#(original works)

[star-dragon-art]

Some pride creatures I will turn into stickers! I wanna make a couple more then do a kickstarter for em.

[hisclockworkservants]

Seeker of Knowledge, a short comic I made! :D

I saw the tree bearing the furits of knowledge. I did not pick from it.

I saw the beast of old wisdom upon a stone, who was seeked by kings and emperors. I did not ask from it.

I saw the spring beneath the tree, gleaming with truth and screts. I did not drink from it.

I followed the flow of the stream to a great abyss. And I looked.

In it, I saw the great coils of the universe. Breathing a rhythm.

[tanblaque]

Hello Philippines! ✨

I will be boothing with a good friend at Komiket Ortigas next weekend, August 9-11, at Robinsons Galleria from 11am-8pm.

Table 49!!!

To my kababayans, I look forward to seeing you there. 💖

[gothgengargirl]

Strings

She awoke in darkness, slowly and gently, with a feeling that something had changed. There was a gentle pressure she felt on each wrist, and on each ankle. As her eyes adjusted to what little light penetrated the room, she could see them, impossibly, transparent, ethereal. Strings.

One attached to each arm, one attached to each leg. Like a marionette. Like a puppet.

She tried to pull away the blankets, to rise with a scream, to run. But she couldn’t. The only sound to leave her lips was a faint, lascivious moan. She wiggled, struggled to move her arms and legs, but they remained resistant. She raised her head off the pillow in an attempt to pull herself up.

And that’s when the fifth string hit its mark. The base of her skull, right above where it joined her neck. And this string brought thoughts with it.

Perfect Poppet, perfect doll Pleasure, Bliss and Peace is all

Pleasure. Bliss. Peace. She sank back down. Her eyes went from panicked to glassy. Her limbs started to move, not propelled by any conscious thought of hers, but as if by an outside force. A puppeteer, pulling her strings. And pulling the blankets away, pulling off her nightclothes, splaying her legs proudly open.

Perfect Dolly, perfect toy It’s a thing to be enjoyed

Her head rolled to one side, her mouth open, drool collecting on her swollen lips. Her left arm moved inexorably towards her crotch, her right hand clutching her left breast. She touched her muff, gasped, as the string in her brain gave her new instructions.

Perfect Fucktoy, perfect prey Dolly rubs its mind away

dolly rubs its mind away dolly rubs its mind away dolly rubs its mind away

And it did. Kneading, caressing, teasing. Masturbating with an intense fervor, its entire purpose distilled to Pleasure, Bliss and Peace. This is what its made for. This is its purpose. Time slowed down, stopped. Its head is vacant, horny, needy. Its body was not its own, manipulated by strings held by someone or something. Something that wanted it. Something that wanted a Toy.

Minutes turned to hours. The sun came up outside its room, shining through the curtains. Its body slowed down, froze, denying it orgasm but freezing its body in edged out Bliss. What little thoughts it had were focused on only one thing. Owner. owner is coming to collect me, it thought.

owner will tell me what to do owner will tell me what to think owner will tell me what to be who to be owner will play with me please play with me please play with me please play with me

Thanks to @secret-subject, whose "Dolly Training File 2" has permanently worked its way into my brain, and is the source for the litany at the end of this story.

[keyaho]

Melanin Preparatory Academy

.summary.: Sisters Brennan and Blaire Anderson are the founders of Melanin Preparatory Academy. A private school that services the African American community in South Georgia. While the school does phenomenally, the personal lives of the sisters aren’t as put together. Brennan and Aaron are hiding their relationship while his twin, Terry, tries to rekindle his relationship with Blaire, the mother of their seven year old son, Noah. co-written with: @zillasvilla

Kindergarten - 3rd grade students remain with one teacher for the whole school year.

Orientation : Coming Soon

Taglist: This is the masterpost so if you would like to be added, please like this post. If you would like to be removed let us know as well.

group one: @nayaesworld @peachbuttetfly @harmshake @heauxvibez @avoidthings

group two: @mymindisneverhere @sabrina-carpenter-stan-account @eilujion @heytaewrites

group three: @browngirldominion @insidefeelingofanadult @blackerthings @gwenda-fav @brandithecrystalgem

group four: @captainwithoutmakingitlove @dremmmm @kindofaintrovert @thegreatlibraryofalex @jimmybutlrr

group five: @beenathembo @kuromiish @virgomess @bbyxgall @theereina

group six: @randomhood @ash-ketchumzzz @dundienominated

[viviuxd]

INNOCENT LOVE : a viking is in love with me! (Part 2)

SYPNOSIS:You are explaining to the Viking king why you cannot marry him, while you do so he agrees to join your belief and leave his gods, just for you.

PAIRING:Viking x Christian!reader

TW:mention of difference in spiritual beliefs.

Part 1

"What are you doing?!" You shouted angrily. Your hands instantly landed on his chest, pushing him back as you averted your gaze, noticing some servants present. You felt embarrassed for exposing your life in front of those people and hid your face, looking down.

Thorkell noticed your sudden change in attitude and chuckled playfully at your shyness. He turned toward your gaze and realized what was happening. He smiled mischievously and stood tall.

"Everyone, out! Our queen needs privacy," he demanded with a deep, powerful voice that echoed in the room.

You watched as everyone present left immediately, almost running. "I am not your queen," you murmured, glancing at him sideways.

"Soon you will be," he affirmed, grabbing your wrist with a firm grip that hurt you a little due to the force he exerted.

They took a few steps until they reached the throne. He let go of your wrist and turned on his axis to stare at you. He examined you with his eyes and then nodded toward the throne where he had been moments ago.

