#horse tail mattress

[pranasleepnaturalmattress]

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[hybbart]

Day 1904: The spread of sculk is too much to just clean. After salvaging what they could, the ranch is taken down...

Bonus short story below.

Jimmy watched as the last of the house blazed in the twilight. Around the edges of the flames Pearl and Sausage marched, searching for anything flammable that might catch. It was the beginning of winter, and the constant rains had kept everything soaked, but they couldn’t risk it in the middle of the forest. Lizzie had stayed closer as well, securing the last of their belongings to take away in the morning. It was only a few metres down the driveway, but the ranchers couldn’t even get that far.

Tango let out a low growl. His grip on Jimmy’s sleeve tightened, pulling the thick fabric further over his eyes. Puffing up his feathers, Jimmy pulled his rancher closer into his side. Tango only stayed because of Jimmy, and because he couldn’t bring himself to leave the ranch behind. It was what he’d said yesterday, before the first burning. But he couldn’t watch. He could barely help them clear it out before the sledgehammers came in. Sparks flickered through his hair in lieu of tears in his eyes as he kept his face buried.

Jimmy, though… He was entranced. Every crack in the beams that cause a burst of sparks or shift in the wind that billowed the smoke in a new direction. The smoke made his eyes water, but none fell. Maybe he’d finally grown numb. Maybe it looked too different. There was a pile of flaming rubble where his home once was, his first home, but his chest only felt hollow. All that was left with a twitch in his wing, the desire to run and keep far away.

Pity in her eyes, Lizzie approached them from the trailer. Reins were pushed into Jimmy’s hand against his protest. “Take a horse and head back to my house before it gets dark.” She said.

“But-”

“No arguing.” Despite the firmness of her words her voice was low and sad. “You need to sleep in a real bed, Sausage is going to stay here tonight. The last of your things will be fine overnight with us.”

Even after years, Jimmy was never able to argue with Lizzie when she said something reasonable, and he’d given up trying. Jimmy glanced to Tango, who was still hiding from the world in Jimmy’s sleeve. A small tug on his hem was all he got in response. “We’ll be back in the morning with more water.” He assured. They rounded up Bullseye and began the long, quiet ride to Lizzie’s. 

By the time they arrived it was dark, the home illuminated from within the kitchen. Though half the house was cloaked in tarps to save unfinished work from the rain, they’d moved into the completed half already. A bit of smart planning on Scar and Joel’s part.

One of the kids must have spotted their lantern, as the door opened before the ranchers could get down from their horse. Tom came rushing up with Revy on his tail. He took Bullseye's reins from them and led him to the cow pen. It was more cramped than it should be, since the rain had flooded the rancher’s outer pastures. Revy whined and licked at Tango’s hand until he gave the dog a weak pat.

Joel shouted something after him before guiding the men inside. “We just started eating if you want to sit down.” He explained as he took Jimmy’s coat. One glance at Tango was enough to answer.

“I’ll grab some in a bit.” Jimmy tried to smile gratefully, but it came out as a grimace. Joel let them be with a nod, hand held out to the hall down which Sausage’s room awaited.

It was colourful, though the furniture was rudimentary, with a mattress stolen from Scar’s hospital. The bed so much smaller than they’d gotten used to, but Jimmy doubted it would matter for tonight. Norman and Flick waited on the windowsill, and Joel had already set up Jimmy’s breathing machine. It took some coaxing to get Tango to change out of his coveralls - which went into a plastic bag to be washed separate - and take off his arm. Even more coaxing was needed to get him to let go long enough for Jimmy to also change. When Jimmy turned back around the blazeborn had Revy wrapped up in his lap instead. The dog’s tail beat against the bed, happy to be held, but whining, nonetheless.

“Do you think you can eat?” Jimmy asked quietly. Tango didn’t respond. He grabbed only one bowl from the kitchen, unsure he could eat much either without it coming back up. Smoke still clung to their skin and hair, dragging them back to the ranch every time it filled their nostrils, but it was much too dark to run a hot bath. Still, Jimmy knew he had to eat something, even if it was in silence.

Tango migrated behind Jimmy at the end of the bed, tail wrapping around the avian’s waist. Its tuft flicking with agitation. Jimmy could feel the heat rolling off his rancher. “It’s not fair.” He rasped.

Jimmy’s wings flattened. “It was an old wood house. It would have had a mold problem eventually unless we rebuilt completely.”

“But why did it have to be sculk!” He snapped, tail sparkling in Jimmy’s lap. Jimmy tried to smooth it down, but it had little effect. “Why’d it have to make it here?”

There wasn’t an answer, not one Jimmy could provide. Maybe Doc or Zed could explain. It was probably in the well and washing into the surrounding water supply now. Would it be washed away? They should have listened to Grian’s worries back when Jimmy’s feathers had been infected somewhere. Or, maybe, back when they’d first found that infested corpse, they should have done something more. It didn’t matter now that their home was already gone. When nowhere felt safe.

His wings itched while his rancher bristled. Tango couldn’t cry, but he was made to fume. “Why aren’t you angry?”

“There’s no one to be angry at.” Jimmy shrugged. 

“The stupid sculk! The idiots who let it loose! The world!” The bed creaked as Tango kicked off it to pace the small room. Revy whimpered, shifting his nose into Jimmy’s lap. “It’s been half a decade. It was supposed to get better. We live out in the middle of nowhere. And the end of the world still found us! We build our own home and make our own food and do everything we can, and it still comes and finds us!” The blazeborn was consumed in his spiral. Flames burst like firecrackers along his tail, startling Flick when it whipped past the poor cat. 

“Tango…” Jimmy sighed, giving the man a miserable look. When he continued to pace, threatening to scorch their hosts’ possessions, Jimmy finally put a hand up in front to stop him.

A hiss escaped Tango, narrowed eyes glaring at the hand which proceeded to latch onto his shirt and drag him off course. Tango tried to shake it off, but Jimmy kept his hold. “It’s not fair that there’s nothing to fight back against.” He lamented, voice cracking. “I just have to sit here and hope tomorrow it doesn’t get in your wings, or start growing into Revy’s brain, or infest another basement! That it doesn’t get everywhere and take everything. At least the stupid zombie I can punch in the face!” By the end his voice was so shrill and watery Jimmy could barely understand it.

“Me and Revenge are okay. We’re right here.” Jimmy assured, pulling Tango back down beside him. 

It made something finally break. Tango curled into himself across Jimmy’s lap, heaving dryly. Talons raked gently through the blazeborn’s hair. Between sobs Tango mumbled incomprehensibly while Jimmy cooed to keep himself from crying as well. There were too many things roiling just beneath his impulse control. If he let one out, the rest would follow, he was sure. So, he focused on Tango. His rancher needed him.

“I don’t think we’d win if it was someone you had to fight, to be honest.” He whispered half-jokingly as the sobs died down.

Tango stilled, then slumped further into Jimmy’s chest. “I could at least try, instead of this.”

Jimmy hummed. Even if they could, Jimmy wasn’t so sure he would in the moment, and he knew Tango wasn’t all that dissimilar. Unlike Joel or the downtowners, their talent was for running and hiding. That wasn’t the point though, Jimmy knew, so he didn’t argue. “What do we do in the spring?” He asked instead.

“… I dunno.” Tango mulled, head tilted out to look at his thoughts. “It’s not safe to rebuild there.”

“Scar has most of the grain safe, and Lizzie has our animals. We could find another plot, there’s plenty around.” Though, most of them had been stripped of their valuable supplies and building materials over the years or rotted away from lack of care. But the land was still good, and they and Pearl didn’t need much room. 

Would Pearl stay with them? They’d lived with her much longer than without her – if the time before her arrival weren’t so chaotic, he might not recall so well what it was like without her – but she always seemed to keep her distance. A guest, even after she was given her own room. Having someone there to take care of things even when they couldn’t let them grow the ranch to almost thirty cattle, but without her...

That Lizzie’s family would have their own ranch soon was the only thing that calmed the nervous itch in his wings recently.

“We’d have to move closer.” Tango’s voice cut through his thoughts.

“Huh?”

He was no longer curled up, though he hadn’t bothered to remove himself from Jimmy. There was that look in his eyes, where his brain was moving far too fast for Jimmy to keep up. At least it had occupied him with something other than the sculk and fire. “We can’t rebuild around the ranch, we won’t know how bad the infection around it is until next winter, and the water probably isn’t safe. If we rebuilt we’d have to move further west down the mountains towards the city, OR-” Tango raised his hand before Jimmy could protest. “We move closer to the hospital, somewhere around here, or maybe further into the interior on the other side.” 

Jimmy clamped up. They’d all had more than a few conversations about this, between them and the hospital, other settlements, and over the radio. Don’t put all your eggs in one basket. Keep spread out. Far enough that, if something happens, everyone else is safe, but close enough to reach neighbours relatively quick. Like a long chain snaking across the mountains. By now everyone had horses or bikes and access to the recap radio, and it helped them cover more resources. A farm needed land, anyways, especially to keep up with how many people there now were within the network. 

That thought seemed too much right now, though. He could feel the ash in his wings turning to lead. Losing the ranch didn’t just affect them. The cattle were saved but almost all their stores were gone, including two cows’ worth of beef that was to be sent out. It would take weeks, if not the whole season, to get things back in motion, in the months they were relied on most. Would people starve? Would the sculk spread from the ranch? It was a responsibility that seemed natural and seamless just weeks ago, but now felt suffocating.

