Irish Merida for St. Patrick's Day (254 photos) (Patreon)

Merida DunBroch had been raised on tales of Scottish valor, her childhood echoing through the rugged halls of DunBroch Castle with the clash of her father Fergus’s sword and her mother Elinor’s pleas for propriety. They’d called her a daughter of Scotland, her bow and arrow a symbol of their clan’s fierce pride. But at twenty-four, Merida had uncovered a truth buried in old parchments and her mother’s hushed confessions—her lineage wasn’t pure Scots after all. Her great-grandmother, an Irish lass from County Kerry, had crossed the sea, her wild spirit and crimson curls weaving into the DunBroch line. That Irish blood, long dormant, had roared awake in Merida, reshaping her from a Scottish princess into a woman who claimed the emerald isles as her true soul’s home.

She’d left the Highlands behind, drawn to Ireland’s rolling green, where the air tasted of salt and freedom. On this sultry August evening, she stood in a clover field near Dingle, the soft blades tickling her ankles, her heritage thrumming in her veins. Merida wore a sexy outfit that screamed her newfound Irish fire—a deep emerald bodysuit, its fabric clinging to her toned frame, cut low to flaunt the freckles spilling across her chest like stars. A short leather skirt hugged her hips, its jagged hem a nod to her reckless edge, paired with thigh-high boots that laced up her calves, their black leather gleaming in the sunset’s glow. Her hair—still that untamed cascade of curls—fell free, a banner of her Irish awakening, no longer bound by Scotland’s plaid but alive in the wind of the west coast.

She’d come here to shed the weight of DunBroch’s stone walls, where Elinor still mourned her refusal to wed, and her triplet brothers—now strapping lads—jested about her dodging every laird’s son. Merida wasn’t fleeing men; she was waiting for one who could match the Irish heat she’d discovered in herself. The crunch of boots broke her reverie, and she turned, clover crushed underfoot, to see him—Liam Doyle, a Galway fiddler with raven-black hair and eyes like the stormy Irish Sea. He’d drifted into town with a battered fiddle case and a grin that promised trouble, his jacket slung loose over broad shoulders.

“Lost yer way, lass?” Liam called, his Galway lilt curling around the words as he leaned against a fence post, his gaze sliding over her outfit—those boots, that bodysuit—with a hunger that sparked her pulse. Merida tilted her head, her smirk sharp as an arrow. “Not lost,” she said, her voice carrying the Irish cadence she’d embraced, richer now than the Scottish burr she’d left behind. “Just claimin’ what’s mine. DunBroch might’ve raised me, but it’s Ireland in me bones.” She stepped closer, hips swaying, the leather skirt catching the light as she tossed a clover his way.

He caught it, laughing low, a sound that rumbled like a reel’s opening note. “Liam,” he offered, closing the distance, his fingers brushing her arm as he tucked the clover into her curls. “And you’re Merida DunBroch, the lass who’s more Irish than she knew, aye?” She grinned, stepping into his heat, the bodysuit taut as she pressed a hand to his chest. “Aye, and ye’re bold to think ye can handle it.”

She didn’t wait for his quip—Merida yanked him by the jacket, her lips crashing into his with a fierceness born of her Irish soul, wilder than any Scottish loch. He matched her, hands gripping her waist, leather creaking under his touch as they sank into the clover, her boots tangling with his legs. This wasn’t the Merida of castle tales—this was a woman reborn, her Irish blood aflame, claiming Liam in a field that echoed her true heritage.

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