while his ears were as good as ever, he had some difficulties distinguishing between the differences in them just based on their sounds and smells. So he assumed that this human was just weaker than usual.

All this led to all the more of a surprise when he opened the gate and found not an elderly human looking to find their end for the greater good, but instead a little bundled-up child. You - looking slightly younger than their own daughter had been when she was turned by a nefarious vampire looking to extend their clan - looked so weak, so frail, and as Aizawa looked at you, for the first time in centuries he was reminded of his own time as a mortal. Back then he and Yamada had to hide their love, their romance forbidden for multiple reasons. Not only were they both men, no they were also part of opposite sides of a war, though on the nights when they both sneaked away to spend their time embraced without having to worry about the rest of the world, they spent their time dreaming of having a life together, living without fear and most importantly, taking care of a little life of their own. A child. And when they had been turned, that dream had been mostly fulfilled.

Now they were powerful enough to live without fear together and a few decades later they stumbled upon a dying boy - a mugger who had stolen from them earlier, but as they hunted him down to get their stuff back they found him giving away the stolen goods to the children living in the street without a way to make their own way of survival. When he had also thrown himself in the way of a fight that had escalated and an attack meant for Yamada, it had been clear to them they could not leave him to die. And so they turned him and gained their son. And while they loved him as if he was their own - he was in a sense, the bond forged by turning someone almost as strong as the bond of blood mortals had - he had still already been a young adult when they had 'adopted' him.

Their gaining Eri for their family had been similar. She had already been a vampire for years when they had saved her and while she still looked the part of a young child, she had already been mindful and conscious of things a child would never be, she was a teenager or even an adult trapped in the body of a child.

So when Aizawa looked down at you, he saw this dream of theirs, the dream of raising a child of their own, and he saw the possibility of that now happening. When he brought you back in it was safe to say that his idea was taken in with a lot of enthusiasm, Yamada taking you out of Aizawa's arms and cuddling you close to him - so very happy to have a little you like you so close to him. Oh, how adorable you were, how precious - it was like he finally found what he was waiting for all of his immortal life. Eri was over the moon as well, stating that she had always wanted to be a big sister, that she'd do her best to make sure you'd grow up safe and surrounded by love, and that she wouldn't let anything harm you.

Shinsou was the one who stated something that the rest of the family had forgotten to think about through their joy. Someone had sacrificed you to them, had left you to what they thought to be a soon and possibly painful death. Shinsou's eyes were filled with rage, infectious rage and bloodlust that he hadn't felt since he'd been turned first, as he thought about how someone could leave such a little, weak thing as you to your death knowingly. And so, you were left with Yamada who was not quite ready to let go of you yet, and Eri who insisted on you getting a room near hers (even though you'd spent your next years sleeping in your new parent's bed) and to be there when you awoke to keep you calm in your new surrounded.

While they were already planning your new life, Aizawa and Shinsou made their way down that hill for the first time in a long while, with fire and fury in their steps, knowing that they'd leave no one alive - all of the townspeople at fault for letting you be sacrificed in their eyes. They had only had you with them for less than a day, but one look at you cuddling into Aizawa and Yamadas was enough to have them put you into their hearts and they'd bring hell before letting you go again. So no matter if young or old, male or female or in between, sick or healthy, every single mortal in that town paid their due that day, most of all your own parents whom they recognized by their smell and made suffer for as long as they could before they felt like they needed to see you again to make sure you were doing okay and ended your families misery.

It was clear that your life would be very different from now on, you would be coddled and loved, spoiled and protected. You were still so young that you didn't really worry about the fact that there were these strange people calling themselves your daddies and siblings for longer than a month or two, after that, you accepted your new situation. You enjoyed the attention, loved playing with Eri, dressing up with Yamada, taking naps with Aizawa and getting told stories by Shinsou. Your new life was happy and joyful and you didn't even notice how protective and obsessive your new family was. Leaving the castle wasn't an option anymore - which you didn't worry about too much given how big the castle felt to you - and neither was being alone. There was always one of them with you unless you were sleeping, and even then someone was close to you, close enough to race to you when they heard the difference in breathing patterns of you waking up.

Upon multiple protective measures, it was Shinsou who took it into his hands to tell you stories that made you scared of being alone and leaving the safety of your home - it hurt him to see you so scared, but the feeling of having you run into his arms for comfort when you were afraid of a shadow outside of the window, made it all worth it. Only once you started seeing evil in anything outside and started fearing things around you once you were alone did he tone it down a bit, knowing that he would not have to worry about you leaving them for the time being. His parents had claimed that it wasn't necessary since someone was with you at all times, but they didn't intervene when he started so he assumed they were fine with it.

Aizawa and Yamada loved having your young innocent around them, it reminded them that there was still goodness left in the world, but they still decided that they would not turn you until you were old enough to agree to it. They couldn't promise that they'd listen to you even if you didn't agree - already knowing that they could never let you go - but they at least wanted you to have the opportunity to feel like you made the choice on your own.

