#lantern front entry light

[loujasna]

Front Door Mudroom Large cottage gray floor entryway photo with white walls and a white front door

[careful-ben]

Denver Front Door

Entryway - huge transitional ceramic tile entryway idea with white walls and a light wood front door

[fringeyguygoesrogue]

Traditional Entry - Front Door Inspiration for a large timeless concrete floor entryway remodel with gray walls and a medium wood front door

[bishopillustration]

Front Door in Boise

Large tuscan entryway photo with beige walls and a medium wood front door

[melloface]

Traditional Exterior - Exterior An illustration of a medium-sized, traditional, three-story brick house with a hip roof.

[fivewanderingfingers]

Front Door in Boise Large tuscan entryway photo with beige walls and a medium wood front door

[mastertook]

Hip Roofing Houston Idea for a large, two-story, traditional beige stone house exterior with a hip roof and shingles on the roof

[psychologistproblems]

Exterior - Transitional Exterior Example of a mid-sized transitional gray two-story mixed siding exterior home design with a hip roof

[estimatey]

Traditional Entry

[zae-heeyyy]

Piquancy- III

Summary: Arthur courts you properly. Pairing: Arthur Morgan X Female Reader Word Count: 3,108 Tags: fingering, foreplay, LOTS of foreplay, oral, praise

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An: This journal entry is so unserious, but that's all I got today lol I've been re-reading The Odyssey and couldn't help alluding to it, shout out to my guy Odysseus.

piquancy: a sharp or stimulating quality that provokes a strong, often intriguing reaction.

Arthur Morgan wanted you. He wanted you in all the ways a person could want another. His desire for you throbbed like a muscle ache, painful but impossible not to press into. Longing like this had never worked out for him in the past. He was a fool to let himself wade into it, but the allure of you pooled all around him, a fate he could not escape. The memory of you still burned beneath his fingertips. He wanted to feel more: your lips on his, the curves of your breasts cupped in his palms, and your nails digging into his back. And oh, he wanted to taste you, to feel the skin of your neck between his teeth, to clash his lips against yours, and to lose himself in a heady dance of his tongue against the warmth between your legs. He wanted you so bad; the thought was burning him alive. Arthur Morgan wanted you, and if you let him have you, he wouldn't screw it up. Not this time, not ever. 

You were just as enticed with him, your fascination multiplied by his freshly trimmed face and the faint scent of bergamot soap wafting off of him as he greeted you outside the Blackwater Saloon that evening. While your "date" wasn't the sort of proper courting you read about in one of Marybeth's romance books, it suited the lifestyle you and Arthur shared.

The same man who made a living off of coarse intimidation metamorphosized right in front of you, unraveling himself to be a deep thinker, attentive, and tenderhearted. That tenderness made every step feel effortless as he led you up the stairs of the saloon to the room you'd shared the night before.

As the door clicked closed, Arthur made quick work of his satchel and gun belt, then sat on the bed with inviting arms. You walked into him, intertwining your fingers behind his neck, and he mirrored you, locking his around the small of your back. Finally, you allowed yourself to be enthralled by his eyes once more, drawn in like a moth to lantern light.

"Thank you," you whispered, mouth hovering close to his. As bad as you wanted to lean into him and let him swallow you whole, you held back. Making the first move felt too bold, too unladylike, and you cared too much about what he might think to risk it.

"What for?" he asked. You opened your mouth to respond, but he silenced you, closing the distance and kissing you once, quick, like a wave testing the shore. Then a storm brewed within you, and you surged back against his lips, swept away by the force of him. As the moment drifted away, you'd regained awareness of yourself, realizing you'd practically dissolved into the cowboy. The weight of you barely phased him, but he gave your waist a gentle tug, mooring you to his knee. With a slight grin plastered on his face, he nodded, urging you to go on with the thought he'd just unapologetically cut off with his lips.

"Thank you for this, courting, as you call it," You didn't mean for your voice to come out as shaky as it did, but you joked to calm your nerves, "would've got you drunk around me sooner if I knew I had this to look forward to."

He huffed low in amusement, a knowing smile growing as a cheeky thought flickered through his mind.

"Was only ever drunk on you, darlin'."

Tickled, you threw your head back in unrestrained laughter. His head dipped into your shoulder in an attempt to hide his sudden self-consciousness, making his speech come out muffled. "Weren't that funny," he said, trying to brush off his words. As he continued to nuzzle into your neck, he hummed and sighed contentedly as he took in your scent.

Smiling so much made your cheeks ache, but you couldn't help it. "You smell so nice," you mimicked his drunken flirting from the night before. He chuckled again, exhaled warm air onto your skin, and pulled you flush into him, holding tight. You'd never imagined you'd enjoy being trapped in an ursine hug, but Arthur's affectionate grip on you made his arms feel like the safest place in the world.

His lips made contact with your skin, and you tilted your head to give him better access. You could feel his lips curve upward as you sighed. 

"Not the only thing I said," he recalled, tugging at the fabric of your blouse, uncovering your shoulder, and kissing the now exposed skin. A shiver racked your bones as you gave into his shameless attempt to seduce you. Redirecting his attention from your goosebump-covered skin to your lips, you locked onto them, pushing through his teeth to tangle his tongue with yours. Arthur cursed himself as he felt his pants get tighter. Selfish, he thought and tore himself away from you. Damn, he was a greedy, thieving, heartless bastard. If he wanted something, he'd rob for it, but nothing—not even all the money in the world—could amount to you. In that moment, entirely consumed, he realized that everything he had was yours to take—and then some. He'd give it all to you, steal from others, and even kill to make sure you were satisfied. The mere thought of it terrified him, yet it was the only thing that had ever made sense.

Your brow crinkled at the loss of his bodyheat but even more so at the frown etched into his features. Your mouth fell open to ask if something was wrong, but he shook his head assuringly. Of course, nothing was wrong; for once in his miserable life, everything was right. 

"Whoever he was– he was an idiot to have you and take it for granted. I won't." 

You wanted to believe him with every part of you. Self-doubt didn't have time to creep in before your attention fell to his hand wandering up and down your thigh. You kissed him hungrier than either of you had kissed anybody before, making his mind race. Closer, closer, closer hammered in his brain, inexorable. Two large hands gripped your backside, prompting you to lock your legs around his waist.

He panted against your mouth, "Let me make you feel good." You could only nod.

Soft pillows cushioned your head as you readjusted, laying on your back. As your eyes roamed up to the ornate chandelier, your legs opened with a mind of their own, giving him space to crawl between them. His bulk lay against yours, heavy in all the best ways.

"Yer'so goddamn beautiful, you know that?" His words came out strained, like he'd lost his breath as he trailed kisses down your neck. You knew he was observant, always finding something to sketch and write in that journal of his. Now, it showed in how he narrowed his eyes to see you better, how he grazed his fingers across untouched skin and looked up to see your reaction. You'd never had a man pay this much attention to you, to soak you in when he was the one doing all the work. Arthur didn't care a second about his own physical pleasure. Making you come around his fingers would be pleasure enough.

You were utterly lost in the man. When had the room grown so unbearably hot? When had he taken off your shoes? How did his hands find the waistband of your bloomers under the fabric of your skirt?

Pausing, his eyes met yours in a silent plea for him to continue. You answered by lifting your hips and forcing your skirt and bloomers down to your ankles. Arthur was swift in pulling them all the way off, grunting in delight as he tossed the garments to the floor, forgotten.

His breath whistled out of his nose loud like the wind of a dust storm, and his chest rose and fell hard at the sight of you. Eyes still fixed on yours, his calloused palm traveled up your leg like he was trying to memorize you. He wanted to be able to close his eyes and remember the shape of you from touch alone, to sculpt you in his mind. All his life, he'd been a nomad, traveling and exploring new places, never calling one home. Now, he realized home wasn't a place but a person–– you were who he wanted to call home yet never stop exploring.

As his hand finished its trek up your leg, almost landing at its final destination, a strange sense of self-consciousness washed over you like never before.

Arthur cared about you. That was evident. You couldn't deny it, and you'd be stabbing him with his own knife if you did. But you couldn't stop the nag of worry. What if this time was like every other time? What if, despite all his effort, Arthur would walk down the same road as the others, seemingly content with their own satisfaction but falling short of meeting yours. The what-ifs doused you like water on a fire, and you brought your knees to your chest, folding into yourself.

The fog of Athur's lust for you lifted, replaced by clarity and concern. Brow knit together, he scooted in close and rubbed his knuckles down your jaw. 