“I’m not sure-” Jimmy finally replied. “I’m not sure I can rebuild the ranch right now.” Flashes of the burning rubble filled his mind, along with that numbness he’d felt. There was at least three months before they could begin, plenty of time to get over it. But right now… “I don’t even know if I want to.”

He expected perhaps a gasp or shouting from Tango. ‘We’re the ranchers!’ Maybe. But the blazeborn, to Jimmy’s surprise, nodded. Laughed, even. “We’ve been running one for years, why’s it feel impossible now?”

It was probably just nerves. Anxiety. In a few weeks it would wear away. But for now, Jimmy leaned his head against the top of Tango’s and entertained other things. “We could move back to the hospital.”

“That’d drive you insane, and Revy would kill Grian.” Tango chuckled. 

So would you, Jimmy thought. He was sure if Tango had to see more sculk every day he would lose it. “What about visiting Gem and Impulse then?” He suggested instead. “I heard they’ve been doing a lot of forestry. It might be good to learn from them. Or we could finally go to the coast.”

“We never did make it that far, did we?” Tango recalled. “… Why not both? Go back up the mountain and race back down until we hit the coast. Maybe find some more people outside the recap’s range and bring them in.”

“If they’ve survived this long then I doubt they’d want to move now.” 

“They might. Or maybe we can help extend the radio range for them.”

Jimmy smiled. “Maybe we should go east, instead. Find a ranch in the prairies. Be real cowboys.”

“Never been out there, even before all this.” Tango relaxed back against Jimmy, patting his leg for Revenge to come lay across. “You could stretch your wings.”

“That sounds nice.” He admitted with a sigh.

The pair continued to chatter, naming everything and everywhere. Making plans they’d likely never use. Anything to take their mind off the ranch. Just for one night.

[hazbinshusk]

a kiss in parting w blitz please i need the angst lmao😭

prompt #28: a kiss in parting.

You arch up against Blitzø with a throaty moan as he thrusts hard into you, his slow, steady pace offset by the way devasting way he bottoms out with every press of his hips. His teeth graze the soft flesh of your neck, his breath leaving him in a soft growl.

It hurts in the best way, the way he’s stretching you with every slide of his cock into you. The way his claws dig into your hips. The way he moves his mouth to yours and his teeth catch your bottom lip as he moans into your kiss. You tighten around him, wrapping your legs around his waist, and his breath catches. “Jesus. Fuck…”

“Right there,” you whine as he angles his hips in the way that makes your eyes roll back. “Fuck, right there, Blitz, right there, right… fucking there…”

He rolls his fingers over your clit and you cum hard, nails digging into his shoulders. Blitzø groans, curses, and moans your name as he follows you over the precipice, spilling himself into your warmth. “Satan’s… fuck!”

Blitzø keeps pumping his hips into yours disjointedly until you’re pushing him away, your thighs shaking from the stimulation. He taps your clit with his tail teasingly, and you smack him in the arm. He rolls off of you with a laugh.

“Holy shit.”

“Damn fuckin’ right,” he replies cockily, tucking his hands behind his head.

“Oh, shut up.” He laughs again, the tip of his tail drawing slowly up your thigh. It makes you jump, and you swat his tail away, rolling onto your stomach and taking his face in your hands. You kiss him, letting him relax into it for a few moments before you reach down to scratch your nails over his hipbone. He jerks away from you with what could almost be a whimper as you find that sensitive spot that always seems to rile him up. This soon after an orgasm is basically torture. “Serves you right.”

“Fuckin’ dick.”

“I just finished doing that, actually.”

Blitzø scoffs, the sound devolving into a laugh. Then, he sighs, stretching his arms out above him before he sits up and swings his legs out over the side of the mattress. You sit up slightly, raising an eyebrow curiously.

“Are you leaving?”

He nods, tugging a shirt on over his head and scanning the carpet for his briefs. “Full moon tonight – got that appointment with his Royal Horniness for a grand-slam smack-down of sex.”

You wrinkle you nose at the description, trying to ignore the weight his words set into your stomach. “That’s still happening?”

Blitzø shrugs a shoulder. “Still need the book if I.M.P. is gonna keep bringing in bank.”

“Right.”

He stands, pulling his underwear up his thighs and snapping the waistband into place. Even as your mood drops, you can’t help the small smirk that touches your lips at the silhouettes of galloping horses printed across the fabric. “And you just knooooow Birdy is probably already gagging over the thought of getting to split himself open on—”

“Oooookay,” you cut him off, rolling your eyes as you sit up. You tug the blankets up against your chest, swallowing back the distaste you suddenly feel. “I get it.”

Blitzø snickers, fastening his belt.

“Just… promise me you’re gonna shower before you go over there.”

He turns to face you, shooting you a wink. “’Course. I’m a classy bitch, tits. Besides, I’ve gotta swing by home and check on my Loonie-Toonie anyway.”

“Mm-hm.” You toy with the sheets with unsteady fingers.

Blitzø shrugs his jacket into place, tail whipping gently back and forth. He lets his eyes fall down over your body for a moment before meeting your eye again with a wiggle of his eyebrows. “I text ya later for a round two, alright?”

You nod, offering him a weak smile. “Sure. If the Prince doesn’t wear you out.”

The imp snickers, leaning across the bed to smack a quick kiss against your lips. “Oh please, y’know it takes more than a few ball-drainin’ fucks to stop me from bangin’ your silly little brains out.”

You press your lips together tightly as he turns to leave, and you lay down again, rolling onto your side so you can avoid watching him walk through the door.

send me a prompt and either husk or blitzø

[strawb3rrystar]

hey!! can you do nsfw HC for blitz, millie, and moxxie? if not that’s okay :p

Double exposure.

Pairing: Blitzø, Millie, Moxxie x GN! Reader

Warnings: Nsfw stuff

Word count: 492

✰Masterlist

Blitzø

✰ He's topping you no matter what. You could never convince him to be submissive

✰ Into roleplaying. Like REALLY into roleplaying (*cough cough* horses)

✰ He's also really into dirty talk, both ways around

✰ Not anything too extreme, but he likes a bit of impact play

✰ Like some light spanking or something

✰ Also some light bondage here and there whenever he feels like it

✰ Really, he's down for whatever you want to do

✰ He's not really picky

✰ Blitz will tease you with his tail

✰ Like giving you a light wack or rubbing the tip of it against your body

✰ Not really the best at giving head, but he's pretty good

✰ He like reviving better

✰ Blitz does not do slow and sensual

✰ He's pounding your ass into the mattress

✰ He'll take care of you afterwards, surprisingly

✰ Is always down for some post-sex snuggles

✰ And he will purr while clinging onto you

Millie

✰ GET THE STRAP- I mean.. who said that?!

✰ She's a switch through and through

✰ Doesn't mind taking the lead or sitting back and watching you do so

✰ She's super sweet during sex

✰ Checks in every ten minutes to make sure you're okay

✰ She doesn't have any extreme kinks

✰ Maybe some bondage, but that's it

✰ She loves face sitting, though

✰ Weather its you sitting on her, or her sitting on you, she loves it

✰ Is the BEST at giving head

✰ Can make you see heaven every time

✰ She might 69 with you if she's up for it

✰ Millie is nice and sensual

✰ She never skips out on foreplay. She believes it's extremely important

✰ But she believes aftercare is far more important

✰ Has a mini fridge stocked full of snacks and drinks for you

✰ Loves, loves, loves pillow talk

Moxxie

✰ He's a bottom. We all know it. There's no denying it

✰ But he's a super sweet and loving bottom

✰ As we know, he likes taking it up the ass

✰ So do with that what you will

✰ He's the most vanilla out of the cast

✰ Moxxie's not about the pain game

✰ Because, well.. ya know

✰ Anyways, he's really good a giving head

✰ Not too keen on receiving, he's more of a giving person

✰ He's the most romantic when is comes to sex

✰ Always setting the mood with candles and rose petals

✰ Also thinks foreplay is extremely important

✰ He never wants to skip it

✰ Moxxie is the best at aftercare

✰ He runs a bath and gets you all the snacks

✰ He might give you a massage, depending on how intense the sex was

✰ But make sure you do the same for him as well, he deserves it too

✰ Loves post-sex cuddles with pillow talk

Star's notes -> Gotta treat my favs well (Millie doesn't get enough love tbh)

(Thank you, sweet anon, for requesting!) (Requests are open!)

Taglist -> @sunshines-bright @saints-wrapped-in-plastic @sweetadonisbutbetter @buzzz-bee | Join the taglist

[theredofoctober]

MANNA— CHAPTER THREE: TOAST

Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham AU fic: TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, drugging, mild Daddy kink (it'll all make sense).

This chapter is chronologically the third in the series

Keep reading after the cut

Daybreak: you come to in a spare room in Hannibal Lecter's house, as dark about you as a bloody inner mouth; pain decants itself between your thighs, and you remember what was done to you, in the punishing night.

You rise on your knees and scream in despair at your violation, at your abandonment, at your misfortune in falling tail-side of a coin flip, condemning you to the treacherous care of two men engaged in the pretence that there is some benevolent end to this.

Yet it occurs to you, from the sylphs of memory, that perhaps only one of the pair is pretending: Will Graham, still so glued to the principles of society that he put up a hero’s protest against the rape. He had shaken like a rib-kicked dog after fucking you, face-down, on this very rock of a mattress, while Hannibal’s firm hands guided you onto his colleague’s cock, so gentle, so deathly that your cunt still throbs sickly at the thought of them.