Of course, there was still your illness. Your family had many connections in the world thanks to their community of vampiric friends so they had access to the top medication and the best doctors and you got all of that. Everything to make sure you were as healthy as possible and relieved of any pain. The only thing that might change the way they had decided your turning would go would be if your condition worsened if there was no chance of healing anymore. Then, turning you would be an immediate reaction. And who knows, maybe them having you being their little toddler for the rest of eternity - never growing and being coddled by them to make sure you stay as innocent as you are now - was the best thing that could happen to you since they had found you at their gate.

N/A: Thank you to @dumpster-dive-reading for the inspiration behind this and thank you all for reading this. If you enjoyed it I'd love to read your thoughts. Tomorrow's entry for Yandere Writetober is going to be 'dagger' and let's just say while I'm not sure yet, I have a very mischievous character in mind for this. See you then ❤️

[steviebbboi]

Stevie BB 200 Followers Celebration Writing Challenge!

Howdy lads~ exciting news to share:

I just reached a 200 follower count on Tumblr 🎉🎉🎉

I kinda can't believe it? Writing is indeed good for my soul. Interacting with y'all on here has helped me with my mental and emotional wellness due to just finding such great community on here. Thank you for giving me the space to write and for following along/supporting in my writing journey 💖

With that spiel spoken, I wanted to host a writing challenge in celebration of this milestone! *squealing because i'm so excited to host*

Stevie BB 200 Followers Celebration Writing Challenge Masterlist

*you'll find all writing submissions and writing requests (answered) at the link above*

You could participate by sending in either:

✨ writing request via my Asks (💙)

and/or

✨ writing submissions (💥).

General Rules:

the challenge will start October 1st until the end of November (flexible on late entries for submissions only💥; let's say till mid-December or so).

I'll read/write for Chris Evans characters, Henry Cavill Characters, and Charlie Hunnam characters [and Bucky Barnes specifically lol] (these are my preferences but if there are other characters that you'd like to bring in, just ask me)!

for writing requests 💙, i will only be accepting requests (2 max/person; pls do not send more than 2 asks!) until the end of November.

for writing submissions 💥, go wild! submit as many as you like!

you can do both (send in a writing request 💙 AND send in a writing submission(s)💥) if you want to; rules still apply for the requests though.

use at least one prompt within your request 💙/submissions💥 from the lists below (but def. go crazy if you wanna use more than one! you don't have to claim any prompts).

works can be inclusive! poc, gender neutral, neurodivergencies, mid size/plus size/curvy readers are encouraged!

No word limits but please use a 'read more' after 200 words

Works can be part of an existing series but must be able to stand on their own

tag me @steviebbboi and use the tags #bbboi200celebration and #steviebbboiwritingchallenge in your entry so i can read/reblog your work! (If I somehow lose sight of your submission, please remind me and I'll take a look at it right away ☺️)

Most important one: Have fun!

How To Play:

✨ You must be 18+ to participate in this challenge!

✨ Choose one (or multiple 😏) BB's:

Chris Evans Characters

Steve Rogers/Captain America

Ransom Drysdale

Ari Levinson

Frank Adler

Curtis Everett

Andy Barber

Hayden/Harvard Hottie

Nick Gant

Jake Jensen

Johnny Storm

Lloyd Hansen

Henry Cavill Characters

Clark Kent

Napoleon Solo

Geralt of Rivia

August Walker

Charlie Hunnam Characters

Jax Teller

Raymond Smith *extra brownie pts if you write about him omg*

King Arthur

Sebastian Stan

Bucky Barnes [he's all by himself im so sorry lmfao 🥹]

✨ Choose one (or more) of the following prompts:

*if you don't want to write smut, you don't have to choose anything from the kinks prompt! feel free to only use the following two prompts :)

soft dom!BB

clothes/naked ratio

size kink

slow and deep 👀

breeding kink (non-pregnancy version)

somnophilia

free use

cockwarming

belly bulge

Squirting

consensual non-con

consensual dub-con

cumeating

creampie

anal/or dp

possessive/or protective manhandling!BB

oral sex

orgasm delay

dumbification

daddy/princess kink

overstimulation

sex pollen

prone bone

cockdrunk

threesome (BB/Reader/BB)

ass/pussy spanking

mild degradation

body worshipping

quickie/don't get caught (public sex, threats of exhibitionism, etc.) 😏

Grouchybb! who is only soft with you

Married and loyal!spouse

A/B/O

lumberjack!bb who is a teddy bear on the inside tho

mob AU

biker AU

soulmate AU

mutual pining/idiots in love

childhood besties to lovers

reformed playboy

professor AU

supernatural/mythical (gods, sirens, werewolves, witches, vampires, ghosts, oh my!)

frenemies to lovers

fwb to lovers

locked in AU/forced proximity

medieval AU

fake dating/relationship

sharing one bed

polar opposites attract

break up and make up

spy AU

meet cute

cowboy AU

gentle recluse!BB

brothers best friend!BB

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

"Yes, take it, slut"

"It's not that big of a deal."

"God, why do you always do this"

"You're impossible."

"Then I guess we gotta be quiet, huh?"

"We're trapped."

"Shh, you wouldn't want anyone to hear, or do you?"