"Sit there," he demanded with the same dominant voice that sent shivers down your spine.

You were about to refuse. You didn't want to give hope that you'd accept, but neither could you decline; you didn't want to be disrespectful. Besides, Thorkell's gaze intimidated you. You were sure you'd have nightmares about him that night.

You climbed the steps leading to the throne. It was huge, imposing, and beautiful, just like Thorkell. You sat on it; it felt strange. You had always dreamed of being the queen of a nation, and now you had the opportunity, but you felt bad for disobeying God's commands.

You shook your head and clumsily got off the throne, embarrassed by what you had just done.

"I can't, I can't be the queen of Dantohira, Your Majesty," you apologized insistently, looking down in a gesture of submission and respect so that Thorkell wouldn't take it as an offense.

"Damn it!... Could you explain why you're forbidden to marry me?" He grunted angrily, one of his hands resting on his head, rubbing his temple.

You played with your hair, trying to calm your nerves a bit. "We're different... You believe in pagan gods, and don't take it the wrong way, Your Majesty," you said. "It's just that I am faithful to my God, my Lord, and I know that it won't please Him for me to join someone who doesn't love Him. Besides other differences..."

"Name them," he replied sharply, staring at you intently.

You sighed nervously, still not ready to have a discussion with the King. "I don't like your customs... I wouldn't like to marry a man who has several women, or a bloodthirsty man. I'd be in constant fear."

Thorkell approached you, this time respecting your space.

"You'll be the only one. I'll never look at other women, and if I do, I promise to gouge out both my eyes."

You chuckled a bit, charmed by what he had just said.

"That would be very nice, but... even so, you would still worship other gods," you looked at him sadly, noticing his attempt to maintain the marriage proposal.

"I'm not asking you to give up what you do for me-" You were interrupted by Thorkell's sudden action.

Thorkell turned around, leaning on the royal throne, grunting.

"Teach me about your God," he grumbled.

°१९*०°

"Then are you going to become a Christian now or something? I never imagined you doing something like this for someone, Thorkell." Tyr, Thorkell's younger brother, mocked him and his infatuation with you.

"Shut the damn mouth, Tyr," Thorkell growled, fed up with his brother's mockery.

"Brother, understand me, you've never been interested in a woman, and now you're doing these stupid things for a Christian girl. I'm starting to think she's a witch or something," he joked again, bursting into loud laughter.

"Anyway, that girl is quite pretty, I don't believe she's still a virgin... surely she's already slept with some lad over there," mentioned one of the guards who was close to Tyr. He was about to burst into loud laughter until Thorkell punched him, causing him to fall to the ground.

"Don't you dare talk nonsense about her, you useless," Thorkell growled as he kicked the guard's face forcefully.

"If she comes out of your mouth again, I'll knock out all your teeth, got it?"

Tyr grabbed Thorkell to prevent more blows, smirked mockingly, and looked at Thorkell.

"You see what I mean? You're more aggressive than usual, and it's because of that girl."

"Thorkell, you're in love with her."

[perfectlynormalbooks]

Mr. Brightside and the Atomic Bomb by @olivieblake. 129k, Original Work, rounded + backed at folio size! (+ accompanying slipcase, as usual with bindings I'm worried about sending in the mail.) A musical magical murder mystery set to the works of the Killers.

Done for lilithbindsanderads on Instagram for the Australian Spooky Season bookbinding exchange! This is fully illustrated, with a different doodle-border at the start of every chapter, and different scene break doodles all throughout. I pulled the same trick I did with The Strange Mixtape for all of the incidental musical numbers, so you can listen along as you read if you so choose.

Typeset in Georgia for the body text, with Bivoac Regular for the chapter titles and a neat font called Sam's Town for the big chapters and headings.

I played very hard into the lurid bright colors for this one, because it's a flashy dramatic story about performers, singers, and MURDER. It makes it a very hard binding to photograph well... but it's so pretty to look at. I'm so, so happy with it.

[sp00kworm]

One Word

Pairing: Enchanted Armour/Knight (Sir Jurdanus Dawling) x Reader

Warnings: Fighting, Fantasy Violence

Summary: An Enchanted Knight finds you amidst a mushroom circle and your life is never the same after.

Rain dripped down the back of your neck as you flopped onto the mossy floor. There was no way out of a mushroom circle. They were carefully laid traps, hidden behind roots and dotted in intricate patterns which made them hard to predict. Whatever Fae had hidden this one was powerful indeed. The mushrooms were like iron and the small pebbles between skipped upwards at your face when you attempted to break the circle. Your fingers were numb from trying to force them between the littler mushrooms. It was impenetrable, and eventually you would be food for the Fae who wanted to steal you away. There was some Fae that didn’t eat mortals, but those were far and few between. The only thing you could do was try and think of deals you could try to trick the creature which came to collect you. If it took them longer than a few more days, you would be dead anyway. There was an odd comfort in that. You wouldn’t be subjected to the whims of whatever the Fae decided to do with you. The other hope was someone stumbling along your path, but few would be able to taint the Fae circle enough to let you free, and you didn’t have much you could offer them anyway.

How many more hours would you last, you wondered? Defeated, you cradled your hand and sat inside the circle, massaging the tender joints as you watched the sun move overhead. It was nearly evening time, the sun was beginning to set along the horizon, threatening the sky with orange and pink. The trees rustled and birds sang their evening tunes as you picked at the pebbles around you and flicked them against the ward. The pebbles pinged back at you like a game, and for a time it was entertaining. Sodden moss wet your bottom and you tried to ignore the wetness on your backside, sitting on the moss in favour of the agony of sitting on several rocks. The old trees creaked in the wind, and you removed your satchel to look at the mushrooms and herbs you had managed to collect before getting stuck.

