#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

[thebrunetteandthepaint]

Puddle splashing with my favorite mare. 💙

[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.

[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

[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

[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.

[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

[pupsmailbox]

ANGELIC︰DEVINE ID PACK

NAMES ⌇　abel. acher. achille. adam. adrien. adélie. aelin. alaida. alexis. alice. alya. ambroise. amelia. amour. ana. anahera. andras. angaile. ange. angel. angela. angelesse. angelette. angelica. angelina. angeline. angelique. angelissa. angelita. angeliza. angella. angelo. angelus. angelyna. angie. angé. angélique. anna. antoine. apolline. ariel. astrid. aurora. aurore. azazel. baal. behemoth. berrie. bethany. blaise. blanche. blanchesse. blanchette. blushe. bowette. cain. caleb. camille. capucine. carmen. cary. casimir. cassandra. cassiel. castiel. cathy. celeste. celestine. celine. cerberus. cerise. charmeine. cher. cherie. cherub. choirette. christian. christine. chérie. cielo. claire. claude. cloud. cloudisse. cynthia. cyril. daisy. damien. damon. danni. dina. divina. divinesse. divinette. divinne. donovan. dova. dulcengel. eden. elena. elouan. elysia. emmy. engel. enzo. erebus. eryn. estelle. esther. evangelina. evangeline. evangelista. eve. faith. felix. fiacre. fleur. fortune. francette. francis. gabriel. gabriella. gaby. gemini. genesis. ghoul. giselle. godefrey. grace. gwenaël. halo. heartette. heather. heaven. heavenelle. heavenesse. hel. helena. henri. hera. honoré. hyacinthe. icha. isaac. isabelle. isidore. jacques. jade. jennifer. jin. jocelyn. jordan. joseph. josephina. julia. kage. karine. kasdeya. katie. kenzo. keres. kilian. lacey. lambise. lamia. laura. leila. leilani. levi. leviathan. liam. lightion. lilia. lilin. lilith. lola. louis. lucia. lucien. lucifer. léo. madeleine. madeline. malachi. malvina. mal’akhi. marc. mare. marie. marin. marine. mary. mateo. maxime. melantha. michael. michelangelo. michelle. minerva. mirabelle. morgan. moros. nadia. narcisse. nazaire. nicholas. noah. noelle. octave. océane. odin. olivia. onyx. ophelia. orpheus. pheobe. pinkette. pinkion. piérre. priscilla. prosper. rainier. ramiel. raphael. ravana. raymond. robin. rogue. rosaire. roxxane. ruby. rue. ruelle. rémi. sabel. salome. salomon. samael. samuel. sara. sephora. sephtis. sera. seraph. seraphim. seraphina. seraphine. serenity. seth. skye. soan. softetta. sol. sonata. sophia. soraya. strawbette. sugarette. sylvain. sylvianne. séraphin. tatiana. theodore. timothee. tristan. uriel. ursula. valentine. valerie. venetia. vera. victor. victoria. victorien. vionetta. virtue. vivian. vivien. willow. wingette. wolf. xavier. xela. yann. yasmine. yvette. zacharie. zoe. ángel. ánxela. éloi. étienne.