"You're taking me so well, baby"

"Good girl" *for fem readers; adjust accordingly!*

"Tsk, uh-uh, c'mere, honey"

"You always feel so good around me, baby"

"What do you think you're doing?"

"Here, let me help you."

"Yeah, are you a cockhungry slut, now?"

"I hardly think that that's necessary."

"Don't be a brat, baby."

"Aw, does it feel good right there?"

"I'm sorry!"

"What do you want from me?!"

"I didn't mean to!"

"What do you think you're doing here?"

"Nope. Again."

"Don't worry, I got you."

"Just stay still, there you go."

"Just one more, I promise."

"C'mon, don't you wanna be good?"

"Stay over there!"

"You better hurry up, baby."

"Thaaaat's it, you're doing so well, honey."

"Uhm, I'm not sure that's going to work."

"Please, I'll beg, please!"

"Be honest."

"Be careful there, darlin'."

"Are you okay?"

"Are you sure you wanna go there?"

Scenarios? Any! Go. Wild.

✨ I love reading/writing angst w/HEA, soft dark (nothing too dark though), fluff and SMUT (as you can see w/the many many kinks).

no incest (stepcest is ok if tasteful lol), no infidelity, no watersports, no murder, no gore. if you're unsure if a trope is appropriate, ask me!

if im ever uncomfy with writing something, i will lyk and we can talk more about it to see if we could work with it!

feel free to ask any questions!

i think i got everything!

Have the best time, laddies~ thanks for celebrating with me!

All are welcome to join in the fun! ❣️

Tagging a few mutuals who may be interested but no pressure bbs:

@bigtreefest @mercurial-chuckles @stargazingfangirl18 @yenzys-lucky-charm

@sweater-daddiesdumbdork @buckets-and-trees @hotdamnhunnam @laurfilijames

@autumnrose40 @eloquentlytired @misscherry-26 @stellar-solar-flare

@darsynia @navybrat817

[bestworstcase]

I totally forget if you've commented on this before, so my apologies if you have and I missed it, but how do you feel about theories regarding Mercury's semblance and/or eyes? what I mean by this is some people think that Mercury actually does have silver eyes or that he does still have a semblance somehow (or could form a new one) and I'm wondering what your stance is. and how the answers to these questions fit into your reading of the narrative as a whole. obviously there's something to be said for Marcus Black being abusive and seemingly killing/stealing a part of his son's soul as a part of that, etc.

ough

i have posted abt this before but it was. a while ago and i can't find the post anymore lmao so take two!!

some facts:

elemental mercury is commonly called quicksilver, and its symbol Hg derives from its older name hydrargyrum, from the greek, meaning "silver water."

mercury is the roman god of trade and eloquence, travel and theft; the divine messenger; and a psychopomp who guides souls of the newly dead to the underworld. 

some more facts:

silver-eyed warriors are symbolically linked to 1. the grim(m) reaper and 2. butterflies, which are commonly and cross-culturally regarded as symbols of death/reincarnation. 

"In Rome one can see a marble bas-relief representing a young man stretched out on a bed, and a  butterfly which, in flight, seems to be exiting the mouth of this dead man, because the ancients, as well as the common people of our day, believed that the spirit leaves through the mouth."

(quirks eyebrow.)

silver eyes have some metaphysical connection to death that goes beyond symbolism: ruby's eyes awaken when she witnesses death and she hears pyrrha's final words in her dreams for months afterward; the light arises from love and grief; salem herself seems to have begun experimenting with silver eyes and resurrection and grimm after cinder's injury. 

the glare itself at least resembles the pure white light of the threshold between life and death (personally, i think it is that light)

the silver-eyed warrior of legend is not a person; she is a hero destined to live and die alone fighting grimm because that is what she is meant for. she exists for no other purpose. (she is the mirror-image of a grimm.)

"All my life, my father trained me to be a killer, an assassin like him. And then moments after I killed him, you two showed up looking for someone with my exact skills. Just felt like it was meant to be. […] You may not like it here without Cinder, but I think I'm right where I'm supposed to be!"

(quirks eyebrow.)

ok. so, we've got

☑️ a boy with silvery-grey eyes

☑️ alluding to a mythical psychopomp

☑️ named "quicksilver"/"silver water"

☑️ or "keeper of boundaries"

☑️ raised to be a killer/warrior

☑️ violently denied his personhood

☑️ nihilistically feels destined for this life

lol. lmao, even!

some more facts:

when salem wounded ruby's self-image by insinuating that summer rose (really, ruby's imagined ideal self, ruby-rose-without-flaws) confronted salem and failed, ruby's glare struck inward—her conception of herself, her aspirational self, fractured and her light attacked her.

"He never went easy on me! Every day of training was a beating. And when I unlocked my semblance, he stole it with his! 'This is a crutch! This makes you weak!' He told me I could have it back when I was strong… so I got strong, but I never got it back! I've had to work harder than anyone to get where I am!"

semblances are an outward manifestation of the soul, an expression of one's true character, intertwined and inextricable from a person's identity and self-image. 

mercury is extremely toxic. famously. 

quirks. eyebrow.

ok. ok

think about what happened with ruby's eyes solely from hearing salem say "your mother said those words to me; she was wrong, too"—because her conception of herself is so bound up in the idea of summer rose, ideal huntress, the best of us, supermom, perfected reflection of ruby rose, all she wishes she was—confronting the real summer rose, who tried and failed and never came back, fractures ruby's self-identity and precipitates her tailspin in v8-9 and that begins with her light rebounding on her.

