#the mare of the mist

[askstellarandfriends]

Starlight Flight! ...Revenge?

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[lured-into-wonderland]

Does any Nun have a pet ? What would she likes to have, if not ?

Does a horse count as a pet? If yes, then Nunnally does own a silver mare named Mist. The horse is really fast, and riding on it gives Nunnally the odd feeling of freedom. And independence. She likes idea of running away from her life that is often overwhelming for her. Even if she wouldn't openly admit that; not even to herself. Mist is also a substitute of a friend for Nunnally; "someone" with whom her secrets are secure. However, she doesn’t see her mare too often (perhaps apart from the royal verse) as the mare is kept in the country manor, where she cannot visit frequently.

Nunnally doesn’t have any other pets. She didn't either when she was younger. She would love to have a cat (but was never allowed to), she doesn’t like birds kept in cages (as they remind her of being trapped with no escape; in fact she can see herself in them), and is afraid of dogs (but all the dogs she knew were either guarding dogs or hunting dogs). She’d like to have more contacts with farm animals, like cows or sheep, but she was never allowed to. It was never deemed appropriate for a girl of her status.

@starzfield

[crimsonrune]

Comm - Hylian Horse (OC)

With this weekend seeing the release of Tears of the Kingdom, I want to spotlight a cute comm I got sometime ago by the talented DoodleMark! Taking inspiration from the OoT, my two OCs Crimson and Azure have slotted comfortably into roles as Link & Navi, respectively.

Posted using PostyBirb

[astoryofsiren]

new world | chapter 3

Pairing: Ot8 Ateez x reader AU: fantasy AU | stranger -> mates Summary: A tragic accident left you unable to use your wings and, with that, claimed your father's life, leaving you in the care of your noble uncle. In Hala, a house of eight kingdoms, each boasting its own wonders, you never imagined that amidst the pain, you would also fall—this time, in love. Word Count: 2.3k | 10 minutes A/n: SUPRISE!!! 2 CHAPTER IN A DAY😊 a treat since i passed all my exam with flying colors!!! IN ALL HONESTY! chapter 2 and 3 are one chapter but it seems like a lot of word SOO, i divided into 2! Another good news!! i will try my best to upload every week while im in winter break. I finished drafting chapter 8 and i loved it just the angst and EVERYTHING! Warning: Mentions of emotional distress, ominous foreboding, potential stalking, unsettling sensations of being watched, subtle tension, and implied danger.

The next morning, the lingering weight of unease clung to you like a shadow. You pulled your dark maroon robe from its hook by the door, wrapping it snugly around your shoulders. The fabric was heavy but comforting, lined with faint embroidery at the edges—a pattern of trailing leaves your mother had stitched long ago.

Grabbing your basket from the small table and tucking it under your arm, you paused by the shelf near the door, reaching for a small, leather pouch. Inside were a handful of Aurians—small, hexagonal coins of bronze and silver that served as the currency in Hala. Each one bore a delicate engraving of a sun on one side and a feather on the other. You ran your thumb over the edge of the pouch before tying it securely to your belt.

Stepping outside, you made your way to the barn adjacent to your cottage. The faint smell of hay and earth greeted you as you pushed the wooden door open, the creak echoing in the quiet morning. Inside, the familiar warmth of Branwen—your sturdy chestnut mare—was enough to bring a faint smile to your lips.

“Morning, girl,” you said softly, reaching out to stroke her neck. Branwen huffed in response, her ears flicking toward you as though in greeting.

You moved with practiced ease, gathering her bridle and saddle from the hooks near the wall. “We’ve got a long ride today, Branwen. Market day again.”

She seemed to understand, stomping lightly against the ground as you began to saddle her. You took your time, murmuring small reassurances as you worked, your fingers moving deftly despite the thoughts that lingered at the edges of your mind. Once everything was secure, you tucked a folded blanket into your basket—just in case—and looped the reins around your hand.

“Let’s go, girl.”

Leading Branwen outside, you took a deep breath of the cool morning air, heavy with the scent of damp earth and lingering rain. The sky was soft and pale, the sunlight barely breaking through the thin mist that clung to the trees. You swung yourself up into the saddle, adjusting your cloak so the maroon fabric draped comfortably around your legs.

With a soft nudge to Branwen’s side, you set off down the dirt path. The rhythmic sound of her hooves against the ground steadied you, grounding your thoughts as the looming dread of the Goretheron Bloom sat quietly in the back of your mind.

The road was quiet this early. Birds chirped faintly from the branches above, and the only company you had was the occasional rustle of leaves as a breeze whispered through the trees. Branwen carried you with her usual calm steadiness, her steps unhurried yet purposeful. The faint mist of rain from the night before clung to the ground, carrying with it the sharp, earthy smell of wet soil.

By the time the forest gave way to open fields and the distant hum of the village reached your ears, you felt your shoulders begin to relax.

The closest village was a brisk twenty-minute ride away, its streets already alive with color and noise. Merchants had set up their stalls, their voices ringing out across the square. The smells of fresh bread, roasted meats, and bundles of herbs wafted through the air, mingling with the chatter of townsfolk bartering for their morning supplies.

It was a comforting scene, a stark contrast to the dark silence of your cottage the night before. For a moment, you allowed yourself to breathe, guiding Branwen toward the edge of the market square.

You dismounted and looped the reins loosely around a wooden post before weaving through the growing crowd. The noise was soothing in its own way—a reminder of life, bustling and loud, utterly normal.

You stopped first at a vendor you always visited—a tidy little stall brimming with bundles of dried herbs, baked goods, and small jars of preserves. The owner, Joonie, greeted you with a warm smile as she wiped her hands on her apron.

“Y/N! Right on time, as always,” she said, her tone familiar and teasing. “Come to clear me out of all my feverfew and woodruff again?”

You grinned faintly, setting your basket on the edge of the table. “You know me too well, Joonie. It’s not often I find feverfew as fresh as yours. And perhaps a little of those sweet rolls while I’m here.”

“You keep me in business, girl. Between your herbs and those healing teas you make, the whole village’s aches and fevers disappear in no time.”

You nodded appreciatively. Feverfew, known for soothing headaches and calming inflammation, was a useful herb—one you’d often stocked for your uncle and his patients when he visited. Caius, despite its abundance of rare blooms, rarely saw such practical, temperate plants outside of shipments.

Joonie returned with a small paper bundle of fresh sweet rolls, setting it into your basket along with the carefully wrapped feverfew. Then, with a sly smile, she leaned over the table, resting her chin on her hand.

“Now tell me, Y/N,” she said, a mischievous gleam in her eyes. “Is there a reason you’re always after feverfew? Someone special suffering a headache you’re not telling me about?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Joonie, it’s for medicine.”

She waved a hand, unfazed by your flat tone. “Oh, I know, but Jay’s still asking about you, you know. Says he hasn’t heard your answer yet.”

You sighed, feeling the familiar heat creep up your neck. “Joonie, you know I’m busy enough without—”

She winked, slipping an extra sweet roll into your basket. “You say that now, but mark my words, one of these days someone’s going to snatch you up. Maybe you’ll even share some feverfew tea while you’re at it.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head as you tucked the herbs and food securely into your basket. “I’ll be sure to let you know when that happens.”

Joonie grinned, handing you the wrapped herbs as you placed a few Aurians—the silver hexagonal coins—into her outstretched hand.

“Take care, Y/N!” she called after you.

“You too, Joonie!” you replied over your shoulder, her laughter still ringing faintly in your ears as you made your way deeper into the market.

You stopped briefly at a small, cluttered stall tucked between two busier vendors. Its tables were draped in deep green cloth, every inch covered with trinkets, small jars, and curious wares that glinted faintly in the morning sun. It wasn’t the sort of place you typically visited, but something about it drew your attention.

The merchant, an older woman with a kindly face and bright eyes, offered you a warm smile. “Looking for anything in particular, dear?”

You shook your head, absentmindedly brushing your fingers over small carved pendants and polished stones. “Just browsing.”

As your gaze wandered, it caught on something tucked near the back of the table—a small, silver sun-shaped medallion with an intricate engraving. The rays of the sun stretched outward, almost like feathers, and in the center was a delicate stone of faint amber.

You picked it up carefully, the weight of it solid in your palm. The craftsmanship was fine, but the edges were worn enough to suggest age, as though it had been passed through many hands. It reminded you of something your uncle might appreciate—simple yet meaningful, its design carrying an air of quiet authority.

“That’s a fine piece,” the merchant said, leaning forward slightly. “It’s said to be lucky—crafted long ago by an artisan in Charadyn.”

You smiled faintly. “Lucky, you say?”

“For those who carry burdens,” she replied with a wink. “A little light to guide their way.”

It was a silly notion, perhaps, but you tucked the medallion into your basket anyway, already imagining how your uncle’s expression might soften when you handed it to him.

“How much?” you asked, reaching for your coin pouch.

“Two silvers will do,” she replied with a nod.

You exchanged the coins—two Aurians, their feathered engravings glinting softly in the sunlight—and carefully wrapped the medallion in a cloth before placing it in your basket.

“Thank you,” you said softly, and the merchant’s smile deepened.

As you moved back into the flow of the market, the sound of bustling vendors and townsfolk surrounded you once more. You adjusted the basket under your arm, its weight now holding something more meaningful than a simple purchase.

But as you rounded another row of stalls, a sudden prickling sensation crept along the back of your neck.

Someone was watching you.

You slowed slightly, glancing casually over your shoulder. The crowd bustled as usual, but a shadow seemed to flit just outside your vision. You turned back, your steps quickening as you navigated a path between the stalls, ducking into a quieter alley that led toward the fabric vendors.

The sound of footsteps—light but deliberate—quickened behind you.

Your heart skipped a beat as you clutched the edge of your cloak, fingers instinctively drifting toward the small knife tucked into your belt. “Who’s there?” you called, your voice steadier than you felt.

The footsteps halted abruptly.

You spun around just in time to see a familiar face skidding to a stop, hands raised in mock surrender.

“Whoa, easy!”

You blinked, startled. “Yujin?”

Your friend grinned sheepishly, brushing a stray strand of hair back as she caught her breath. “Why do you look like you’ve seen a ghost? I called your name twice, you know.”

Relief flooded through you as you exhaled sharply, dropping your hand from your knife. “You scared me half to death, Yujin.”

She smirked, crossing her arms. “Scared you? You’re the one stalking around like you’re running from something.”

You shot her a flat look. “I thought someone was following me.”

“Someone was, Y/N. Me.” She laughed softly, the sound light and teasing as she gestured for you to follow her back toward the market. “I was looking for you. Mama’s been asking about you all morning—she wanted to say thank you for the medicine.”

You shook your head, smiling despite yourself. Yujin’s mother had been one of your more difficult patients, her recovery slow but steady.

“How is she feeling?” you asked as the two of you walked side by side, the tension from earlier slowly melting away.

“Better. You really do work miracles,” Yujin replied, nudging your arm playfully. “She says she hasn’t slept that well in years.”

You smiled softly. “That’s good to hear. I’ll stop by and check on her before I leave.”

The rest of the morning passed in pleasant company. You followed Yujin back to her family’s stall, where her mother greeted you warmly with hands that no longer shook as they once had. You checked her pulse, answered her lingering questions, and waved off the basket of fresh bread she tried to force into your hands as thanks.

By the time you returned to Branwen, the weight on your chest had eased slightly. The morning mist had lifted, leaving the air sharp and clear, but the unease from earlier still lingered faintly in the back of your mind. As the village faded into the distance, you couldn’t help but glance over your shoulder once more, half expecting to see a shadow flitting at the edge of the trees.

The feeling of being watched had vanished, but it didn’t stop the occasional prickle along the back of your neck.

“Just tired,” you muttered softly to yourself, patting Branwen’s neck reassuringly. The mare let out a steady breath in response, as though she agreed.

By the time you arrived at the cottage, the sun hung high in the sky, casting long beams of light through the canopy above. You slid off Branwen’s back, her coat warm beneath your hand as you led her toward the barn.

“There you go, girl,” you murmured, loosening her bridle and brushing down her chestnut coat with practiced ease. “You’ve earned a rest.”

Branwen huffed softly, nudging your shoulder as you hung up the saddle and left her with a fresh bucket of water and hay.