Suddenly, the whole woodland went quiet. No animal made a murmur as the wind continued to blow gently through the leaves. The hairs on the back of your neck stood on end, waving with the wind as there was a great ‘thunk’ in the distance. The heavy clunk of armour thudded along the winding path between the old, twisted trees. The blood in your limbs went cold and your heart leaped into your throat. You stood up again and watched down the old dirt path as a great, heavy suit of armour rounded the corner. The armour was maybe six and a half feet tall, and the heavy cloak fastened about the shoulders made it all the more imposing. The steel was stained with black carbon, and the details were once orange copper. The details were green in most places but the emblem in the centre of the chassis, once bright, was a Swan, swooping upwards towards the sky, its neck bowed gracefully. There was a crown around its neck, resting on the top of where its wings were spread. The Knight rounded the trees closest to you, his armour clanking before he stood, the visor fixed on you trapped in the circle of mushrooms.

“Sir!” You shouted, “Please could you help me out of this faery circle?”

The Knight tilted his head, watching you carefully as his other hand not rested on the trunk of the oak, reach for his sword. He had two on his back, strapped underneath the great fur cloak which lined his shoulders. Watching him reach for the sword you panicked and reached for your bag, attempting to find something which would prove you were not Fae.

“Please, Sir...” You rummaged, throwing the pouches of weeds and herbs you had collected before you dragged out a small iron link you had found. You clenched it between your hands and showed him your skin, “Please... I’m no Fae. I got trapped here while foraging. I promise!”

The Knight looked at the link before he thundered over, the dark metal of his armour glimmering in the setting sun. The copper detailing was sickly green, almost falling off, and his neck piece squeaked with rust as he drew the long sword from his back. He turned his stance and looked at the mushrooms before there was a rattle through the armour and his hand reached forwards to where the magical barrier lay. The barrier rippled under his hand, the magic caving like a bubble, but still resisting. With another shuddering rattle the Knight grasped his sword by the hilt and stabbed it forwards. The warding screamed as the blade burst through the magic, sending sparks flying as he heaved the iron through it, to the floor. When he reached the floor, the Knight turned the blade swiftly and severed several of the mushroom caps. The barrier faded with a hiss and just like that, you were free.

You tried not to gawp as the Knight sheathed his weapon and stood back, resting his hands on his hips. You quickly hopped out of the circle and sighed with relief as you collected your items. When you finished you looked back at the Knight.

“Thank you, Sir...” You asked, wondering what the Knight’s name was. He probably had a House Name.

The Knight shuddered inside his armour again before the joints clicked and a voice echoed inside, “Sir... Sir, S-Sir...” He couldn’t seem to say his name.

“I’m sorry?” You asked, “Sir?”

Again the voice echoed from inside, “Sir...Sir...”

You frowned softly at him before daring to reach for the visor which covered his eyes. He let you grasp the metal, subdued and quiet.

“Here let me open this so you can...” You said before tugging the visor. It remained firmly shut. With a grunt you tugged it hard. It stayed down, as though it was glued.

The pieces fell into place then, and you let your hands fall to his broad shoulders. You fisted the fur. It was well cared for but old and holes had opened in the bottom of the soft leather upper. The crest wad old, battered and stained.

“You’re cursed aren’t your?” You asked as you stood flat footed again on the woodland floor.

The Knight nodded his head and tapped the crest in the centre of his chest. There was the house crest and a small moto painted intricately underneath.

“Alte Volant”

“I’m no specialist but this is definitely noble house armour... but, well I guess I could help you, as thanks for helping me?” You offered with a shaky sigh.

The Enchanted Knight nodded, his neck squeaking a little, and offered a hand to you. You looked down and then realised he was offering to carry your bags. Carefully you gave him the larger of the two and kept your satchel.

As your bag landed in his gauntlet, the air fizzed and a blue skinned Fae stepped out from a tree, their eight eyes twitching at the sight of the broken circle. Quickly, you whipped around, but the Knight was faster. The Fae span with another hiss of fury, her hands raised, crackling with blue magic as the tree roots curled violently under the woodland floor. As she clenched her teeth, magic shot from her, and the Knight grabbed his shield from his back, the great steel plated with old iron. He dragged you behind him in a flash as the bolt clanged against the shield and dissipated like water, falling as mist f. The Fae hissed again her body morphing into the trees as she skittered around and observed you both through one great black eye.

“A suit of armour playing Knight.” She gloated, “You died a long time ago, Knight!” She hung from the tree and reached her scales fingers for his helmet, “Iron is unbecoming. Iron is cheating.”

Instead of an answer, he sliced her fingers off with a strike of his blade and pushed forwards. The Fae screamed, and you covered your ears, watching as the Knight slammed her head against his shield then again, with a downwards arch, sending the Fae flying against the floor. There was a great screech before the iron blade sliced through her neck. You jumped as blue blood spurted up the trees and shook behind a trunk as the Knight wiped his blade with a clump or moss. He looked up and reclined his head at you. Without him, you would be dead.

You took a deep breath, “Come on, let’s get out of the woods.” You beckoned him to follow you as you grabbed your bags and made your way down the path. The thump of heavy armour behind you was the only indication you had of the Knight following you.

Luckily, your home was on the outskirts of town, tucked against the woods you had just been trapped in. The stone cottage had smoke billowing out of the chimney still, so that was a good sign that the cottage would be warm still. You opened the gates and looked back at the Knight following you. He paused by the gate and stared for a moment at the small, cobbled path to your home before he stepped inside the garden and waited again. You looked at the blue blood which had stained his armour before closing the gate and leading him inside to your home. The door creaked a little as you let the hunk of armour inside and you closed it firmly before turning the key in the lock and heading to the hearth. As you stirred the hearth the Knight stood by the table looking up at the dried plants and flowers.