(this is because silver eyes require true self-knowledge and clarity of purpose which is why ruby struggles with them, in this essay i will—)

so think about that. and consider the implications for a silver-eyed boy abused and molded from birth into something antithetical to the nature of this magic—a remorseless killer—whose true self was literally stolen from him by his father. and he never got it back. 

(*i think mercury is probably not a reliable narrator in regard to what his father did to him—he was a kid and he's still taking what his horrifically abusive father said to him as objective fact—and i expect he'll find his semblance again in vacuo. but this is what mercury believes is true.)

like. we know silver-eyes can be harmed by their own light: ruby's first glare put her in a coma for several days after beacon fell, and the light turned inward and hurt her when her self-image cracked. right?

gestures: mercury. quicksilver. poison.

(but also: mercury can be used to draw elemental silver from ore.) (patio process)

my theory is that 

mercury does have silver eyes

marcus black's semblance was in a similar vein as tyrian's – painful disruption or forcible suppression of another person's semblance, maybe allowing him to mimic/copy that power

his semblance + his abuse and the things he said of mercury's semblance (it makes you weak, it's a crutch) shattered mercury's sense of identity and completely broke him to the idea that his sole purpose is to obey and kill. 

mercury's light reacted to this shattering by driving inward, like what happened to ruby but far more severe, and that is what caused his semblance to be (apparently) lost forever: his self-image broke in such a fundamental, traumatic way that his own light kept him alive by blinding him to his true self.

but the poison is the cure: if he finds his light again to protect someone he loves (emerald), he unblinds himself / rediscovers the true self he buried and his semblance is resurrected with it. figuratively speaking.

it's death-and-rebirth and psychopomps all the way down

[xxmythicravenxx]

I love him so much 😂. Almost gave up on this drawing because his tail was driving me crazy but one of my friends helped me figure it out.

This is Seraph!

Sisters: Sequin and Beta.

His Soul-Link is a Harpy Thunderbird (Like the bird from Fantastic Beast?), but he's the type of Harpy where if they get submerged in water they turn into sirens.

[bethelighthalazia]

Chapter 1 - A journey´s beginning

Summary:  Y/n witnesses a fight on the village´s market and things start to get stirred up in her life. Who are these strangers and why does she feel that something about them will decide her fate?

Genre: adventure, fluff

Pairing:  ?? x fem!half-siren!reader

Additional Characters: ATEEZ, Stray Kids

Word Count:  2014

Warnings: mentions of violence, mentions of weapons, fighting

Networks: @mirohs-aurora-society

Notes: There might be an explanation ‘chapter’ for some things, only if you all want/need it. As for now, ‘mother rain’ is just a name that y/n has given her parent. The being itself does use any pronouns, but is feminine appearance wise, which is why y/n calls them mother.

additional links: << PrevCh Masterpost Next Ch >>

© by bethelighthalazia. Do not repost, copy or translate. Unless stated otherwise, those works are mine and born from my own ideas. I don't have any claim on the mentioned real existing Idols whatsoever.

“When the red moon rises, And paints the land in its fiery shade. A child shall be born to land and sea, Its’ heart's voice with the power to unite. The path will be torn,  But a heart's melody will lead. Clawed embraces like a thorn, The one eyed’s Illusion offers a home. When the child gains powers,  Land and sea their witness and friend. Deep ocean's bell calling home all sirens, To gather under one heart's voice. A new queen will be raised to her throne,  Her call heard far and near. Friends won't shy, fighting for her to rise, When blood is against her, seeking demise.”

It had been eons since the last red moon hung in the night sky, so the excitement rose high when the birth of y/n fell on the day of this very rare lunar event. Highly anticipated amongst the sirens of this clan, since the child born on this day would become the ruler of their entire species, even though y/n was only the outcome of her mother being bedded by a human pirate. Excitement was replaced with disappointment the moment y/n took the first breath of air and water, because even though she looked as if screaming from the depths of her lungs, no sound was heard. The girl was born without a voice. How could this thing become their queen one day? This had to be kept a secret, the child disposed of very quickly. So, in the dead of night, one chosen of the clan's warriors was sent to bring the child to the highest mountain of the nearest island, so it would not be able to touch the sea and soon starve and dry out. 

Fate had different plans for this half siren though, and even if left for its death, the child survived thirteen days without food or water before she was found by none other than the soul of the sea itself. Disguised as a human being, they took her in and raised y/n, naming her after a mythical remedy that had long been forgotten. The child's youth was filled with warmth, wonders and love, protected and sheltered by the incarnation of the sea itself, yet living in a small hut on land.