Their beauty, their talent, so fabulously cruel, arranging your suffering to their aesthetic approval—

Dr Lecter didn’t accept you for inpatient care to better you, but to ruin, and make worse all the dun and violet horrors of your tortured mind. You are a jewel in the hand of a god of death to be held captive; you must serve to survive, or else perish for your pride like the girls in all the recent headlines, never to be found till you are roaches and dust.

Will and Hannibal will not have you starve to death, but they might well be your decay in another fashion, now that you are the bruised and buckle-kneed prey to their hunter dreams. You hate the devil-horse drag in your stomach as you think of their hands on you, making a doe of you in their degradation.

You scrub the bedsheet between your thighs, choking at the dirt-salt scent of the stain the endeavour leaves behind. Standing up, you feel strain and bruising in every limb; you stagger about, taking inventory of the studiously bare surfaces, locked drawers, a barred window, an en-suite bathroom with its absence of a razor. There is a toothbrush and paste, expensive soaps, which you are obviously expected to use.

The sight of them reminds you that you are here on an indefinite stay, that according to your loved ones—and likely to the law—you are precisely where you need to be. No one will guess at your abuse, beguiled by the beautiful sham of the prestigious doctor and his accolades. They will think you fortunate, to have been accepted at such a discount, for your family is not rich, and had, in fact, been overjoyed by Hannibal’s gracious reception of their plea to see you.

They’ll want you to do well, here, to strengthen, to thrive, but how can you, when the doctor and his friend will fuck you for your failings, and dope you into drunken insensibility, should you protest?

You cling to the sink and cry until you heave, clammy and juddering in a fit of abject despair. Then, with slow, weary resignation, you wash, scarcely wanting to touch yourself, to feel where you are most hurt.

You return to the bedroom, noticing immediately a set of clothes laid out on the quilt. Cold touches the back of your neck as you realise that Dr Lecter must have put them there, likely heard you sobbing through the door.

How smug he must be, to have provoked you into so amusing a reaction.

Fear strikes a sort of sense in you, and you dress quickly, hating how soft and luxurious the garments feel upon your skin. You crave your own clothes, the comfort of the known, of routine. Yet as you try the bedroom door and let yourself cautiously out into the chill hallway beyond you’ve made the decision to go along with Dr Lecter’s treatment until an opportunity to escape comes to you, which you know it must, being that he is not God, and cannot watch you in perpetuity.

The house is, of course, quite beautiful, grand, and dark, and full of art, magnificent and elaborate; you are intimidated by Dr Lecter’s commitment to beauty, and wonder at your place within it. You feel cheap and inelegant, cumbersome as you blunder from room to room in search of your keeper. He did not take you in for your beauty, you think, with a grim and bitter certainty, unless it is the breaking of your mind beneath his ministrations that is lovely to him.

The sound of an instrument winds through the house, sinisterly pretty, like something played in the court of Marie Antoinette. From the quality of the noise you discern that it is a recording; you had noticed a harpsichord in Hannibal’s office, and wonder if this is a piece he himself has composed to make elegant even the sonic elements of his home.

As you descend the staircase, one shaking hand squeezing the bannister, the music ceases, and Dr Lecter emerges from a doorway, artfully casual with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The expanse of skin revealed to you feels intimate, and as you remember the inferno of your flesh beneath those very arms, you retreat into the shadows of the stairway

He is lower than the devil, this man, yet possesses all of his cunning, and more.

“I am glad to see you this morning,” he says, pleasantly. “I was unsure if you would leave your room. It can be daunting, venturing into an unfamiliar place.”

You don’t answer, can think of nothing to say; it is like making conversation with a puma, more inclined to claw out the garnet hollows of your throat than entertain the vapidity of words.

Hannibal studies you, taking in your appearance in your borrowed clothes with noted pleasure.

“I have made breakfast,” he announces. “French toast: brioche, nutmeg, cinnamon, topped in caramelised sugar. Such simple sweetness is a necessary counter to so bitter a night spent under my roof. A shame that your first evening here was not as welcoming as it should have been.”

You find yourself repulsed by his manners, a taunting pretence of civility. This is a man who knows what he is, and carries himself with pride and comfort in that being; his abuse would be easier to bear had he been coarse, and mad.

“I’m not hungry,” you whisper.

A lie: you are always starving, a walking ache, thinking of little from daylight to darkness but the sustenance you cannot allow yourself, gluttony in the slightest morsel.

Hannibal looks at you with pity, and yet a cold and knowing pleasure, also.

“You must eat, little one,” he says. “Your health is my responsibility, and I am required to see that you fuel your survival, by whatever means I deem appropriate. If neither reason nor encouragement will bring down the battlements you have built around yourself, then I am not opposed to alternative methods of siege.”

You remember the feeding tube shown to you on the previous night, and sag against the bannisters, felled by the impossibility of your situation.

“Please,” you whisper. “Please, let me go home. Why are you doing this?”

Hannibal moves towards the stairs and extends his arm to you, meaning to help you down, as though you would ever accept his assistance. His calm is a slaughterhouse silence, the echo of the chamber when all the killing is done, and it lies empty but for the recollection of screams.

"I'm willing to answer any questions you have for me," he says, congenially. "If you will do something for me, in return."

You step past him, avoiding his arm.

“I don’t trust you,” you say, softly. “What do you want me to do?”

The answer is a penumbra in his eyes.

"For each question I address, you must finish a mouthful of the meal I have set out for you. Finish the plate, and I will allow you a phone call home, to let your parents know that you are settled. It will be supervised, of course."

Suppressed, he means, a hand poised to snatch the receiver, should you speak ill of him and his trembling brute of a colleague. Yet you see that consent to Dr Lecter’s will is the currency that will buy you consolation, in this house, so you nod slowly, coughing down a lump in your throat.

“Okay,” you say. “I’ll try.”

Hannibal smiles, the rictus of some corpse-eating entity.

“That is all I ask of you.”

Some minutes later, seated at a table in a room the blue of some under-sea cavern, opposite the man who aided in your assault, you think how pathetic it is that your greatest ordeal of the past day is neither your kidnapping, nor the attack, but the food oozing butter as though from some golden wound before you.

You cannot count the calories, which are surely around the seven-hundred mark, cannot imagine the fat and the filth contained on that slippery plate, an indulgence you haven’t allowed yourself in years.

“Can’t I have something else?” you plead. “This is too much. I can’t eat this.”

“I suspect that you would find an equal challenge in anything I put before you,” says Hannibal, though not unkindly. “I believe in setting a precedent for what difficulties you may expect, under my care, not only to take note of your strengths for study, but to enhance your understanding of your circumstances. Hunger is the power with which you have averted combat with every assailant of the mind. It is time you went to war, little one, and what better place to begin than at my table?”

The toast smells divine, this you cannot deny; you have heard, vaguely, of Dr Lecter’s mastery of the kitchen, one of many facts clumsily reeled off to you by your parents to assure you of his character and esteem. You know that if you allow yourself to eat there will be as much pleasure as agony in every bite; you percieve, suddenly, the parallels between eating this meal, and having been fucked, ingenious, insidious.

“I can’t eat it,” you say again, rather desperately. “You don’t get it. I can’t just... eat, like other people. I didn't choose to be this way.”

Hannibal looks at you with an expression so close to sympathy that you find yourself confused, unable to reconcile the care in his eyes with his sure evil.

“It's not your fault,” he says. “This mechanism is a friendly fire whose direction you cannot change. Nevertheless, you have no choice but to proceed against it. You may discover a certain liberty in having no other option afforded you.”

A tear rolls from your left eye, fracturing like a bead of glass on the tabletop. Hannibal utters your name so gently that you find yourself hardening against him, reaching for the fork out of spite alone, for all that your illness screams at the act.

You cut a slither of toast and look at it balefully, considering how much exercise and restriction will atone for the sin of swallowing. But eat it you do, ashamed of how delicious that sole piece is, how your stomach roars for the rest of it.

Dr Lecter watches you with the faintest and most odious smile upon his lips.

“I must congratulate you,” he says. “The greatest obstacle before you was to begin, and you have conquered it admirably.”

His praise makes it difficult to swallow. The urge to spit the bread back onto the plate is restrained only by what knowledge you may purchase, if you acquiesce.

“Are you a real doctor?” you ask, your voice small, difficult, coarse with tears.

“I am,” says Dr Lecter, plainly. “I assume that your implication is that my profession is a guise for my unconventional curiosities. In that case, I would argue that all workers are tainted by the passions that drive them. Would you discredit the teacher for the selfish pride he feels in imparting knowledge upon an ignorant pupil?”

“I heard you talking to that man,” you say, pointedly ignoring the metaphor. “Your friend, Will? I know this isn’t just about treating me. What you did to me— you enjoyed it, both of you, and... and you’d do it again. How is assaulting me supposed to help me?”

Hannibal raises a delicate little coffee cup, ingesting its dark aroma before he drinks.

“If you wish me to respond, then you must eat.”

With a pained little shudder, you force down another mouthful, chewing it so many times that its texture is pulp as it goes down.

“There,” you rasp. “Answer me.”

A disgruntled gleam passes the man’s gaze, fading so swiftly that it might have only been a reflection from the windowpane.

“From consulting your records, and having spoken to you myself, I perceive your stubborn absence of response to sensitivity,” says Dr Lecter. “You rebel against it, interpreting any benevolent aid as its opposite. Under pressure— fear, anger, violence—you perform well, however. You submit to change in order to survive. Therefore, it is these methods that will most effectively control your disorder, and I see no shame in resorting to that which will foster the greater good.”

So many words, you think, with so very little honesty behind them.