"What is it?" he murmured, nudging your chin to make you look at him, "We don't have to do anythin' you don't want."

He rested his hands so casually worshipping you a second ago on your knees with all the patience of a saint, finding your gaze and waiting for a response. He was so uniquely him, and for him to be yours was the only thought you'd had for forty-eight hours. You didn't just want him in the way he was five seconds ago, hot and heavy; you wanted him the way you were at the poker table, arm around your chair; you wanted him in the way you'd sat downstairs. To want him like that meant more than a one-night fleeting encounter. That meant giving yourself away to him, your whole self, not just your body, but your wants and needs and parts of yourself that scared you the most. Little did you know, he shared the same thoughts about you.

Storm-churned seas of blue bore into your own misty eyes, "want to," you squeaked, "it's just that––"

"I know what you said. I know, darlin'." His voice, tender as it was, broke the dam under your eyes. Silent tears spilled down your face for only a second before he caught them with his thumbs.  He waited, silently pushing you to go on, even though his heart ached at the sight of rivers etching a path down your features.

"What if there's something wrong with me?" You asked, openly admitting what you'd long suspected about yourself.

"Hey," he said as he rose up on his knees and towered over you. His hands tugged at the hem of your blouse and chemise, but his eyes caught yours in another silent ask. You adjusted to let him pull both garments up and over. Stricken by you, he shook his head slowly. Words were coming out of his mouth, but he was fixated on you. He couldn't stop his hands as they traced the curves of your body. "You say that, but from this side of the bed–– well, I reckon you're damn close to perfection."  

You were a siren, your body a beautiful symphony. Though he'd always clung to the mast of his own vulnerability, he would gladly untether himself and plunge to his death if it meant eternity in heaven with you. His declaration was Hermes' moly, making the spell of insecurity nonbinding.

Like the moon and the tide, you'd found yourselves in sync again, working together to shove his suspenders off his shoulders, untuck his shirt, and undo the buttons that were keeping it closed. You flung yourself into him, digging your fingers into his back and shivering as your nipples pressed against his chest. He tasted like tobacco and alcohol and somehow like an alcove of sunlight, fresh water, and vivid color. His suspenders hung loosely around his waist as he dipped you back down into the swell of blankets.

"You just relax now; let me take care of ye'. If you want me to stop, just say the word, alright?" You gave him the go-ahead, and he took hold of your knees, parting your legs to expose you to him again. His beard scratched the inside of your thighs as he dived between them, and you gasped as his tongue and teeth latched onto the skin of your thighs. You arched up off the bed, losing whatever control you had over yourself.

One of his hands snaked into yours. "I said relax, woman." He kissed your knuckles then went back to it, drawing dark marks into your thighs as if you were a page of his journal. Your whole being boiled with desire, a desire you didn't even know you could feel. While he kissed and nipped and sucked like his life depended on it, his hand untangled from yours and danced around your stomach, up your abdomen, and then to the shapely flesh of your chest, squeezing gently. You bit your lip, holding in a whine as he pinched a nipple through his index and middle finger, massaging lightly as he gave the same treatment to your other thigh.

As he neared heaven's gates, you tugged on his hair, urging him closer as the rough stubble on his face scratched your skin, a smile curling against your thigh. A disappointed huff escaped you as his face was level with yours again. Your chest was rising and falling rapidly, and you looked up at him bewildered. He'd made a mess of you–– exactly what he'd aimed for.

He chuckled, proud of himself, and then his mouth found yours again, his tongue pushing through your lips to find yours. He kissed you with so much heat you could've broken out into a fever.  

Flames blazed through your veins as he slowly descended back to heaven. Arthur's lips burned like the tip of a cigarette wherever they touched. Just when you thought he'd finally taste you to relieve the aching, he began to kiss your thighs again, and you couldn't help it; you begged him.

"Please, Arthur," you choked out, not recognizing your own voice, shaky and desperate, "Please."

And to your pure bliss, he obeyed, never a rule follower, except for now. He spread you open, using his non-dominant hand to pin your knee to the bed while his shoulder kept your other leg parted.

With a touch so gentle yet purposeful, he drove his index finger from the top of your clit, all the way down until it dipped briefly into your folds. And he swept it back up again, curiously exploring you. He ground his throbbing cock into the bed as you yanked on his locs. Wet sounds of your sins filled the room, and you'd be embarrassed if you weren't entirely delighted. Arthur looked back up at you, his touch unrelenting.

"You okay? This good?" he asked. You could only bob your head up and down, gasping fast and loud. "Good," he said, kissing the inside of your thigh again and teasing the opening of your pussy with his finger. "Keep still for me?" you nodded again, the austere head movement the only thing you could muster.

You braced for discomfort that never came as his meaty digit sunk into you with ease, disappearing to the knuckle. You pressed your head deeper into the pillow only to rise a second later with your mouth agape as you felt his tongue, soft and wet, swipe at your clit.

And fuck, you whimpered.

All thoughts led back to one place now, and all your self-restraint leaked out of you with the movement of Arthur's finger. As your hips rocked feverishly against him, he slipped another inside of you, groaning exultantly. He'd transformed you, turning you into a hollering minx.

You belted his name in time with the rhythm of his fingers, "Oh Arthur, oh Arthur, oh Arthur," over and over again at a higher pitch each time. And the gunslinger couldn't help himself; he withdrew his tongue and pounded his fingers into you, using his palm to feed your needy clit. He wanted to taste you forever but needed to watch you, to see your pretty face when he pushed you over the edge.

"Perfect," he said, his finger thrusting steadily with your hips. His lips crinkled as he felt your walls spasm around him. "That's it, sweetheart, let it go."

A familiar ache built in your gut, one you'd only felt in your moments of solitude. Arthur reached for your hand again while the other steadily plowed. Though his arm muscles scorched with the workout you were giving him, he knew better than to give up now. "So goddamn beautiful wrapped around my fingers like this," he cooed. 

Goosebumps formed all down your arms and legs. Arthur's fucking eyes, staring up at you so proud, so endearing, opened the floodgates.

"There you go," he hummed, feeling your insides constrict around his fingers, "give it to me, good girl, let me have it."

And you did, going from a whimpering mess to silent as your orgasm baptized you, washing away all the doubt you ever had about yourself. Arthur went on babbling whatever depraved thoughts crossed his mind as you came.

"So damn good for me."

His fingers slowed, but he didn't stop, letting you ride them until you couldn't anymore. It wasn't until you gasped his name and squeezed your legs shut that he finally conceded, removing his hand and caressing your thigh. Unusually deft, he rolled over onto his back but turned his head to look at you. The cowboy was smirking like he did when he beat you in a game of dominos, triumphant. You were breathing heavily, returning his glance wide-eyed.

"Shit," you gasped, essentially speechless.

Arthur chuckled, cupping your face in both his hands and kissing.

"Told you," he said, "Told you, I'd take care of you. I'll always take care of you if you want me to––" his last five words came out in a quick jumble, self-doubt creeping back even after it all. You threw a leg over his and begin a slow grind into the leather of his chaps, taking your turn to bite into his neck.

"Take care of me all you want, Mr. Morgan."

You didn't have to tell him twice.

[housetargaryenloyalist]

From a seed grows

Chapter I: Thyme

Pairing: Jacaerys Velaryon x reader

Synopsis: To claim a dragon one must be prepared to give up their life, yet this is the one thing you never wished to give up.

Wordcount: 3.5K

Warnings: implications of death, mentions of death, but really light nothing graphic.

Author's note: It's done, the first chapter! Fun little fact: every chapter will be named after a plant/flower that represents an emotion/theme of one of the characters :) I put a lot of thought into this story, the chapter names, and the character so I hope you will feel that as you read.

One last thing, a huge thank you to @madame-fear for showing interest into the story which prompted me to continue working on it! I adore her and her work, you should check out her blog!

English is not my first language, apologies for any mistakes.

Happy reading <3

‎⋆ ˚｡⋆୨ ♡Masterlist♡ ୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

Blood dripped from your hands, the dagger clattering to the floor. The sound echoed through the dark, empty alleyway and reverberated in your head. Soft, sharp gasps left you as you staggered backwards, your legs struggling to keep you standing as you buckled to the ground.

Blood dripped from your hands, the dagger clattering to the floor. The sound echoed through the dark, empty alleyway and reverberated in your head. Soft, sharp gasps left you as you staggered backwards, your legs struggling to keep you standing as you buckled to the ground.

“What have I done?” your voice whispered to the night, your hands gripped the stone of the street as you struggled to regain your breath. You couldn’t stay here; staying here meant getting caught, getting caught meant being punished, and the punishment would most likely be death.