“Come and sit down, I don’t know of you can still feel the cold, but it’ll at least be better than standing by the door.” You waved him over before getting a damp cloth from the kitchen area for him to clean the blood off himself. Graciously he reclined his head and placed a gauntlet over his chest. He began carefully cleaning the blood from the grooves of the paint.

While he cleaned himself you placed a couple of logs onto the stirred flames and looked into the ashes. Sat at the back of the hearth was the charcoal coloured egg you had found so long ago. It was a dragon egg. Abandoned or stolen, you didn’t know, but there was life in it as it wiggled gently and soaked in the heat of the new fire. The Knight caught your gaze and peered at the wobbling egg in fascination. A disapproving grunt was his only comment.

“Yes, I know. But I couldn’t leave it to die with the Fae.” You reasoned softly as you emptied your bag onto your work surface. The Knight shook his head but continued his work.

“How about we look for your crest? I have an old history book somewhere, and it has most of the noble houses in it.” You offered.

His visor turned slightly but he made no effort to tell you he wanted to have a look. Ignoring his silence, you went to get the book.

The book was very old. Your great, great grandmother had taken it before the great collapse. Many of the old houses no longer existed, after the revolution, but a few still remained in the far reaches of the country. You wondered just how long this Knight had been wandering. With a thud you placed the book on the table and leafed through to the catalogue of old house emblems. There were around a hundred, and you took a breath before beginning to scan for the old, battered coat of arms which was printed onto his chest plate. A swan in flight. It was a regal link. The Knight had maybe been close to the Queen before the collapse and that was many years ago. He could have been cursed a long time.

“Edelwyn… nope that’s a tree. Oakenfast… no that’s an acorn. Unicorn… a hare. That’s a peacock���” You turned the pages as the Knight creaked next to the fire, warming the leathers of his skirts before he began to brush the dirt from his cape with a hard brush. His weapons were next and you watched him for a moment as he pulled out carefully stored oils and cloths and began to meticulously clean the Fae blood from the iron. A few more pages revealed nothing until a crown appeared.

“Well, we might be down the right track, Sir!” You cheered as you reached for the kettle and filled it from a pail of water. Once it was over the fire you fetched the book and sat in the other chair on the large, overstuffed pillows.  You looked at the crest on his chest again and hummed, flicking between three pages before you found it.

“Dawling!” You cried out as you hopped out of the chair and showed the Knight the book. The crest on his chest was penned beautifully with inks of good quality. You beamed at his helmet as you pointed at the crowned swan.

With a faint creak of metal, the knight reached up to take the book from your outstretched hands. There was the faint sound of wheezing breathing through the visor of his helmet as he touched the page with the crest and then carefully, like he was caressing a baby bird, traced the letters of his family name.

“Dawling was the closest family to the Queen.” You told him quietly, “Before the revolution the Dawling family were the last near her and all of them were said to have perished when they burned the castle in the North.”

With a soft nod he looked over the small descriptive notes, his armour flexing gently with tension.

“I’m sorry, for what it’s worth…” You offered a gentle hand to him.

He said nothing but you watched him reach up, his fingers twitching. The metal of his gauntlets was cold against your skin but smooth and well looked after. Warmth enveloped his fingers from your skin and the Knight peered up at you. His visor was shined and as he put the book down you saw a faint glow behind the slats. Behind the metal there were two haunting eyes. The blue eyes glimmered before disappearing again into the darkness of the armour. Wisps of light trailed out of his neck.

“Would you like anything?” You asked as you patted his hand.

The knight shook his head as he looked back at the dancing flames.

“I suppose now I have to call you Sir Dawling!” You joked as you let go of his hand, “I wonder who put this curse on you though…I suppose we will never know now, but you can stay here a while if you like?” You offered.

Sir Dawling turned to look at you and nodded his confirmation, the flames reflecting patterns over his armour.

“I’ll make you the spare room up then.” With a smile you went to collect some linens but you were stopped by Dawling standing by the fire shaking his head, pointing to the sunset in the sky. With a confused stare you followed him towards the door and watched as he stood by the door, collecting his weapons.

“Can you not sleep?” You asked as he packed his weapons. He shook his head again and then made the shape of a butterfly which his armoured hands. When that didn’t work, he pointed to the blue blood which remained on his shield.

“The Fae? I doubt they would come this far out of the woods and beside they can’t get in here without invitation.” You soothed, but Sir Dawling shook his head and insisted, opening the door. He closed it behind him, his leathers squeaking a little as he sat outside the door on a small log. You looked through the glass of the window as he took his whetstone out and continued to work his blades. It seemed as though he was to stand guard. Maybe he didn’t need to sleep? He was after all, cursed. With a sigh you went to the fire and decided to make dinner, pondering on the curses which could have been cast over him before the revolution truly took root in the country. You stoked the fire gently around the dragon egg still nested in the coals. There was an answer to the riddle that you could not see.

A few hours later, after reading numerous books on the subject of magics, you hadn’t found many answers. The key to the Knight’s curse probably laid in the type of magic used to curse him. With more questions than answers you stood from the fire, wrapped tight in a blanket, and took the spare to the door. Quietly you listened behind the wood. Sir Dawling’s armour creaked with the phantom movements of his breathing and quietly the thud of his metal finger against his thigh. Quietly, you opened the door. His helmet turned to face you immediately. Dawling made a shooing motion with his fingers, beckoning you to head back inside. You stepped out onto the stone step and smiled at him before offering him the heavy woollen blanket. You could see he was eyeing the red dyed wool, but instead of giving him a choice you thrust it over his lap and smiled. Carefully, he unfolded the fabric and laid it over his thighs.