“There’s some other reason,” you insist. “I know there is. Will Graham— why did you make him do it? Why does he have to be part of this?”

You saw off another piece of toast, suppressing a moan at the spill of salty butter across your tongue. Hannibal observes, knowing, without expressing it aloud, how much you love his cooking, so expert as to be a thing of art.

“I am as dedicated to Will’s growth as I am to yours,” says Dr Lecter. “There is a mutual benefit in his involvement in your care. He lacks confidence in his identity, and certain skills; I aim to coax it out of him.”

“You mean, make him messed up,” you snipe, cutting aggressive slivers from your toast. “Just like you. Like you’re doing to me.”

Your flared sense of injustice stifles the pain of having to eat, the agitation of it.

“Why me, out of all your patients? I’m not special.”

“On the contrary, your particular ailment intrigues me,” says Hannibal, pouring himself another measure of coffee. “As individuals, you and I are at direct opposition. I intend to foster an enthusiasm for eating in you that is akin to mine. The complexity of doing so possesses an allure in the frontiers that we both must cross.”

Your jaw pounds from the effort of mastication; you’ve long forgotten how it feels to eat so much.

“Will you let me go home when you’re... finished with me?” you ask, without much hope.

Dr Lecter’s face betrays little of his inner mind, so controlled as to be a pleasant blank.

“Once you are fully recovered, you will be free to leave at will. Until then, I must withhold your liberty.”

You eat, tortured by the repetition, and by the growing pain in your abdomen, unused to being filled.

“Who else knows what you’ve done to me?” you ask. “And what you’re planning to do?”

“Beyond this room, only Will is aware of my most unorthodox practices,” Hannibal replies. “Those unaccustomed to experimentation may find it distasteful, even disturbing.”

You push your plate across the table with a screech of porcelain.

“I find it disturbing,” you say. “You’re really just going to hold me prisoner?”

“Finish your breakfast, or I cannot give you my reply.”

“I can’t,” you say. “I feel sick.”

The French toast, cooling in its basin of fat, suddenly revolts you, and you wish that you were in the habit of purging, to bring up the sodden bread you’ve ingested.

“I’m sorry to hear it,” says Dr Lecter. “In that case, I am afraid you will not be permitted to speak to your parents.”

With an air of disappointment, he rises, coming behind you to take away your plate. Your dominant hand clenches your fork, and you wait for the man to lean down, offering you an angle to pierce his throat. You’ve never killed before, are unsure if you’d have it in you to drive home the slaughtering blow.

As it stands, you will never know.

Dr Lecter’s hand closes over your tensed arm, bringing it up against your windpipe, choking you with the pressure of your own wrist upon you. His body is a prison bar at your back; he holds you securely, and without any particular violence, as though doing nothing more unusual than shaking your hand.

“You did not yet strike,” says Hannibal, as you hack and cough for air. “So your punishment for considering my murder will be mild. You will sit in a corner and face the wall until I leave for my first appointment at the office. After this, you will return to your room, where you will stay until I come home. If you must behave like an unreasonable child, then I will respond, likewise.”

Fear makes you almost insensible as Hannibal’s lips draw close to your cheek.

“I am aware of your habit to regress, in such dire moments," he murmurs. "I heard the name that passed your lips, when Will withdrew from you—"

Daddy, you'd called him, in your hopeless vulnerability.

"—Your loved ones failed you, at some vital point, in your youth. We will not.”

He releases you, and in the adrenaline fog of regaining your breath you realise, with a flush of horror, that you are no longer hungry.

What else will be taken from you, child as you are in the ravenous dark of this house?

[heartfullofleeches]

Do it. Write the seashore fic you have always dreamed of. Do it

Here's a little blurbo I wrote based off this ask I couldn't find normally -

Kaimana when darling gets a bad dragon (or equivalent) to either sploge in his pouch or put some eggs in his pouch. Maybe both! Sea horse deserves the experience of full breeding even if reader can’t actually do it

[Tags: Sub Yan, G.N Reader, oviposition, toys, breeding kink]

-

"More.....need more...."

So demanding..... Alot coming from the man who begs you to press into the mattress and bred him proper on the daily. Poor thing always seem to be in a rut - a terrible case would do that to a person. Wondering aloud what color eyes children between you and he would bare. Books filled with names for your future bundles of joy and what like may be like as they grew. His domestic bliss was in part hell as you lacked the biological functions to preform as desired. Kai claimed to be find with adopting, but you had other ideas for entertaining his fantasies until a better time.

"But you already have so many in..." You cloyingly soothe - lowering a hand from his perked nipples down to the notably bump in his lower abdomen where the eggs sat nestled snugly in his pouch. Patting your finger against tense muscles, Kaimana whines as you push down - plugging his hole with his digits as the latest addition to the set slips peaks from his folds.

"Don't...please, I want them all in... I want to know what it's like...I beg of you.."

You kisses away his tears, bringing his head to your chest to further comfort him by the beat of your heart and warm skin. "I'd hate for my sweet wife to strain himself. You did so good for your first time."

"It's not enough.." Kaimana wails. "Please, my love - you have my faith so please give me the same. The decades along have broken me, but I am not fragile."

You share a silent kiss as you part from him - retrieving the toy and remaining eggs as you seat yourself onto his tail. You push the gel orb into the back end of the ovipositor, lining its fat tip with his entrance as you grip Kaimana's hip. He cups your jaw and brings his lips down to yours as the toy sinks in. It lacks the warm and pulse he so cherished, but knowing its your hand that guides it deeper makes everything feel just right.

[thepiratefish]

I wrote a small thing for Ichabod and Drey, this was mainly inspired by a few other moots on Discord. So far, they have been called Cattlepunk, and I am obsessed with them, Enjoy <3

Drey fell to the floor clutching his injured shoulder, a scar or two was bleeding from the injury and it hurt like hell. He was also certain it was broken or atleast dislocated.

Jayson stood a few feet away from him and leaned down to pick up something that was glinting from the little light in the area. It was a set of rings one silver and the other bronze, the silver one had a symbol of a horse in it while the other had the Ferins symbol.

"You were married?" Jayson asked, slightly shocked.

"Oh, you didn't know? Well, yeah. Are you pissed because you didn't get an invitation?" Drey turned himself until he was sitting on his knees, droplets of blood dripping between his fingers. Jayson stared down at the pair of rings his face scrunched up in a scowl.

"I didn't know about this. But something iam certain I know is that they'll be better off without a pirate like you" Jayson snarled turning around and walking into the faint light as it slowly dimmed into darkness as Drey pushed himself onto his back.

His body hurt, and he wanted to do nothing but find his way back home and fall into the softness of his mattress to find his way back to Ichabod.

His mind thought back to every seconde and moment he spent with him. The time he tried to train his horse for the first time and got kicked in the back, his first sharpshooter on horseback championship the day of there Marrige. That day, he swore to himself he'd never forget. Drey remembered how it went. the sky was cloudy, and the sun had started to set, giving a soft orange glow over the ranch. Him and Ichabod had both found similar suits except Ichabod had altered his to have more of a cowboy aesthetic meanwhile one of the ranchhands helped Drey give his suit much longer coat tails and the Black Rose pirates skull on the back.

It was a beautiful day, a really beautiful day. The memory spun in Dreys head, and he swore that he'd get out of this damn prison and return to horsesea, to Ichabod.

He thought of that one goal for hours then days, until it eventually became months. Once in awhile Jayson would silently walk in and kick at Drey and sometimes insult him, but that was rarely something that happened, he usually just left Drey alone with his rotting thoughts.

I have to go back, I have to go back,

I have to go back, I have to go back,

Back where? Drey thought. He wasn't sure how long he's been in the Block, a month by now, he thought. His arms were slowly becoming bruised, and he felt like something was missing, yet he couldn't figure out what.

The only thing he could remember was looking at the sky, the orange and pink colored sky.

"Where did I have to go back to again?"

[cibeeorsomeshit]

Trigger Warning 🔞

: gun sex (ao3)

Blitzø thought he heard it wrong. Stolas’ fancy talk and/or horny talk was unintelligible at the best of times, but those were all simple words Blitzø understood but couldn’t comprehend. 

“Shit, you got some suicidal tendencies you haven’t told me?” Blitzø forced himself to stay put and not be backed into a literal corner. “Because then you need a therapist and not a fuck buddy. Shit. Fuck.” Blitzø was still reeling. 

Stolas’ slender talons played with Blitzø’s flintlock pistol, stroking and caressing in the way Blitzø was so familiar with, though usually it was directed at something benign: a pen, the rim of a wine glass, Blitzø’s back. The closest thing to a weapon those hands stroked was Blitzø’ dick and no matter how good he thought he was, his dick wasn’t powerful enough to blow a hole in Stolas’ stomach. 

“How is this different from the bear trap?” Stolas asked, not at all ashamed or embarrassed. Not at all like the times Blitzø sussed out some sort of buried kink Stolas had, usually by doing something unexpected during sex and felt Stolas’ wet hole or mouth clenched tight around him. Like when Blitzø slapped Stolas in the face with his tail for being a brat and Stolas’ whole inside convulsed around his dick and soaked it until Blitzø thought his dick was going to be puffy and wrinkled like he was in the shower for too long (later Stolas told him what was not how dick skin worked so whatever.)

“Because a bear trap is just a glorified bite, you asshole.” A bite that broke his fucking arm, but Stolas, the freak that he was, hadn’t allowed Blitzø to stop and pleaded to keep being fucked while his blood soaked through the mattress. 

“You know it won’t kill me, right, Blitzy?” 