A life for a life.

You looked around you, hoping you were concealed enough that you wouldn’t be recognized. The only light was a single street lantern at the entry to the alley and the moon. You knew you had very few options: leave the city, leave and hope you’ll never be found out, be found out and flogged, tortured, flayed, or hanged. None of them sounded particularly great, but one sounded the best.

You crawled to where you had dropped the dagger, knowing you couldn’t leave it behind, no matter how rusty or stained it was. You took out an old handkerchief you always carried and wiped the blood off the blade, before stuffing the dagger in its holder. You sat there for a moment, trying to regain your breath before forcing yourself upwards and onwards. You prayed as you walked towards your home, prayed for forgiveness, prayed for mercy, prayed for help.

Prayed to all the Gods you knew of, old and new, to grant you safe passage out of the city. You passed people and shops, pleasure houses and closed homes, you passed by your life, your dreams and hopes. All to be left behind.

A moment later you were at the humble shack you called home, or at least your home was one of the rooms within the shack. Fleabottom wasn’t known for having particularly good real estate, but you and all the others made do. You went to your room, unlocking the shabby door that had seen too many beatings to really be considered safe and entered your little haven.

It was by all accounts small and in an abysmal shape, mold decorated the bleak walls alongside various other stains whom you did not wish to identify. Your bed was on the left side of the room, with a clear view of the door (just in case) and your small, very small, dresser was in front of it.

You dug through the room searching for a bag of any kind, when you found it you filled it with anything that could be considered even remotely valuable. It may have been little, but it should allow you to buy a one-way trip on a ship. The destination mattered little, as long as it wasn’t King's Landing.

As you ruffled through the top drawer of the dresser you stumbled upon what felt like a button. In all your years of owning it, you had never once felt this weird object hidden amidst your possessions. Curiosity beguiled you to push it and a latch opened on the top of the dresser, revealing a small hidden compartment.

Although curiosity had won the first battle, you were unsure if you wanted it to win this one. Alas, you had dipped a toe in the water and the waves were now too strong to get out. A hidden compartment was no novelty, many stories started with the protagonist finding an object of great significance in such a place and then embarking on an earth-changing adventure to save all of mankind.

You, however, felt like quite the opposite of such, even when your fingers felt an object hidden in the dark, hidden place. You almost laughed at the absurdity of this day, perhaps the Gods above were in a jesting mood. Slowly, carefully, you pulled the strange object from its hiding place, and soon you were face to face with something you had never seen before.

It looked to be a necklace, a simple silver chain with a simple pendant, it looked much like the necklaces you saw people wear around Flea Bottom. There was truly nothing notable about it, except for maybe the seven-pointed star of the Seven decorating the front and the small engraving on the back.

An engraving that had faded badly, presumably from the necklace having been worn a lot. It could only be seen when held at a certain angle, with ample light to decipher the words: Naejot issa byka zaldrīzes.

You rolled the words over your tongue, trying your hardest to grasp whatever language it was. It sounded oddly familiar, as if it were something from a dream, a memory unclear and nearly forgotten but now resurfacing. Whatever the words may mean, you presumed them to be words the previous owner must have cherished when taking into account how faded they were.

As you looked at the words more closely you noticed small initials beneath them, your eyes lit up slightly. This necklace must have been a gift. The initials were vague, two letters common enough they could belong to anyone.

A.T.

An odd feeling washed over you as you imagined what must have happened to the owner of this beautiful piece, how it ended up hidden in a dirty old dresser, in a shabby room in an even shabbier house. You did not have much time left to waste pondering the necklace’s history, dawn was creeping up into the sky, you could see small streaks of early morning light on the horizon.

In a hurry you put the necklace around your neck and hid it under your simple clothes. You braided your hair, in a quick manner, so it would not hinder you as you hurried through the maze of Flea Bottom.

You arrived at the harbor quickly through some risky but effective shortcuts, nearly avoiding a drunken brawl. At last you had made it to what would hopefully lead you to safety, or close to it. Sailors were moving around you carrying various sizes of knapsacks and their fellow sailors who had partaken too much in cheap ale. Dockworkers were starting their morning shifts as they moved to unload the various ships laying in their docks.

They carried crates filled with the finest fabrics, with spices you could not pronounce nor taste for they would surely cost more than you’d ever be able to afford. Your eyes wandered around to find someone you could approach and soon enough you spotted a young man with silvery blond hair and shabby clothes moving towards one of the ships. As you looked to see where he was going, you noticed some others moving towards the same ship. All sporting that same silvery blond hair.

You jogged towards the man who was surprised to see you approach him, “excuse me,” you smiled at him as he came to a halt, a silent invitation for you to continue, “where is that ship headed?”

The man furrowed his eyebrows at you, as if you just asked the most idiotic thing known to man. “To Dragonstone,” was all he said before he took off, increasing the speed in his step, almost as if to deter you from following.

You pondered to yourself for a moment, as you watched more silvery blondes approach the ship. There had been rumors, for there are always rumors in Flea Bottom, about the Black Queen looking for Targaryen bastards. Anyone with either silvery blond hair, lilac eyes, or both or even neither was urged to come to Dragonstone for an opportunity to bond with a dragon. Perhaps it was more than a rumor as you saw more and more people board the ship.

It was foolish, really, truly, well and wholly foolish, you thought to yourself as you stood in front of Dragonstone, the holdfast large and formidable. Guards escorted the large group to a small courtyard, as you looked through the crowd most of them had silvery blond hair, some light, others dark. There were a few on the other hand who had come with brown hair, red hair, or even black.

All had come to stand before the Black Queen, to serve her cause by potentially claiming a Targaryen dragon. On your journey, the people had been speaking of nothing else but the dragons, their size, their coloring, their behavior.

Much regarding the opinions of dragons had changed after the Greens paraded Meleys’ head around King’s Landing for all to see. There used to hang an air of unspoken devotion to dragons, they were to be feared, regaled, and not opposed, unless one wished for imminent death.

They were gods flying high above men, and the people who rode them were their only link to humanity. Now the smallfolk knew dragons were mortal, killable, vulnerable, and that the very house who rode them also killed them, paraded them, and unlike the small folk, did not worship them.

People whispered of killing dragons, where before those words were said in bouts of drunken foolishness, they were now said with drunken confidence. The people were hungry, and the dragons were potential food. Food for the stomach of starving men, ailing peasants, and also food to fuel a rebellion.

So now, for one of these dragonriders to actively seek out Targaryen bastards and lure them with a possibility of becoming equals, many could not resist. Not even you. You knew the dangers involved in claiming such a phenomenal beast, knew it most likely meant your death if you truly tried to claim a dragon. You also knew that you were now away from King’s Landing, in what could possibly be the only place safe for no one would dare attack this stronghold with all the dragons that lay within.

A guard came up to you as you were letting your eyes wander, his Kingsguard uniform reflecting the sun caught your attention, “Hoods down,” he commanded as he reached over to pull it down himself.

Before you could stop him, you could already feel the wind tussling your braid and tickling your ear. Now, with your hood down and hair a mess, you were just like all the others.

A silver-haired bastard.

A dragonseed.

What a cruel fate you had.

Not long after, a young man strolled up to a platform in the courtyard, silence befell the crowd as they realized who he was.

Clad in the dark red and black of the Targaryens, his hands crossed on top of the pommel of his sword, brown curls whirling around his face.

Jacaerys Velaryon, heir to the Iron Throne, daughter to Rhaenyra Targaryen, and he was a beautiful, beautiful man. He addressed the crowds, warning them of the danger, thanking them for their arrival, yet it all felt weirdly aggressive. There was no thankfulness or appreciation to be found in his tone, his brows furrowed and his lips downturned.

You heard a man behind you whisper that he was just a coddled princeling and another chuckled in response, you looked behind you briefly hoping that a stare would silence them. As you looked up back to the prince, you noticed him looking in your very direction. It almost felt as though he was looking directly at you, into your own eyes.

Others who had the same notion as you lowered their heads in reverence, in respect for their prince albeit that some carried an air of reluctance to them as they did. You felt no such devotion, felt no such need and your actions reflected that. There would be no bowing to a man meters in front of you, who spoke to you with contempt, as if your lives meant nothing at all.

His speech was over quickly, and he was gone with a few guards following in his steps. Another guard stepped up and made one last declaration before the group was to go into the dragons’ lair. “All those who wish to leave may leave, no harm shall befall you. You will be escorted back via ship at the earliest possible moment. All the others-” he signaled another guard who opened up the barricades put in place earlier, “follow me.”