Years went by and the little rainbow scaled half-siren rose into a beautiful young woman, her white hair shimmering in all the colors of the light when swimming in the water. While growing older, she learnt to hide her scales from human eyes, so she could walk through the nearby village, sirens have always been feared and often hunted. Every time she'd leave home to visit the market, y/n had been told to be careful. “Remember, my child. The wolves control these lands, do not cross the crescent moon pack.” The sea always told her and, once again, the young woman nodded with a smile. Y/n had heard these words often enough that they have carved itself into her mind by now. The basket for goods from the market in hand, her flute and a bag with some coin attached to her belt, the young half siren walked over to her parent, kissing their forehead.

‘Do not worry, mother rain. I will not stray from my path. My friend will accompany me again.’ Y/n communicates, using her hands and a language without words for this. Not many people understand her, nor do they want to, most of them call her way of communicating a work of magic and don't want anything to do with it. At the name y/n had given them, the sea let out a melodic laugh, shaking his head. “You have yet to explain to me why you call me that, my little tadpole,” they hum, cupping the girl's cheek for a moment before sending her off to the market. 

Why does y/n call them mother rain? She doesn't quite know herself. Mother, because they always have been there for her as far as she could remember. They're her mother, it's that easy. Rain, because - well, why? Walking down the dirt path to the village, y/n kept thinking about an explanation and before entering the market, she found it. The falling rain always has been soothing for y/n, the feeling on her scales, the sound it makes when hitting the ground, it just made her feel safe and calm. Mother rain had the same effect for the young woman. And she never learned her parent’s real name, nor is she aware that they are the sea itself.

“Y/n! Over here,” a familiar voice called out when y/n neared the village, drawing her attention to the young male, who's crouched on a boulder. His ashen brown hair falling into his face didn't hide a new scar under his eye. Her eyes wide and brows furrowed in worry, y/n pointed at the scar when she came closer, causing the young man to chuckle. “This? Oh, it's fine, don't worry.” He hummed, jumped off the boulder and stepped closer to y/n, so she could inspect the scar. “Wolves do cry sometimes. I just had to be reminded of it.” Now that y/n was able to see it up close, the scar reminded her of tears trailing down the man's face, causing her to huff out some air. “Don't be upset, please. It didn't hurt…well, not badly at least-” His words drew another huff from y/n, who shook her head. Her best friend often misjudged the gravity of some of his actions, so he got into trouble a lot and therefore got punished by - well, she's not sure by whom. Although, now that she thought about it - he usually referred to himself as one of the wolves. Y/n always downplayed this as him joking around, but what if he really is one of the feared pack controlling these lands?

A tap on her nose pulled her out of her thoughts, causing her to look up at the face of her friend. Jeongin never judged her, nor did he ever harm her or get her into dangerous situations, so why should she judge him? Even if he was one of the pack, she would never want to lose him as her best friend, one of the only people in this village who liked her and talked to her. “Did Rain send you to the market again?” The young man asked, gesturing towards the empty basket and when y/n nodded, he took her hand to walk with her to the village. Jeongin never cared or minded that she was mute, he didn't need to hear her talk to understand her. Being dragged after the young male, y/n gave a silent chuckle, but then stopped, holding Jeongin back from walking further. She could sense something familiar, something that sent a shudder down her spine; she felt the presence of another siren. 

“Huh? What's wrong, y/n? Are you not feeling well? I can bring you back to Rain, if you like-” Jeongin stopped, his head snapped towards the market, because sudden shouting and other noises came from there. Both of them looked at each other before the young male started running towards the commotion, y/n stumbling after her best friend. It only took them a few moments to reach the market and both could see what caused the noises. People hurriedly put away their wares and tried to get their market stands out of the way, while others were standing around the entry to the tavern.

Eyes wide, y/n let go of Jeongin's hand when the young male hurried towards the commotion to talk to one of the people around. The young half siren also stepped forward, freezing in place when she saw what's happening. A young man with dark hair and one eye covered by a bandage was fighting with someone else. 

“Hyung! What happened?” y/n could hear Jeongin's voice and she walked over to him, grasping the young man's arm with a frightened expression. “Jisung, why is your mate fighting that man?” The one Jeongin spoke to was trembling slightly, looking worried to the fighting people before turning to the younger male. “This man shoved me, I- I accidentally bumped into that man's friend-” Y/n could sense that the man Jeongin called Jisung was nervous, maybe even scared, so she put a hand on his arm gently, trying to calm him down.

A collective gasp drew the young woman's attention, her hands going up to her mouth when she saw what happened to cause this. The black haired one, who was wearing the same clothes like Jisung, had managed to cut, or rather claw, the other's chest. However, the other didn't seem to give up, despite the begging of his friend, a white haired male. “Hongjoong, please! Stop it, or this wolf will kill you!” The man pleaded, causing y/n to freeze, her eyes widened in realization. That white haired person was the siren she sensed, another half siren! 

“Minho, stop!” Another man walked onto the marketplace, but he didn't seem in a hurry. He looked intimidating, a scar across his face and the fur vest not covering much of his torso, which also was scattered with old and some seemingly newer scars. His voice actually made the fighting male stop, it had something like an echo to it, as if he wasn't the only one speaking, yet no one else had opened his mouth. What seemed off to her, was that Jeongin and Jisung also cowered at this voice. “Chan, he attacked Ji-” “Stop! We do not start fights with guests of the village, Minho!” The man, Chan, hushed the other quickly, none of them noticing the movement from the one eyed one called Hongjoong.