Satisfied, you turned toward the house, your boots softly crunching against the grass as you crossed the small yard. The quiet of the cottage greeted you as you pushed the door open, a familiar warmth wrapping around you like a well-worn blanket.

You set your basket down near the table and pulled off your maroon cloak, draping it neatly over the back of a chair. The hum of the day’s ride still buzzed faintly in your bones, and for the first time in hours, the weight in your chest seemed to ease entirely.

But then you heard it.

A soft rustling sound—feathers shifting, deliberate and near.

You froze, your hand still resting on the back of the chair. The sound came again, faint but unmistakable, from just behind you.

You turned sharply, heart hammering in your chest.

Standing in the doorway, partially silhouetted by the light filtering in from outside, was a familiar figure.

“Yunho.”

His name slipped from your lips before you could stop yourself.

He stood tall, his indigo cloak fluttering faintly as though he’d only just landed. Loose strands of his dark hair fell across his forehead, but his golden-brown eyes were clear and sharp, fixed squarely on you. His wings—large and striking—rested partially folded at his back, the faint edges of his feathers catching the light.

Then, before your eyes, his wings began to retract. It was seamless—elegant—as though the feathers folded into themselves, vanishing beneath his skin until there was no trace of them left. The movement was quiet, almost unnatural, and yet undeniably beautiful in its fluidity.

He tilted his head slightly, his mouth curving into the faintest of smirks.

“Am I intruding, my lady?”

The words hung in the air, carrying just enough teasing to soften the tension that had coiled in your chest. But beneath it, his tone still held that same quiet, measured weight, as though he were testing your reaction.

You exhaled, the surprise melting into something you couldn’t quite name. “You’re back.”

The corner of his mouth quirked further, though his gaze remained steady. “I told you I would return.”

Masterlist

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[cosmerelists]

Scadrian PSAs (Era 1)

I once made a list of Rosharan Public Service Announcements that might be needed. Now let's do the same thing, but for Era 1 Scadrial.

[Spoilers for Mistborn Era 1!]

1. If A Mistcloak You See, Find Somewhere Else To Be

Mistcloaks mean Mistborn! Protect yourself! Just Walk Away!

This message brought to you by the Mistborn Committee for the Reduction of Bystander Injuries and Deaths (MCRBID)

2. If A Mistcloak Flutters, Just Close Your Shutters

Mistcloaks mean Mistborn! Protect Yourself! Just Stay Home!

This message brought to you by the Mistborn Committee for the Reduction of Bystander Injuries and Deaths (MCRBID)

3. If You See Those Tassles, It's Not Worth The Hassles. Just Go Home!

Mistcloaks mean Mistborn! Protect yourself! Just Walk Away!

This message brought to you by the Mistborn Committee for the Reduction of Bystander Injuries and Deaths (MCRBID)

4. Mistwraiths: Your Friendly Neighborhood Cleaner

[Picture of mistwraith wearing a maid outfit with a mop]

Mistwraiths are harmless scavengers: Do not fear them!

This message brought to you by the Scadrian Ecological Society (SES)

5. Mists Don't Kill. People Kill.

Don't Give In To Superstition: The Mists Are Harmless

This message brough to you by the Skaa Against Superstition (SAS)

6. Those Who Enter The Mists Are Never Seen Again

Don't be a victim. Stay out of the Mists. Or Die.

This message brought to you by Nobles for Skaa Safety (NSS)

7. REMEMBER WHAT WE LOST

[Picture of a mare flower]

This message brought to you by -----------

8. You Are Fine. Everything is Fine.

No one's life is perfect. Yours is better than most.

This message brought to you by Canon of Inquisition

9. Kill Someone Today. You Deserve a Li'l Treat :)

Recreational murder: you earned it!

This message brough to you by Worldbringers for Peace and Safety

10. Warning: Anything Not Written in Metal Can Be Changed!

We didn't write our last PSA in metal but it is probably fine.

This message brough to you by Worldbringers for Peace and Safety

[dead-dolphins]

Illicit Affairs: 1st Drabble

It’s been a long time coming, but here it is at last—the very first drabble of the cheating AU! Omg omg omg!!! XD Just a heads-up: I wrote this purely for fun, without a solid plot, just capturing the vibes of the AU. Don’t worry, there’s more to come! I hope to catch your attention and, well, enjoy! TW: Eren's fantasies and mentions of potential cheating.

Eren was always the first to arrive at the stables before dawn. As the morning light, indifferent to the season, began to spread over the meadows where the Jaeger and Arlert manors stood, his presence in that shared space came well before anyone else stirred.

It had been this way since he was a child, barely able to hold onto the saddle. He sought these quiet, uninterrupted moments to tend to his horse alone. The stable, the ride—they were his, his sanctuary, his refuge. In the early morning mist, he would steal away, feeling the power beneath him as his mount surged forward, the wind sharp against his face. And afterward, he’d return home, slipping into the warmth of a shower, letting the water wash away the grit and sweat before he made his way to the studio, where his hands sought a different kind of mastery—the mastery of art.

It wasn’t simply a matter of morning exercise—it was a ritual, a quiet preparation for the day ahead. In those moments, alone with his horse, he could feel the tension drain from him, a stillness settling in his bones before the storm of the day. Then the studio waited, with its demanding clients, always expecting more than he could give. And beyond that, the strained silence of home, where his wife’s rage simmered just beneath the surface, flaring up when the cold indifference could no longer be ignored—an indifference that perhaps, just perhaps had always been there. 

Thus, following his routine, Eren arose from the emptiness of his double bed, its crisp linens untouched by another’s warmth.  Dressed in his riding gear and holding his whip, he approached the stable, eager for the thrill of the ride with Pearl, his black shire mare of ten years. The anticipation of the open air, the thrill of the ride, coursed through him as he approached the stall, ready to embrace the untamed spirit of the wind.

However, on that morning, as ostentatious as it was, Eren realised he was not the only one in his sacred place.

Upon crossing the threshold, he noticed an open stall. Though this might have unsettled him, because these things like these never, ever happened in such a methodic place a distant hum drew his attention. It was a soft melody, in a vague, haunting tone, which made him walk toward the source of, as if it were casting a spell over him. Schubert, it was. 

“Hello?” he called out, but the only answer was silence. 

Undeterred, he walked through the stables until he reached the last stall. When he finally entered, he felt as though the gods had smiled upon him.

There, atop a red cashmere blanket spread across the hay bales, a vision of serene grace was curled up with her tiny little nose buried in a book. Oh, he knew her, of course he did. The spell had been cast upon him weeks ago at that opulent, decadent gathering, but now, with her so near and so vulnerably exposed, he was even more entranced. This was Mikasa, the daughter of his closest friend, an enchantress bound by ties of loyalty and propriety that made her sight all the more tormenting.

She seemed blissfully unaware of his presence, and seizing those fleeting moments, he allowed his gaze to linger upon her with a fervent intensity. Her midnight-black hair cascading like a veil, and her skin, pale and flawless, gleamed with an almost otherworldly purity. Eren’s eyes were ensnared by her, unable to avert their gaze.  She was exquisitely beautiful, a beauty that cut to the bone, and also… agonisingly forbidden. 

“Hey,” Eren rasped, his voice rough as he knocked the gate with his fist. He forced himself to keep his gaze from lingering too long on the way her white jeans clung to her curves, especially in her butt.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Mikasa replied, her voice breaking from its melodic flow as she looked up from the book she had been engrossed in. From his vantage point, Eren first noticed her lips—her  natural, rosy lips. “I didn’t realise someone had arrived.”

Eren let out a groan, blinking. He thought the noise he had made should have been sufficient to alert her. It felt almost as if she had purposefully overlooked him, drawing him closer with the pretence of ignorance. But it sounded quite stupid to think, wasn’t it? “I was just concerned about the open box,” he said.  “We usually don’t leave them open for safety reasons.”

“I see.” She closed the book and rose from her makeshift seat. For a fleeting moment, Eren feared he had angered her, a thought that unsettled him deeply. The only person he didn’t mind provoking was his wife, but the idea of doing the same to Mikasa was far less agreeable. It seemed she harboured no such desire to be antagonised, and that realisation troubled him.

“I didn’t mean to intrude,” he continued, trying to maintain his composure despite the turbulent feelings roiling within him. “It’s unusual to find the stables like this.”

She shook her head slightly, her dark hair falling around her shoulders like a silken curtain. “It’s no trouble. I came here to find a quiet place to read. I didn’t realise I was encroaching on someone’s routine.” She smiled, as if trying to ease him somehow. “It won’t happen again, Mr. Jaeger.”

The formal address sent a shiver through him. Her tone, innocently sensual, seemed to blur the line between reality and fantasy, leaving him momentarily uncertain if his senses had deceived him. But the small, wicked smile curling at her lips soon dispelled any doubt. It was clear now—she had spoken with intent, deliberately weaving her words to provoke.

Eren swallowed hard, and shifted his weight from one foot to the other, trying to shake off the effect of her presence. “I appreciate your understanding,” he said, though the words felt hollow against the backdrop of his confusion.

Mikasa nodded, a glint of amusement dancing in her face. “Of course. I’ll be sure to choose a more appropriate place next time.”

As the girl moved to gather her things, Eren’s gaze, despite his efforts to maintain propriety, inevitably fell on the fabric of her jeans, stretching against her round butt. For a brief moment, an intrusive thought crossed his mind—an unsettling curiosity about whether her ass cheeks would be as pale as her face skin, and whether it would redden easily if… if spanked them with his hand. The thought was both inappropriate and unwelcome, stirring a flush of guilt and shame within him.

He forced himself to look away, shaking his head as if to clear his mind of the unwelcome intrusion.  But he could not rid himself of the thought. It was as if it embedded itself into his consciousness with an unshakeable persistence. 

He had always harboured thoughts of restraint and discipline, of the primal urge to dominate. And something in her was calling to let those fantasies fulfil. Yet… she was still forbidden. She was his best friend’s adopted daughter, ten years younger and entirely beyond his reach. The boundary was clear, unbreakable, or so it should have been. He couldn’t betray Armin like that, nor could he do it to her, innocent as she was. Yet, the more he tried to suppress the thought, the more the desire took root.

When Mikasa finally rose, her book tumbled from her grasp, and he seized the chance to divert his gaze. As he picked it up, a surge of surprise swept over him. The so-called “innocent girl” was engrossed in something far from innocent. 

“Lady Chatterley’s Lover,” he read. “An interesting choice of book.”

Instead of reaching for the book as he had anticipated, she merely laughed. “Don’t tell anyone;  I borrowed it from the trunk of forbidden books.”

Eren looked at her once more, and it was then that he reconfirmed what his instincts had whispered all along. She was, in some way, playing a game to allure him, and if this was her strategy, then he was more than willing to engage.

“So,” he began. “The trunk of forbidden books, you say? I never imagined you to be one for such… provocative literature.”

Mikasa tilted her head, a mischievous glint in her eye. “One must explore the forbidden to understand the world fully. Don’t you agree, Mr. Jaeger?”

The question hung in the air. Eren felt a flush of heat rise to his cheeks, both from her insinuation and the brazen challenge in her tone. He forced a casual smile, attempting to mask the growing tension. “Indeed,” he replied, trying to sound nonchalant. “But I think we’re both aware of the boundaries that come with such… explorations.”

Her gaze softened, but the mischief remained. “Boundaries are meant to be tested, aren’t they?.”

“Have you ever explored your boundaries, Mikasa?” he asked, his voice taking on a rough, husky edge as he spoke her name.

“I suppose that depends on what you mean by boundaries. There are many kinds—emotional, physical, societal.” She brushed past him, and stopped just beyond his reach.  “And sexual.”

Her voice, low and sultry, made the word hang heavy in the air between them. Eren could feel the tension crackling, a charged silence punctuated only by the soft rustling of hay and the distant sound of a horse’s whinny.

“And which boundaries are you most interested in exploring, Mikasa?” he asked, his voice rough.

Mikasa turned slightly, her profile illuminated by the soft morning light filtering through the stable’s open door. “At my age, I want to explore everything—absolutely everything. There’s still so much to learn, but…” She lowered her voice, ensuring only he could hear. “Lately, the idea of discovering my sexual boundaries has been calling to me, Mr. Jaeger. Quite strongly, I might say.”

Eren’s breath caught in his throat. Her bold response shattered any remnants of propriety he had clung to. 