Many of the crowd left, deciding that the threat of death so brutal was too large to face in comparison to the one they would face in King’s Landing. You supposed you could not blame them, a death by dragon fire or dragon stomping didn’t sound pleasant, however the fate that would no doubt await you in Flea Bottom sounded worse.

The ones left over were escorted to the inner parts of the castle, staircase after staircase, never once allowed to dawdle or gawk. The Queensguard were strict and didn’t hesitate to employ certain tactics to keep all in line. You winced as one of the guards struck a young man for touching a statue, the guard said nothing as he did so, only pushing the lad back into the line when he was done.

Tears pricked in the corner of the boy’s eyes, his hand cradling his hurting cheek. He had been pushed right in front of you, almost causing you two to collide. You tapped his shoulder as you procured an old handkerchief from your pocket, “here” you said as you practically shoved it into his non-occupied hand. He smiled a soft smile at you in thanks, before taking the fabric and dabbing at his eyes.

He didn’t seem much younger than you, perhaps he wasn’t. You didn’t ponder it too much however, chances were that he would die in the dragon pit just like many others. There would be no benefit in cosying up with the others, knowing that after this most of you will likely be dead or have risen too far in station to consider yourself with your lessers.

You cursed yourself and your cynicism often, however, today you proved yourself right. You were clinging to the walls of the dragon’s cave, hoping for dear life he had not seen you. The only light source you had were the flames that had come from Vermithor as he erupted in a fury that made him worthy of his name.

By now he must have devoured nearly all of the bastards that came to try and stake a claim. You pitied all of them, they tried to improve their standing however now all they were were ash and bones. Growls followed by screams were heard in the distance from yourself, perhaps the distance was large enough for you to get out and run, flee, escape, whatever the apt word might be.

An escape would be difficult, were it not for the fact that Vermithor was deeply engrossed in hunting a few people in the opposite direction of where you needed to go. You stalked through his enclosure with practiced ease, you tried to remain calm with your heart pounding in your chest, clouding your hearing and making your breath erratic. You refused to die here, you refused to be a burned corpse or some dragon’s dinner. No, you wanted to be more, so much more.

You wanted to be more than a peasant from Flea Bottom, a silver-haired bastard, a woman, you wanted to be more than all that. You wanted to be more than a dragonseed, more than what your parents doomed you to be. In order to achieve that, you would need to rise to the occasion and escape. With every ounce of strength, willpower, resentment, and fear you had in you, you ran towards the exit.

As you reached the opening you noticed it didn’t lead to solid ground, no grass or rocks to greet you. As you smelled the fresh air you also smelled the unmistakable smell of the sea. A salty fishy smell filled your nostrils and consumed your lungs.

Into the sea you soon jumped, a stupid, reckless idea, but far better than trying to climb down a mountain. All you hoped for was that the Gods would show you mercy and carry you to shore. The sea was cold, colder than you had expected, it took you great power to swim close to shore and drag your body through the sand before collapsing.

Your chest moved up and down in quick succession, desperate for air, as you tried to regain your strength you closed your eyes, letting the happenings of the day pass through your mind.

Sleep tried to claim you, alas, it was to no avail, for soon thereafter a loud roar resonated into the sky causing you to bolt upright from where you laid. A winged creature flew above you. It was large and formidable, you believed it to be even larger than the dragon you had seen in the Dragonstone caves.

The formidable beast’s shadow covered you as it flew over the sun, for as far as your eyes could see the world was now shrouded in darkness, only in the far distance could you see the sun rays touch the ground once more. The roars it let out were bone-chilling, a feeling of dread had washed over you from the moment you rose but now you were rooted to the ground with the fear of death settling in your veins which ironically left you unable to move. You had never imagined your death this way. Where nobles imagined dying in their canopy beds on silken sheets, you would be lucky if you died by a clean cut to your neck.

Now, however, it seemed you would die from this dragon thinking you made a decent hors d'oeuvre, before finding something larger or more plentiful to truly fill its stomach. Gods you really had a most cruel fate.

Once more a deafening roar resounded to the sky, causing your knees to buckle in fear as your hands shot to your ears in a vain attempt to dampen the noise. You kept your eyes locked onto the large figure as it soared through the sky, going higher and then lower, as if taunting you, playing with you, truly regarding you as prey.

In an odd way it frustrated you, standing there, waiting, baiting your breath as to when the dragon finally decided to end you. Anger rose through you more and more the longer this cat and mouse dance continued. Fear became an afterthought as your anger of a futile death overcame you.

“I’m here!” You screamed at the sky “Kill me! I dare you!” If anyone saw you, they’d be regarding you as a madwoman, which admittedly you were. However, it seemed as though no one was there, on this vast beach with waves continuing their cycle of ebb and flow, you were alone. Alone with the dragon. One last attempt you thought as you opened your mouth to scream, yet no sound could come for that very moment the dragon chose to descend onto the ground.

Your frozen feet suddenly could not move any faster, the large dragon got closer as you scrambled to get away, the sand making for incredibly difficult terrain when you want to be quick. One wrong step and you were sent tumbling down, face first in the sand. With the thought of impending death overtaking your mind, you found the tiniest bit of energy to turn around. In doing so, you were facing the dragon as it descended, shielding your eyes as sand was blown in all directions from the beating of the wings. A loud thud echoed on the empty beach as the beast finally stood on solid ground, its large body covered you in shadow.

Its snout was so close to your face, you could feel the puffs of hot breath. Bright, emerald green eyes were in stark contrast to the pitch black of its scales. The dragon was magnificent as it was terrifying, you gulped and took rapid breaths. Panic had settled in now, panic, fear, and anger, none were a pretty feeling. One of your hands went up to clutch your new necklace as you closed your eyes.

Waiting for the inevitable.

.

.

.

On a distant dune stood a smaller dragon, much smaller than the one hovering over the young woman. Upon that small dragon, with scales of olive green and wings decorated with a pale orange, sat the young prince, a spyglass held to one of his eyes as he witnessed the scene.

A part of him felt a great sense of pity for the woman. She looked young, perhaps around his age, and she had showed great courage in fleeing from Vermithor. A pity she would die so soon, yet at the same time. A bastard less or more would not make any difference

He closed his spyglass and pocketed it inside his tunic. There was no need to watch the scene unfold, he thought. He buckled his saddle tighter and spoke to his dragon, “sōvēs Vermax.”

[flowerbetweenfangs]

Of A Feather

M!Harpy x F!Human

This was an entry into a little contest. I went with a harpy plague doctor as my character. Some people liked it and that was enough for me.

When the village head informed me that he could not pay me in gold or goods, I was sympathetic. A bad harvest combined with a harsh winter had left them with little to spare. What little resources they had were used up to try and keep the remaining people healthy, at my behest. 

While I had no intention of exploiting him, there was still the matter of payment.  After all, services had been performed, supplies used, risks taken, and time spent.

If he couldn’t pay me with such things, what was left? 

Favors and flesh. 

I was taken to the man’s home, where a small gathering of people awaited me. They had obviously picked from the best looking and available people in the village. Hair combed and styled, attire perfectly coordinated to match skin and eye color, and subtle perfumes that did little to mask the stench of death that still clung to the doors. 

Even in the dim light of the candles, I could tell they were dazzling. 

The life of a plague doctor was a lonely one. Constantly traveling from town to town, potential suitors being scared off by the rumors that disease still clung to me, and many that I met died within the week. An omen of Death, bringer of the Reaper, harvester of Life. Titles that did not grant me land or wealth. 

The lot in front of me showed a fear I was all too familiar with. Some cast their eyes downward, but it did little to hide it. A few dared to glare or even scowl when they thought I wasn’t looking.  

I was about to depart, not wanting to further upset those still grieving, when the door opened. 

A chill from the autumn night stirred the curtains and made the candles flicker. As shadows danced across the walls, I could hear a few muffled whimpers and whispers. 

Labored breathing followed. 

The woman at the doorway was still wearing the gowns of mourning, her hair tucked away under a scarf. Despite this, her eyes weren’t red and puffy. 

In fact, she looked almost… Relieved to see me. She clutched a lantern, but I could see it shaking in her hand. For an instant, I feared she would drop it. 

When I took a step toward her, there was a flicker of hesitation in her eyes. She stared at my gloved hand, the fingers slightly limp. 

As her lips parted, I expected a biting remark or curse thrown my way. 

Instead, she tightened her grip on the lantern and set her jaw. 

