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fabricated-misslieness · 9 months ago

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ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: tyler owens x gn reader

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 2.39k | part 2

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: not communicating and not talking about your feelings (not miscommunication since you don't even communicate)

☾⋆☆⋆☽

There's too many beds.

The one night where you guys don't manage to make it to a motel, there's too many damn beds.

The camper van can fit pretty much all of you at once, not that the seven of you will do that anyway. Dani and Dexter have claim on it, as the drivers, and will probably accept two more comfortably.

In Lilly's van there's the backseat and the floor, but if we're counting, for how many beds there are by technicality, the two front seats as well.

You always have tents and sleeping bags around too, just in case you guys can't drive everyone from any recently unfortunate communities to the nearest hotel (although you'd certainly try). To give a rough estimate, about a dozen tents?

Then there's Tyler's truck, the two front seats and the back seat, and the truck bed. It's a bit short, but it can fit plenty people curled up.

So what to choose?

You should probably stay in a car. Much more heat that way, but who's gonna take you in? The designated drivers obviously prefer their own cars, so... Dexter's campervan is pretty spacious? Then again, so's Lilly's, and to be honest she's more of a vibe than the other two, but also why would you need vibes if you're just sleeping?

Maybe you should start a fire, huddle around that? No, that's a hazard, nevermind the fact you only know how to start a fire in theory.

Let's stick to a car, then. Lilly or Dex & Dan for space... Lilly, sure, why not?

As you start heading over to Lilly's van, you hear a sharp whistle. You don't have time to wonder who it's from, as Tyler spins you around.

"You're coming with me." He proclaims, taking you by the shoulders, and you can only laugh.

"Why me?"

Tyler grins, walking you unceremoniously towards his truck bed. "Because you're you, dove." That alone sounds rather intimate, so he fixes his mistake quickly. You're just friends, after all. "And Boone kicks people in his sleep, Lilly's hair gets everywhere, Dani steals the blankets, Dexter snores, and Ben...it's pitiful how he squeezes himself into the corner whenever he's sleeping next to someone, so we always give him his own space."

Right, all good points you'd forgotten.

"So why exactly am I better?" You tease, stopping in your tracks so Tyler bumps into your back and stay close.

"You're warm." And at first it seems like that's the only thing he'll say, your only benefit, as he pauses; but then the rest comes spilling out like a toad strangler. "You're also soft, you don't steal the blanket, you don't complain when I suddenly start talking and you don't snore."

Tyler doesn't mention that the two of you cuddle when you bunk together, and that you bunk together often. He doesn't mention how tonight he'll let you cuddle up on his chest, or perhaps how he'll press his nose against yours and let you play with his hair, because simply mentioning it will mean you'll have to talk about it.

You don't want to talk about, you think; and neither does he. You don't want to talk about how there's something different with the way he slings his arm around your shoulder, or the way you knock your head against his, or how he always gives out your share of whatever (pizza, cookies, etc.) before anyone else, or how you always offer your help to him no matter what.

They're always easy things to ignore, his skinship is not conditional and neither is your kindness, but there's something about the way you look into his eyes when you say thank you, and something about the way his touch lingers.

You don't want to put your finger on it, at least not this season. You'll say it again the next season, and the next, but you ignore that.

"So then I'm your favorite person?" You turn around and bonk your fist against his chest.

He whistles again, drawn-out like he does in awkward moments, but you know it's only playful. "Don't push your luck, dove. You're like... top 5!"

"Top 5? Aww," You feign offense, plopping your hand over your own chest now, "I didn't make it to top 3?"

He splays out his hand and begins to count on his fingers. "There's my mom, then my dad, then the family dog, Liam from the rodeo, and then you."

"The family dog?" Your eyebrows furrow, and the acting seems a bit too real until the look on your face gives away to a memory of his dog giving you kisses. "Oh, yeah, okay. I get it."

"See? You get it." Tyler chuckles, spins you back around and keeps on walking.

The spot you guys picked today is drier than the last, which is something you're thankful for. It's quite far from any town, but the streetlights that adorn the far off road make you feel a bit safer that civilization is just around the corner. There's a light breeze, not too cold and not too fast, and the stars! Oh, the stars.

They're damn nice out here cause they're actually visible tonight, a little less light pollution, you think. It's certainly a lot brighter than, say, NYC or Washington.