“That’s why I’ve been pilfering these books,” Mikasa continued, her voice a blend of candour and intrigue. “Though, ah, they haven’t quite lived up to my expectations. They’re exquisitely written, and the portrayal of female pleasure is beautiful, but... I find myself craving something a bit more... intense.”

Her admission stirred a maelstrom of thoughts within him. His mind was consumed by a torrent of sinful fantasies, each more decadent than the last. All he could think about was how he could push the boundaries of her desires and explore the depths of their mutual transgressions.

He took a step closer, the distance between them now minimal. “I also have a chest of forbidden books,” he murmured, his tone dropping to a hushed, secretive note. “In my library at home. Perhaps someday, if you’re interested, I could lend you one. I have a collection of favourites that you might like.”

Her  gaze met his, a flicker of excitement mingling with the challenge in her eyes. “I would like that.” she said softly, “but there’s no need to bring it to me. I can fetch it by myself; one day when your wife isn’t around.” The hint of a smile played on her lips. “Hitch doesn’t seem to like me.”

The way Mikasa spoke Hitch’s name, devoid of any honorifics or any semblance of respect, nearly made Eren laugh. It was undeniable; Hitch, his beloved wife, was widely disliked, and he was no exception to that sentiment—he was among the first to voice it.

“Hitch has never been one to win hearts. Her absence is often a blessing in more ways than one, and, trust me, she blesses me most of the time.”

Mikasa smirked, stepping out of reach. “Then I’ll probably be visiting you very soon, Mr. Jaeger,” she said. “But you know, you shouldn’t mention this to anyone. It could get complicated.”

Eren’s eyes  lingered on her butt as she walked away, his mind filled with vivid, provocative images. He couldn’t help but imagine him not only spanking her with his hand but also with the whip he held so commandingly while her wrists were tied to one of his bedposts. Oh, what a beautiful scenario that was and he wanted to make it a reality.

“No, of course, no,” he said. “Your secret is safe with me.” It was unmistakably clear that Mikasa, that little wretched beast wanted him, and god fuck it, he wanted her just as fiercely. 

Later, as he rode his horse across the vast grasslands and encountered his best friend, who was already heading off to work, a sense of impending chaos settled uneasily in his stomach. Yet, the feeling quickly evaporated as he recalled Mikasa’s lips and her butt—her beautiful round butt.

[finestradifronte]

Mi manca...

Lo zoccolare fino in spiaggia con mia madre che mi diceva "cammina bene alza quei piedi"...pinoli per terra da schiacciare con i sassi...

l'odore della siepe di caprifoglio dalla pensione trieste al bagno emilio e quello dei giornali dell'edicola, misto a quello del mare e degli abbronzanti e della piadina...

la cuffietta bianca della piadinara...quella anziana, la prima ..che faceva le piade tirate a mattarello con il bordo frastagliato e il pezzetto di carta marroncina per portarle via ...

la luce bianca del mattino e la bassa marea con le righe della sabbia sotto i piedi, i buchini dei cannolicchi e schivare i granchi 

fare capannella con il tettuccio del lettino e il telo, il caldo sulla pelle...l'odore dell'abbronzante e il libro con sabbia tra le pagine...

e aspettare le 11 che non arrivavano mai per il bagno... il freddo dell'acqua al primo tuffo  o l'andare giù piano piano con tutta la pelle d'oca... i rumori attutiti quando si è sott'acqua.... il cretino di turno che ti slaccia il bikini...le spalle di mio padre per salirci a fare i tuffi...

correre sulla sabbia bollente saltellando tra un'ombra e l'altra...  stendersi al sole senza fare la doccia e sentire la pelle tirare con il sale che brucia appena sulla pelle un po' scottata sulle spalle ...

il fastidio della sabbia tra le dita e lavarsi i piedi nel rubinetto sotto le docce aspettando con il costume in mano per sciacquare anche quello...il profumo dello shampoo e il rigagnolo di schiuma e acqua sulla sabbia...

il cemento rigato e rosso e bollente della banchina del porto con le barche che partivano da Milano Marittima per la gita a Rimini e la voglia di tuffarsi lì ma la mamma non voleva...e stare in equilibrio sul muretto tra la banchina  e gli scogli ad aspettare gli schizzi delle onde,

il mare grosso i rari giorni che faceva temporale e a fare il bagno tuffandosi dentro le onde e ci si riempiva il costume di sabbia..

la pizza che faceva la sorella della vedova di Emilio alle cinque...e io le confondevo poi sempre quelle due...la Maria e l'Anna

Il rullo per tirare il campo da bocce e il barattolo bucato con il talco per fare le righe...e le premiazioni delle gare al  pomeriggio e se le coppie erano miste io ero un po' gelosa se mio padre giocava con la mamma della cecilia perchè era così bella...

e guardarti da lontano mentre giocavi a calcio sporco di sabbia dappertutto e cominciare a scoprire  quell'emozione nuova quell'attrazione mai provata... ecco cosa vuol dire innamorasi...il dondolo dell'Hotel Miramare dove per la prima volta ho capito che potevo anche godere del mio corpo...

I giardini del tennis con la terra rossa e la giostra e l'odore dei pini...

le tonde alla sera su e giù per viale Roma e baci infiniti sulle panchine, le feste al Giardino D'Estate con Gianni Togni che cantava Luna..e le puntate all'ippodromo di Cesena e le gite al Parco Naturale che mi sembrava così lontano...

Gli amici che poi non avresti rivisto più,  quelli che rivedi solo lì...e quelli che sono ancora con me ......il primo primissimo bacio sul dondolo della casa in affitto ...

il rumore degli aerei con la pubblicità...la pizzeria da Duilio e il cinema Italia all'aperto ...le lacrime  quando era ora di tornare e il grano nei campi era già mietuto e le arature portavano l'autunno...

Mi manca la felicità pura e spensierata di quel periodo quando ancora tutto poteva essere e ogni cosa era nuova e da scoprire ...e che non è stata mai più.

[everythingelseisextra]

Treasure The Memory

Part One: Everything Is Fine

Part Two: Commit To The Bit

Part Four: Petty Criminal

Description: A couple days after the hose incident, you find yourself feeling empty, and set off to find Thomas and apologize. Warnings: Language, alcohol Word Count: 2292 Tag List: @theshelbyslimited @globetrotter28 @babayaga67 @shelbydelrey Please let me know if you'd like to be added to the tag list!

Twelve horses. From six in the morning to six at night, you work without stopping. It’s your purpose, your drive, the only reason you have for getting up in the morning. The only reason you eat or drink. There’s an aching kind of emptiness that begins after the car drives away, that makes the time go by slowly while you work through the horses. Heaviness that pushes your muscles to work harder than usual, an odd sense of carrying something. But, still, you put your head down. You have work to do. You don’t have time to fantasize a life beyond what you trudge through. You don’t have time to imagine things had gone differently. 

You don’t.

But on the second day after, the weight is the same. You wake before sunrise and find yourself expecting to see him watching you ride in silence again, observing. You fill buckets and clean stalls and turn out and all the while, the back of your mind stumbles off somewhere, looking for the dawn to break like it did two days ago, like some groundhog day. You were given a splash of color in the long span of gray, and now you can’t forget what it was like. Now you can’t stop yearning for the boldness, the attention. 

That night, you lay in the twin bed shoved into the corner of a tiny room, and you stare at the night sky through the cracked window. Cool air caresses your face, and you sit up to look out. You see only the shadows of the barn and the void of the countryside, all-consuming darkness. Here, you think, is where everyone else’s ghosts come to haunt. Here is where the forgotten come to waste the rest of their lives. Here is where I will live, and here is where I will die. 

No. 

You stand up and walk the two steps to your wardrobe, pulling your clothes out and scrambling to put them on. Whatever you plan, whatever strange scheme, will present itself to you as you move. You can’t be like this forever. You can’t keep being fine, fine, fine, until you’re ready to go and all you can look back on is mediocrity. You can’t keep going out and waiting for someone to ask you who you are, what you’re about, whether you’re okay. 

You need to be the one to ask. 

You rush out to the barn. This late at night, no cabs will come to you, not when you’re so far out. Wired, almost manic with desperation, you halter your quickest horse, a mare named Secret, and forgo the saddle to ride bareback. The night is still young, and if you get there soon enough, get there fast enough, then maybe, maybe you’ll find him. Gripping your mare with your thighs, you cluck and urge her forward, loosening your reins and pushing your calves into her sides. She shoots off, and suddenly, you’re coursing through the night, the wind whipping your hair, the sound of hooves pounding the only thing you can hear. 

The first few minutes, exhilaration runs through you, and you breathe in the wild rush of the darkness. Then you feel the cold, and the dryness waters your eyes, and your skin grows red and chapped from the constant battering of the wind. And still, Secret gallops, and you cling to her back and duck your head and clutch her mane in your shaking hands. 

City lights blink softly at you through the mist of early night. You sit back and talk quietly to the mare, bringing her from a gallop to a canter, then to a trot, then, finally, to a heaving, breathless walk. Her sweat seeps into your pants, her fur covers the inside of your thighs, and your own sweat drips down your forehead. Still, you walk on, her hooves clattering on the stone streets. Eyes glint at you from alleyways. The city murmurs its quiet song. And, you, an interloper walking boldly into an unknown territory, hoping. 

You remind yourself: hope is a thing with teeth. 

The Garrison stands solemn in the darkness. The lights inside silhouette figures moving, dancing, banging their hands on tables and chairs. Tonight is Saturday night. Closing your eyes, you steady your breathing. Cold penetrates your bones and you find yourself trembling, coming and going in waves. You run your fingers through your hair, like it could be tamed, and slowly slip off the horse. You find an old hitching rail a few blocks away and tie her, offering her a bucket of water. You leave her there, in the dark side of the alleyway. You won’t be long. 

When you open the double doors to the Garrison, you’re flooded with golden light and feral singing and warmth. You still tremble, but less so. The chills are chased away by the faultless sense of revelry in the air. You push through the crowded sitting area as though fighting your way down an overgrown path. Limbs swing into your way, people stamp their feet, and a rousing chorus starts up. 

You stumble through to the bar and lean on it, facing towards the seating area. Men on tables, men dancing, men drunk and throwing up in buckets. Men howling like wolves, men grabbing their women, men cheering each other on. No sign of the man you came here looking for. Your heart sinks. 

The barmaid laughs from behind the bar while she walks towards you. She leans over, smiling faintly. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m—” Your voice doesn’t carry; she leans closer to listen. “I’m looking for Thomas Shelby.”

She points immediately to a slim door, closed, but that opens into a small, octagonal room. “I wouldn’t interrupt.” 

You hesitate. “Who’s he with?”

“His brothers.”

“Thank you.” You nod to her, then push through the drunken party to stand in front of the door. You breathe in whiskey and cigarette smoke and body odor, and breathe out. Then, cautiously, you knock. 

If there’s a response, you don’t hear it. Throwing caution to the wind, you place your hand on the handle, take another breath, and push it open. 

Three pairs of eyes stick to you; two angry, one surprised. You step inside and close the door behind you. Silence, so thick it seems to buzz with the energy of their gazes. From their seats behind the table, they look you up and down, and you’re suddenly in a spotlight, caught in the blindness. No one speaks. 

The man on Thomas’ left breaks it. “Who the fuck are you?”

Your eyes drop and you mouth the words; no one.

“I said,” The man stands awkwardly, scooting out from behind their table and approaching you. He’s considerably taller than you, leaning down to loom over, speaking far too close to your face. You catch the smell of whiskey and beer on his breath, and your eyes lock onto bits of food stuck in his mustache. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Enough, Arthur.” Thomas leans back in his seat, arms loosely crossed, a cigarette in one hand. 

“I thought you hadn’t taken a woman since—”

“I haven’t.”

“Is this the one that sprayed you with the hose?” The man on his right grins at you. “My kind of girl.”

���Wouldn’t let someone spray me with a hose.” Arthur steps back, though you keep yourself shrunken away, a little too overwhelmed by what you’ve stepped into to unravel yet. “I’d knock ‘em out and spray ‘em meself.” 

“That’s enough.” Thomas stands and walks out from behind the table, brushing past you to open the doors. The riotous sound of the bar fills the small space again, and you step away from the door, trying to get away from it. “John, Arthur, go join them.” 