So what? Blitzø wanted to scream at him. With where Stolas was planning on shoving the pistol, if it did go off Stolas wouldn’t be able to walk it off like he did after most of their session. 

Stolas brought the pistol up to his face, pressed his mouth to it, kissed up the length and swirled his tongue around the opening, gunpowder residue sticking to the pink flesh. “I know you like this weapon, darling, and anything you like I cannot help find interesting.”

“You’re gonna shove a horse up your hole next?” 

Stolas smiled, cheek pressed against the wet metal of the gun. “Well, you do have lots of horses to put inside of me.”

“Your pussy will probably break them.”

“Awww…” Stolas cooed like Blitzø just paid him a compliment (which, okay, it kind of was.) “One idea at a time, darling. Are you amenable to mine?”

“Why now?” Blitzø snatched the pistol back, and Stolas let him easily enough. “You could have found someone to shove all sorts of stuff  into you, including firearms.”

Stolas looked genuinely surprised at Blitzø’s inquiry. “Why would I ask anyone else?” he replied. “I trust you.” 

Blitzø put the pistol down. 

“What?”

“Of course I would not force you to participate if you do not wish to.” Stolas sunk back into the numerous plush pillows on his bed, waist so small it drove Blitzø fucking crazy when its all stretched out like this. “But I would not go look for someone else for this particular fantasy.”

“Because,” because Blitzø just had to confirm. “You trust me?” 

“...yes?” Stolas was looking more confused by the second. “Are…you alright, Blitzø? We really don’t have to —”

The golden pistol, already half-cocked, pressed against Stolas’ chin, forcing a surprised exhale out of him. 

“You’ll only let me do this, huh, Stolas?” Blitzø whispered, low enough that it would have been inaudible to anyone else, but Stolas’ hearing picked it up perfectly. 

“Yes,” Stolas said, holding Blitzø’s gaze. He was hyper aware of the muzzle, first firmly at his jaw, then slowly moving down to his neck, his chest, paused there, right over his heart. 

Sex between them was usually loud enough to drive away most of Stolas’ staff in the entire wing. Stolas loved to scream and Blitzø loved making him scream. Even when they were not actively fucking, they were loud —  laughing or swearing or talking. Quiet was not part of their conscious routine.

Everything was quiet now. Even their breathing. Even — “Your heartbeat,” Blitzø said. 

“Hm?” Stolas spread his legs and caged Blitzø between them.

“It’s slow.” Blitzø clarified.

“Nothing to be nervous about.”

The pistol moved further down, teasing Stolas’ opening, playing with the folds there. Stolas widened his legs and sighed. 

“Fuck,” Blitzø said. 

“Preferably,” Stolas replied. 

Blitzø dipped the tip of the pistol inside of Stolas, glancing up to check on him. But Stolas had his eyes closed, mouth opened slightly, finally breathing a little harder. Blitzø’s free hand pressed against Stolas’ chest, feeling the rhythm there. Still frighteningly calm. 

“Is the gun fully cocked?” Stolas asked.

“Fuck,” Blitzø repeated, and did as he was told. He moved slowly, all the way until it could no longer fit, with the frizzen blocking the way. 

He fucked Stolas slowly. The pistol glistened with slick and cum and Blitzø was pretty sure the gunpowder was now all wet and useless anyway. Stolas hummed happily, like this was a half-asleep lovemaking where being close was more important than pleasure. Blitzø trembled from how hard he was controlling the weapon he normally paid no mind to where the bullet would end up. He carefully moved his finger. Stolas must have felt it.

“Is your finger on the trigger?” 

“Yeah,” Blitzø said roughly.

“Yesssss…” Stolas hissed, yet all of him unfurled, melting into a puddle. His orgasm was as quiet as everything else, leaking onto Blitzø’s gun, his hand, his thighs. 

Still laying flat on the bed, Stolas curled around Blitzø so they were a snug little ball in the middle of the mattress. “Sorry for ruining your gun,” Stolas said. 

“Yeah.” Blitzø was so speechless. He didn’t even cum, but there was fire licking every part of him, so different from arousal, and nothing like the surge of power from taking a life. Blitzø was boneless from it, and couldn’t tell Stolas that this had just become his favorite gun. 

[scriveyner]

always summer #29

always summer #29: drunk sex | bungou stray dogs |👿🐯 | #kinktober 🔞| ~1500 words

Twilight crept quicker over the mountains every day, the tree-lined hills casting longer shadows against the lake below. Chuuya grilled out for them, making a mountain of food with the fully realized expectation that Atsushi would demolish at least 70% himself.

Continue on ao3 or:

Akutagawa sat next to him at the picnic table as Atsushi cleared another plate of food in record time. “Weretiger, do you even taste the food you’re inhaling?”

Atsushi finished off another hot dog in two bites. “Of course I do,” he said defensively. “I just get…hungry. Besides, it would go to waste otherwise.”

“Abilities like ours burn a lot of calories,” Chuuya dropped another two burgers and a hot dog on Atsushi’s plate. “Though Atsushi’s intake puts me to shame. What do you get up to?”

Atsushi looked at Akutagawa and turned bright red, while Dazai laughed like a horse, seated on the cooler by the grill. “That’s because your diet is primarily liquid,” he called. “Atsushi-kun would be dead of alcohol poisoning within a day if he tried your regimen.”

“Yet somehow, whatever you do, you don’t die,” Chuuya returned argumentatively, already back to flipping meat at the grill. Atsushi’s face was still a bright, flaming red, and Akutagawa patted his back mock-sympathetically, clearly quite amused.

They were working their way through the abundance of groceries, so there would be nothing left to go bad once they were gone. The liquor didn’t have such an expiration date but Chuuya was absolutely not going to leave any of that behind; and had straight-up passed the point of caring, drinking directly from a bottle of whiskey. The sun had finally vanished below the horizon, and they had a fire going in the fire pit, crackling merrily into the night.

It was warm and comfortable, and Atsushi obediently drank everything that was put into his hand without so much as a question, until he was leaned up against Akutagawa, arm wrapped with his and head on his shoulder, murmuring softly something about buying a house in the mountains and the innumerable filthy things he planned to do to Akutagawa in said domicile.

“I think it’s time we adjourn for the evening,” Akutagawa finally said, and Atsushi wobbled perilously on his feet. Akutagawa hiked him onto his back with the aid of Rashomon carrying most of the beast’s weight, and lugged him to bed, while Dazai waved them off and Chuuya snored, face-down in Dazai’s lap.

Akutagawa dropped Atsushi on the bed and sat on the mattress beside him, looking at Atsushi sprawled out on his back, tail thumping contentedly. A small smile turned up the corner of his mouth, and he brushed his hand over Atsushi’s cheek. His weretiger had been anxious earlier in the day, and cleaning to cover that anxiety; he wasn’t ready to go back to the real world. Although he hadn’t said as much, he wore it plainly there on his face.

Whether he was worried that they would fall right back into their old ways, or if he thought Akutagawa was considering walking away from him again, he didn’t vocalize, but it was clear that the worry was consuming him.

Atsushi stirred and squinted up at Akutagawa, and then yawned. “D’ I pass out?” he mumbled, surprisingly coherent.

“You were describing in great detail how to intended to ravish me,” Akutagawa said, “directly to Dazai-san.”

Atsushi moaned and pressed a palm to his eye. “No.”

“I do believe he was taking notes. You surprised him with the depths of your depravity.”

“Nooooo,” Atsushi rolled the pillow up over his face. “This is why alcohol is bad. I can never face Dazai-san again.”

Akutagawa shrugged. “You looked him in the eye after jerking off over a video of him, I suspect this will be much the same.” He didn’t move even when the pillow hit him nearly full in the face.

“I wasn’t jerking off over him,” Atsushi’s voice raised for a split second, and then he winced and covered his eyes. “I wasn’t.”

Akutagawa smirked and leaned in close. “Chuuya-san, then?”

It wasn’t fair how easy Atsushi made it sometimes. He turned a brilliant shade of red, and that only made Akutagawa’s smirk grow. Interesting, he would have to file that away for later. Now, however, he tugged Atsushi’s hand away from his face and leaned into a gentle kiss. “You’re drunk,” he informed Atsushi; as if Atsushi was not aware of the blurry state of reality around him. “Go to sleep.”

“You too?” Atsushi asked hopefully, and Akutagawa brushed his hair back, stroking his head like a cat’s.

“I’ll join you soon,” he murmured and kissed Atsushi again. “Sleep, weretiger.”

~*~

Chuuya was standing in front of the sink, theoretically doing the dishes; but in reality, spending more of his concentration on not swaying back and forth like a tree caught in a gale. Akutagawa carried the remainder of the dishes downstairs that had accumulated in the loft over the past week or so, and left them on the counter by Chuuya’s elbow.

Dazai had relocated indoors as well, sitting at the table, leg thrown over the other at the knee and lounging back, enjoying the bottle of wine he’d opened when Akutagawa escorted Atsushi to bed. “How’s he doing?” Dazai asked.

“He doesn’t want to go home,” Akutagawa reported dutifully, then frowned. “He metabolizes liquor a lot faster than Chuuya-san, he’s already coherent.”

Chuuya raised one hand above his head, finger pointed to the ceiling, and didn’t bother to turn around. “I am not that drunk,” he announced.

Akutagawa looked back to Dazai, who had a healthy flush to his cheeks as well, and wondered silently how he’d managed to be the only sober one this evening. “Aw,” Dazai cooed. “He thinks of the ADA as home! Kunikida-san will love to hear it.” He considered his wine glass and raised it in Akutagawa’s direction. “You should come back with us,” he said and clarified immediately. “To the ADA.”