PRONOUNS ⌇　abo/above. adore/adore. ae/ae. ae/aer. an/angel. angel/angel. angelic/angelic. arch/angel. archangel/archangel. arrow/arrow. aura/aura. ay/aym. ballet/ballet. beau/beau. beauty/beauty. being/being. beloved/beloved. black/black. bless/bless. bless/blessing. blessing/blessing. bloom/bloom. blue/blue. bow/bow. broke/broken. bun/bun. celeste/celestial. celestial/celestial. cher/cher. cherub/cherub. cherub/cherubim. chirp/chirp. choir/choir. clou/cloud. cloud/cloud. cold/cold. cross/cross. crown/crown. cu/cupid. cupid/cupid. curse/curse. dark/dark. deity/deity. delicate/delicate. div/divine. div/divinity. divine/divine. dove/dove. drift/drift. empty/empty. er/ero. ero/ero. ethe/ethereal. ethereal/ethereal. ey/eyr. fai/faith. faith/faith. fall/fall. fall/fallen. fate/fate. faun/fauna. feather/feather. flight/flight. float/float. flower/flower. fluff/fluff. fly/flight. fly/fly. glow/glow. gold/gold. grace/grace. gra/grace. grudge/grudge. hae/haer. ha/halo. halo/halo. harp/harp. he/hym. hea/heaven. heal/heal. heart/heart. heaven/heaven. heaven/heavenly. hell/hell. hol/holy. holy/holy. hush/hush. hx/hxm. hy/hym. hymn/hymn. id/idol. ix/ix. kind/kind. kyr/kyr. lace/lace. lamb/lamb. life/life. light/light. lo/love. lyr/lyr. lyre/lyre. melancholy/melancholy. metallic/metallic. mirror/mirror. mist/mist. misty/misty. mon/mon. moral/moral. omen/omen. peace/peace. perfect/perfection. pink/pink. pure/pure. pure/purr. radiant/radiant. ribbon/ribbon. rose/rose. sacred/sacred. saint/saint. scept/scepter. self/self. ser/seraph. seraph/seraph. seraph/seraphim. shimmer/shimmer. shine/shining. shx/hxr. silk/silk. sin/sin. sing/song. sky/sky. smite/smite. snake/snake. snow/snow. soar/soaring. soft/soft. somber/somber. sorrow/sorrow. spark/sparkle. spirit/spirit. sugar/sugar. swan/swan. sweet/sweet. taint/taint. tether/tether. thorn/thorn. thxy/thxm. thy/thyn. tru/trumpet. unholy/unholy. unknown/unknown. vae/vaer. val/valentine. vio/vior. water/water. white/white. wi/wing. wing/wing. wraith/wraith. wrath/wrath. yellow/yellow. ðe/ðim. þe/þim. ȝe/ȝim. ☀️ . ☁️ . ⛪ . ✨ . ⭐ . 🐑 . 👁️ . 👼 . 🕊️ . 🕯️ . 😇 . 🤍 . 🦢.

[searchingforserendipity25]

'envy is unbecoming.'

'then you ought not to make bribes from the east so beautiful, or at least keep your brother's best steeds for yourself! you know not the treasure you have in maglor,' said fingon.

he ran his hands gently down the sides of the mare, to test her sleek muscles, see how her ears twitched fearlessly.

'maglor sent his excellent horseflesh from the gap into your stables - my stables and my kennels and all my halls are silent of brother and sister, and you sit in your great fortress gnawing at impatience because your brother wants more riders.'

'more riders, more supplies, and no armour at all -'

'you do not want to be covered in steel when against a dragon, be sensible -'

'orcs care not for these sensible precautions. and he is enjoying making battle on wyrms too dearly. he keeps challenging them to games of song and riddles - it's unbecoming.'

fingon laughed. not an excellent elder brother, fingon; fond in his great steadfast way, but it would not cross his mind to fret about the weapons and wear of his siblings - he was not enough their lord, and trusted them too well.

which was perhaps how he misplaced two of them in one mistake, and barely noticed before harvesting season.

maedhros would have gone quite mad in his position, but then he never would be in this position. he was wise enough to give his brothers realms of their own, right where he could see them.

'maglor would not bite the mastering hand and drift away into mist with an army.'

maedhros snorted. 'not for lack of wishing, i suspect. can i interest you in a binding oath sworn unto all the powers of arda? it tends to suit quite well as a bridle on wayward siblings.'