“No, I want to hear what hose-girl has to say.” The man still sitting, presumably John, stays sitting, eyes going straight to Thomas’. “I’m staying.”

“John.” Thomas’ head tilts slightly, his eyes flicking to you, then back. “Get out.”

John looks at him a moment longer, smile fading, then shrugs, stands, and walks out. Arthur follows. Thomas closes the door after them, and you close your eyes, relieved by the quiet. 

“Sit down,” Thomas says. You hear his footsteps move past you, then the sound of him sitting back down. After a moment, he adds; “Please.”

You open your eyes. His hands lay on the table in front of him, his cigarette between his ring and pinkie finger. His dark hair sits as though he styled it, and you become suddenly aware of your appearance, the wildness of your hair, the goose pimples still on your skin, the slight shiver of your body, the sweat dried on your temple. His eyes are on you, expectant, and so you nod and sit on the other side of the table as he asks. Your gaze remains downcast.

In silence, he pours you a small glass from the bottle of amber whiskey, and you take it, slowly sipping the smooth liquid. Once you place it back down, and settle into your seat, he speaks. 

“If you came to ask for forgiveness, it’s already given.” His voice rolls off his tongue, a plodding sort of sentence that you can’t help but get wrapped into. “Past in the past. We can go our separate ways.”

You look up at him, head still tilted down, and you toy with the rim of the glass, running your fingers along it. Your voice is quiet, not quite even enough. “Who are you?”

“You know who I am.” 

“No. When you said I didn’t know who you were, what did you mean?” You look back down, unable to hold your gaze steady with his for long. 

He rolls his shoulders and sits back, hands still laid across the table. “I’m the lead of the Peaky Blinders.”

“The razor blades.”

“Aye.” He inclines his head to you.

“And you guys do… what?”

“What needs to be done.” 

“That’s very vague.”

“We’re a group of well-intended people who do very bad things to achieve our goals.”

You smile faintly. “I’m supposed to be scared of you.”

“Most people are.” His eyes search your face. “You’re not.”

You shrug. “Truth is, I’m scared of everyone. I’m so used to it that it doesn’t make you special.”

He brings his cigarette to his lips, takes a slow drag, and exhales a plume of smoke. “So you are scared of me.”

You take another sip of the whiskey, hoping to avoid answering. Your body shivers, despite the warmth of the drink inside of you, burning as it goes down. 

“Smart thing to do now is go home, feed those horses of yours, and forget you pointed that bloody hose at me.” He sits up, leaning towards you. The space between you shrinks with the intensity of his gaze, and you sit back, meeting his eyes. “No need to get mixed up in the shit I live with.”

“I don’t want to forget it.” Something about him sparks some bravery in you, helps your voice come smoothly, helps your mind connect with your body. Or maybe that’s the whiskey. “It might’ve been… unfortunate, but it was the most fun I’ve had in— well, in years.”

“Treasure the memory, and get out while you can.” 

You look down. This conversation is not going the way you’d hoped. You play the last cards you have. “I won’t sell you Draco, but I’ll let you ride him.”

Silence. Your gaze shifts upwards. One of his eyebrows is slightly raised, his cigarette paused halfway to his lips. 

“What do you want?” He gestures at you, still holding the cigarette. “Why do you want this so badly?”

“I don’t know. I guess I want something different. I don’t want… to die in a house I feel trapped in. I don’t want to—”

“I’m not here to play games.” He stands, starts for the door. He stops, looks over his shoulder at you. “I’m not here to listen to girls who don’t know what they want.”

He opens the door and begins out. Sound rushes in, a deluge that almost catches you off guard and drowns you. Instead, you stand and project your voice. “Thomas.”

He pauses, looks back at you, slowly closes the door. His eyes are cold, calculating, a glint in them that tells you he’s teetering on a line between anger and amusement.

“I want freedom,” you say, finding some strength to your voice. “I want to feel like I’m more than my past, and more than the money I have. I want to have people care about me. I want to not be alone anymore.”

I want you.

“And,” you let out a short breath. “I want a do-over. I want you to come ride with me. Without spraying you with a hose.”

“A do-over,” he repeats, one hand still on the doorknob. 

“Yes.”

He considers you, blue eyes sharp, but not as cold as before. “Tomorrow morning, then.”

“Okay.”

His gaze falls to the door beside him, and, almost imperceptibly, he takes a breath. “You ready?”

You nod and walk forward, moving towards the door. 

“Wait.” He steps in front of you, blocking your way. You stop short, a foot away, and your eyes trail over him, marking his positioning, ready to dart away if needed. 

He takes off his coat jacket and holds it out to you. “Wear it on your way back. Don’t need you getting sick.” 

You take it, and offer him a small smile. “Not so scary.���

“Don’t decide yet.” He opens the door and the world floods back to you. As you walk out, you hear him say, “Goodbye, No One.”

[theostrophywife]

the prince of hell.

my love is a mindless flight risk, never on time but god he's timeless he's a villain, he's a saint, he's a hero—he's a fucking renegade author's note: i've scoured high and low for demon!azriel fics and couldn't find any, so i thought why not write it myself? there will definitely be multiple parts of this. as always, thank @writingsbychlo for listening and participating in my rants about dark daddy az.

song inspiration: masterpiece by sam short.

The church bells tolled in the packed cathedral as you walked through the crowded pews. Each ring that reverberated against the stone walls mimicked the beat of your heart. 

One. Your father clutched your arm, his ironclad grip preventing you from bolting. The false smile he wore held no warmth. Only greed for what he stood to earn by pawning off his only daughter like a prized mare. 

Two. Your mother looked up from her seat at the front of the altar, and the words she had spoken to you before the ceremony echoed through your mind like a death sentence. You’ll learn to love him, she said. As I learned how to love your father. 

Three. Your betrothed leered at you, hunger dancing behind his cold, dead eyes. I will break you, his wicked smile seemed to say. Then I will mold you into a perfect, obedient wife. 

With each step, you came closer and closer to sealing your fate. The shaky breath you released fluttered through your lace veil like a ripple in the ocean. As the hem of your wedding dress kissed the marble mosaic floor, you screwed your eyes shut and prayed. 

Please, you pleaded. Please, save me.

Thunder rumbled through the church. Screams erupted from all sides. The ground beneath you shook as the earth cracked open to release mist and fog from the bowels of hell. 

In the midst of chaos, a winged figure emerged from the shadows. Your heart skipped a beat as you caught sight of the beautiful male. Cloaked in darkness, a pair of familiar glowing golden eyes locked onto yours from across the room. 

The Prince of Hell smiled. “Hello, my heart.”

He had a face like heaven and a voice like sin. A small voice in the back of your head warned you to be afraid, but your heart warred against logic. While everyone else in the room screamed in terror at the sight of the devil, you only saw salvation.

“Azriel,” you breathed. His name sounded like a prayer on your lips. 

You had never seen him before, at least not while you were awake. But you knew that face. You dreamt of him every night. 

Azriel was your favorite fantasy. The beautiful male that took you away from your monotonous life. A figment of your imagination that symbolized all the things that awaited in the world beyond, should you ever be afforded the chance to escape becoming someone’s simpering, obedient little wife. 

He wasn’t supposed to be real, but yet here he was in the flesh. 

“You’re here,” you said, hardly believing the words yourself. “You came.” 

The Prince of Hell pierced you with his gaze. “I will always come for you.”

From behind him, your groom-to-be flicked dust and ash from his doublet before glancing at Azriel with contempt. “Who the hell are you?”

The male was either exceptionally brave or extremely stupid. 

The Prince of Hell regarded Alaric as one would a cockroach—with thinly veiled disgust and the desire to crush the pesky little insect beneath his boot. 

“I am death.” Azriel purred, his voice laced with the promise of violence. “I am shadow and darkness, the monster that haunts your nightmares. I am the Prince of Hell and I have come to collect my bride.”

He held out a scarred hand towards you, barely sparing a glance at Alaric. The male bristled with pride and stepped between you and Azriel. 

Something dark and dangerous flashed in the Prince of Hell’s eyes as he came face to face with Alaric. The side by side contrast emphasized how otherworldly Azriel was. Though he took on a mortal form, there was nothing human about him. 

His ethereal features were slashed with fury, dark hair rippling in waves to frame his flawless face. Flecks of amber burned like embers within his eyes and the contrast against his golden-brown skin further illuminated his strange and cruel beauty. 

“You must be mistaken,” Alaric declared, puffing his chest. “She is my betrothed. We are to be wed this very day.”

Azriel glanced around the room, taking in the stained glass windows and rosewood pews of the crowded cathedral. The people that hadn’t managed to escape trembled in fear under his watchful eyes. The corners of Azriel’s full lips sloped into a frown as he dragged his gaze towards you, examining your white dress and wild expression.

“Your betrothed does not wish to marry you, mortal. ” Azriel declared, his voice barely above a whisper yet full of lethal cold. 

“She is promised to me,” Alaric replied. “I have paid the bride price.”

The humorless laugh that slipped past Azriel’s lips was devoid of emotion. His gaze cut to your father, who cowered behind the marble altar. With one glance, shadows wreathed through his limbs and yanked him towards the Prince of Hell. 

“Tell this male that he is mistaken,” Azriel commanded. 

Your father paled, fear and trepidation evident on his face. “P-p-please, my Prince,” his voice was high and desperate. “I assumed you had forgotten. Years had passed since our bargain, and you hadn’t returned so I—“

“Thought to deceive the Prince of Hell?” Azriel seethed and his shadows whipped violently, tightening their grip on your sniveling father. “Did you not think that this day of reckoning would come?” Shadows brought him to his knees before the dark prince. “A bargain is a bargain, mortal. I want what was promised,” his eyes were feverish as they landed on you. “I want her.”

Your mother blanched in horror as she looked up at her husband. “What have you done?”

“I was only doing what I thought was best!” your father cried. “When famine ravaged the countryside, I grew desperate. I prayed to the old gods, but none of them answered. The Prince—he offered fertile lands and a bountiful harvest in exchange for a bride.” 

“Then what?” you said bitterly. “The reward Azriel offered was not enough for your selfish, greedy heart, was it father? You weren’t satisfied, so you thought to sell me off once again?”

“I did it for our family. We have land! We have gold! We have riches beyond imagination! I have secured a match above your station so you may live comfortably for the rest of your life. I did this for you.”

Tears welled in your eyes. The realization that your father had traded you like some bargaining chip, not once but twice made your stomach roil. You’ve always known that he was a greedy bastard, but you didn’t think he’d go this far. 

“No, father,” you said with mirthless laughter. “You did this for yourself.”

Your father struggled against his restraints as he turned towards his wife. “Tell her,�� he coaxed, his words full of despair. “Tell her that I only wanted what was best for her.”

“You promised our daughter to the devil!” your mother screamed, her voice echoing against the stone walls. 

You wanted to tell her that Azriel wasn’t a monster. That he’d held you in your dreams, comforted you when you cried, listened to every wish and whim that you whispered into the night, but she wouldn’t have understood. None of them would. 

“It’s okay, mother,” you said, attempting to appease her agony. “Azriel won’t hurt me.”

As his expression softened, you knew that you’d spoken true. Azriel nodded in agreement. “I would never hurt you,” he declared. His attention cut back to your father. “Him, on the other hand, I have no qualms about inflicting pain upon.”

Your father squirmed in place, shooting a pleading look in your direction. The shadows tightened around his neck like a noose. “Please,” he begged with wide eyes. “Please, have mercy.”

He sounded frantic and desperate, exactly how you had been days ago when you pleaded with him not to wed you to Alaric. Your father hadn’t listened to you then. With your roles reversed, it was tempting to let his pleas fall upon deaf ears, but you decided to be the bigger person.

Azriel waited for your cue. You shook your head and watched as his shadows receded. 

“Thank you,” your father said. “Thank you, daughter.”

“I didn’t do it for you,” you snapped. “I did it for me. From this day forth, I want nothing to do with you. I wish to be free. I am no longer your daughter.”

Hurt and anger flashed through your father’s eyes, but you didn’t care. This was your chance. You could finally rid yourself of this dreary existence. Feeling lighter than you had in years, you turned your attention back to the Prince of Hell. He smiled as you took a step forward.

“Not so fast,” Alaric hissed. “What about what I am owed? I paid for you. I own you.” You shot him a cutting glare as his fingers curled around your wrist. 