“You don’t have to stay out here you know… I feel bad with you out here protecting me and helping me again.” You sighed and rubbed at your shoulders against the cold.

Sir Dawling held his hand up and shook his head, as though it was no trouble at all for him.

“But still… there has to be something I can do?” You asked, “Or maybe give you? I don’t want you out here all night bored…”

Again, Sir Dawling shook his head and you sighed at his protest.

“Fine but please, come back inside if you’re cold or anything. I’ll keep the fire on for the little one anyway.” You joked.

He shook his head at the idea of the dragon egg again and fixed his gaze on the moon and the stars above. You left him there, gazing up at the night sky, and went to bed.

For fourteen nights, Sir Dawling sat outside your cottage. Reluctantly, throughout the day you let him follow you too and from your jobs in town. You didn’t have a particular profession, but you had a lot of room for foraging and several of the plants on your property were useful to the locals. Alongside a bountiful variety of mushrooms there were several herbs like mint and rosemary which were used in salves. Sir Dawling watched the exchanges carefully, wary of the townsfolk who were wary of him. The people asked after him curiously, but most of the people in the town were far too familiar with the workings of the Fae in the woodlands. Once you explained a few of them were even sympathetic towards the poor Knight, though the others knew that a crest meant he was once someone of an important station. Not many looked on the Queen or her Court favourably out in the woods. Still, no one had said anything, yet. Sir Dawling followed behind you, his tattered cloak billowing, and his swords an obvious statement of prowess. He didn’t need to draw them for people to know he was a killer.  

“Are you going to sit out here again?” You asked on the fifteenth night as you gave him a clean blanket.

Sir Dawling shrugged his shoulders, and as always, he didn’t reply.

“Well would you like a fire? I don’t know if you can feel cold but I got a little cast iron fire pit while I was out in town today!” You pointed to the edge of the small vegetable patch where the iron pit was located.

With a creak, Sir Dawling stood up, his armour clanking as he reached the fire pit and then bent over in order to drag it closer to the door. He reached for a log from the stack you had down the side of the house, but you had already beaten the Knight to it.

“Here.” You smiled and watched him take the log before you went inside to fetch some kindling and a small scoop of hot coals from the fire inside, “You know, the egg is really close to hatching I think.”

Sir Dawling shook his head at the mention of the egg you had pilfered inside of your home.

“I know you think I’m silly for keeping it…” You said as you handed the Dawling the kindling, “But I couldn���t stand the idea of a poacher getting it! That or the Fae. I just wanted to see if I could save it.”

A long wheezing sigh echoed from the chamber of Sir Dawling’s armour as he took the hot coals from your hands and carefully poured the scoop under the kindling. The twigs quickly caught fire with a few fans of his hands. Gently, he handed you the fire scoop back to take back inside and you did so before returning, running with your oven gloves on, with the dragon egg in hand. The egg gave another shake and a creak as you ran for the fire pit outside.

“SIR DAWLING! FAN THE FLAMES QUICK!” You screeched.

Sir Dawling took the fan from your pocket and fanned the flames as high as he could get them as you rolled the egg gently into the fire. The charcoaled shell cracked with the smoking wood, and you gazed at it in amazement as fiery lines erupted over the surface. The red patterns intertwined with one another, weaving an intricate image over the shell before a small, horned nose butted a chip in the shell. Sir Dawling leaned close enough to watch the egg shake and a small nose batter at the shell again. The flames licked the surface, like a caressing mother, and you dropped the oven gloves in favour of squatting by the pit.

The iron base glowed with the heat as another great creak sounded and a spiked tail flopped into the wood. The wood spat at you as claws raked at the thick calcium, gouging freedom from the egg. Horns prickled the egg and soon a small, growl sounded from the flames. A small, jade green dragon curled in the fire, grumbling in the fire, its tail poised high, and its neck flared defensively. It hissed and spat a small flame. With a firm hand, Sir Dawling removed the fire poker and watched as the dragonling growled, its sharp, ravenous teeth flashing. You looked at the jewelled creature in awe before sitting by the side of the fire and replacing your oven mittens. The dragon spat, its horned prickled in your direction, but you reached gently to move the eggshell out of the fire. Dawling’s helmet shifted to you, watching as you reached into the coals again and then placed the meat you were going to cook into the embers. The dragon grumbled, lowly, like a cat, but quickly turned its slitted pupils on the meat. Its eyes were a glorious orange, like amber. Carefully, its claws hooked the food, and you delighted quietly as it took the food and began chewing at the chicken leg.

“I know…” You whispered at Dawling as he looked to reach for the poker again, “Its stupid to try, but I think I can do this. Its such a beautiful creature.”

With another echoing sigh, Dawling nodded and watched you feed the dragon.   

Another leg of a chicken had the small dragon clawing at the edge of the fire pit, its head raised, looking up at you with a gentle rumble. The scales down its neck glittered in the fire light like gems. The dragon was beautiful. Carefully you dared to let the hatchling sniff your hand. The dragon rumbled, sniffed and then carefully pushed its head up into your hand. Underneath its chin, as it raise its head, there was the glittering of a bright, pearl coloured scale, round and fat like a heavy gemstone. It glittered before the hatchling ducked its head again and growled, hopping out of the fire to curl around your legs. The dragon peered up at Sir Dawling from between your legs, and cocked its head, wondering about the suit of armour which clunked in its seat.