Y/n did notice though and before he could attack the others again, she rushed between them, stomping on the ground hard once, which sent a little shockwave of water across the area, a faint ring of a bell sounding through the water. This not only calmed the people in the area, but also revealed the rainbow scales on her legs for a split second. Despite that, Jeongin and his friends, as well as the white-haired one and Hongjoong saw it before y/n was able to hide them from view. “Seonghwa, she’s-” Hongjoong gasped and looked at his friend, the white haired guy, but the friend just shook his head. When the young woman looked at Jeongin, she got a glimpse of his shocked expression, but even though he was surprised about this revelation, he spoke up quickly, approaching the injured Hongjoong with y/n. 

“We have to bring him to Rain, they can help.” Jeongin spoke calmly and helped the white haired guy to pick up Hongjoong and support him. Chan watched the scene cautiously, gesturing to Minho to follow their youngest. “You go with him and make sure he comes home in one piece. I'll clean up your mess here, Minho,” the oldest of the wolves hissed, wondering how none of them had noticed a siren living close by. Minho already wanted to protest, but one look from Chan silenced him. 

Leading them down the path to Rain's hut, y/n was thinking about what happened, how shocked the ones who saw her scales were. “Y/nie, Stop worrying-” Jeongin's voice got cut by Seonghwa, who sounded curious rather than upset or scared. “You're a half siren, aren't you?” He asked in a calm manner, still supporting his friend while walking. Y/n merely nodded, her head hanging low. She remembered her parent's words, that most people despise sirens and are afraid of them. The group stayed silent the rest of the way, only when they reached the small hut, y/n got more lively again, hurrying inside and dragging the others with her. The only one who stayed outside the hut was Minho, who was very suspicious of the whole situation around this young woman.

taglist: @mingis-mizu, @tinyelfperso, @hotteokkay, @minkilicious, @bunnliix,

@gong-fourz, @yeosangiess, @dinossaurz, @scuzmunkie, @h3arteyes4mingi

(if you want to be added to a taglist, follow the taglist-link in my pinned post)

[theworldofotps]

The Lore of The Demon King

Description: The story of how Finn Bálor came to be Bálor. Word Count: 1,067

Wanted to get a few Halloween type stories out! Massive thank you to my beloved Kay for her help with this. ________ Tag list: @omg-im-such-a-masochist​ @melissahausen @new-zealand-chic @writtingrose @99hook @madhatterbri @sassymox @mrsacklesevansmgk @xladyxfatex @adamcolesbaybay @irish-newzealand-idian-dutch @demonqueen29 @itsicantbelievethis666 @lilred91 @rebellious-desires @surdelcielo @letsgivethisonemoreshot @ava-valerie @shortyiceheart @serpantscorpio8497 @thatpanpal @wrestlersownmyheart @vebner37 @seeingstarks @whenimakeitshine1234 @legit9thlunaticwarrior @blaquekitty @ironshamelessyouth @unoficialy-married-to-ace-austin @ripleyswhore @moonrosekk @xbreezymeadowsx @terrortwinunicorn @alyyaanna @elevennbloom @melblacc @alliwant456 @mcreignsera @auburnwrites​ @aews-four-pillars @thatnerdwriter​ @sjwrites22​

If you wanna be added to the list lemme know. _______ In the dead of night, when the veil between worlds thins, the legend of Bálor the Demon King awakens in whispers. Many believe Finn Bálor, the enigmatic Irish wrestler, harbors within him a power darker than the ring has ever known. But very few know the true story of how he became to be the demon king. How a mere mortal came to hold some of most powerful ancient abilities at his fingertips. The most common story tells of Finn stumbling upon these powers by accident.

It was Halloween night, years ago, when Finn found himself lost on an old country road in Ireland. Mist blanketed the ground as a chill settled over him, the crisp autumn air turning stale with every breath he took. His headlights barely cut through the thick fog that seemed to be everywhere, his phone had long since lost signal. He was searching for a way back to Bray when he stumbled upon an ancient stone. One marked by symbols that twisted like snakes, old and weathered by centuries of rain and ruin.  

Ever the curious man and not one to pay much attention to the stories of his childhood Finn climbed out of the car. Taking careful even steps towards the large stone, the moon barely peeking out from the clouds seemed to draw a signal to it. The stone whispered to him, low and relentless, in a language he didn’t understand. Drawn by an unseen force, he traced his fingers over its jagged edges. The stone was hot to the touch, in that moment, the ground opened, and Finn fell, spiraling down into darkness.

When he finally woke up Finn realized that he was no longer in Ireland. He was in a world of shadows, in the forgotten lair of Bálor, the mythical demon of Irish folklore or the original Demon King. Red eyes glowed from every corner of the darkness, watching, waiting. A heavy, suffocating pressure filled the air as Bálor's voice, cold and ancient, drifted toward him. Seeming to come from every direction around him filling his head.