Anger bubbled up within you as you bared your teeth at the horrid male. “I am not a piece of cattle to be traded for gold.” Alaric glared as you shoved him away. 

His hateful beady eyes focused on you as he closed the gap between you. “And yet your father sold you like a fattened calf.” His grip on your arm tightened. “You should be flattered. I purchased you for a considerable amount of gold and I expect a return on my investment.” A blade shimmered in Alaric’s hand as he held it up to your throat. “Either from your father or your beloved demon.”

The Prince of Hell was rage and wrath personified. “You want payment, mortal?” Azriel asked, his eyes cold and hard and full of malice. “Very well, then. I will trade you my heart for yours.”

Alaric barely had time to react before Azriel was upon him. Shadows sheltered you from harm while the Prince of Hell slammed the foolish male to the ground. The floor shuddered from the impact as Azriel’s dark wings flared behind his powerful back. You watched in stunned silence as he plunged his scarred fingers into Alaric’s chest, tearing through flesh and bone with brutal efficiency. 

The scream that tore through Alaric’s throat was horrific. Cries of terror echoed through the cathedral once more and those who were able to flee did so with haste. But Azriel was deathly silent as he wrapped a fist around Alaric’s heart. Blood trickled through his wrists and pooled at his feet like crimson tears as he yanked the still beating heart out of the male’s chest. 

The carnage and gore incited a chorus of desperate pleas. Some retched, some clawed at their eyes.

But you simply locked gazes with the Prince of Hell.

As the male beneath him took his last pathetic breath, Azriel tossed his heart on the marble altar. It was sacrilege at its finest. A dark offering. A blasphemous statement to the gods above of the lengths he would go to for you.

“A promise,” he declared, addressing the petrified crowd. Azriel glanced down at the dead male crumpled beneath his feet. “This is what will become of anyone who presumes to come between me and my bride.”

You watched with bated breath as he walked towards you. With bloodstained hands, Azriel caressed your cheek with surprising gentleness. His touch was warm and soft, just as it had always been in your dreams. You closed your eyes, relishing the feel of him. 

“Are you hurt?” Azriel asked softly. His thumb stroked against your cheek, painting a streak of scarlet against your skin. Azriel frowned at the sight of blood and made a move to draw his hand back, but you only laced your fingers through his. 

You looked up to find him studying you. Searching for fear. Waiting for you to scream in terror and run in the opposite direction. Instead, you wrapped your arms around him and sobbed. Azriel was stunned for a second, but he recovered quickly and scooped you up into his arms. He seemed to understand that in this moment, all you needed was to be held.

“I’m fine,” you said through your tears. “I’m fine now that you’re here.”

The Prince of Hell placed a tender kiss on your temple as his wings wrapped around you like a blanket. “Come, my heart,” he murmured in a soothing voice. “Let me take you home.”

taglist: @viradeity @moony-thoughts @i-opened-the-chamber-of-secrets @demirunner @swansworth @heart-defendor @momlo @mali22 @roselensage @searchingford@nessianxgwynriel@azriels-angels@brekkershadowsinger@morelovemorepeacemoretattoo-blog @mattte-black @marina468 @lillithathecathecat @highladyofillyria @navyblue-eternity @margssstuff

[pandora-writes-one-piece]

The Ghost From The Barrow

Source for pic

Word Count: 6049

Tags: Fem!Reader, NSFW - Oral - you giving and creampie, alternate universe - Scotland, 13th century - cursing, angst, angst without happy ending, gore, blood, death, MDNI!!! 🔞

Special Warning: English is not my first language, I apologise for any possible spelling or grammar mistakes.

Summary: You are the daughter of a clan chief in the Highlands, though you are more trouble than you are worth. Some thugs capture you and attempt to demand a ransom, but things don't exactly go their way when their leader, Kid, discovers what you are truly made of.

Notes: This was heavily inspired by the song “The Ghost From The Barrow” by Paddy and the Rats. It was going to go in a very different direction, much similar to the lyrics of the song, but the story took its own turn and I liked it like this! I hope you do too. Also, the research I did was very shallow, so if you're from Scotland and I got something wrong, I'm so sorry! Also, I had to go with Kilt wearing Kid. 🥴🤤 Have fun! 

Tag List: @rosidaze @beachaddict48 (if you don't want to be tagged for other stories other than the meet-cute, please tell me!)

Sidenote: I used a real sigil for the reader’s clan: Clan MacKenzie. 

Terms: 

Barrow - An ancient burial mound;

Tartan - A woolen cloth with a specific design associated to a specific clan;

Laird - A lord, someone who owns a large estate;

The early morning mist left a familiar dampness upon your hair. Rolling hills of verdant expanse stretched lazily before you. Ancient stone markings of softly defined borders marked one pasture from another, the neighbours, practically family, not caring if the cattle meandered from one side to the other. Heavy tendrils of fog still permeated the mountains and mounds above and you had to cut your morning walk short. You knew those barrows like the back of your hand, but the legends of ancient restless souls still lurked freshly in your mind. 

Turning back around, you gathered the skirts of your woollen dress, which hung loosely over your chemise, so you wouldn’t wet the hem of the dress this early in the day. You wore the clan’s tartan over your shoulders to protect you from the earlier chill. The blues and greens of the plaid fabric contrasted heavily with the simple brown you chose to wear. Your mother would be sick to her stomach upon your sight, once more. You were the unruly daughter, the one that could not be tamed and you knew your parents cursed the day you were born. 

As wild as the Highlands, as stubborn as a mare. Your father used to jest that no man would ever want you for a wife because you were not docile enough to be domesticated. Respect came with a heavy price in your household and you held your tongue back from lashing at him. But the sting his words left upon you was enough to completely destroy the bundle of hay you used to practise your archery shots. 

Your father was a laird of the most prominent households of the Highlands, and the current head of the clan. You were the daughter of the chief. You were supposed to act with the status that your lineage carried. Except you very rarely did. And you had the nagging feeling your father wished to have killed you at birth, as they do with unwanted kittens. 

This was a day like any other. You fled your castle without the consent of your family, escaping through one of the many passages you knew by heart, so you could absorb the peace that the morning brought you. The eerie quietness of the barrows, the rustles of the leaves from the forest and, here and there, the lonesome call of the ravens. 

Your father had warned you a million times not to leave without guards.

Your mother had forbidden you a million and one times from walking out the door at all. 

Your older brother had always counselled you to take your bow anywhere you went.

You heeded none of them.

Yet, it was still with some surprise and with a heavy pounding of your heart, that you realised you were being surrounded. Four mighty horses as black as the night approached fast, their nostrils flaring and smoking. You didn’t even try to outrun them for it would have been an impossible task. The men mounting them surrounded you quickly, using the horses to keep pacing a tight circle around you. There were grins on their faces, each taller than the last, each scarier.

Scars and untreated wounds, long unkempt hair, one even had a rudimentary mask over his face. They were terrifying. You searched for a tartan but the plaids they wore belonged to no clan. You had never seen the yellow and black in any of your father’s gatherings and the sigil they wore was clearly one of outcasts and thieves: a burning skull with the same yellow and black plaid tied to the head.

“What do we have here?” The one in the mask asked, his voice thick with delight, a hint of a mischievous smile you were not privy to. 

“A little lass, eh?” The tallest one replied. He was the only one without a smile on his face, his voice thundering around you.

“She seems sweet.” The one with hollow eyes and scars on his mouth spoke softly.

Your hands shook and the shiver that coursed through you had nothing to do with the biting wind of the Highlands. The red-headed man pursed his lips as he looked you over. If they found out you were the chief’s daughter, you would surely be used as ransom bait.

Or worse. 

Inhaling deeply, you fought to find your voice. “I am a mere villager, good sirs. I was going to collect some herbs for healing, nothing more. Some lavender and calendula. Chamomile to soothe aches. Please let me return to my home. I have young children to care for.” You tried your best to lace your voice with humility and sweetness, fighting against all of your instincts to spit at their feet and demand their heads for this outrage. 

The one who spoke with a soft voice smiled at you. “Poor thing, she looks scared, Captain.” He was looking at the redhead. He was the leader then. So he was the one you had to reason with.

“Yes, Captain, I am so very frightened. Please, I just want to return home.” Trying your best to look terrified - which wasn’t that hard since you were frightened - you warmed your features and fell to your knees, adding dramatics to your reaction. 

“Maybe we should let her go.” The one with the mask replied, tilting his head to one side. “She does look like a commoner.”

The captain dismounted his horse and you gulped as he approached you. He was tall and bulky, with an impressive figure. His lips were tinted red and he wore a piece of cloth on his head to keep the hair out of his eyes with the same yellow and black plaid of their sigil. His kilt was of dark brown plaid, resembling dried blood, and his legs were as thick as logs. 

“Sir…” You whimpered and tried to appear small. His face kept drawing near and you held your breath as his cloak slipped and you realised he was missing an arm. “Please…” Another whimper.

His lips pursed further as he raised an eyebrow and he sniffed you.

A gasp left your lips at the outrage and your cheeks flushed crimson. How dared he? His hand darted forward and he pulled the tartan off your chest, revealing the brooch you had on your dress, the one with your father’s sigil: a mountain in flames with the words ‘I shine, not burn’ engraved.

His lips pulled back to reveal a frightening set of sharp canines and he finally spoke. It was akin to a roar and it managed to bristle all the hairs on your body. “Take her, ya fools. She smells clean. She’s highborn, for sure.”

You made sure the whole of the Highlands heard you screaming and you wouldn’t go down without a proper fight. You bit and sank your nails into flesh, you kicked and punched all while sputtering curses upon curses over the group. Vile words, not fit for a lady of your status, filled with hate, brimming with rage.

And they all laughed at you.

Your efforts were for naught. You were easily captured.

-*-

You were held like a sack of potatoes, hanging limply over the masked man’s shoulder. They had subdued you easily and tied your hands behind your back. You were still kicking, so with more rumbling laughs, they tied your feet for good measure. 

They rode with you on their horses for the entire day, placing a blindfold over your eyes to disorient you to where their hideout was. You were passed around from mount to mount - never to the leader’s horse, though - as if you were a plaything and a new toy for them to play with. 

You should be trembling with fear, yet all the trembling came from pure rage. You wanted to punch something, claw, bite, anything! This feeling of helplessness was overwhelming and intensified by the second.

The masked man set you down ungracefully by a fire and removed the blindfold, making you blink to adjust your vision. 

“Here we are, lass. Make yourself at home.” He chuckled low and you gritted your teeth. They hadn’t roughed you up, but you were still sore from the daylong horse ride. Your throat was dry and your lips were cracked. 

“Can…” You cleared your throat to find your voice again, but it was raw from screaming. “Can I get some water?”

He tsked and turned his back on you, leaving you slumped and looking defeated. Your wrists and ankles were sore from the tightness of the rope and you were pretty sure there was blood as well. 

They left you alone in that position for a while, until the man with the scars on his mouth approached you slowly. Using a knife, he cut the ropes from your ankles and then the ones on your wrists.

Whimpering you brought your hands close to your chest and rubbed your wrists softly. You were right, they were bloodied and bruised. 

“Here.” He extended a wooden bowl filled with water, which you immediately downed with a heavy sigh.

“Thank you.” You mumbled noticing your voice was less coarse now. 

He smiled softly and took out some mashed herbs from a leather pouch, applying the mixture to your wrists. You could smell lavender, calendula and yarrow in the mixture. Someone knew what they were doing, for they were healing herbs. 

“You did this?” You asked softly. Clearly this man was the one you could easily approach since all the others were too closed off. He nodded proudly and you patted his hand. “Thank you. What’s your name?” You gave him your name as well so he felt more confident in sharing his.

“I’m Heat.”

“That is a lovely name. Thanks for helping me, Heat.” Another smile. Maybe you could work him well enough to flee.

“Get away from her.” The leader’s orders made Heat stiffen up and he got up with a slight jump, leaving your side without looking back.

“I know what yer doing, lil’ lass.” His thick accent became more enunciated because he was angry, you noticed. So you decided to make him angrier and see where that would get you. Crossing your arms over your chest, you offered him your best annoyed look.

“I’m afraid I do not know what you mean. Thug.” You finished with a smirk.

Grunting, his lips curled upwards, drawing that dangerous smile that made your heart pound.