“He’s cursed.” You offered down at the dragon, “He did something in his previous life which upset a great sorceress, so she made him like this.” You smiled at Sir Dawling, offering him your hand and a comforting squeeze. His gauntlets creaked with the squeeze, but you smiled at him and then offered the dragon your hand as well.

“Wait… how do I tell if it’s a male or female…” You whispered as you turned back towards the house. The dragon followed dutifully, swinging its tail like a happy kitten as you both slipped through the door.

“How do you like Frasadu?” You asked the dragon. It chirped in response, “So maybe you are a boy…”

Sir Dawling shifted on the log outside, touching the crest on his chest as he watched you go inside, feeling an odd ache where once his chest was. The Knight shook his head, moaning inside the armour as he reached for the poker by the fire.

There was a disgusting sound, like two pieces of metal grinding metal together, which woke you up. With a scream, you shot out of bed, just as there was a great slam against the heavy stone wall of your home. You heard the sing of iron outside, indicating Sir Dawling had drawn his sword. The dragon by the fire stirred, and opened his mouth, his teeth lighting with fire. You rushed to the door, grabbing a dagger before you opened it. Frasadu howled at outside, and you froze by the door as Dawling’s sword sliced through the first fae who dared to get too close. With a rush of odd light, his gauntlet slammed through the chest of another, and you stood, clutching at the iron dagger as the bottom wall of the garden exploded into rubble. A great insect like beast crawled over the stones, its mouth parts slicing against one another again to make the awful noise.

“DAWLING!” You screamed as the insect beast slammed a great, needle like leg down towards him. The Knight rolled and sliced upwards, severing one of the monster’s legs before he made a quick roll back towards you. He held his hand up and you watched as Frasadu roared, flaring his wings before he shot a great ball of explosive fire at the insect. The beast screeched and reared before its abdomen set ablaze, and it sprinted for the trees, howling.

The fae watched their monster run and hissed, their black eyes glinting like oil slick in the fire. A few of them slunk behind the logs and rubbles of your walls, watching as you reached to touch the top of Frasadu’s head. There was a brief moment of silence amidst the crackling rubble, both parties staring at one another. Dawling flicked the blood from his great sword and turned the flat of the blade upwards at the slinking faeries.

“You have dragon lord blood.” A great tall Fae slunk from the rubble, her white hair was braided intricately around her head, holding poisonous thorns and dried hawthorn leaves. Gossamer wings fluttered behind her, placing her before you gracefully.  Her face was narrow, impossibly thin in all dimensions, and her skin glittered green with a shine of iridescence. Black eyes bore holes in Sir Dawling as he stepped between the two of you.

“Silence Knight.” She scoffed. Her clawed fingers gripped into a fist and you felt the metallic scream of Sir Dawling as he was thrown in the air, writhing, his armour denting and groaning in on itself, “The incessant smell of your shame bores me.” The Fae spat, “You were cursed for it, and so you will end with it, curled in a ball of molten rotting metal.”

“Wait!” You begged, holding your hands out as you rushed in front of Dawling. He howled above you as his gauntlets were peeled open, each joint pulling outwards from his body. His arms buckled as you stared down the Fae.

“He is protecting me. He saved me…and I have looked after him. He does not deserve this…” You asked of her, “Please, leave him be.”

“I, Ushura, Lady of Glowing Stars, will not let the Fae Slayer live.” Ushura screamed, her fingers gripping the metal, tearing at it with the familiar glow of blue magic. It was the same colour that glowed inside of Sir Dawling’s armour from time to time.

“Please, my lady.” You begged, “What can be done to repay this sin?” You asked.

Ushura spat her disdain at your feet, “Your Queen has long since died. She was the one who asked it of him, but he was the one who carried it out, burning our burrows, slaughtering our children in their nests!” Fury burned in her veins, the weight of a thousand lives, her people, heavy on her shoulders.

“He suffers still for his slight, my lady, but please, let him live.” You asked, “I do not know what I am or who I am to you, yet, but I can only try and make things right.”

Ushura held Sir Dawling aloft, but the crushing of his armour halted, as did his howling. You watched her black eyes soften a little at the edges as she looked at the small hatchling at your side.

“Misee wi. Forni talmas, ui porteh alme.” She spoke gently, watching as the dragon at your side listened, his ear turned to her. The hatchling dipped his head and turned, his head stretched upwards, revealing the pearl beneath his neck. It was strangely, like you knew what to do, and you reached out carefully to touch the pearl. Frasadu hummed against you, and there was a great spark of white, brilliant light. You heard the Fae recoil and hide behind the rubble. There was an unending ringing in your ears before the light dimmed enough to reveal a great shape before you. All the sights and sounds of your ruined home disappeared behind the great shadow. Two wings spread out, shadowing beyond you, far into the corners of your field of vision, and you gasped at the silhouette of the dragon before you.

“Long have I awaited the return of a Dragon Lord. You are the last. The last of the line of glory, of brotherhood and blood ties beyond that of this continent. Frasadu was not a name you came up with, but it has rather always been my name, little one. Together, we are to restore what is broken, to mend the broken reaches of the world. We are destined to be, as your Knight is destined to follow you. Tell them, in the old tongue. As one we once were, and as one we are once again.”

The light receded as quickly as it had appeared and when you could see again you looked at your fingertips touching Frasadu’s chin. The dragon’s orange eyes reflected wisdom of thousands of years, and you smiled as you cradled his chin. With a resolute breath, you turned back to Ushura.

“Ret yue fristra, ret yue gugartha ne.” You told the fae.