Standing up straight, she drew herself to her full height. The lantern shook in her grasp, the flame dancing and moving the shadows on the wall. While far from an intimidating stature, the boldness that rolled off her gave me pause. 

Determination now gleamed in her gaze, the lamplight making it look almost like a hunter’s glint. 

Tension rose in the room. Eyes flicked back and forth. The crowd cleared a path as she walked up to me, no hesitation in her step. 

There was no need to ask who I was. The mask and robes left little doubt. 

Without a word, she curtsied to me. She looked back at the villagers, as if daring them to try and stop her. No one said a thing. In fact, everyone seemed to be relieved at her presence. There was a glimmer of hope. 

No one would have to choose a sacrifice to give to the boogeyman. 

We left the home, the door slamming behind us. 

I led the way, and she followed me to the outskirts. Not one person stopped to thank her or bid farewell. It suddenly made sense to me. They had wanted to be rid of her, and she of them. A few faces in windows twisted and contorted with disgust. Never with sorrow. 

Like me, she was an outsider.

Once we reached the border, where the dirt road gave way to the sprawling beyond, I saw her hesitate. She stared over her shoulder, and for a moment I thought she would weep. 

Clumsily, I reached into one of the pouches on my belt and produced a handkerchief. She stared at the square of fabric, and then began to laugh. Tears still welled, but I felt better knowing they weren’t from sorrow. 

I found myself entranced with the emotion and expression. She quieted too soon, and we were once more on our way. 

We walked in silence, and I was beginning to work out the terms of a contract and the conditions of my new companion’s stay. 

She continued to look out of the corner of her eye at me, smirking when our gazes met. I didn’t pry into the details of her life, nor did she mine. Perhaps it would come in time, when she became accustomed to her new position. 

When we arrived at my home, I allowed her inside and set up her accommodations. She explored the rooms and seemed satisfied. Rather than shrink away or cry out at the sight of my more macabre collections, she seemed intrigued. 

It was far from luxurious, but she would be comfortable until we found a more long term solution. I also supplied her with books so we could begin her training proper. She took them, but seemed confused, raising a quizzical brow. 

“We will start your studies tomorrow. By the end of the week, you should know what to expect moving forward.” 

I bid her goodnight then went to my own room to draw up the contract of her stay. 

An assistant would help relieve the burden of a few jobs, but I couldn’t afford to keep one for very long. My focus was purely on this new endeavor that I never removed my clothing to prepare for slumber. 

I was perched at my desk, having scribbled out dozens of lines on my papers when I heard the bedroom door open. Living alone, I had never gotten into the habit of locking it. 

She came into the room, wearing only her shift. It was threadbare, leaving little to the imagination. Her eyes flicked around the room, perplexed at my lack of a bed. The confusion didn’t last long and she approached the desk, standing behind the chair. 

While both of us were about the same height standing, she nearly towered over me. 

I turned to face her, and she leaned forward, putting her hands on the desk behind me. The bare flesh of her arms barely brushed against my robes. Even through the thick material I could feel their warmth. Breath fogged up the lenses of my mask, obscuring my vision. 

It was then I realized while I had expected a repayment in the form of a favor, she had chosen flesh. Perhaps she assumed that doing so would end her stay with me sooner and she could flee back to her village, or wherever she decided, after. 

Slowly, I lifted up my glove and pressed the back of it to her lips as I waited for the fog on my mask to dissipate. 

Her eyes became lidded as I felt the pressure of her lips against the leather. With an intentionally gradual pace, she brought them further down, where the glove went under my sleeve. 

She seemed perplexed at the material going so far up, but I could still feel her warm breath rolling down my arm. I was statue still as it flowed to my chest and heart. 

Blood sang in my veins as desire long buried began to claw its way from the grave. 

I retracted my hand from her. Her fingers twitched, curling on empty air. Slowly, she stepped away, eyes averting apologetically. Lips moved, tongue flitting nervously as she prepared to speak. 

Instead, I put my gloves on either side of my mask. 

Without waiting for a request for assistance, she slipped it off. 

I expected her to recoil in horror, or to flinch. But she only stared, eyes hungrily taking in the details of my face. While I was certainly far from a beauty, she clearly expected something more grotesque or marred. Her gaze seemed to focus on my hair, the long plumes that caught the light in a strange way, the way it frayed out.  

I stood up, expecting her to take a step back. Instead, she was resolute, not moving from her spot in front of me. 

My gloves found her hand. I could feel it shaking. She laced her fingers with mine, breath still tickling my lips. 

Gingerly, she set the mask down with her free hand. Dexterous fingers worked open my robes, running softly over the pebbled skin. Inhaling sharply, I flinched away reflexively as the shed material fell to the floor, leaving me in only my breeches and boots. 

While I possessed the same flesh as her on my head and torso, black feathers began to dot and eventually cover my arms, giving way to wings stuffed inside gloves. They too fell to the floor, no longer being held in place by sleeves.

I could see her eyes going lower, wondering what lay beyond the clothing. Ironically, the one part of my outer clothing that resembled a bird masked my human features. 

Then, she finally hesitated. Blinking, she traced over my shoulders and ran fingers down my bicep, stopping where flesh ended. The slightest edge of her nails made my feathers ruffle. A few formed a black ring around my boots. 

I could see the worry in her eyes. An unspoken question. 

What are you?

I made no move to pull her closer. Nor did I push her away. Neither of us spoke, not wanting to frighten the other. 

When she stepped back, I could feel a pang in my heart. The small space now between us cut through me like an icy blade. 

She grabbed her shift’s hem. Pulling it over her head, she let it join my feather’s on the floor. Despite all the heat coming from her touch, nipples were erect, skin covered in gooseflesh. I found myself closing the gap, letting our bodies share the warmth between them.  

Soft lips pressed against mine, arms encircling my waist. Legs wrapped around, bare flesh of thighs and calves rubbing against breeches and boots. My touch feather light, I followed every curve and crevice of her skin, unable to fully embrace and grasp her like she did to me. 

As I traveled downward, I could feel her breath catch against my neck, fingers digging into my back. I lacked the dexterity she did, but I could feel the trickling folds between her legs. Since I didn’t possess fingers, I moved my human mouth down and parted her thighs. 

The clothing we’d shed formed a slight cushion as she sat, hands tangled in my hair. I could feel her fingers exploring as my tongue plunged in and out of her. Each quiver and shake brushed against my feathers, the sensation only seeming to add to her enjoyment. 

Ankles locked between my shoulders, pulling me more into her. I increased my efforts, hooking her legs in the crook of my elbow. The gasps and moans became cries and screams of ecstasy, begging for more. 

The fingers in my hair formed a fist. My lips pressed to hers, groans and growls escaping me in a carnal language we both knew all too well, my tongue exploring as hers called out for more. 

When she finally loosened her grip, I shifted. Breeches brushed against her soaking folds, betraying the hardness within. Shaking legs spread wider. In the moonlight, I could see her shimmering wetness. Shallow breaths betrayed her ache. The need to be filled.

With some difficulty, I molted the last bit of my clothing. My boots clomped noisily on the floor. My breeches had barely slipped down my thighs when she managed to get up, her whole body shaking with the effort.

Once more, she leaned over, hands resting on the ground behind me. Straddling me, she lowered herself down. 

The warm and wet gripped me tightly, and I could see her spread across the girth, before vanishing behind my feathers. She tossed back her head at that, breath catching as she took a moment to recover, before starting again. I met her with each movement, once more devolving into the ancient language. 

However, she seemed to have had enough of it, and her lips covered mine. Her tongue explored, no doubt tasting herself. This only seemed to invigorate her further, moans and whimpers rumbling through the both of us. Even muffled, the sounds rattled me to my core. 

I wrapped my wings around her, not wanting a feather’s width of space between us. I wanted this to last. But I was dancing so close to the edge already. 

My taloned feet traced over her calves. The sharp tips must have lightly scratched her, because she stared at me, finally parting our kiss. Trembling legs gave out then, and she collapsed on top of me, labored breaths telling me she was at the brink herself. 

Despite the hesitation, she gave me a nod to continue. 

They gripped her ankles tightly, locking her in place. Taking her under my wings, I let her rest against me as I rolled my hips. Each thrust was punctuated with a sigh or a moan. The slow pace drew out each motion. 

Soon, I could feel her trying to wriggle down onto me, begging me to fill her faster. A few times I gave in, remaining inside her, only to draw back out again. She would bite her lips, scratching at the floor. The request was loud, despite a word not being spoken. 

Each breath and sigh further fanned the heat inside me. My motions were rough and out of practice, but she craved it all the same. 