“Ya want to domesticate my men, lil’ lass, ya can’t! They obey my command.” His figure towered over yours and he was intimidating you. Wincing in pain and discomfort, you got up, still nowhere near his face, fists clenched into tiny little balls of fury as your eyes sparkled with rage.

“What do you want from me? A ransom? Well, send the letter! I’m sure my father will be more than happy to pay you scoundrels to get me back! Or do you not know how to write?” You stomped your foot right in the middle of his parted legs and stood almost flush to his frame, a snide crossing your lips, taunting him. “I’m not afraid of you!”

Yet, you were. Pretty scared, actually. Even more so because you doubted your father would care enough about you to pay a ransom. 

You could feel rage seething from his body in short waves. His orange eyes flaming like burning fire, the same fire you felt coursing through your veins in defiance. He gave no warning as his hand wrapped around your throat, tight enough to prevent almost all of the air from coursing freely, enough to leave a bruise, but not enough to truly hurt and cut your air supply.

He lifted you up to his eye level easily, as your nails scratched and clawed at his forearm, leaving red angry trails on his skin, yet he showed no signs of being hurt by your flailing.

“Ya should be. Ya should be pissin’ yer pants.” His jaw kept clenching and unclenching as his eyes raked over your body. He took out his long, wet tongue and licked a stripe from your neck to your ear, making your insides burn and your legs clench together with want. “Tasty.” He grumbled as your eyes bore into his.

“Taste this, then.” You grunted between gasps and, clenching your own jaw, you bent your knee and hit him right in his balls, making him grunt and bend forward, letting go of your neck at the same time as he curled, his hand holding his dick tight.

You coughed and wheezed for air, falling on your knees and taking deep gasps to try and steady your breathing. Your hands pressed and soothed the burn in your throat. 

“You lil’ whore!” He grumbled as he strode towards you again.

“I’ve been called worse!” You grinned with bravado you didn’t have, waiting for the blow to come, for his hand to strike, or his feet. Whatever he wanted to use, and you knew it would hurt. Your eyes shut in anticipation as your heart created its own insane rhythm in your chest.

Yet the blow didn’t come.

All you heard was the leader’s rumbling laugh echoing in the forest as he paced away from you.

-*-

Days passed and you remained a prisoner. They left you unbound because there was no way you could ever escape their watch. Heat brought you food and water and sometimes talked with you, when the leader wasn't around to scold him. 

You learned that the letter had been sent to your father, yet he still hadn't responded. So they sent another one. 

There was a feeling of dread coiling around your stomach. What if your father didn’t want to pay your ransom? You had more brothers and sisters. What good would a bratty child who obeyed no orders do in his household? Perhaps it was better for him to say that you lost your life to the whims of thieves.

It might even grant him more support. 

You spent a restless night worrying about this and you cried your heart out. Heat noticed your forlorn expression and defeated demeanour in the morning and returned to you with clean clothes. A plain dress and a worn out man’s shirt. You looked at him warily until he grabbed your hand and led you to the forest.

For a moment you thought he might be setting you free. A rush of happiness spread its tendrils across your heart and you grinned. Until you realised he was only taking you to a lake.

He seemed so happy, though, that you still smiled softly at him. “You can bathe.” He whispered your name softly. “I’ll keep watch.”

His offer was tempting. There was grime under your fingernails, caked blood on your wrists, knees and ankles and your hair… you didn’t even want to get started on your hair.

So you thanked him politely and he turned to give you some privacy, leaving a bundle of soapwort in your hands. A plant that, if wet, creates a lather that can cleanse grime and leave a nice herbal scent behind. You were sure he would turn around as soon as you took off your clothes, but he was still the sweetest of the thugs and you had warmed up to him. You doubted he would try something with you. 

Leaving your stained clothes in a pile so you could wash them later, you dipped your toes in the water. It was ice cold, despite the warm weather outside. Still, you really needed to bathe. So, closing your eyes, you dove gracefully, emerging only once the burn settled against your lungs from lack of air. 

Letting out an unbridled laugh, you splashed a bit of water before using the soapwort plant to cleanse yourself properly. You used it on your hair as well and, after a little bit, you started to make your way back so you could wash your clothes. You didn’t want to take too long in the lake because you didn’t want to cause any trouble for Heat. 

However, the sight that greeted you when you turned around made you freeze as your eyes widened and your breath caught in your throat. The leader, the captain. He was staring at you, his back leaning against the trunk of a tree and his lips pursed. Heat was nowhere to be found. He must have discovered both of you here and sent Heat away. 

You swallowed a lump in your throat but made no motion to cover yourself. Your breasts were out of the water, nipples erect from the cold and goosebumps all over your skin. He was close enough to see the way you were shivering and the way your chest rose with each gasping breath. 

He pulled away from the tree and with nimble fingers began to untie his kilt. First the knot over his shoulder, then he started untucking the sides until it finally fell down in a heap. The shivers that shook your body now had definitely nothing to do with the chilliness of the lake. He took a long stride forward and with one swift movement of his arm, the shirt came off. 

Biting your lower lip you took in his muscular form. He was bulky and heavy, built like a strong bull. His chest was made of ripped muscles and heavy scars. Lowering your eyes, you couldn't stop your thighs from clenching together, seeking some friction. His cock was big, girthy and already half hard. It would be monstrous at full length. 

He took off the cloth holding his hair back and finally entered the water with a hiss. His eyes never left you nor did yours leave him. 

You were no stranger to desire and intercourse. You were the chief's daughter, but you were no maiden. And what you felt for your captor now was true, unbridled desire. And you could see that he felt the same toward you. 

Would either of you act upon it? 

Shaking your head and gulping, you strode forward, aiming to leave the lake, perhaps? Yet he blocked your path easily. The water hit him around the knees and a quick look down told you he was now standing at full attention. 

Screw it. 

You were wound as tight as a rope and release would probably do you some good. Besides, he seemed like a good lay. 

You approached him, slowly climbing out to the shallow part of the lake, the water lowering until he could see your mound. His lips curled up and he licked them at a leisurely pace. 

“Kneel, lil’ lass.” He grunted and, for once, you obeyed him willingly. 

Falling forward on your knees, you wasted no time. Using your hands to pump his cock a few times, you gathered the precum at the top and then used your tongue to lather it around his girth. He hummed low when you brought your other hand to cup his balls and squeeze. 

“Fuck. That's good.” 

His praise made you mewl into him as you hollowed your cheeks and fought against the gag reflex to take all of him inside your mouth. It was a stretch, but you could do it. 

Hissing, he tangled his fingers in your wet hair, holding your head in place as he took over and fucked your mouth with relentless thrusts. Tears gathered at the corners of your eyes when his tip bullied the back of your throat. Heat began pooling in your abdomen, its tendrils spreading slowly and steadily, burning at your core, demanding attention. 

You used one hand to grab his thick, hairy thighs for purchase, and another to friction against your throbbing clit, moaning into him, the vibrato of your mewls making him fasten his pace with sloppier thrusts. “Fuck, fuck. Open wide lass.” And that was all the warning you got before his thick, salty cum dripped down your throat as you swallowed and he pulled out, a small string of saliva connecting him to you still. 

He stared at your face, swollen lips, teary eyes and jaw standing open as your hand continued to press and circle against your clit, small moans leaving your parted lips. 

“Fuck. C’mere.” Resting his large hand on your chin, he motioned for you to stand up, and you obeyed. He pried your fingers away from yourself and pressed your hand so you could spread them open. A string of your own slick connected your index and middle fingers and you blushed. The Captain chuckled and swirled his tongue around them, collecting any remaining drops of your juices as you gasped and stifled a moan. “Hmm, none of that lil’ lass. Yer going to scream my name. Don't ye dare hold back.”

“I don't know your name.” You said, your eyes sparkling with mischievousness. 

Curling his lips back, he grasped your wet hair again, pulling you for an open mouthed kiss, combining your juices with the lingering taste of his cum until your head was spinning and begging for air. “It's Kid.” He panted as he pulled apart from you. 

“Fuck me, Kid.” Your hand found his cock already hard again and you had no doubt that this man had the stamina of a horse. 

“Will do, lass.” His fingers dug into your mound and you moaned as they descended to your swollen clit. “Let's see how ready ye are for me.” His fingers were long and thick and as he inserted one inside you to collect some slick, you arched your back and rolled your hips against his touch. “Hmm, needy, are ye?”

He rolled his wet finger against the bundle of nerves and then inserted two digits, stretching them and then letting them go further, deeper. Your nails dug into his chest as your head fell back in abandonment. “Kid!” You panted, his fingers filling you up deliciously. A gasp left you breathless as he inserted a third finger, using his thumb to press against your clit as he stretched you further. “Gods! Kid!”

“I know, lass, I know.” He grunted near your ear and the deep rumbling that came from his voice made you snap as you came in his hand. Arching your back and clawing his chest you moaned loud, repeating his name in a crescendo as you reached your high. “That was a good one, lass.” He sucked at your neck and bit hard to bring you back but you mewled again as you leaned into him, too dazed out to do anything else. 

But he was not done. Using his arm, he lifted you up and with a swift motion, impaled his cock inside your slick hole, making you scream as you clenched your legs around his waist. 

“Hold on, lass, this will be a rough ride.” His digits dug into your flesh as his arm circled your hips holding you in place as he pounded relentlessly, his pace brutal, and you didn't know how he could stay standing up because you could barely open your eyes, let alone stand. 

The pleasure built in waves that kept crashing and chasing away your sanity. You had never been fucked like this before. Captain Kid was fucking you senseless. Your pants increased in fervour as you felt yourself getting closer and closer to coming again. His dick filled you perfectly and hit spots inside you that made you see white. 

“Kid, fuck, gods!”

“Scream louder!” He growled and thrust faster, making your toes curl as you crushed him in a hug, thighs clenching tight against him and nails drawing blood from his back. You did scream. Loud as a banshee and you were positive his entire camp heard you scream his name like a whore.

His release was not far behind, and you knew that because there were beads of sweat on his temples, his thrusts were sloppier and he was grunting heavily. But you were so close again. “Harder.” You begged against his ear, your fingers circling your burning and overstimulated clit, trying to chase that last high. 

“Lil’ whore.” He growled and gave you what you wanted. Three fast thrusts that made you shake and come with a flash of white as he followed suit. You felt his release inside you, filling you up and dripping down your legs into the lake in soundly, heavy plops. 

You were still clinging to him like he was your lifeline, both panting and sweating, chests heaving and legs trembling. 

“I'm putting ya down, now.” He said between pants and you whined when he pulled out of you, leaving you empty. You were not steady on your legs so he still held your waist. 

“Fuck.” You muttered, still catching your breath, a wave of dizziness overcoming your senses. 

“I thought maidens didn't curse.” He chuckled. 

“Yeah? Well, maidens don't suck cocks either. So why do you think I'm one?” His genuine laughter made your heart tingle and constrict against your chest and you were not quite sure what this foreign feeling was. What you did know was that you wanted to hear it again. 

-*-

Days passed, yet you didn't really think you were a prisoner anymore. You slept with Kid every night and he took you whenever he felt like it, making good on the claim that you were his good little whore. You couldn't care less. You felt free. 

One night, after screaming his name until your throat was raw - you've come to realise he loves it when you scream his name - you asked him bluntly. 

“My father refused to pay the ransom, did he not?” The scoff that left your throat was meant to be dismissive and aloof, yet there was also the bitter taste of tart tears in your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. 

“Aye.” He grunted as he pulled your naked body closer to his. “I'm sorry.”

You didn't want his compassion, it wasn't what you were looking for. Yet, it felt nice. As if you meant something more to him than just his prisoner whore. 

“I was never good for anything but to cause trouble for him, anyway. Like this he doesn't need to find me a husband.” You snorted. “You know what I did to the last one he tried to set me up with? The one who said I couldn't be ‘domesticated’?” Kid's gaze fell on yours, an amused expression wrinkling the corners of his eyes. “I bit off his balls when he tried to fuck me into submission.” Shrugging, you threw out your tongue as Kid burst into a fit of laughter. 

“Aren't ya a feisty lil’ lass?” His chest heaved until his laughter died down. You felt droopy and your eyes started to close, drifting closer and closer to sleep. “Maybe ya can be my wife. We'll see if I can domesticate ya.”

You didn't quite know if he was kidding or not, but sleep claimed you with a smile on your lips at the thought of being Kid's wife. 