'they would not swear a thing i should believe,' fingon said.

his mouth was supple still, in the half-gloom of himring's great stables, but eyes were tight. slating amber light fell on him, gilded his ribbons and the paint on his lids, made him apiece with the dusty quiet, the straw-smells. 'not they that swore fealty to fingolfin, and broke it on a whim. perhaps i do envy you.'

maedhros had kept to fingon's back, a decorous half-step behind, making himself a warm barrier against the bitter draft. he laid a hand over his, where it was stroking the mare's mane.

in closeness, he could feel fingon's shifting thoughts, his spirits like a wind-rush, full of its own momentum always.

it had fascinated him, when he was younger - how forceful and shameless in thinking and speaking his half-cousin was, swift to laughter and tears and friendship.

it had seemed the greatest foolishness to him, to go shield-less and bold through life.

he showed it to fingon, the silver-lit memory of tirion's squares and tirion's gossip. 'then maglor would chide me,' maedhros said. 'and claim you had the greatest courage. still i think you are very foolish. you ought to stop playing favourites, o prince.'

fingon's cheek pressed against his chin, dimpling, and then growing damp. maedhros felt the sting of his grief as sharply as the cold wind seeping through his furs, for to fingon all grief as a desolation of the weather.

he came to himring only after returning to barad eithel empty handed. after scouring all the wild places he could find, singing to old oaks and firs with begging voice to betray the secrets of the lady aredhel, whom they loved - putting his ears to stone and dust, spying for his brother's tread.

he had not wept under his father's eye, kneeling in shame for his failure. harvest was finished, and vinyamar gathered sand-drifts on its high, spiraling flight of stairs, and stray lynxes came to mate and breed and fight in their rooms.

fingolfin did worry, and moreover fingolfin felt any touch of betrayal dreadfully.

fingon would not betray his father, not in anything. he did not need an oath to make it so. maedhros was not without some jealousy for his king, though not for crown and sceptre.

he could not be sorry, at least, to be himring the ever-cold, where fingon the valiant came when he was furious, wretched, and in need of some relief from the encompassing sense of cool mosaic under his knees and failure in his throat.

the mare wickered, nudging at fingon's hand. an intelligent, sensitive, as maglor's breeding tended to be - fingon smiled, and breathed deep before stepping away from him.

valiant, maglor had said, during those word-guessing games they played as youths, sharing insights on all they knew, preparing cunning songs and clever manoeuvres. do not discount him just yet! i have an ear for these things. see how he makes all the world fond of him, and gives generously, and lives as a prince ought; nolofinwë has made himself a champion. i daresay he is not apt to be anything else. i should think he must be very brave, not to flee for the wild, or go mad a little.

his eyes in the dark were all amber, glowing. maedhros could not imagine any walking away from him. were he mountain-stone and greening bush, he would have betrayed to him the secrets of any lost realm. he would have found it himself - if he were anything but himself.

'do not ask me to impartial,' fingon decreed. he touched the corner of maedhros's mouth to him, a brief warmth. he was moving already onwards, thinking new thoughts fresh and brimming over with the engine's work of his mind, making bright again the paltry sun of the stable's gloom. 'i am not king, merely the prince that remains! the lords of the east keeps paying the most outrageous weregild, and i need the horses. i am naming her for a spear or some such, i think - but my father the king will have the stallion.'

[celeluwhenfics]

pHORSEuasion - Chapter 1. Into the Very Fire

Éomer. Éomer.

Rowena’s heart rang with the name at every step of her weary mare. The crunch of chips of ice underfoot mingled with the tinkling of cattle bells and the clinking of chain mail. Muddy water spurted over the wilted grass around hooves and boots, pooling in the footprints behind. Sulking merchants and shepherds trudged silently in the cold sludge. Only the guards escorting the caravan, in turns riding ahead to look over ridges or knolls, exchanged a few words signaling that the way seemed safe.

Rowena sat half dreaming, looking down along Mjuka’s shoulder, past the puffs of mist rolling from her nostrils. For long hours since the morning, she had watched her hoof break ice, crush grass and splash mud.