Finally, I hilted and held her fast, feeling the flame of passion sputter out. She twitched around me, soft sighs telling me she could feel each drop inside her. It spilled out onto my stomach and hips, my grip finally loosening. 

We stayed entangled, clothes and feathers scattered around us. I managed to get my robes and drape them over her. The shivering eventually ceased, and she laid against my chest, hand resting on my shoulder. Slowly, her eyes closed and I could feel the soft breathing of slumber. 

The lenses of my mask gleamed in the candlelight, watching over the two of us.  

[thehollowwriter]

Warnings: Blood, death, implied cannibalism, medical neglect/malpractice Word Count: 1944

Key: Regular text is for the present. Italics is for flashbacks, bold is for journal entries

(Pls reblog and leave a comment ♥️)

Lamentations Pt 6.2

It started with my grandfather coughing up a torrent of blood one day.

"It's fine," He told me through ragged breaths and pained grunts. "I'm fine, Silas, just go eat."

Naturally, I didn't listen, and when Morrigan and I's attempts to solve the problem failed, we took him to Atlantica General.

Our last time there didn't change our opinions of doctors all that much, but I knew there was nowhere else to go and nothing else to do.

We were there for hours before even got someone to look my grandfather over. It was nightmarish trying to get someone to start tending to him. Nurses and doctors alike would glance at us, then quickly shuffle away to a new patient just coming in.

Silas bit his lip, hovering close to Emrys and flattening his earfins. The lights overhead, far brighter than lanterns, hurt his eyes. All around him, children shouted and screamed, and patients and their carers chattered and talked. It was so loud.

"It's gonna be okay," Morrigan assured me. "He's gonna be okay."

Morrigan was wrong.

Eventually, someone came around to around to help, flinching under Morrigan's withering glare and "apologising" for the delay.

Things seemed fine at first. My grandfather got looked over and tested, and then he was led to a room to lie down in, and he was given an IV so they could give him back the large amounts of blood he had lost.

"It may be a case of chronic bronchitis, but we can't say for sure yet." They told me, or rather, they told Morrigan and pretended I wasn't there.

Grandfather seemed fine after a while. He insisted that he go home, wide awake and perfectly stable.

He died an hour or so later.

It was so out of nowhere that it's probably the first time a death has actually shocked me.

He was fine, talking to us, and then he suddenly collapsed backwards, and Morrigan had to yell for the nurse.

We were forced out of the room, and about ten minutes or so later, they announced time of death and we were given the papers for it.

23:47, September 12th.

Silas stared blankly at the nurses in front of him as the world seemed to fall away. A numb, dull feeling came over him. Everything around him blurred, and voices became muffled.

Morrigan said something, but Silas couldn't hear. The only thing his ears could pick up was the rampant beating of his heart.

It was a heart attack, they said. They couldn't do anything about it, they said.

"Lies," Silas wanted to say. "You're all liars."

But he could only stare at them as they spoke to Morrigan instead of him.

A heart attack. How could they know? Where was their proof? Morrigan had to threaten them until paying more attention when the IV came loose and it went ignored for far too long.

"My apologies," said the nurse, not sounding apologetic at all until Morrigan decided that maybe suing for neglect wouldn't be that costly after all. "One of our students must have done the IV wrong. I'll fix it right away."

The nurse swam off, and Morrigan gripped Silas' shoulder to stop him from ripping his face off. Silas settled for a dark glare.

Morrigan told me he'd pay for the funeral service, but I declined. I'd already leeched off his money for hospital care, and besides, coffins and tombstones are not how we-

Silas scratched the word out.

-I do things.

Silas let out a heavy breath and blinked up at the ceiling as the few clear memories he had came flooding in. If he imagined just enough, he could feel the comforting feeling of his grandfather squeezing his shoulder.

His eyes suddenly felt very wet, but he blinked it away and kept writing.

I suppose I should be grateful. My grandfather's death was unfortunate, but it was quick, and he was well fed and happy at the time.

Over the course of my life, very few of my family died in a way that we were able to bury them. Most of the time, there was nothing left.

When we did have a body, though, and we weren't desperate for food, we would bury it deep under the sand without any markers.

We never believed in a final resting place. As those we have lost decompose or are eaten, they come to form a new part of the endless cycle of life and death. They are all around us, even if we never see them again.

I buried Emrys deep inside the kelp forest outside of Midway.

Silas stared at the mound of sand rising above the rest, the only indication that there had been a disturbance. The only sign of some sort of grave. A lantern hung loosely in his hand, flickering. Shadows danced around him, painting a grim atmosphere.

Alone in a dark forest with only his grandfather's body to accompany him, Silas thought about when his grandpapa died.

He couldn't remember how. But he remembered something circling the cave they had all crammed into, patiently waiting for them to get desperate and try sneak out.

The night it happened, Silas saw the tears in Emrys' eyes, the grief and regret that was etched onto his face. And later, when everyone else was asleep, Silas watched him cry until his eyes got all red and puffy.

Silas thought about that family at Atlantica General, one that got similar news to him. He thought about how they sniffled and cried, tears dissipating in the water. Anguish and heartbreak seeped into their voices when they spoke.

Silas never cried. He never seemed to feel that heartbreak, that pain, in the same level as others.

He avoided thinking about who lost. Tried not to think about his time in the hospital and what he could have done differently or how he would never see Emrys again.

His eyes remained tearless. His face remained blank and inexpressible. When he spoke, he sounded as flat and monotone as ever.

Like he didn't care at all.

"Is there something wrong with me?" He asked the empty kelp forest. He was met with only silence.

Emrys. No last name. Our family name is long gone. Emrys, the head of what was our family, who survived over seventy years in the abyss.

Emrys, who stayed by my side to raise and protect me and teach me everything I know alongside my grandpapa, even if logic dictated that sticking with a disabled teenager with bad memory was a risk, a waste of time and resources.

Ask me who my father is, and I will you it's Emrys. The details don't matter.

I like to think my grandfather is with my grandpapa now, reunited with his love. I don't think I believe it, but it's a nice thought.

It was hard, the next few weeks. I had never been hit so hard by the death of family before.

Morrigan tried to comfort me, but I made things difficult. I was snappy. Irritable.

"Leave me alone." Silas snarled. "I told you, I'm fine. Stop pestering me."

Morrigan awkwardly drew his band back and swallowed. "Sorry. You're sad, and I want to make you feel better."

'Sad doesn't even begin to describe it.' Silas wanted to say, but all he did was growl and slam the door in Morrigan's face.

I regret treating him like I did. Even if he forgave me for it. I know I hurt him. He left me alone but hovered around, staying in Midway whenever he had the time.

"You might want to be alone, but I won't leave you here," Morrigan said. "Not like this."

Silas wanted to shout at him to get out, to go away, but the thought of being truly alone in that grimy, scrappy building made him feel sick. He bared his teeth and left Morrigan in the kitchen.

They say acceptance is the final stage of grief. Not for me. For me, it's the first stage. My grandfather was dead, and I knew it. There was no bargain I could make to bring him back, no deal I could strike. The second stage is mind crippling fear.

Morrigan is very powerful, but my grandfather is the strongest person I know. He outlived three generations of my family, carrying on despite the loss of each and every one of them besides myself.

He won every fight, teeth and claws coated red with blood, and magic burning bright orange. He used Abyssal magic as easily as he breathed, channelling the power of life and death as if it were second nature.

I suppose I suddenly realised that despite the dangers I had faced and overcome... I had someone to go back to. I had someone to protect me, treat my injuries, teach me how to survive, and advise me. My grandfather was an advantage, a safety net I had never truly appreciated before.

And then he was gone, leaving a hole in my chest and the sudden realisation I didn't have that safety net anymore. I was the last living member of my family. There was nobody else left. I was completely and utterly alone.

No, that wasn't true. There was still someone there, alone in the grime infested kitchen of my grime infested home, crying, because he loved Emrys and missed him and was worried his partner was spiralling.

I knew my grandfather would want me to carry on and to accept what Morrigan has offered me.

Silas finally slunk out of his bedroom to find Morrigan staring out the kitchen window and at the lanterns that lit the streets of Midway, and he felt overcome by a sudden sense of déjà vu.

Morrigan's eyes were red and puffy, and though he wasn't crying anymore, his lips trembled, and his breathing was ragged.

It was just like Emrys when his husband died so many years ago.

Silas made his way over to him and rested his head on Morrigan's shoulder. The other mer barely reacted. They stayed like that for a while, silently gazing out the window. Then, Morrigan spoke.

"He was my friend."