"Ain't they pretty today?" Tyler comments, his hands on your shoulders squeezing.

"Yeah. Sparkly too. You know any constellations?"

"No," He hums, his voice holding a bit of lament. "I tried, once. I tried taking a class in college. Astrology."

"How'd that go?" You ask offhandedly, hopping onto the bed of the truck.

"Ended up being too stressed with my main curriculum and dropped the class before it got too far." He fixes a tarp over the top of the truck bed, over the exoskeleton, so not much light will shine over your eyes when you try to sleep.

"The smart Tyler Owens got too stressed?" You ask as you help him up.

"Being smart doesn't mean I have good time management." Tyler says as he sits next to you, and you shrug. Suppose he's right.

"Still pretty though." You hum, leaning your head against his shoulder as you look up.

"Yeah." He agrees. His arm comes to wrap around you naturally, running up and down your side. "Have you ever tried to come up with constellations with... I don't know, whoever you were looking at the sky with?"

"You know what? I don't think so." You raise a finger, tracing a path in the stars for a moment, trying to find something interesting.

He finds one before you, pointing at a group of stars in a weird glob shape. "There, a cloud!"

That alone gets you to let out an ugly, surprised laugh; despite how ugly you might've thought it to be, he thinks it's cute. "You trynna cloudgaze with stars, cowboy?"

"Shut up." He laughs, knocking his head against yours. "You try, genius."

After a couple seconds, you point out a distinct...cone shape in the sky. "Unicorn horn."

"Unicorn horn?"

"What am I supposed to say, cone?"

"You could've said ice cream cone, a little more age appropriate, you know?" He holds out his hand, holding out a small gap between his index and thumb fingers to accentuate little.

"Yeah, well it has no ice cream, dumbass."

"Woah," Tyler withdraws, raising his hands in surrender. "no need to get so defensive, dove."

You slap his hands only to draw them back around you. He has no complaints about that. "Clearly we both suck at this. Let's just admire the stars normally."

He huffs out a laugh but turns his gaze back to the night sky without complaint. It's rather peaceful, this moment, and so nice. Maybe it's not rare that you get comfortably quiet moments with him, nor is it ever rare for Tyler to hold you close like this, but it doesn't make it any less endearing.

"Look!" Tyler breaks the silence suddenly, finger tracing a path in the stars. "A heart."

"You're kidding." You huff out. He's just playing with you, he has to be, especially after your miserable attempts at finding shapes in the sky.

Despite yourself, your eyes will the stars above you into the shape of a heart. Goddamnit, you think, because it's definitely a sign.

"I'm going to sleep." You tear yourself away from his grip and he laughs and tries to steal you back to him, but you fight briefly and end up winning. It's a nice victory, especially because you won over him, but it's not on par with actually finding something in the sky (and you're avoiding the sign).

Tyler chases after you, flopping down beside you. The tarp above casts darkness over the back of the truck bed, but a soft glow still shines through.

You sigh and tuck a hair of Tyler's behind his ear, to which he only laughs. "Jealous, much?"

"Oh, totally." You'd roll your eyes, but they're stuck on his.

"I won." He's triumphant, but you can only focus on how pretty his smile looks.

"You did." You reply, not fighting him on it, and slowly his amusement fades away with the deflation of his body.

"You're not making this fun." Tyler steals your hand, presses the back of it to his lips and notably does not pucker up and kiss. It might be payback, or it might be avoiding the obvious intimacy that kissing you is.

"It wasn't a competition, anyway." You remind him, and he rolls his eyes.

His attitude eventually exudes out of him with a sigh, and he lets go of your hand to push closer. His head rests below your chin, his nose against your neck, and it's not new, but it's not old either.

"I'm sick n' tired of you." He huffs against your neck as you take the opportunity to tuck the both of you in.

You hold back a laugh. "Oh, yeah? Tell me why."

His voice is muffled against your neck, and maybe the vibrations tickle, but you don't dare move away. "I won! We should be celebrating that."

"Celebrate it in your dreams." Despite it being practically the same thing as in your dreams, it actually sounds quite genuine.

"Don't be like that," Tyler whines. "let me stay up for a little while."