“That would start a war,” Chuuya said idly; as if this wasn’t the first time the notion had been brought to the table.

“You too, Chuuya-kun,” Dazai said.

Chuuya snorted and half turned away from the sink. “I’m fine where I’m at, you know that. There’s a reason.” He pointed at Dazai. “You’re drunk.”

That opened the floodgates of an argument that Akutagawa wanted no part in, so he made his departure silently. Upstairs, the raised voices were barely a murmur, and he crawled into bed beside his weretiger, watching him sleep, and trying very hard not to think about anything else, let alone what the future might hold.

~*~

It was still dark when he woke again, and for a moment, stared into the darkness, trying to assess what had disturbed him. The mattress moved as Atsushi shifted beside him, and Akutagawa closed his eyes. Of course, the weretiger flopped about like a suffocating fish in his sleep occasionally, and it was only by virtue of Rashomon that he’d yet to take a flailed arm to the face.

Then he realized that Atsushi was panting into the pillow and opened his eyes to stare at the back of Atsushi’s head.

Was he really…?

Atsushi yelped aloud when Akutagawa’s arms wrapped around his stomach and pulled him backward, fitting his body to Akutagawa’s. “If I wasn’t awake already, I would be now,” he murmured into Atsushi’s neck, and Atsushi squirmed and tried in vain to get away. “What are you up to, weretiger?” He pushed his hand down Atsushi’s belly, where his shirt was rucked up, and down further where he could feel moisture gathering, in the spots where Atsushi’s rock-hard cock had made contact with his skin.

“D’dn’t wanna…” Atsushi gasped, head turned into the pillow when Akutagawa wrapped his hand around Atsushi’s cock. “Wake you…”

“Well, you did,” Akutagawa kissed the back of his neck and closed his eyes. Atsushi’s body was so familiar to him now, and he set a punishing rhythm with his strokes, listening to Atsushi keen on the edge of every breath. “Feel good?”

“Mmyeah,” Atsushi pushed his head back, hand covering Akutagawa’s on his stomach. “Can you, just…?” He butted his ass back, pressed to Akutagawa’s groin, and Akutagawa didn’t move, letting Atsushi grind on him instead.

It didn’t take very long for Atsushi to spill over Akutagawa’s fist, and he let out a shuddering gasp, fingers squeezing tight into Akutagawa’s wrist. When he went slack, Akutagawa wiped his dirty hand on Atsushi’s shorts but Atsushi didn’t notice, face turned into the pillow again and letting out a delayed, choked sob.

Akutagawa didn’t release him, arms wrapped tight around his chest, and allowed him to shake for as long as he needed. Atsushi finally said, voice heavy, “I’m going to miss you.”

“I’m not going anywhere, weretiger.”

Atsushi twisted, enough so that he could look over his shoulder at Akutagawa, smile broken and eyes wet. “Promise?”

Akutagawa frowned, but nodded, certain in a way he hadn’t even realized until now. “Promise.”

Atsushi turned over in his arms and Akutagawa pulled him close, setting his chin in the crown of Atsushi’s hair as he settled in and fell almost immediately asleep. “I promise,” Akutagawa whispered into his hair again.

[incorrect-koh-posts]

Chapter 11 on AO3

“Slower, girl. Slower! By all that is holy – do they not read books in Kerak?”

Sibylla lay sprawled on her bed, half-buried under a heap of tasselled cushions and silks. She had been complaining of a headache all day, but when she heard Isolt and Fenie approach, she feebly lifted her head, keeping a hand pressed to her brow to prevent her cold compress from slipping. “Ah,” she said, sinking back into the mattress. “There you are. I need some refreshment to combat all the words that child is butchering.”

Seeing Isabella cringe in her high-backed chair, Isolt very nearly cringed along with her. Her own truce with the queen still stood on shaky legs, too new to carry much weight, and Isolt was still frighteningly aware that Sibylla was watching her every move.

She had, after all, admitted to it herself.

“I saw you, you know,” Sibylla had mentioned casually one evening out in the gardens, mere days ago. Hitching up her skirts with one hand, she had sat beside Isolt on the rim of the trickling fountain, close enough that their knees touched. “You and my esteemed cousin, at my lord husband’s tourney. You seemed rather … familiar with one another, non?”

It had taken Isolt her all not to drop the embroidery she’d been working on into the water. Yet something in her face must have betrayed her, for Sibylla had smiled at her, with the deceptive mildness of a cat that has placed its soft paw on the mouse’s tail. “Oh, don’t look so caught out! Thought you were being discreet, poor gosling, did you?”

Isolt felt as though a rug had been pulled from under her feet. “My lady,” she stammered, curling her fingers round the cool stone of the fountain’s ledge. “Madam, I hardly –”

She and Lord Tiberias? In some small corner of her mind, of course, she had expected that such an accusation might be levelled at the two of them eventually. After all, they saw each other often; and though they took some precautions with choosing the time and place for their meetings, none of it was clandestine, exactly. Why, Tiberias was a married man! And he did not strike her as being of the unfaithful sort of husbands that prowled about court, chasing after every skirt. Besides, he was so much older than her. And even if – if one of them were to even consider – surely, then, he’d prefer someone else. Some older lady, perhaps, whom he’d known for years; a grave and much more worldly-wise person than her, who’d whisper daring, heated words into his ear at night, but would dress again at the crack of dawn and return to her husband’s quarters with scarcely a perfunctory peck on her lover’s cheek. Or perhaps -

Isolt had reined in her shameful fancies with some effort before they galloped away with her entirely. But when she had looked up again, her cheeks were burning, and she’d known Sibylla had her precisely where she’d wanted her.

“I must admit,” Sibylla had said, idly trailing a hand through the leaf-strewn water, “it quite surprised me the old fox still shows interest in you. Be warned – he has a habit of dropping people once they have served their purpose in his schemes. And I cannot for the life of me see what advantage an insignificant thing like you might win him, at present. Not with my husband, that’s for certain, what with your connection to William Marshal! If it were influence he wanted, my lord Tiberias had better seduce Reynald’s horse than bother with the likes of you.” A pensive expression crossed her features; she gave a shrug. “Well, I suppose his years are beginning to mellow him. You have some little charm, I grant, when you choose to put some effort into it …”

Perhaps it was the veiled jab at her pride that made Isolt find her voice. “Nothing untoward has passed between the count and I, Your Grace,” she said, hoarse but firm. “I assure you.”

Sibylla had laughed at that, somewhat shrilly, as if she found Isolt’s desperation both familiar and hideously entertaining. “No assurances needed, ma chère. I heard of those poor young fellows you recently jilted so recklessly. That fierce little German – and one of Scandalion’s scions, was it?” Her gaze grew sharp. “Just out of curiosity, was my cousin the one who convinced you to set your sights a little higher?”

Set my sights a little higher? Isolt had almost recoiled. She knew everything was a game of ambition in this place, all the perilous climbs and descents from the cradle to the grave, but she had ill considered how her own actions would be read. She believes she deserves better, the silly chit. That was what Severijn had said about her decision, quite deliberately within hearing range, and she’d seen him preen when his friends had jeered. And yet, deep down, wasn’t that exactly what she believed? That she deserved a life without the constant jingling of fear at the back of her skull, beside someone who didn’t trample on her views, her trust? Someone to whom she was more than a mere connection made with some other man, some prize to be won?

Read the rest here :)

[blood-teeth]

‘ you’re leaving already? ’ with Elena, possibly after a night of cuddling and when the MC gets up to leave

anon this is crazy because i already have this scene written.

It's dark after the funeral. Impossibly so. You still have the treat of unshed tears against your face. They sit there. They burn. Your misery mocks you entirely, it rots your insides, curdling into the peristalsis of loss.

You miss Bartholomew more than you had ever expected to, more than maybe you should. It continues to astonish you, how deeply you feel. How badly you ache. The memory of Savannah throwing herself at the casket, that glossed wood gleaming, screams louder in the stillness of the night.

Atropos carries your exhausted body across the width of her back, gait gentle under your feel. You sigh. Watch your hand drift across the coarse braided mane. Her hair ruffles.

A noise, or something more akin to instinct forces your head up to a shape that you have never seen before. It takes an embarrassing amount of time for your brain to connect the shapes together into a form. It's a dog.

He sprints readily to you when you hop off Atropos, throwing himself onto his back, wiggling like a worm desperate to be petted. His tail thumps against the ground in rude demand. “Oh,” delight muted. Somewhere, somehow in some yet excavated portion of your mind, the implication of a memory shivers along your nervous system, and you think. Think of a dog that you maybe once knew, think about his burial place…somewhere. Think that you can can feel the grave dirt under your nails. You bend down closer to the smiling pup, scratch under his collar, and find a beaten name tag. “Cowboy, huh?” 

“You’re a bastard,” Elena frowns down to him, throwing the saddle over onto a railing. She pets him quickly, chucking him under the chin and muttering in warning that he won’t be let onto the bed tonight because of how dirty he is. “No, don’t look at me like that. You’re the one who made bad choices.” 

Cowboy disregards this with an arrogant twist to his head and makes his final stop at Atropos, who he then harasses by standing on his hind legs, paws against the bridge of the horse’s nose, licking furiously and reverently anywhere he can reach. Atropos submits to this for a few seconds before letting out a reproachful neigh at which point the cattle dog’s attention has already wandered onto something in the grass. 

You fall wildly in love with him.