Silas nodded. "I know."

"I-" Morrigan's voice quivered. "I miss him."

"I know." Silas said, then paused. "I'm... sorry."

"It's ok." Morrigan replied readily, taking in a sharp breath and blinking back tears. "It's ok. You... you just list your dad, and you can deal with it however you want... I just-"

Morrigan cut himself off and burst into tears, covering his face with his hands to try hide it from Silas.

"It's ok." Silas mumbled, pulling Morrigan's hand away from his face to hold it. "We'll be ok."

I don't think I've ever seen Morrigan cry before. It was an odd sight, especially on someone usually so stubborn and smug.

It helped me, I think, seeing how he mourned for Emrys and how much his death hurt him. I didn't feel as alone as I did before.

We spent the night coiled together, taking comfort in each other's embrace. All we had was each other, and it would remain that way for a long time.

Silas put his pen down and blinked at what he had written, a dull ache in his chest.

The door opened, and a pair of bright pink and yellow eyes peeked around it.

"Uh, Mister Silas, we need your help. Basil messed up the traps again."

Silas took in a slow, sharp breath through his gills and sighed. He could already feel a headache coming on.

"I'll be right there, Timo."

...........................................

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[creedslove]

Okay, so I have two Halloween requests, choose which one suits you better.👻

Your stupid and aggressive boyfriend decides to break into an abandoned mall on Halloween night to give you a thrill… You don't like it at all. You know you shouldn't be there and apparently someone is calling the local sheriff. Your boyfriend runs away, leaving you alone with the sheriff… Javier Pena. Javier is hard on you at first, but when he understands that you didn't want to be there, he feels sorry for you and starts talking to you. Ultimately, he decides to let you go if you promise him that you will break up with this idiot.

Your friends come up with the stupid idea of going to the cemetery on Halloween night. When you hear some noises, everyone runs away and you lose your orientation and fall down. A man dressed all in black (Dave) help you stands up. You notice the gun and panic, but he calms you down and tells you that he is costume as a hitman. Then he offer to walk you home.

Javier Peña x f!reader

A/N: My darling, your ideas are the best!!! My knees go weak for small town sheriff Javi 🥺

• your boyfriend always had a weird vibe around Halloween, unlike most of people who enjoyed going to parties, dress up or watch the kids' happiness at that special day, but instead, he wanted to break into abandoned creepy places

• it could be an interesting activity if it was done during daylight and not on Halloween night, besides being spooky, it could be dangerous for several reasons

• not to mention stupid because that would certainly drag many problems around

• Javier on the other hand, hates the Halloween with passion, he used to like it when he was a kid because of all the candies, he enjoyed it as a teen because of all the parties and when he was young man, because of all the girls in tiny little outfits who were so willing to sleep with him

• but now Javier was a sheriff and he had decided to quit whoring around after his time in Colombia

• and he also never met any cop who actually enjoyed Halloween, perhaps if they had kids or something to do, but being on duty during that date was a true nightmare

• breaking in, pranking, intoxication amongst others were some of the things he had to deal with it so he was not excited at all

• but he went to work as he had no other way out

• just as you were breaking into the old abandoned mall just a mile away from Laredo's entry; you had taken a backpack with a couple bottles of water and a lantern, not sure if you should bring anything else with you

• but from the moment you got into that place you didn't like it at all; it was dark, creepy, it smelled bad, the floor was slippery and the noises were scary, you definitely didn't want to be spending your Halloween night there

• your boyfriend was overly excited, chuckling and making jokes, scaring you on purpose and being overall a real pain in the ass

• at some point, disappointed for not finding anything worth stealing, he just got a big iron bar and began destroying several things he found in front of him

• and even if you asked him to stop, he didn't he was having fun in a grotesque way and it creeped you out to see him like that, the loud noises of stuff breaking was disturbing and it only stopped the moment you saw the lights of a police car and the siren sound, someone had probably called the cops

• your boyfriend's eyes widened as he dropped the bar, took his backpack and began running towards the exit, you tried following him and called him to stop and wait for you, but he just laughed softly and walked away as fast as he could, if there was someone he didn't want to see that night, was definitely Sheriff Peña

• and you were terrified, you didn't know what to do and you even tried to escape but it was too dark and you were scared, so all you could hear was Chief Peña's words telling you to freeze right there

• and you did, gulping scared and turning around slowly and seeing Chief Peña holding a gun and aiming at you

• now, Javi saw it was just one helpless girl terrified to be standing in that creepy horrible place, probably dragged by her shitty boyfriend, she wasn't the first and wouldn't be the last one, but he thought it was going to be kinda funny to scare the shit outta her

• and it was indeed funny, even if he kept his cop face and harshly told you to not move as he walked towards you with handcuffs in hand and arrested you

• on the way to the police station you and Javi have a chat, he asks about your name, where you live and you exchange information with him; he doesn't say much about himself though, but he does tell you how long he's been working as a chief of police and you are honest and tell him you'd heard about him being *the* Javier Peña, which makes him chuckle

• apart from your occurrence, his shift is easy going so he decides to take you home instead of the station

"you know, that place is dangerous... Not because of ghosts or shit like that, but a lot of junkies hang out to do drugs and they could've robbed you or done something worse... You are a good girl, a very beautiful one, and you deserve a better boyfriend who takes you out for a dinner or to a party than to a place like that"

"thanks Javier... I mean, Chief Peña"

"you can call me Javi"

• he says gently as you give him the address of your home

"you know, you are too pretty to be with a dickhead like him, break up with him and find a man decent enough for you"

• Javi told you as he parked into your driveway

"If your boyfriend is too wasted or acts weird just call me okay? I'll keep you safe"

• you thank him and leave the car, waving him goodbye as his words echo through your mind and you wonder if the decent man he said you deserved could be him

____

[hufflepuffwritingstuff2]

This or That Gothic Edition Snippet 19- Imprisoned Monster

Inspired by my answers for this post by @blackrosesandwhump!  

Whumpee crept through the castle halls, holding their lantern in front of them. The storm raged outside, sending sheets of rain down onto the washed-out roads. Whumpee didn’t feel like being drenched, so they thought they would ask the castle’s owner for shelter. The more they explored, however, it became evident that the castle had been abandoned for years. The windows had a hazy film covering them, and the thick layer of dust laying in the carpet absorbed any sound that Whumpee’s footsteps would have made. Unused cobwebs adorned the corners of furniture and light fixtures; even the spiders had forsaken the place.

“Hello?” Whumpee called for a third time.

No answer greeted Whumpee, save for their own echo. They shivered as a draft blew through the castle halls. Eventually, they reached a large, oak door. Pushing it open, Whumpee was greeted by something that surely belonged in a mausoleum. A coffin of marble, sitting in the center of an otherwise empty room. Heavy chains of silver held the lid down. The floor was made of cold stone, and it made a clicking noise as Whumpee walked across it. Oh mercy, had they stumbled on a dead person’s home?

Whumpee was just about to back away when they heard it: a weak yet distinct pounding. It was coming from the coffin. Everything in them told them to run, but Whumpee found themselves stepping closer all the same. Whumpee blinked, and the next thing they knew they had removed the chains.

The lid slid off of the coffin with a deafening sound of stone scraping against stone. Whumpee jumped back with a yelp. Slowly, a figure sat up inside the coffin. Their head turned, and red eyes stared into Whumpee’s.

“Do I have you to thank for my freedom?” the figure asked, their voice sounding like it hadn’t been used in years.

Whumpee nodded, rooted to the spot.

The figure climbed out of the coffin soundlessly; they seemed to glide as they strode over to Whumpee.

“What should I call you?” the figure asked.

“Wh-” Whumpee swallowed, “Whumpee.”

“Hm,” the figure mused, “it’s fitting. My name is Whumper. Welcome to my castle. I would have greeted you upon entry, but as you can see I was otherwise detained. Thank you, Whumpee, for releasing me.”

“Um, s-sure. Anytime.”

“It’s unfortunate that after you’ve given me my freedom, you must lose yours, but I haven’t had anyone to talk to for many years, and I daresay I am in need of a companion.”

Whumpee blinked, it took them a minute to process what Whumper was saying. Before they could turn to run, Whumper had sank their fangs- they had fangs!?- into their neck. Whumpee wanted to struggle, but Whumper held them tight. They began to lose the ability to stand as Whumper drained them of their blood.

“S-stop,” Whumpee breathed, “please.”

Whumper continued to drink for a few moments more, then detached their fangs from their victim’s neck.

“There there,” Whumper soothed, “forgive me, but I haven’t had a meal in so long. Come now, let’s get you to your room.”