You put your hand in his hair, then, twirling strands around your fingers and scratching his scalp, and Tyler hates you and also loves you, because it feels so good that it pulls a groan out of him, but it's lulling him to sleep.

"You're cheating." He whines again. He's being rather childish, huh?

"It's way past your bedtime." You say in a sing-songy way. Curiosity takes over, and you pull his head away from you gently to look into his eyes.

They open once you pull him off you, just barely. Half-lidded, not by lust, but by sleep. "I just wanna hold you for a little while longer." He says, and you don't know how he does it, but his eyes have turned pleading.

"That's on you to try, cowboy." You huddle close again, allowing him to take up the same position as before.

Despite himself, Tyler sighs contently, wrapping his arms around your midriff. One of your hands is on his back, rubbing slow circles, and the other is back on his hair.

He's definitely not going to last long now.

"When's the last time you've ridden a horse?" Tyler babbles on to try to keep awake, but you can hear the sleepy lilt in his voice. "I think my last time was when I last visited home, before the season started."

"One sheep over the fence, two sheep over the fence–"

"Shuddup."

You laugh, hands smoothing over his hair again. You're not sure how you're not very sleepy right now, tucked under the blankets, in his warm hold. Maybe it's the subconscious thought of not accidentally hitting your head on the spare wheel above you, or the faraway feel of the ridges of the truck bed below you.

Or maybe it's wanting to tease him.

"Kiss me."

"What?"

You've kissed before, little playful things: cheek kisses for the camera, neck kisses to either scare you or tickle you, forehead kisses after particularly dangerous scares, hand kisses when he's trying to act all gentlemanly, temple kisses after hugs. You've never kissed him on the lips before, and actually, neither of you have ever explicitly asked for a kiss. They've always been given without question.

"Please?" He asks again, pulling back so that his forehead is off your neck.

Oh, he only wanted a forehead kiss.

You oblige happily, press your lips against his forehead and let out and exaggerated muah!

"No, not there." He pulls away almost entirely, scooting up to be face to face.

You'd laugh, if what he was asking you for wasn't a kiss on the lips. You can't lie, you've thought about it before, when the sun shines a particular way over his face at sunset, or when he's considerably too hot to ignore.

...you're going to have to talk about this tomorrow.

Except tomorrow is not today yet, and so you cup his cheek. You debate it for a moment, a yes or a no, but there's one answer clear in your mind, a yes.

You press your lips against his, and it's more subtle than that forehead kiss, and it feels so much more tangible, in a way. His lips move against yours, a languid thing, a soft thing.

You wonder if he's going to remember this tomorrow, if being as sleepy as this is equivalent to being drunk.

"Thank you." Tyler says as you part, and he settles back where he was, head against your neck. He seems satisfied now, willing to nod off.

"Don't mention it." You say automatically.

Okay you're definitely going to have to talk about this tomorrow. For now, though, you'll just hold him. It's a strange thing to say, but he's always been rather nice to hold, a big man to fill your entire hug, even if he does make your heartbeat spike.

"Goodnight." He says.

"Sweet dreams." You reply.

There's nothing else to think about but the feeling of him in your arms and the warmth of his body as your eyes draw closed.

#tyler owens x reader #tyler owens x gn reader #twisters x reader #twisters x gn reader #🌸 // success!#💞 // darlings #🤬 // swearshirt #�� // twisters #🎫 // tyler owens #🎫 // tyler

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shotmrmiller · 1 year ago

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y'all know davy jones who can only step on land once every decade?

right, make that Simon, but he's something else.

He shows up hours before someone's passing. An inky nondescript shadow that blends into the background, unnoticed by most. But to those whose final specks of sand trickle through their hourglass?

They see him.

An entity condemned to a lifetime of servitude. A wretched, pitiful existence. Something that saps the life out of everything it touches. Something that can't feel the warm rays of the sun seep into his skin, can't smell petrichor in the dewy morning, when the world begins to wake.

He lives yet he doesn't. An eternity of suffering, of wishing he never begged for a way out of the braided strands of hemp that had tightened around his neck for his crimes so long ago.

His freedom forfeit the moment he pleaded for it.

With a lantern that glows an eerie green, he leads deceased souls to their final destination, even the ones who resist, who cling futilely to life, to what is no longer theirs.

Some might call him death, others Hermes. The only name he's ever cared for is his own, the one that his mother had given him back when men still sailed the seas in search of treasure, when men and women alike were hung at the gallows.