-*-

You were woken up in the middle of the night by loud screams and the clangs of swords and axes. Kid wasn't by your side when you rolled over and got up, hastily dressing in your chemise and dress. It sounded like a battle, so you grabbed the bow you kept by your side of the bed. Kid made you that bow once he realised you were very good with it. 

You had been by his side for over a year now. He made you his wife, as he said he would, and there were more nights when you actually made love instead of just fucking. 

You had come to love him. Deeply. And you were positive he loved you back, even though he wouldn't admit it to a soul. He would say love made you weaker or something like that. Times had been kind for your new clan and you had all found peace. 

Yet that thought was quickly swept away once you stepped outside of your hut and were greeted with the sight of burning buildings, slaughtered people and Kid and his men fighting. 

Gripping your bow harder and tighter, you found a secluded perch by climbing onto the roof of the hut and started to take out man after man. They didn't even realise what happened until they were left bleeding on the floor, meeting their final demise at the hands of one of Kid's men or Kid himself, who saw you immediately when an arrow whizzed past his ear. 

It wasn't until the tenth body hit the floor that you realised that these men belonged to your father's clan. Their tartan was clearly the pattern you were so familiar with. That realisation gave away your location and in a heartbeat you were being dragged by your hair, your body hitting the ground with a loud oof, as the air was sucked out of your lungs. As the assailant grabbed his sword, ready to pierce you with the blade, you kicked him hard in the shin and you heard the sickening crunch of bone breaking before he screamed. 

Getting up with a pained grunt, you realise that you must also have broken a few ribs as you were pulled down from the roof, because it hurt to breathe. Still clutching your bow to your chest, you made your way forward, shooting arrows as you went, aiding people in their escape. All the while your eyes were searching for Kid as your heart hammered against your chest. He was nowhere to be seen and that left you anxious. 

And distracted. 

A sharp pain travelled from your thigh to your groin and shot everywhere in short stabbing bursts of pain. There was a blade protruding from your leg and hot droplets of tears threatened to escape your eyes. “Fuck.” You grunted as you turned around, searching for whoever was responsible for this, bow stretched and arrow already in place. 

“It's true, then.” The familiar voice of your brother left you breathless for a moment, making you lose your focus. “You really have become that scoundrel’s whore. I couldn't believe it until I saw it.”

Your jaw clenched as you inhaled short breaths, trying to focus on something other than the throbbing pain in your thigh. He was standing too close for a proper arrow shot and your vision was getting blurry. You would never make the shot even if you wanted to. 

“I'm not his whore. I'm his wife.” You spat at him, rage making your voice tremble. 

Your brother's cackles were like another knife piercing your heart. 

“That's precious. You're still dying. You're no longer family.”

And he lunged forward, sword raised in the air in a stance you'd known your whole life as you'd watched your brothers learn how to fight in the shadows. You knew when to duck, when to move away, and when to jump. He was predictable and his moves were still the same after all these years. You could win this. 

If you weren't bleeding and your movements weren't impaired. 

He struck forward and you knew you had to move left. It was all you had to do, really. But your leg gave out, and he stabbed his sword into your sternum. 

You had never felt pain like this before. It started slowly, in the middle of your chest, but then, as if in waves, it began to spread, leaving you numb and cold. As you fell to your knees, you could see the snicker spreading on your brother's lips. Until it turned into a grimace and blood started to sputter from his mouth as he grunted. 

There was a heavy blade sticking out of his chest, followed by a pained grunt as the sword climbed up his torso, ripping him in two right before your eyes. 

You saw the panting figure of Kid behind him, his breaths coming out in shaken gasps as his face contorted into a pained frown when he laid eyes on you. “No! No, no, no!”

He rushed forward, letting his blade fall to the ground, and his arm circled you desperately. 

You were dying. You knew that. 

A smile found its way to your blood-stained lips as your eyes locked with bright orange ones. Caressing his cheek left a red streak of blood on his skin, but it was quickly washed away by a stream of tears from his eyes. 

“Hey, no crying.” You whispered slowly. The pain was drifting away. “Thank you.”

“No, no. Ye can't leave lil’ lass! I didn't give ya permission!”

Your chuckle turned into a coughing fit, blood spurting everywhere as Kid cradled you in his big arm. Around you shouts were heard, soldiers sounding the retreat. The threat had been thwarted for now. 

“Kid.” Your voice could barely be heard, but you needed to get his attention. “Kid, please. Don't hold a grudge. Please.” You whined and closed your eyes as the numbness relented and gave way to the pain. 

He pulled you against him, trying to hold you carefully but, at the same time, holding you firmly as if it were the last time - it was the last time - his kilt was now completely soaked in your blood. 

“Promise me.” You said firmly, your hand trying to find his cheek again, but failing miserably as you could barely find the strength. “Grudges create lost souls. I can't have you away from me in the afterlife. Promise.” You admonished him. 

He nodded against your face, taking your lips with his, trying to stifle a sob as his shoulders heaved and rocked with the effort. 

“I love you…” Your whisper got lost somewhere in the limbo of eternity as the sparkle of life burned away in your eyes. There was a moment of stillness, Heat, Killer and Wire gathered behind Kid, still as logs. The forest ceased its rustling, and even the animals stopped their sounds. The world stopped spinning when you left it, and Kid lost a piece of himself. 

It was his piercing agonising scream that brought the world back, crashing into rotation, but never the same. 

-*-

Kid didn't really promise you not to hold a grudge. He just nodded. And even if he had made a promise, he was a thief and a scoundrel. Lying was a part of him. 

He did hold a grudge. 

A huge one. He hunted down every single member of your family and slaughtered them all. No one associated with your clan was left alive to tell the tale. Be they elderly or children, Kid was merciless. 

He would not rest until his vengeance was fulfilled. He had never felt love the way he did for you. He had never felt affection the way he did for you. 

And he had never grieved harder. 

If he was suffering, those that caused that suffering should be put to the same misery. 

And he fulfilled that vow. Until he was caught and sentenced to hang in the gallows. 

Yet, he would hang with a smile upon his tainted lips. He had avenged you. None of your clan was left alive to tell the tale, he had made sure of it. And he was hopeful that once his body turned cold and lifeless, he would meet you, in the afterlife. 

So you could spend eternity together, as it should have been. 

The clock struck the hour and Kid was hanged. Killer, Wire and Heat stood watching, heads low and hidden behind cloaks, as their captain paid the price of vengeance. 

Killer was proud of his fearless friend. 

Wire was saddened that it ended this way. 

Heat was worried, because he knew vengeful spirits could not find rest in eternity. 

Heat was right. 

The spirit of Eustass Captain Kid roamed the Highlands. A ghoulish spectre haunting the barrow, searching for his lost wife, forever aiming to find her in the eternity of the afterlife. 

Yet she had warned him. 

Grudges create lost souls. 

So if you find yourself roaming any barrow in the Highlands, whether at night or during the day, know that the wailing you hear is that of the captain, grieving his lost love and the life he was denied. 

Though he avenged her in the end. 

But at what cost? 

[ask-whiteblade]

A long sigh. The word "love" returned to her mind. She had felt affection for her former companions and would always remember what she felt for one of them, even if it had only lasted a few months, together, in the same battalion.

But she remembered perfectly well that they had died and she had buried them, letting the love disappear to make way for a hatred that had motivated her for years. This memory didn't affect her.

The mysterious stallion had disappeared, leaving White Blade and One Eyes alone. The smoke was still spreading around them, becoming an increasingly opaque mist with a strange shimmer. The two ponies looked at each other.

A distant echo.

The mare ignores it.

One Eyes crushes his cigar on the table carelessly.

"You should take advantage of this opportunity." He told her with a smirk.

But White refused to listen to the echo, which began again, saying her name, recognizing his voice. As it grew louder and louder, she closed her eyes, unable to put a face to the voice that hurt so much.

"White Blade… White Blade…"

"Be quiet…"

"White Blade! "

"Please shut up!"

"White Blade, are you coming?"

"No, shut up!!!"

"Come White Blade!"

"WHITE BLADE!!!"

"I told you, SHUT UP!"

She turned violently in the direction of the echo, her voice suddenly fluent and immature, her strength diminished along with her size and age.

Suddenly a filly, screaming in frustration at the echo, she looked up at the silhouette looming in the mist, waving his paw, smiling broadly in him direction, happy to see him again.

It took White a moment to realize, but he was there.

"Come play with me, White Blade!"

---

Intro - Previous - HERE - Next

MOD - Finally a continuation of my participation in the event The Sixe Sides. With fewer drawing requirements :)

Event by @mymind-theirvisions

Twitter, Tumblr, Instagram, Facebook - @basykail Autres blogs - @fate-inspiration@ask-whiteblade

[araluenstories]

The morning is quiet, the birds are singing, the mist rolls over the valley, and the smell of coffee wafts through the house. Then there's the sound of hoofbeats on the road.

When Abelard calls, Halt is already one foot out of the door, Will peeking over his shoulder. It's a ranger's horse, a one Will doesn't know. A bay mare with a star on her forehead and white socks, gleaming with sweat, with a tack on and rider nowhere in sight. The horse stops abruptly in front of the house, snorting, her sides heaving.

Halt makes a few slow steps with his hand forward to catch the reins, but the mare snorts again and dances away. The ranger frowns.

"Easy," he hums and goes for gently petting her shoulder instead. When he pulls his hand away, it's red with blood.

[doomsderry]

Mist Mane!!

I had so much fun redesigning her! I really love her story as is, and it really grinds my gears when people de-age her when they redesign her, or use her in edits. Not only does it go against the point of her story, but it makes it seem like aging can't be beautiful 😔

For my redesign, I definitely wanted to keep her as an older mare, but also play with the shapes in her mane and make it look like the paintings of clouds in Chinese culture. I also changed her outfit to look more like a traditional Chinese clothing. I went with 420-589 AD Northern Dynasty fashion. I also put her flower in her mane to act as a hair-clip.

I really like her story and character as is and can't think of any changes I want to make to her story-wise. I adore her so much.

[viceconnor21]

After two years I finally redesigned Grian's design in my AU. Turns out there is a horse in greek mythology with bird back legs. It was kinda perfect.

Tripwire Personality Traits (short version):

Gremlin energy

Hippalectryon

Extremely powerful but still learning to control it

God of Wisdom and Strategy (He doesn't know that)

Don't let him near buttons

Always coming up with new games for the town to play

Sad boi when he loses control of his power

Loves to be annoying

Defiant towards authority

Calls Darling Dozy anything but his actual name

Makes it his mission to be everyone else’s problem

No memory of early childhood

Raised by birds

Has been a drifter for as long as he can remember

Always felt like he was searching for something until he found his forever home in Hermit Valley

Partner: Terraform Best friend: Crimson Dust Mother: Soul Keeper Father: Crow Keeper Brothers: Day Shaker and Final Sonata

Story clip and Background:

Tripwire watched Terraform’s ears flick in his sleep. Tripwire could tell that he was dreaming, as he mumbled something about cats. Tripwire could only smile to himself in the darkness of the room. He was so lucky to find Hermit Valley. It had been several moons since he stumbled onto Terraform tangled in that tree. Tripwire was grateful for that day. The odd creature he had helped down from the tree had all but begged him to come back to town with him, eager to treat both to a well deserved meal. That was so long ago now, but he remembered it like it was yesterday. However, despite how much Tripwire loved his life in this current moment, sadness tugged at his heart. As he stared into the dark, he tried really hard to remember anything from his childhood. Today, just like any other day he was drawing a blank. He was such an odd creature, with his bird back legs, equine front legs, break, and four wings. He came from somewhere. Tripwire longed to remember his family, the people who he had no doubt loved him at one point. He could remember foggy voices with no real meaning. A kind sounding older male, singing him to sleep. His father maybe. He could also recall the strums of guitar, and a different male singing along. Trip didn’t know why but this voice frightened him a bit. Then there was a third voice; one still wrapped in adolescence. He also remembered a haze of green and black feathers engulfing him in a warm hug. Along with these muddled memories, he often dreams of the burry face of a soft purple mare with a golden horn. Through the mist of dreams, the mare radiates power, but he can’t help but feel as though she is watching over him. It is almost as if he can feel her love just beyond a veil.