“I didn’t know you had a dog,” you remark, alleviating Elena from the strain of the saddle, carrying it with ease to a small shed behind her house. “He’s very sweet. I love him.” 

“He isn’t mine,” she says and then says no more.

Elena is sweet when she walks you into her house, that same comfort startling you into quiet. In the small moments, she helps you undress, your shirt slipping from your shoulders, her cool hands warming against the low of your belly. She leads you to a bed, and only smiles when you insist that you can sleep on the floor, and laughs when you close your eyes the moment your head hits the pillow.

You fall asleep in that span of negative time, the sleepless nausea hitting you all at once, and the restlessness of your legs firing under the covers. You awaken by the soft dip of the mattress and the smell of vanilla and marigolds.

You open your eyes. The clock reads 3:37 AM. You look at her. Beautiful, even exhausted, even sad. She finds your hands under the covers, watching as her teeth light white in the darkness. Her fingers soft along your wrist bones. "Promise me."

"Anything." You say without thinking. "Yes, anything."

Her mouth is so pretty when she begs. When she's unsure. "Promise me you won't leave."

“I promise. Of course.” And you only wish you were telling the truth.

[pranasleepnaturalmattress]

However, a mattress made of cotton is the best option. The mattress allows air to circulate, leaving you feeling revitalized. The most popular kind of mattress is a cotton mattress, since it is both comfortable and long-lasting.

[fioreofthemarch]

Finding Her - Chapter 8

Link makes notes, takes photos and keeps time on his quest across Hyrule, in the hopes of finding Zelda and staying sane until he does. [ Previous | Next | First | AO3 ]

A photograph of Blachery Plain in Necluda; the ground undulates gently between small knolls and shallow ponds. Ruined walls dot the landscape, and now among them are chunks of sky islands that have fallen to the surface. Between the ruins, wildflowers grow. 

A photograph of Fort Hateno and the aftermath of a fierce battle. In the foreground is a motley crew of Hylians and a single Goron, lead by their Captain, Hoz, who carries a hand sewn Hyrulean banner. They stand with fists raised, victorious. 

A photograph of Hateno Village from a distance, the lights from its houses twinkling in the dusk. Wafting lazily across the horizon is a dragon, Naydra, a tail of silvery blue light following in its wake.  

A photograph of a lone house in Hateno, in the old pre-Calamity style. It has a single chimney and a rendered brick exterior. Beside the house is a small garden with a large oak tree and a pond that glints in the moonlight. There are frogs in the water, strategically located beneath a concert of fireflies that have gathered at the pond.  

Caption: Haven’t felt like writing. But Hyrule is still beautiful, so had to snap a few photos. 

---

Log date: 20:30 6th month, 19th day, 104AC Location: Hateno Village Weather: Mild, clear skies. 

Well Zelda, I’m here. Our house is just how we left it.  

Did we ever call it ours? It was always just ‘the house’. I’m going to stop by the house. We’re out of Hylian Rice at the house. Did you close the shutters at the house? It gets hot during the day. 

I guess I’d always assumed that, after the Calamity, you’d go back to Castle. But you said you’d prefer somewhere with people, so we came here, and I offered to sleep on a mattress while you took the bed on the loft. That didn’t last long, did it? Two teenagers, with no responsibilities or parental oversight, spending all day together and sharing a candle-lit dinner every night? I think I woke up in your arms before the summer was over. 

Not that I’m complaining. We made our own little world here and fell in love in the quiet comfort of home. I’ll never be able to praise Hylia enough. Now that it’s been a couple years I was thinking of adding a few extra rooms. Enough space to live comfortably, for a library or a world-class pantry or… or a nursery. I never told you any of that. Why did I never tell you any of that? 

Silver linings. The house is safe, just like the rest of Hateno. I know you’ll be glad to hear that, wherever you are. 

A photograph of the pantry underneath the stairs. It is mostly empty except for a few jars of staple goods like wheat and rice, some limp looking vegetables and an empty bottle of milk. There is an old loaf of bread, tough as rock salt, and a half-eaten nutcake, blooming unpleasantly with mold. 

Caption: Need to get provisions for the house. 

---

Log date: 12:00. 6th month, 20th day, 104AC Location: Hateno Village Weather: Humid. Summer showers later in the day. 

Busy morning. My gut tells me something is brewing in Hateno, otherwise I’d be back on my horse and riding out of here by now. Started by nosing around the new well next to the house. Definitely didn’t read Zelda’s diary and definitely don’t have some new gear that she made to hunt down in Hyrule Castle. But if I did, I would be very grateful, just so that anyone reading this knows, and am sorely missing a certain someone’s expert tailoring. Because I do miss it, quite a bit. 

Anyway. Bought carrots and goat butter from the general store. Traded some nuts for milk with Dantz up on the hill. Making creamy vegetable soup for dinner. 

Popped in on Robbie at the Tech Lab. He asked if Josha managed to reach me with the Message Medallion and laughed at my shock. He said he wasn’t mad, more proud she’d been brave enough to try. To show he meant it, he added a sensor to the Purah Pad and gave me a Travel Medallion, which he swore to Kakariko and back was 100% reliable. We’ll see. 

From there wandered back down the hill. Stopped by the school. Symin looked harangued. Half a dozen kids in his care and no second teacher to help wrangle them. I promised him I’d come back tomorrow and take a class if he wanted. He said he’d just be happy to have a moment to sit down. 

Saw Mayor Reede tending his field. Tending is the wrong word. Attacking, more like. Taking to it with a farm hoe with so much vigour the dirt was flying five feet into the air. His wife Clavia saw me passing by and pulled me aside to ask if I had a moment, but seeing my arms full of groceries she said she’d find me later. Next ran into Medda by his new Hylian Tomato crops. He asked if I still wanted a garden put in at the house and I told him I’d have to check with Zelda first. Eugh. So used to saying that, in the past when her being away meant she was down at the shops or working late at the Tech Lab, or on a research trip and home soon. Medda just sighed and put a hand on my shoulder. Real sorry, we’re all real sorry, he said. 

Next dropped into Sayge to get the paraglider serviced. He said to come back in a day, and asked if I had any photographs of wild animals he could use for new designs. I showed him a photo of a cucco I took in Kakariko Village and he said ‘Everyone knows what chickens look like’. Gotta dig through the dozens of photos I have on this thing now. Gotta be something good on here. 

Finally, to Cece’s, for a new Hylian hood — except she’s not open for business at the moment. Something about a new collection of hers. Can’t say I’m holding my breath. Not really a mushroom fan. I’ve eaten too many on the road that turned out to not be mushrooms and to actually be poisonous fungi. But I suppose that’s not the mushrooms' fault, and her designs seem really popular now, especially after Zelda took a liking to them. She had this pretty mushroom dress she used to wear around town, wonder if it’s still here…  

Back at the house now, making the soup. I’ve laid out dinnerware for two, lit a candle, and said a prayer to the Goddess, which used to be done just before we ate, one hand in Zelda’s as she sat across from me at the table. Old habits, I guess. 

Overall, nothing seems amiss in Hateno, just yet. Will stay one more day. 

A photograph of the cauldron outside of Link and Zelda’s house. A carrot, mushroom and wild greens soup bubbles gently. It’s at least enough to feed four, or more. 

Caption: Maybe Medda will accept soup and an I.O.U for the garden. 

---

Log date: 16:00. 6th month, 21st day 104AC Location: Hateno Village Weather: Warm, partly cloudy.  

Nevermind, something is indeed amiss in Hateno. Should know to trust my gut. 

It happened in a flurry. I was back at Cece’s to bargain for a hood (really need some new, clean clothes) when Reede barged in. Stamping his foot and red as a pepper, demanding she take down the mushroom lamps, and she, unphased, called him an out of touch old fool holding Hateno back from true prosperity. Your mushroom decor is ugly! Your vegetables are boring! Pointed fingers and lots of shouting. The tension in the room was so thick I was prepared to Ascend through the roof to get out of there. 

It all came to a head when Cece proposed an election to decide the fate of Hateno. Now every other resident is asking who I’m voting for, Clavia suspects her husband is up to something, and Cece’s sister Sophie claims she has a dark secret. Plus Reede and Cece both want my help with their campaigns — Cece gave me a stack of mushrooms to hand out (like… bribes?) and Reede is trying to hunt down an old family recipe (unsure how that will help him).

It would be so easy to teleport to a shrine on the other side of the Kingdom. Or build a Zonai glider and soar away. Or throw myself into the nearest Chasm. Politics was Zelda’s expertise. And every moment I’m here is another moment I could be out looking for her. 

But. I’m still here. Hateno might not be covered in Gloom or under threat from some monster but… this is my home, and these are my people. Zelda’s too, aren’t they? It’s something we haven’t had since the Calamity. And now they’ve asked for my help. I’ve never said no to that before. It would be wrong, to start here, to start now. 

Whoever we choose as the new mayor, I hope we choose soon. 

A photograph of two large racks inside a Hateno-style house belonging to the dairy farmers Dantz and Koyin. On the shelves are wheels of cheese - a novel invention once thought lost to Hyrule. Koyin poses happily in front of her creations, blushing as her photo is taken. 

Caption: Forgot to mention. It’s cheese! Cheese! They make it out of milk! It’s gooey and rich and perfect. I bought as much as I could carry. 

---

Log date: 21:00. 6th month, 23rd day 104AC.  Location: Hateno Village Weather: Cool and clear. 

Well, sometimes the trouble sorts itself out. 