But now he is a nameless servant of the natural order that guides them all.

However, he was also given a boon. One single day, out of every ten years, the tight collar around his neck comes off, and he turns human.

A man of flesh and blood.

His lungs fill with the crisp, biting air that he never feels. Cheeks sting from the cold. Fingertips numb without gloves.

For one blessed night, the heart in his chest beats. For one blessed night, his body is warm, flush with life.

And it's been this way for as long as he can remember. He would roam the docks of back then, the briny air stinging his nose, the dulled thumping of hooves resounding in his ears. The chants of drunken men coming from inside lit taverns.

He roamed when cars began to be a form of transportation, when children, boys, began marching to war.

He had been so busy, then.

And he roams now, in the modern age, where medicine forestalls the inescapable.

But then, you. Blood rushes to his face the moment he lays eyes on you. His throat dries, turns to the paper that's used to strip paint.

He's never seen something so beautiful. So plump with vitality, life coursing through your veins. A sweet little thing, whose dulcet voice makes his knees weak.

And when you shake hands with him, palm engulfed in his much larger one, as you ask him for his name, his tongue feels as if it's coated with tar, swollen and heavy. But he garbles out his response anyway.

"Simon."

The way you breathe it back, like a sigh from a lover, could still his heart.

Everything else is a blur, his eyes only ever focused on you when he ends up in your arms, in between your spread thighs, inviting him where no creature such as he belongs.

But he's always yearned for what was never his, and so with fervor, he takes. Grabs at soft skin, and whimpers at the fact that you're not dead with his touch. Surrenders himself to you, completely; makes the little dove under him sing until the short arm on the clock gets close to 12.

This is where he departs, with a promise he swears to never break, and wrenches his heart out of his own chest, placing it in your gentle hands.

He swears to come back for it, once every ten years.

Whenever Simon turns back to whatever he's cursed with being, he keeps a keen eye on you. And then the one time he passes by, feeling like nothing but an artic breeze to you, he sees your life is close to an end.

Simon, for once in his pathetic existence, saves a human life. The car that crashes into you at a lethal speed, does nothing but total your vehicle. It is considered an absolute miracle to everyone, except you.

That should've been your demise. That should've been it.

His little dove, too smart for her own good.

The time will soon come again, and when his head rests on your chest, listening to the lulling sounds of your heart beating, will he tell you what he is.

(maybe, or not idk)

"It's a heady tonic. Holding life and death in the palm of your own hand."

#call of duty #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley x f reader #simon ghost riley smut #simon riley x you

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haleswallows · 1 month ago

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oh hi there, didn't see you there, what have i got there?

nuthin'

Part 1: Cross My Heart (Hope to Die) CHAPTER UPDATE Fandom: DC x DP Crossover Pairing: Dead Tired (Danny Fenton/Tim Drake) Rating: Teen

Teaser:

Having Phantom for a temporary roommate turns out to be a boon.

First off, the ghost is stupidly considerate. Totally non-invasive to Tim's life as he shifts to crashing at the safe house — first he only drops in a few times. But it quickly becomes a more common occurrence because…. well, Phantom's a great roommate it turns out.

In a frighteningly short time span, Tim finds himself staying with Phantom almost every night of the week.

The only change of note is the apartment is now really clean with a slight uptick in background noise. Phantom dutifully respects every rule of the contract and the unspoken boundaries Tim left out of the addendum.

Oh, and he greets Tim with a 'welcome home, there's dinner if you're hungry'. The last time he heard that was when he lived in the Manor.

Tim can say it's nice? Yeah, really nice.

Jesus Christ, he's being domesticated.

If only Phantom could learn about personal space.

Oh, and there's more too. Phantom cooks. There are leftovers in Tupperware that Tim has never seen before in his fridge, that Phantom encourages him to take to work for lunch. Not even Bruce's scowl is enough to deter Tim from enjoying his home made lunch. Sure, most of the meals were simple single pan dishes, but damn. Damn, a guy could used to this.

Wait. What was he thinking?

Contractually, this 'relationship' is only to get everyone to stop looking at Tim with blatant worry and pity since The Break-Up. It just so happened to help Phantom with his meddling council problem too. Mutually beneficial.