Even with being as young as he was, Tripwire felt like he never fit in with the other creatures his brothers and his father associated with. In this wide land from home in the Burrow (Borough) to his brothers’ home of L’Maneberg, Tripwire never felt like this was where he was meant to be. Everybody seemed to view him as an oddity. Even his brothers seem to look at him with a peculiar mix of curiosity, love, and resentment. He knew why of course. His brothers were a fair bit older than him, and he was the only one of them who was a true biological son of their father. Tripwire also knew that the circumstances of his birth were a fair bit dubious at best, given that nobody outside the close-knit family knew who his mother was. That wasn’t his fault. He never viewed himself as any better than his siblings. He looked up to his siblings, and was alway ecstatic when they came to visit him and his father. They always visited him in the Burrow. He didn’t leave the Burrow and his father barely let him out of his sight. He was very young, only just beginning to fly. He had very little control of his powerful magic, but he supposed that was part of the problem. He was the son of a skilled hippogriff warrior and an ultra-powerful death goddess alicorn. He looked weird too. He took on his father’s traits for the most part, but his mother’s powerful genes just refused to be repressed. On top of that, his mother’s Divine blood decided to endow him with a second set of wings and a fierce amount of power that was sometimes hard to subdue. The god-like power wasn’t just for show either. Much like his draconequus uncle, was the walking god of war, and the solar sister was the goddess of the sun, Tripwire had a role to play in the strings of faith. Of course, at this point, the colt was too young to comprehend his true power, much less control it. While his mother was unable to walk the living dimension, his father did his best to raise the demigod. However, trouble was brewing. Tripwire could feel it on the wind, see it in the stress etched in his father’s face, in the way his brothers came home one day; wrapped in bandages and smelling of smoke. Tripwire was too young to understand what it was or what it meant. It came to a head when his father came home, wide-eyed and dirty. His feathers were singed and his eyes were red from crying. Without saying anything, he scooped Tripwire up in his arms, and continued to weep. All Tripwire could do was hold his father close. He did not know it at the time, but that would be his final night with his father, and the final night in his home.

Unknown to the young colt, a war was raging just outside the walls, and just passed the border of the Burrow. It was a long and drawn out war for justice and independence that was slowly shifting towards a struggle for control and power. The night his father came home in tears, was the night Trip’s oldest brother was killed in that struggle. However, that was not the end of the sorrow. While Crowkeeper tried very hard to keep Tripwire’s existence known to very few, rumors of his existence and more importantly his power began creeping among the ranks of power hungry legionnaires and mercenaries. Crowkeeper knew his son would soon be in danger. He knew his son had the capability to cause devastation. Creatures would try to use his son’s abilities to gain power in any way possible. Crowkeeper and Soul Keeper decided that for his own safety and the protection of others, Tripwire would be sent away. However, knowledge of his whereabouts in any sense could leave him open to danger. It was decided for his own good, his mother would wipe his memories and send him far away to a place not even Crowkeeper knew. Tripwire’s faith could not be left to chance.Tripwire could be a force of great creation or destruction. If left with the wrong people, Tripwire might never find his true purpose in this world. In addition, without the guidance and the protection of his father, Tripwire could be hurt or succumb to his own overwhelming power. Options were weighed. It was decided that Crowkeeper and Soul Keeper’s flock would care for and guide the colt. The mixed flock of different birds would keep the boy safe. They would find food and shelter for the child. They would teach and comfort the boy as he wandered the land looking for a place that he could truly call a home. As the boy grew into a teenager, then into a young adult, the intervention of his unknown protectors lessened. The flock shrunk as their charge grew and learned to care for himself. Finally, only one purple magpie was left, keeping an eye on the boy barely seen Trip as he went through his days of searching for something he really didn’t understand. He searched the land blindly, starting to believe that whatever he was looking for was a foal’s errand. That was until he met the creature known as Terraform. From the tallest limb of that apple tree, that purple and gold magpie watched as Terraform insisted that Tripwire should be properly thanked for his kindness. Finally, satisfied that she had led her son to a community that would help him thrive, she left him in the capable paws of the excitable Terraform. He brought him to the valley that Tripwire would instantly love and soon call home.

Tripwire is the hybrid offspring (Hippalectryon) of Crow Keeper and Soul Keeper. Tripwire is a chaos-loving young colt, who has a knack for traps and planning. (In reality, he has a knack for planning traps but not really seeing those traps to fruition.) With his partner in crime, Terraform, Tripwire has learned that he not only has the talent for planning but also executing those plans into elaborate works of art. While Tripwire originally believed his cutie mark was to represent his ability with traps, it actually symbolized his unique gift for organization, design, and strategy. With the help of his friends in the Settlement of Hermit, Tripwire would soon realize he was the god of Wisdom and Strategy. With this realization, is slowly unlocking his true power as a god.

However, not all is sunlight and the power of friendship. Tripwire was still born of mortal flesh. He is young and his power levels are still unstable. Tripwire can be capable of great feats of destruction when his emotions go unchecked. There are times, the power is too great for Tripwire to restrain and it can cause him physical and mental anguish. Strong emotions like fear and anger can trigger this intense state of being. His “god mode” comes with several pairs of extra wings and disembodied eyes. His eyes start to glow a deep purple as his power begins to overwhelm his physical form. Power beyond his control may rip and alter his body and mind to the point where he can no longer recognize those he calls friends. In his worst episodes, he loses all sense of himself. It is in times like these that he must rely on his friends to bring him back from the edge of madness.

[fragolar]

Secrets of the Forgotten Realm || Geralt Of Rivia - The Witcher

Greetings, It's been a while, specifically more than a year. My fixation for Geralt of Rivia has been re-awakened. And no. Before you ask, I will not watch the fourth season. I didn't even watch the second, since I come from the videogames and books. I'll try to make this a series, but also each chapter would be conclusive on it's own for those who like stand alones.

Summary: As Geralt continues his search for Ciri, he finds himself drawn to the secluded Amell Mountains, rumored to house a kingdom unknown to most. Guided by tales from Jaskier, Geralt ventures to the remote ruins of the mountains, where he encounters the enigmatic Princess Lexa Mor'wena, secret daughter to the absent King Ardan Mor'wena, who's on an expedition. As Geralt's curiosity is piqued by the mysterious princess, he embarks on an unexpected journey, his path becoming intertwined with Lexa's in ways he never imagined.

/mɔːrˈwɛnə/

Every step felt like a stab in the ribcage. Amidst the thick, intense mist, the Witcher finally understood why no one ever attempted to search for the lost kingdom. It was intense, the path uneven, long. The humidity making it hard to properly breathe.

Which, after all, wasn’t so lost. Simply hidden, enclosed by rough bark and dense leaves that deprived it of light.

Fatigue weighed heavily on his shoulders, his feet ached, and his mare was restless.

“What's wrong, Roach? Are you tired?” he asked. She snorted, clearly not amused by this journey. “Alright, alright. We’ll stop for a bit... Look, there’s a spring nearby. You’re thirsty, aren’t you?” His hand went to stroke her muzzle.

Once they settled down to rest, sleep began to take over; Geralt was exhausted. And so they spent the night, lighting a small fire, eating the little food they had left from hunting, and finally falling asleep in the middle of the forest.

Grave mistake. Upon awakening, Geralt's eyes weren't greeted by the now familiar leaves but to cement. Alertness jolted through his body, making him spring from the floor to dissipate the confusion. He was in a cell - a quite claustrophobic one, too. "Oh, the White Head is awake." A disinterested mumble reached Geralt's ears, making his eyes dart to the source. A guard stared at him, amused, before speaking again. "Hey, White Bunny, what's your business up in the woods? Don't you know scary wolves roam around? You're lucky that we found you before they did." Geralt scoffed, shaking his head slowly. "I wouldn't worry about a couple of wolves who bark." The guard frowned but quickly recomposed himself. "I asked you why you are here. Don't make me repeat myself a third time." "What would happen if I did?" Geralt was amused, no denying that. "Important personal matters, I'm searching for a girl." "Girl? The Princess?" Geralt raised an eyebrow, his thoughts briefly drifting to Ciri. Did they know her? "I'm looking for someone," he clarified, hoping to avoid more suspicion. "What's your matter with the Princess? How do you know about her?" The guard pressed. "No harm. Let me see her, and I'll go. King Ardan wouldn't treat an old acquaintance this way." The guard's expression grew increasingly perplexed. From his perspective, not only did this stranger know about Princess Lexa Mor'wena, but he also claimed familarity with King Ardan. Panic began to set in as the guard realized he might have severely mishandled the situation. If the King learned how badly he had treated a known guest, he would be in deep trouble.

"You must be the White Wolf my men found sleeping in the forest with his horse." The woman spoke calmly, seated on her throne. Geralt was kneeling in front of her, feeling a mix of disappointment and surprise. King Ardan had a secret daughter, a Princess unknown to the outside world. This explained why the King could leave his Kingdom for extended periods without fear of attack. There was always someone to rule in his absence. And Ciri was nowhere to be seen. "Are you perhaps the Butcher of Blaviken?" Geralt's head lifted up, not expecting to hear such an old name. Upon his expression, the Princess continued. "I’ll take your silence as an affirmation. I have never seen a Witcher before, let alone the Butcher-"

"Princess Mor’wena, I’d rather be called Geralt of Rivia."

She smiled amused, resting her cheek on her palm as she leaned on the throne armrest. "My guard said you were searching for me. How did you even know?"

"It’s a different kind of a princess, I’m searching for. I didn’t know about the King having such a pleasant surprise, however. I’m not complaining."

"Pretty words won’t get you anywhere Geralt. Are you talking about the promised child?" How much did she know? And why didn’t Geralt know anything? "I’m getting tired of your loud silence. Let us discuss after having lunch. You probably are starving."

Geralt rose from his kneeling position, his expression remaining neutral, then he gave a slight nod in acknowledgment. "I appreciate your hospitality, Princess," he said, his voice husky. "I have many questions, and I'm sure you do too. Lunch sounds like a good place to start."

As they walked to the dining area, Geralt remained observant, his sharp eyes taking in the surroundings and the demeanor of those around him. He kept a polite distance, his movements measured, showing respect but also an underlying readiness for any potential threat.

After a moment of silence and finally seated while attending their food, he asked, "What do you know of the promised child?" His tone was curious but cautious, seeking to gather information without revealing too much of his own vulnerabilities.

"Not much. My Father had told me about your unfortunate accident." Lexa looked at him. "I guess you learnt how to stay silent during the years."

Geralt was weirdly amused by how pungent she was, just like her father, but she was much more unfiltered. She seemed to not care how strong he truly is, or how impacted she could be from the way she spoke to him.

A spoiled child with a gold crown on her head. Geralt smirked to himself. "What's her name?" "Cirilla." "A nice name." Lexa began to drift off topic. "Did you choose it?" "She's not my child-" "Not biologically and yet..." "Princess, careful." His voice growly, warning her. A shiver of excitment running down her spine. "I may appear friendly, but I'm not here for fun."

"So the White Wolf would try to bite?" Lexa provoked. "He'd devour." His yellow eyes looked at her, knowing well what she was doing. And she looked quite pleased with his threats, something promising behind those words. Next part.

[bioedwinmx]

Ok, chart time. KHR Undying Will Flames into divided into a cohesive whole (Pretty sure somebody already did this like this)

So we have 3 axis under the Sky (which would be Sky Flames / Unity)

So the X axis is the axis of Reality: Storm and Mist flames represent everything that is, that could be and isn't.

The Y axis is the axis of Change: Lighting and Rain flames are everything that changes and everything that doesn't.

And the the Z axis is the Axis of Replication (I guess it should be named Parallel): Basically, it just represents every possible configuration of anything that can exist. Cloud and Sun flames multiply stuff in different ways with a lot of room for variation and evolution.

These axis represent the world, Reality affects Space, Change affects Time and Replication affects Parallels.

So, the Trinisette

The Mare Sky ring controls Replication, and it lets the user get to see parallel realities and go insane through overload.

The Sky arcobaleno gets Change, that let's her see the future, we'll not really, Yuni got that from her family... I think. The arcobaleno get transformed into babies though.

The Vongola sky ring get Reality, so they get to see every other user of the ring since their creation. Apparently, they can also be reforged, cool.

Anyways, an idiot would think that getting the trinisette would let him change the world. It probably wouldn't.

BTW I might be insane, don't know how much if this actually holds up to close inspection. It's 1 am and I'm very hyper.