“You’ve called me, haven’t you, Finn?”

Bálor’s voice was a deep, echoing growl that sent shivers through Finn’s body and his heart racing as he tried to gather his thoughts.

“You want to be a king. But to be a king, you must face the darkness within and believe when I tell you the darkness is more than a mere mortal can handle.

Finn tried to speak, but his voice caught in his throat as his eyes quickly flicked around the room before stopping in a corner where there was movement. Bálor’s form emerged from the shadows one that made Finn’s blood run cold. He was a towering figure with a single, massive eye in the middle of his forehead, flickering with a hellish light. His skin was a tapestry of ancient scars and painted symbols, his hands ending in claws. The tips seeming to drip black from what Finn could only assume was the essence of lost souls. Without warning, Bálor lunged forward, binding Finn in chains of shadow that tightened around him.

“Feel it, let the darkness consume you, become one with it.”

Each link of the chain sank into Finn’s skin, burning, twisting him from the inside out. The pain was unbearable, the sound of his own screams echoed in his head. But as it took hold, Finn felt something inside him awaken. Something feral, powerful. His body grew heavier, his skin darker, and strange markings appeared all over him, searing into his flesh. His mind teetered on the edge of sanity, but he could sense the power flooding through him, a dark gift from Bálor himself.

“Now you are one of us.”

Bálor hissed, his monstrous smile spreading wide as he watched Finn fall to his knees the power pulsing around him.

“Take this gift back to your world but remember that the darkness will follow you. It will consume you, piece by piece. Until you are nothing… but the Demon.” 

In a flash of blinding pain, Finn was thrown back to the surface, gasping on the cold, misty road. He was alone, but the symbols, the darkness, the feeling inside of him, they all lingered. When he glanced in the side mirror of his car, his face was his own, but in his eyes, instead of the normal blue he saw it. Bálor, lurking in the depths, watching, waiting for his next emergence.

And each time Finn dons the paint, each time he calls himself The Demon King, and wields those ancient powers. The darkness slips a little further into his soul, threatening to take him once and for all.

So, this Halloween, if you hear the echo of chains in the shadows or see a flicker of red eyes staring from the dark corners of the ring. Remember, it’s not just Finn Bálor no it’s the Demon King, the cursed soul of Bálor himself, still lurking, still hungry for a new host.    

[mtchee]

adilla kia akia syulapoe - [Performance Unit] | SPELL SERIES NAVIGATION | FEM

blurb:

A short series of events wherein you meet the guardians of the tides: protectors of their people and humans alike, you're engulfed by a world of mythics, beauty, and fate.

cw: not edited, second-person-pov, fantasy au, mythical guardians! performance unit, merfolk jun, jiaolong (water dragon) minghao, selkie soonyoung, water nymph chan, fluff, intertwined souls, short stories, polyamory, divine intervention, love in its purest form

[0.2k]

Perhaps your dreams weren't so far fetched at all.

This beach view is ethereal, as though you've stumbled upon a hidden oasis.

The waters are crystal clear, twinkling in empyrean blue along the line of the horizon. Soft white sand acts as its canvas, shells shimmering as gentle waves sift over them. Healthy tufts of sea grass sway elegantly in motion with the ginger currents, and you can spot tiny silver fish swimming in and out on occasion, their scales glinting in the sunlight.

You've seen this place in your sleep.

You thought it was a hoax when you saw it advertised in an online ad while you were mindlessly scrolling through your socials: participate in this quick survey for a chance to win a vacation to an elysian paradise!

You had snorted when you first read it, ha! As if. Your thumb clicked on the image link of a much too pretty to not be photoshopped beach, which then led you to a three minute survey where all you had to do was choose which pictures resonated with you the most. It was actually quite entertaining, kind of like those buzzfeed personality tests.

Afterwards, all you had to do was input your email and phone number to be eligible for a chance to win that vaction. You thought why not and did so anyway.

And look where you are now...

stories are released in no particular order unless mentioned otherwise

chapter i | chapter ii | chapter iii | chapter iv | chapter v | chapter vi | tbc~

[robsheridan]

Sisters of the Solstice, part 2 (start with part 1 here). In June of 1975, photographer Sera Clairmont captured the only known documentation of Sweden's mythical “coven of eternal witches,” (as some local folklore refers to them), and published them in Spectagoria magazine issue 11. These are the last of the pages that have been recovered from that issue.

From Clairmont’s text: “The Sisters are women of ritual. Complex layers of rituals for every occasion have collected upon the Sisters’ insular culture over re-generations like stamps on a well-traveled passport. At no time are the rituals more significant than in the weeks surrounding Midsommar, for that is the time of renewal.