“Then as one you must all remain.” She hissed. Her claws unravelled, dropping Sir Dawling from her grasp. The knight landed with a great crash, armour clattering against stone. You tried not to turn, holding the gaze of the Fae as Frasadu puffed his chest out before you, spreading his wings out in a threatening display.

“You must not return here.” You told the Fae, “Sir Dawling is to remain with me.”

Slowly, the Fae disappeared back into the trees, their eyes merging with the shadows as the firelight flickered far from view. You watched them for a moment before rushing to Dawling’s side. The armour laid motionless, laid in dented chunks.

“Please don’t be gone.” You begged quietly as you turned his helmet and desperately tried to place him back together.

There was a groan from somewhere within all the scattered metal and you found a twitching gauntlet in time to hold Sir Dawling’s hand. The metal armour groaned as you took his hand and tears burned in your eyes. You felt the wet drops on your cheeks as Frasadu growled and dragged a crushed greave over by your side.

“I don’t know how to fix this!” You told the hatchling, and the knight who’s head was laid in your lap.

The helmet visor clicked open with a sudden screech of metal. Your tears dripped inside the shell only to see the faint wisps of soul slowly swirling inside. The gauntlet by your feet twitched before it began to float, the dent groaning as the leather gloves stretched. You sobbed as you watched it float, the fingers reaching for you. The tips caressed the apples of your cheeks, slowly shifting downwards before they gave a gentle twitch. The chest plates expanded with a groan.

“Dragon… Lord.” Sir Dawling wheezed, his armour shaking, grinding along the floor as it attempted to fuse back together. You clawed at the pieces, pulling them together as your tears dripped down the once beautifully intricate metal work.

“Can we fix him?” Frasadu rumbled innocently. He sat next to you, his scales against your leg, “His soul is still here.”

“I don’t know how to fix this Dawling…” You wept on the armour with a thundering sob.

“Jurdanus…” Dawling wheezed, “Jurdanus… Dawling.”

“Jurdanus, please, Sir Dawling, I can’t…” You stuttered as you finally placed the rest of the armour together.

The knight gave one final, heaving breath, before the light dimmed behind his visor and the metal went slack against the stone. The fire continued to crackle behind you, dulling the sensation of reality for a moment before you placed your hands on Frasadu wept onto his scales. Sir Jurdanus Dawling didn’t move. The fires crackled as you held Frasadu close, and you looked to the stars in the night sky above. All was quiet, for a moment, before there was a gentle whoosh, like gas being lit. Frasadu grumbled, shifting in your grasp, stretching to look at the armour as a soft blue wisp drifted down towards you both. Amidst the fire you watched the light swift before it formed the shape of a large man. The silhouette drifted closer, and a hand reached to touch your cheek, tracing the same pattern Sir Dawling had drawn.

“Jurdanus?” You asked, hopefully.

The silhouette nodded before spreading its arms and laying backwards. The light disappeared back into the armour. A great whoosh sounded again before the ruined armour before you clanged, shifted, and banged, rumbling violently as it once again took on the perfect shape of a suited knight.

The light behind the visor glowed once more and with a delighted shriek you jumped over Sir Dawling’s hips, delightedly shaking his shoulders as he reached up to steady you by the waist.

“I’m so glad you’re okay!” You wiped the tears from your face, sniffling.

Jurdanus nodded his head and reached to wipe the tears from your cheeks. Tenderly, he cupped your face, and there was a whisper of thanks on the wind, although no voice echoed from within the armour. You smiled and howled with laughter as Jurdanus sat up and dragged you with him, holding you close to his chest as he span through the garden, with Frasadu hot on his heels.

[tohakumaru]

climb the stairs, the nomad is with you.

it is futile. you know this is the end. and it's quite alright, you've always been alright.

the steps are sturdy and forgiving though the hill is steep. it is not so much a struggle, but it drags. this is fine, a funny thing about time is that it passes regardless. whether you want to or not, you arrive at a lonely tree, so tall it almost eclipses the sky.

the tree has no leaves, only dry branches covered in flowers with bright red petals, from which buds of cotton-white silks burst out like stars spilling their guts over the emptiness of space.

...

this shame you live with.

that night she sleeps with her hair caked in mud

a top-shelf doll sits crossed-hand, stuffed with fluff and bone-dry eyes

passing divine judgement, you could swear its lips curl into a knife

...

with soft crackling sounds, the trees rises from sleep. it crouches towards you: branches reach out to envelope you in a wiry embrace, and lift you up. it cradles you like a mother does a child. when your head comes to rest on a barren patch on the trunk, the tree shudders: from a thin crack in the balk a flower grows and blooms. five petals like the rest, but an empty core. you look on with no resistance as a thin stalk climbs your neck, hangs over your face, and creeps into your right eye. it pulls from the socket a silver thread and attaches one end to the centre of the flower, which swirls and spins, pulling the thread from you as it does.

it dawns on you that you are being unravelled, quite literally.

for a very, very long time, you lay there and wait for sleep to come. it seems fitting, the motion of the flower-spool and the unbelievable lightness of coming undone work like a lullaby. ebbs and flows and tells you to go. it is fine, it is quite alright, even if there's nothing waiting, not even judgement. you can leave.