Cece’s big secret is that she likes Reede’s vegetables, and Reede’s big secret is that he likes Cece’s designs. Who would have thought. After another argument between them on Election Day, Sophie and Clavia banded together to help them see that they could just work together, and all agreed. Reede is still mayor, but Cece’s designs remain the new life blood of the town. My role in the end was to be just nosey enough to uncover all that needed uncovering, and to cook a great meal in the process. It’s Hylian Tomato Pizza all around while the town celebrates the end of the election. I managed to get a new Hylian hood from Cece, plus a hat she made that in all honesty reminds me of some of the poison fungi I once ate… 

First light tomorrow I’ll saddle up Spot and we’ll head back on the road. Earlier today I saw Naydra heading north, towards Lanayru. Was standing just outside the school when she passed overhead (I made good on my promise to help Symin out for an afternoon). One of Zelda’s students, Aster, took my hand and pointed towards the sky. ‘You see it too, don’t you Mr. Link?’ I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know anyone else could see the dragons. I just nodded and told her I was thinking of heading the same way. Lanayru is nearby, and from my map looks to be having trouble with its water. I could be there in a day. 

I’ve since checked my notes and it looks like the next geoglyph (and next clue to Zelda’s whereabouts) is actually in the Gerudo Highlands. It doesn’t change my plans. I’ll get there, in time. I want to help the people of Hyrule in the here and now, rather than chase memories of the past. I know given the choice Zelda would want me to put their safety ahead of hers, as hard as that is to accept. I have to believe that doing so will lead me to her, or otherwise go mad with worry. 

And if she really is different now? If her journey to the present changed her? I guess… we can try coming here. We can have dinner. Light a candle, say a prayer, share a meal. It’s where we started after all. I’d do it all again if it meant just one more day, with her, here in our home. 

A photograph of the school in Hateno. The children play out the front of the modern, colourful building, while Symin supervises. He wears a large sun-hat and carries a whistle. Naydra flies high overhead, heading north, and much, much higher above is a golden dragon, heading south. 

Caption: Didn’t notice the Light Dragon there too. One is an omen, two is a sign. Off to Lanayru it is.  

[aristocratic-otter]

It's late, but I knew I had to post tonight, if only to tell you all how brilliant and talented you are! I was so entertained by all of your shares today, you have no idea.

I have some sentences to share, though I'm bummed that the best stuff is all unshareable because it's spoilery. But I'll give you what I can! Snips under the break.

Thank you to @fatalfangirl, @ivelovedhimthroughworse, @hushed-chorus @theearlgreymage, @blackberrysummerblog, @artsyunderstudy @whogaveyoupermission, @facewithoutheart, @confused-bi-queer, @ic3-que3n, @cutestkilla and @larkral for sharing your gifts with me!

Tagging for Wednesday and a tired hello to everyone above, along with:

@annabellelux, @bazzybelle, @basiltonbutliketheherb, @bloodiedpixie, @bookish-bogwitch, @carryonsimoncarryonbaz, @dragoneggos, @erzbethluna, @excalisbury, @frjsti, @fight-surrender, @foolofabookwyrm-activated, @gekkoinapeartree, @ionlydrinkhotwater, @ileadacharmedlife, @johnwgrey, @j-nipper-95, @jbrrring, @jasonfunderberkerthefrogexists, @krisrix, @letraspal, @messofthejess, @moments-au-crayon22, @nightimedreamersghost, @otherworldsivelivedin, @onepintobean, @prettylightsbigcity, @mostlymaudlin, @raenestee, @thehoneyedhufflepuff, @twinkle-twinkle-up-above, @tea-brigade, @technetiumai, @upuntil6am, @unfiltered-alice-liddle, @urban-sith, @yellobb-old, @yeonjunenby

From Westward Son:

Shepard is standing in front of his dun gelding, Kevin. He’s swiping at…something…with a leafy branch he must have just pulled off of a tree. 

The water in front of him roils, and then a long appendage, as wide around as my waist and gray and wrinkled like an elephant’s trunk, shoots out of the water and grabs for Kevin. I guess whatever monster this is, it’s smart enough to realize that the horse has a lot more meat on him than Shepard does. I can’t see the rest of the creature, though from the height of the water mounding up around the base of the appendage, it’s enormous. 

Then the water breaks and cascades to either side of the creature, and I reel back, gagging at the stench that comes with it.

From To Heal A Broken Mind

He’s quiet on the drive home as well, and finally I can’t take it anymore. “Penny for your thoughts?” I ask, with a nervous laugh. 

He eyes me inscrutably from where he’s curled himself into the door on the passenger side. For a moment, I can tell he’s considering whether to lie or prevaricate; I’ve seen that look on too many patients to be fooled by it on the face I know best in the world besides my own. 

Fortunately, he decides on the truth. “I’m worried about having a seizure tonight.”

From Raising Dragons:

“Sorry, Baz,” he whispers. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

I shrug. (Fucking Snow.) (Why are all his bad habits so contagious?) “It’s alright,” I mumble through a yawn. “What’s the matter?”

He eases himself down on the mattress and rolls to face me. For several seconds he seems to struggle for words, but then he just heaves a heavy sigh. “Baz,” he says, “do you ever worry that you won’t be enough?”

From a secret project (I actually have to redact some of it, I couldn't find six sentences in a row that weren't spoilery):

As always, since his [redacted] merged with my own, he keeps his eyes diligently on his [redacted], never betraying himself by even a glance in my direction. And yet, every time I look back at my [redacted], I could swear I feel his eyes, hot and antagonistic, on my back. 

I’m probably not being fair. He and I did agree to a truce, after all. And it’s been years since I’ve seen him. He’s probably changed a great deal in that time. I know I have. 

From Saving Simon Snow:

Snow looks at me oddly when I cast locking spells on every door and window once we step inside the house. I just shake my head and murmur, “just a precaution.” I can hope Fiona gives my father time to explain that my life is tied to Simon’s, but I can’t be certain of that. More likely, she’ll hear “Baz was married to Simon” and head straight for Oxford like her tail’s on fire. Ready to set him on fire. 

Shit.

Everything new I have from my COBB is too spoilery this week, so I'm skipping that one for now!

[semperama]

Eager to hear more about the Maxiel horse farm AU if you are eager to tell? X

I've been working on it for like...idk, it feels like a year now, but it's been slow going! The premise is: it's the mid-1930s, the tail end of The Great Depression, and Max's father owns a horse farm in Kentucky. Max is of course expected to take over one day. Daniel was displaced from his job on a ranch in Montana due to the Depression, so he heads East and ends up getting a job at the Verstappen farm. He and Max hit it off, but Max is deeply troubled and undersocialized, and there's the added complication that he is technically sort of Daniel's boss, not to mention much more well-off than him, and it takes them a while to figure out what they're doing.

You can find a couple snippets in my horse farm au tag, but here's another!

"I can do the rest myself if you want," Daniel says. He makes to reach for the razor, but Max pulls back, shaking his head.

"This is the hardest part," Max says. "You will of course cut yourself."

Daniel chuckles, but there's something strained in it. "I’ve cut myself before. Hasn’t killed me yet."

"I will get you a better mirror," Max says. If his father wants him to be more involved with the running of this place, then he will be more involved. He imagines himself arguing that they need to modernize, bring all the outbuildings into the twentieth century. He imagines how Jos would scowl at him and rant about the waste of money, and his resolve fizzles.

"I'll settle for you getting the damn mustache off." Daniel curls his hands around the edge of the mattress and sits up a little straighter. "Go on then. I'm sure it's past your bedtime anyway."

Max’s face must be blazing bright red, but he tries to ignore it, putting his thumb under Daniel's chin to hold him still while he positions the blade and the carefully slides it up to his bottom lip. His hand shakes a little on the end of the stroke, but he pulls away before he cuts Daniel and wipes the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand. He makes the mistake of meeting Daniel’s gaze, and what he sees there makes his heart stutter in his chest.

[lestatdelioncoeur]

~ and why were such things made in the world?

@vamptember

There was a long road and a dark moon. The man's footsteps on the flint track were unaccompanied - save for the rhythm of his ragged breath. His leg was bleeding through the thigh of his breeches and the saddle he carried in his arms was growing heavier and heavier. He fell to his knees with a sob. His horse had given out three miles behind. He'd spoken to her quietly as she whinnied softly on her side; "I'll be back girl, I'll be back and we'll put a poultice on that leg. We'll ride again". But neither of them could walk any further and this interminable journey appeared to have no end.

He moved to lean his weary back against the sloping bank. He adjusted his shoulders to avoid a prominent tree root and closed his eyes. His breathing slowed and his tears dried. He began to drift. It was probably 20 minutes before he was awoken by the rushing screech and flutter of a barn owl.

He was in a state of fever. Could he trust that just beyond the hedgerow there was a cottage, a thin wisp of smoke rising from the chimney? He had to.

"Hallo?" *please!* "HALLO!" He picked up a rock and threw it feebly. He passed out again.

When he awoke he was on a soft mattress. An open window relieved the heat of the small fire in the hearth. There was a woman beside him, her hair in a long braid. His fever had broken. For a long moment they looked at each other silently and the man sat up to review his damaged leg. He lifted a thick compress, red with blood, but his skin was intact! He jumped to his feet and the woman smiled "ask not and why were such things made in the world, be on your horse and be gone. The dawn will guide you".

She was dressed much as he was. She gave him a fine thick cloak and led him out to the yard. There was his mare, resplendent in her saddle, her mane and tail plaited. With a deep bow the man took his leave. He swung himself astride the horse and, as if no time had been lost at all, was at his destination by daybreak.