“Each Midsommar season, the Sisters chosen for renewal give their physical shells back to the earth. Some depart in rituals of soil, and their remains are used to decorate the land, often raised to decompose as markers of the Sisters’ territory to scare away any men who dare come near. But some of the women - old souls who require stronger magick to transfer - must give themselves to rituals of flame, and [text illegible due to paper damage] reborn in flame. It is in the flame rituals where one understands the depth of the sacrifices the Sisters have endured to survive for so long without men. At dusk, the [illegible] dangerous ancient dark magick, taking a heavy toll on [illegible]… If any mistakes are made, or [illegible] too weak, [illegible] the soul will never return, [illegible] the wrong soul [illegible] …something else comes back.” [the rest is illegible]

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NOTE: Spectagoria is an ongoing work of fiction created by me. This alternate reality horror story is part of my NightmAIres narrative art series (visit that link for a lot more). NightmAIres are windows into other worlds and interconnected alternate histories, conceived/written by me and visualized with synthography and Photoshop.

If you enjoy my work, consider supporting me on Patreon for frequent exclusive hi-res wallpaper packs, behind-the-scenes features, downloads, events, contests, and an awesome fan community. Direct fan support is what keeps me going as an independent creator, and it means the world to me.

[mascamaiorum]

The theme of reincarnation in The Legend of Zelda franchise, as it pertains to Link and Zelda, can be examined through the lens of gendered notions of renewal and continuity. These notions shape the significance of reincarnation for both characters, reflecting deeper implications for identity, personhood, and their intertwined destinies.

Zelda: Reincarnation as Lineage and Continuity

For Zelda, reincarnation often ties into the bloodline of the Hylian royal family. Her connection to the goddess Hylia underscores a continuity rooted in the body—each Zelda is a direct descendant, inheriting not just her role but the burden of divine heritage. This aligns with traditional gendered conceptions where a woman’s renewal is tied to natural cycles—birth, lineage, and the perpetuation of bloodlines.

Zelda’s reincarnation represents a renewal of responsibility and trauma across generations. Each iteration of Zelda carries the memory, whether explicit or symbolic, of her predecessors’ sacrifices, struggles, and victories. This inheritance is embodied—Zelda’s identity is as much conditioned by her body (a vessel for Hylia’s power) as it is by her upbringing and circumstances. The physicality of this cycle also aligns with a feminine archetype of natural regeneration, where each Zelda is not a wholly new person but rather a manifestation of an eternal role.

Implications for Personhood:

• Zelda’s identity is tied to obligation and inheritance. She is less an individual and more a part of a larger, unbroken line.

• Her reincarnation emphasizes continuity over change, reflecting the idea that her personhood is shaped by what she carries forward—be it power, wisdom, or trauma—rather than personal reinvention.

Link: Reincarnation as Initiation and Cultural Renewal

Link’s reincarnation takes on a more artificial and cultural dimension, reflecting a masculine conception of renewal. Unlike Zelda’s embodied inheritance, Link is not tied to a bloodline but instead to the role of the Hero, which is bestowed upon him through destiny and initiation. Each reincarnation of Link undergoes a process of awakening, often tied to mastery of skills, acquisition of items, and acceptance of his fate.

Link’s identity is therefore shaped by circumstantial conditioning—he becomes the Hero not because of who he is intrinsically, but because he fulfills an external cultural role. This reflects a broader notion of masculinity as something achieved rather than inherited. His reincarnations emphasize transformation rather than continuity, with each Link being shaped anew by the trials he faces and the world he inhabits.

Implications for Personhood:

• Link’s identity is more fluid and contingent, shaped by external forces like quests, companions, and enemies.

• His personhood is defined by his actions and achievements, rather than by an inherited essence or lineage.

Reincarnation, Metempsychosis, and the Truth of Identity

For the common people of Hyrule, reincarnation might be understood in a simplistic, mythical sense as metempsychosis: the literal rebirth of souls, a fantastic phenomenon where the same individuals return time and again. This perspective aligns with a symbolic and moralistic worldview, emphasizing cycles of good and evil. The truth, as known to the Hylian royal family, is more complex and grounded in the intertwining of destiny, divine will, and cultural roles.

For Zelda, this truth highlights her as a focal point of divine continuity—a symbolic bridge between goddess and people, whose personhood is subsumed by her role. For Link, the truth underscores the constructed nature of his heroism: he is less a person and more a vessel for the cultural ideal of the Hero, an identity imposed by circumstances rather than inherited naturally.

Sharing of Trauma and Legacy

Both Link and Zelda experience reincarnation as a sharing of trauma and legacy:

• Zelda inherits the collective memory and burden of her predecessors, which can restrict her individuality. She is both herself and every Zelda before her, embodying the accumulated weight of the royal line.

• Link, by contrast, inherits the responsibility to act, but his individuality is less tethered to a shared memory. Each Link is a blank slate, conditioned by the era he is born into, which allows him to adapt but also means he lacks a consistent personal continuity.

Symbolic Gender Dynamics

The contrast between Zelda’s and Link’s reincarnations reflects symbolic gender dynamics:

• Woman as natural renewal: Zelda’s identity is rooted in the physical, the inherited, and the cyclical. Her reincarnation ties her to the earth, the bloodline, and the past.

• Man as cultural renewal: Link’s identity is constructed through actions, choices, and initiations. His reincarnation ties him to the ideals and demands of the present.

Together, their roles symbolize the balance of nature and culture, continuity and transformation, in the eternal struggle to preserve Hyrule.