… and yet… you are still awake. how long must this take?

as though in answer, the flower suddenly stops spining, the tree tenses up - there is a snag in the thread. the line tangled in clumps forming a face, vaguely resembles that which was once buried in a shallow grave in your mind. this one won't go.

is this supposed to happen?

you frantically look for the nomad, but it is too far down. the panic sets in, but you don't have limbs to squirm nor mouth to scream. you are terrified. please, i will think of something, there must be a way. i am so sorry. i… i don't know what to do. i am still here. forgive me, i am scared, too. what do we do, darling? talk to me, please. what can i do?

like a bad joke, a crescent tore the night sky apart. you take a moment to make out the wicked smile of the moon - ear to ear as it begins with a theatrical cough:

"here you are!

all out of sorts, i see.

well, i did say it was your loss.

too bad, i don't want it anymore. a shame really,

could have been a nice dream.

do what you wish, bird.

i'm just a moon."

me.

and with that, the moon is gone. for good now, you can tell. then, all is still and quiet as the branches set you down, your eyes fixed on the red petals that slowly wither and fall to the ground. the tree has gone back to sleep.

the nomad stares at you. an unreadable expression spreads across its face as it slowly leans over and pushes its palm straight into your chest. you feel no pain as it opens your ribcage, and sets your lungs aside. soft fingers roaming in search. eventually, they find a tiny pair of wings clinging to your auricle and gently pluck it from your heart. in the light, the nomad…holds…

…

how ironic. we'd spoken about us at the end of the world, and i'm so sorry, darling, but i guess this is the world at the end of us.

cold, and getting harder to breathe.

as my wings flutter in the nomad's palm, i see the sky so wide. it's so cold here. i miss you, miss the aching warmth of your hunger, free falling in your heart.

once upon a time. there was a hole in your chest where i laid dying. lack of faith, the prophet diagnosed with a gesture of grandeur - no cures for it, keep praying. the fool.

there was a tunnel in your mind where your dreams bled and your scouring love leaked into the cold, cold world. help, it hurts like hell, i heard you say. could have done something about it, i didn't. i let you bleed to death, i hung you out to dry.

on top of the root-hill at the bottom of the dreaming tree, a nomad sits with a sand-eaten corpse. in its small, child-like hand, a moth takes one last breath. nothing changes in the world, but something has ended. yet, as all good nomads know, a walk doesn't end until it is home-time. nomads are neither moons nor trees, and despite their wanderings, they care very much about warm beds, good night kisses, and happy endings. the greatest nomad of all time once implied by gestures something along the line of, fuck tragedies, i've had enough, and all the other nomads thought that was a quite good point.

darling?

i love you.

this nomad then carefully tucks the moth into its breastpocket, stands up, gathers all it can of the corpse into a blanket, which is then neatly tied and slung over its back. steadily, it descends the root-hill, passes the groves of living-statues, and continues a brisk pace on its journey. just a bit more now, you'll be home before tomorrow arrives, it hums silently./

[stormykatie]

cold wind kissing

my nape sending

shivers down my spine

sweet november,

the feelings are gone

and all that's left now

is a trail of blood,

tears staining the walls,

which the shadows

cover with darkness

so he won't see

so he won't know

the night wept for him

-katie

[star-dragon-art]

Made variants of the rainbow coelacanth! I probably won't be producing all of these as physical stickers anytime soon (EXPANSIVE!! $$$), but I do have a kickstarter going for a varying spread of ancient pride creatures to be stickers.

Feel free to use these around the net! All I ask is don't erase the credit mark.

[hisclockworkservants]

[unforgivenn]

hii y'all. Soo this idea has been in my mind for like so fucking long aaanddd I can't just let it be. >.<

So basically when people turn a certain age depending on their social status they're classified either as humans or livestock. The system is pretty fucked up. Those labelled as livestock lose all their human rights because, apparently, they don't deserve them.

Parents disown their kids not able to fully believe that they'd just been rearing livestock this whole time. It's heartbreaking for their children to hear this. They're still the same person!! Their life can't change just because of a single document!!

These people or if you can even call them that anymore, are classified into many different categories like workers, pets and experimental subjects by going through a test. Or if they deem out too useless, they're turned to meat. (haha yes, I'm being serious T_T)

People with high social status live in luxury, while those at the bottom suffer terribly. Since these people are no longer considered human, it doesn't matter what happens to them. They can be tortured, raped, or killed, and no one would care. They still have feelings, but in this society, that doesn't matter at all. It's a world where the rich have all the power.

Should I turn this into a story? ^^

LINK TO THE STORY

[sicktember]

In anticipation of the questions to come, we would like to go ahead and clarify the prompt ‘Pulling a Ferris Bueller’ for anyone who may not understand the reference. 

Pulling a Ferris Bueller is a pop culture reference born from the 1986 American teen comedy, Ferris Bueller's Day off.’ In the film, the titular character, Ferris Bueller, not for the first time, decides he wants to skip school. It’s a nice day and he’d like to go to Chicago with his best friend and girlfriend. He devises a complicated plan that starts with faking sick, after which he goes to great lengths to avoid being caught. These lengths include (but aren’t limited to) telling plenty of lies, creating an elaborate setup to make it appear he’s never left his bed, borrowing an expensive car and later rolling the odometer back, and hacking school records. This all becomes especially humorous as the school’s dean becomes increasingly desperate to prove that Ferris is continually absent despite the perfect attendance that had been recorded.  While out and about the trio hit several comical snags and engaged in a great deal of banter. During the film, Ferris often breaks the fourth wall to explain his choices and thought processes.

Basically, the saying, 'Pulling a Ferris Bueller' usually means faking sick to skip school/work for no reason other than to have a good time. As a trope, it tends to lean more heavily into the movie's plot and themes. You can use Either! ... or Neither!

Below, you'll find some resources to help you better understand the movie this prompt refers to. Or, you can swap this one out for one of the provided alternate prompts!

Resources ⬇

Official Trailer [Youtube.com]

Short Clip or Ferris' Sneaky Setup [Youtube.com]

Extensive Summary [Gradesaver.com]

Wiki Page [Wikipedia.og]

Tropes within the Trope [allthetropes.org]