Éomer.

Two days before, when they had started upon the grassy path that stretches south out of Glamsbjerg and joins in Grimslade the great road east along the lower slopes of the White Mountains, the travelers had exchanged songs to lift hearts and stories to stir laughter. But on this third day on the road, after uneasy nights in the damp and freezing camps, songs and laughter had turned scarce.

Rowena ached from the long, slow journey in the saddle, for she had not often left Glamsbjerg in the two years since her family had withdrawn there. Rare had been the occasions for a leisurely ride; she had shared old Mjuka with her mother and sister after misfortune had forced them to part with their best horses.

Folcred’s passing the month before had deepened their sorrow beyond measure, but the modest purse they had gotten from selling his war horse and his armour had granted them the means to pay their most pressing debts. They still had enough left to purchase warm clothes for all three, wood to keep their hearth burning for the rest of the winter, and they had bought another small, hardy mare. Her mother had then managed to part with the trusted Mjuka for her journey to Edoras, however long her stay there might be. But the beautiful, spirited mare she had reared, trained and ridden as a young girl was lost forever.

She steered her mind away from bitter recollections of the happy, careless days of her youth, from before she had known loss, disgrace, and privation. She curled her numb fingers in the scruffy short mane, saying a prayer in gratitude for her humble companion.

Éomer. Éomer. Éomer.

Read more on AO3

Taglist (I've included people who have shown interest on previous posts, let me know if you want to be added, removed, multiplicated, divided, notified only when the fic is done, etc) @emmanuellececchi @errruvande @konartiste @from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras @erathene @mithrandirl @dreambigdreamz

[smolvenger]

Also, I can't say no to blurbs and especially not to something extraordinarily fluffy like "Touch her and you die", tehehe... Perhaps with Henry V? 🤭

Hiiii bestie! I'm going to make the blurbs shorter and simpler if you don't mind!

His Queen (Henry V x fem! Reader blurb)

Your boat docked right on the shores of France. So while your husband, the king, was determined to fight there- you had to see him.

Henry had waited with his whole army on the shore of a cliff. Then he dismounted his horse and ran up. It was a reminder of his youth- the young, firey, springy king. He easily bounded through the little beach and the plank right as you stepped up to get off the boat. Before his army and the guards, he embraced you passionately and you back.

"How are you, my sweet wife?"

"Weary from the journey though it was smooth," you confessed.

"For such a lady as you, even the seas and winds themselves would still and become gentle for you to cross," he said.

He hugged you again, peppering a kiss onto your cheek as you laughed, feeling the tickle of his facial hair and re-acquainting yourself with his lips.

He gestured to one of the lords. The Lord of York brought forth a beautiful white mare and you gasped.

"A gift for you, my lady," he offered.

You thanked him and he helped you to mount her. She accepted you- gentle was her demeanor and what a good companion she would make here in France.

"Why, the seas were quite misty- I should call her Mist, for she reminds me a little of it," you cooed, petting her mane.

"A noble, strong, yet sweet and beautiful thing, much like my dearest queen and lady," Henry said.

"My, what words roll off your tongue now! They shall call you a poet, not a ruler," you teased.

"Then it means I am an artist, and you are the muse then for such words. And if I must continue my pen, then my muse shouldn't be kept too long from me," he bantered back lightly.

He got up on his own horse- a white stallion quoting yours. You felt like a fairy queen, not a mortal one, as she trotted over the grass.

And you were led to ride and sit on your horse before the army. Dressed in their greys and blacks and scraps of leather, their eyes were big.

"This here, is Her Majesty, the Queen of England," announced Henry.

You smiled, though part of you went stiff. A few looks seemed to be borderline leers. How long have these men been deprived of a woman's presence?

Henry noticed, and his voice turned a darker tone, a fiercer one.

"She is both your ruler and a lady, and you must respect her as you do both. She is also my wife, I must remind you..."