The world tilted on its axis as Whumper lifted Whumpee into a bridal carry. The storm continued to rage outside as Whumper carried them down the halls to a large bedroom. Whumpee was limp in their hold. Whumper laid them down ever so gently on a bed. Even though they were lying still, Whumpee’s world spun. Soon enough, dark spots clouded their vision and their eyes fluttered shut. They couldn’t see Whumper smile down at them, nor feel them run a slender hand through their hair.

Whumper smiled at their little human. They looked so peaceful like this. What a wonderful companion they would make.

ko-fi

tags:  @mythixmagic @infinityshadows @fishtale88 @thelazywitchphotographer @the-beasts-have-arrived @princessofonwardsworld @surplus-of-sarcasm

[jujutsukaisenwriting]

Your Beautiful Eyes - Gojo Satoru hc genre: fluff/angst word count: 1594

The streets of Kyoto welcomed little Satoru with familiar sights of sloping roofs and traditional lanterns, waiting to be lit. He has been out for a while now, his parents probably worried, but it didn’t matter to him, really. He just wanted peace. 

As Satoru was passing by a small tea shop, an owner, an elderly lady, waved and offered him a warm smile. He stood in one place, surprised by this sudden expression of affection, and watched her disappear in the building. She returned quickly, holding something folded in thin grease paper.

“Yatsuhashi”, she smiled and shoved the packet in his hands. “Very good”.

Before he could say a word, she smiled again and returned to her tea chop, humming softly. Satoru opened the packet and looked inside. There was a thin stack of traditional Japanese sweets, known as a staple dessert of his hometown.

He was never given gifts before without a reason. His parents could afford pretty much everything and people used gifts to bribe him into becoming his friends. Satoru just stood there for a while, not quite understanding what he is supposed to do. Should he go after her and thank her? Should he maybe offer her some help? 

It was a bit too much of emotions to proceed for him. A little boy, only perceived as a valuable weapon and a fancy addition to the mighty Gojo clan, had no idea what to do with a bag of sweets, given to him by a stranger. It annoyed him and caused his eyes to sting and he couldn’t understand the reason behind his body betraying him like that.

Somewhere afar, a dog barked, and Satoru was pulled out of his trance-like state by this sound. He looked around, taking in the surroundings, and walked to the nearest bench that he spotted. Only after he sat down, he noticed it is a small shrine. Two big kitsune foxes were guarding its entry, one fox holding a stack of keys in its mouth and the other a sheaf of wheat. 

“Oh hey, Inari”, Satoru addressed the goddess of the shrine in a carefree manner, not really worrying about sitting in front of the entrance.

“Hey”, a tiny voice replied.

Satoru wasn’t startled but he was definitely intrigued. His guard immediately went up and he asked in a lowered voice, ready to fight:

“Who are you?”

A small girl with amber hair stepped out of the shrine’s column. She was dressed in a traditional blue kimono and was stepping slowly and cautiously, as if feeling the ground in front of her. Satoru got a funny feeling while looking at her but he couldn’t quite figure out, what was off.

When she stepped in the light, the puzzle clicked.

The girl was blind.

Her milky eyes were staring into nothing and everything at the same time. She didn’t look like a person who got lost or was lacking something. She looked like a person who actually sees too much, however ridiculous it sounded.

The girl carefully tested her surroundings and sighed in content upon finding the bench. She sat on it easily, clearly knowing where exactly the bench was standing though Satoru had to move a bit.

“Did you come here to pray?”, the girl asked.

“I just needed somewhere to seat”, Satoru replied, looking at her face. “What’s your name?”

“Toshiko”, she said. “And yours?”

“Satoru”, he winced.

She must have sensed a slight hint of annoyance in his voice as she raised her brows.

“That’s a beautiful name, Satoru. You don’t like it?” He looked at her with a bit of distrust. He was used to everyone knowing him. The signature white hair and piercing blue eyes - people would immediately bow at the sight of the Gojo clan offspring. When he was born, the whole Kyoto knew.

Except for Toshiko, apparently.

“I don’t like my family name”, he admitted finally. “I wish I was born in another family”.

She hummed lightly, staring at the sky as if she could see its impending darkness as the evening fell on the city. 

“You can’t choose a family you were born in, right? You can create your own though. In the future”.

“Have you been blind since birth?”, he asked suddenly.

Toshiko smiled at his question, clearly being used to it.

“No, I lost my sight many years ago. You know, I miss it… everything”.

Satoru immediately understood her and nodded, forgetting she was not able to see him. But Toshiko seemed to sense his movement and smiled faintly.

“I miss the lights on the streets and I miss the stars. I remember how flowers blossom and I remember seeing birds on the tree in front of my bedroom window. Having no sight is a burden, the one you can’t seem to get used to”.

“I think having a sight can be a burden”, Satoru blurted out suddenly, squeezing a bag of sweets, tears starting to collect in the corner of his eyes.

“You see too much, don’t you?” Toshiko reached her hand carefully, wanting to touch his face. Satoru froze, unwilling to move, letting her explore the depths of his pain.

She moved her hand gently, feeling his face and hair, as if reading his soul through her fingertips. When she touched his eyes, her little hand froze for a moment as if she felt the overwhelming rush of power, streaming through the six eyes of the most powerful sorcerer who just happened to be a lonely child.

Her hand moved up, patting his hair lightly. Satoru smiled: a small genuine smile that inevitably curls the lips and grows on the face, bursting in bubbly giggles. Toshiko felt his smile and giggled back; there they sat, two little children in front of a shrine, giggling in the face of the burdens each had to face.

“I have something”, Satoru remembered suddenly. He shifted, and Toshiko’s ears caught the sound of the wax paper. Her eyes lit in excitement and she slowly reached the hand to touch the packet.

“An old woman from the teashop gave me these”, Satoru opened the bag and took out one thin yatsuhashi, putting it carefully in Toshiko’s hand.

The girl lifted the hand to her face, smelling and touching the unexpected gift. As she scented cinnamon and sugar, another wide smile lit up her face. She carefully touched the surface of the sweet with her finger, recognizing the desert instantly.

“Yatsuhashi”, she said in delight. “Did you take one for yourself too? I won’t eat without you”.

Satoru took out another thin triangle. As she heard the paper rustle, she sighed in content.

“Now we can eat! Itadakimasu!”

He echoed her words, biting his wagashi carefully. A wonderful mix of cinnamon and sugar cloaked his senses and he savored the taste, looking at Toshiko and the way she gently took a small bite.

The world around them was lit with the warm light of lanterns. The light danced on the faces of the foxes in front of the shrine and for a moment, it seemed as if the animals were smiling at the children. Satoru never before felt so at ease and he wanted this moment to continue forever.

“Do not let them take your heart away”, Toshiko suddenly said, breaking the delicate silence of that evening.

He turned to her, astounded.

The girl was looking at him, right in his face, her milky eyes suddenly becoming clear and omnipercipient. As he opened his mouth to say something, she put a hand on his shoulder and smiled softly.

“You seem lost, Satoru. Do not let them tell you where to go. Do not let them turn you into something you don’t want to be. Do not let them steal your youth and your self. Promise me, okay?”

Satoru froze at her words. It felt as if Toshiko was able to reach his soul and comforted it. 

She must have noticed his shoulders stiffening so she gave him a gentle squeeze and smiled.

“Did you know Inari is a goddess of friendships? Let’s be friends, Satoru. Come visit me again someday, okay?”

He remembered her words so vividly they still rang in his ears as he was running back home, his heart pounding in his chest.

“Let’s be friends, Satoru”

They sat on the bench for a while, eating sweets and talking about everything and nothing. As midnight approached, Toshiko gasped and said it’s too late and they should be going home. He nodded, saying he’d visit her again tomorrow.

“Let’s be friends, Satoru”

The next day he came to the shrine, she was nowhere to be found. He tried asking around but nobody seemed to know who the little girl with amber hair was. As Satoru was about to leave, he suddenly saw a small altar near the shrine’s entrance, almost invisible at the first sight. The altar was right behind one of the stone foxes.

He knew what he’d see there. Even before approaching, he recognized a faded photo of a little girl with an open smile and with beautiful milky eyes. He kneeled carefully, putting a bag of sweets in front of the photo.

A cloud appeared in the sky, casting shadows on the ground. One shadow crept on the photo, changing Toshiko’s features lightly, making it seem as if the girl smiled at Satoru one last time.

He stood up from the ground and left, never looking back, while the stone foxes watched him walk away from the first friend he ever had in life.