His eyes darkened. The army stiffened, turning pale and attentive like naughty schoolboys caught by their teacher.

"You must guard her and listen to and follow her as you do Harry of England. She is England's Woman and it's most precious jewel. And should any miscreant or bully among you dare lay a finger on that precious jewel, I shall condemn you at once to hang. Remember the fate of Bardolph- one of your own who greedily robbed a poor church of its dearest sacraments- and she here is the greatest sacrament of England. And if none of you want to share worse than his fate, then cool your lust elsewhere...or I shall execute you myself." Henry threatened all of them.

The soldiers bowed their heads and complied. You gave him a smile. Though the only woman there, you were unafraid.

You were ready to join your husband and support him without fear.

A03//My Ko-Fi//My Etsy Shop//Masterlist//Wattpad

Taglist: @asgards-princess-of-mischief @jennyggggrrr @five-miles-over @fictive-sl0th @ladycamillewrites @villainousshakespeare @holdmytesseract @eleniblue @twhxhck @lokisgoodgirl @lovelysizzlingbluebird @raqnarokr @holymultiplefandomsbatman @michelleleewise @wolfsmom1 @cheekyscamp @mochie85 @fandxmslxt69 @skittslackoffilter @mischief2sarawr

[cosmerelists]

The Most Annoying Things about Living on Era 1 Scadrial

[Previously: The Most Annoying Things About Living on Roshar]

Once again, this list is focused on things that are just annoying, rather than straight-up unconscionable and/or horrifying--you know, like all of the violence and abuse and slavery. Putting all of the actual bad bad aside, what sorts of things about living in the world of Era 1 Mistborn would just be bothersome?

1. Ash. Ash everywhere.

It would just be so...dirty. Ash on your skin. Ash in your hair. Ash dusting every surface in your home. Ash in your food. You'd just feel so dirty, all of the time. Like, I'm the sort of person who gets frustrated after a few days in a hotel because everything on the bathroom sink is just inevitably kinda damp after a while and there are never enough little towels to dry everything off. Scadrial would be like that, only way, WAY more annoying.

2. ACAB...only with more body horror

Like, yes--Scadrial is a terrifying police state full of cops who can kill you with their mind. But that's over on the "actually horrifying" side of things. For my purposes, there's also the fact that these monstrous officers of the autocracy have, just, spikes sticking straight out of the back of their head through their eyes. I do not like horror. I do not like body horror. I'd be over there trying not to gag just from how gross they looked as they, well, killed all of my loved ones or whatever.

3. No greenery, no flowers

Like, not only is there ash and body horror everywhere, but everything is also just...brown. The plants are brown. There aren't any flowers. I'm with Mare on this one. It was be sad to not see color anywhere.

4. Depression can be outsourced

Emotional allomancy is a pretty anxiety-inducing concept, so far as I'm concerned. It's like the half-joking fear that one day advertisers will find a way to inject ads directly into our brains, only in this case, people really can make you unavoidably depressed or curious or wanting-to-fetch-Breeze-some-wine. I already can't trust my emotions half the time--this would make it so much worse!

5. Mistwraiths are not as cute as racoons

Yes, they may both be scavengers out there doin' their thing and not really hurting anyone, but please mentally compare a fuzzy raccoon with its little raccoon face and little racoon hands and then imagine that it's a mistwraith digging through your garbage instead. I think we can agree on which one would be worse.

6. No stargazing

Oh, you want to go on a romantic or platonic outing to go gaze up at the wondrous night sky? Hell no! The world is crusted in ash and mist and all is darkness. Sorry.

7. People keep dropping coins on your head

Maybe there aren't tons of people who, like me, have a vague fear that someone will drop a coin off a building above you and brain you in the head. But on Scadrial, that is a real concern. There's Mistborn flying all over the damn place flinging money at each other. Some of that is gonna rain down on innocent people below, is all I'm saying.

I don't think Scadrial is for me.