Even then, they hadn't really discussed co-inhabiting beyond the short clause added to the contract, hadn't even thought about it when they both agreed to 'fake dating'. All boundaries started and stopped somewhere in casual. Surface level shit. The goal was to date a few months, have a quiet, amicable split, and move on.

Living together? Totally uncharted territory, and yet going extremely well.

Tim feels a bit blindsided. And isn't that a novel experience? Tim can't remember the last time someone got the drop on him. When Damian was dumped on Bruce's lap, probably. The 'Jason Todd is Red Hood' hadn't even shocked him much — Tim had already suspected.

So, you know. He feels totally validated as he stares at the crock pot happily chugging along on his counter top, throwing out frankly delicious smells. Tim didn't even know he had a crock pot. The contents are a total mystery. All he knows is that it smells amazing.

A second revelation, leaving Tim feeling mentally knocked on his back and breathless: Phantom is going to share with him. There will be leftovers for Tim packed in stained Tupperware with a bright green Post-It note telling him something like 'kick ass, take names, and sometimes violence is the answer', signed only with a 'P'.

Tim has lost the plot.

"Hey," Phantom's voice, though quiet, pulls Tim from the beginnings of a spiral. "Welcome home. Hungry?"

Fuck yeah, he is. That isn't what he says though. Instead, he stupidly blurts out, "You know you don't have to."

Phantom pauses, hovering in place, reaching for a pair of bowls. The temptation to punch himself in the face floods Tim's mind. Stupid, good job making it weird.

"Do what?" the ghost asks after a beat. He resumes moving around the kitchen, boots never once touching the floor, as if Tim didn't make everything awkward.

"Cook, clean, pack me lunches. That isn't something we agreed to. It isn't in the contract." God, if Tim could just shut his fucking mouth. In a truly Tim-like fashion, he couldn't not prod and poke to find the truth, whatever had him so unable to compute.

Bowls in hand, Phantom scoops rice into them. Is that... is that a rice cooker? A crock pot, and now a rice cooker? Where were these appliances coming from?

Tim gapes as Phantom silently plates their dinner. Rice, broccoli, a shredded chicken from the crock pot. He shoves the loaded bowl, a fork stabbed into it, at Tim.

"Red, I like cooking. And, I don't know if you noticed, this place is really nice. You're letting me stay here for free because of my family drama. I know how private all of you Bats are, and how much of a pain it must be. So like," Phantom shrugs and stabs a fork into his own bowl. "It's the least I can do."

"You don't —." Tim flounders a moment. "You aren't obligated. I offered!"

"But," Phantom looks away, frowning at his rubbery boots. "I can't exactly pay rent. Like, I don't want to freeload."

Is that what this was? "Seriously, don't worry about it. Money isn't an issue, you aren't 'putting me out' or whatever it is you're thinking." Tim says it with every ounce of truthfulness and earnestness he can muster.

Tim sweeps an arm around the giant apartment and it's open floor plan, adding, "Come on, look at the size of this place. I mean it, don't worry about it."

Phantom follows the arc of his arm, eyes flicking over the place that is frankly way too large for a single person. "Right." He still seems hesitant.

"Don't you know Bruce Wayne bankrolls the Bats?" Tim smiles, the only one in on the inside joke. Still, it gets a small huff of a chuckle out of the ghost, and finally Tim feels better.

He doesn't even know why he cares so much. He shouldn't care so much. Just that the thought of Phantom feeling obligated or like he owes Tim makes him feel sick.

Which means Tim truly doesn't know why he goes on to say, "Plus, the place would be lonely with just me here. You're actually doing me a favor," as he grabs the bowl and makes for the living room. Just barely, from the corner of his eye, he catches Phantom's stunned expression.

Then the ghost ducks his head, smiling. It's sweet and shy, the combination lethal as it makes Tim's gut go warm and squirmy.

"Well, think of it this way," Phantom says after a beat, grabbing his own bowl and trailing after Tim. "I was going to cook anyway so it isn't a pain to make extra for you. Plus, it's nice to cook for someone else for once. So, favor repaid."

Tim struggles to breath for a moment. Then tips himself after Phantom to go eat, deliberately ignoring how much he enjoys their little evening ritual.

#dc x dp crossover #dc x dp fic #dc x dp #dead tired #Danny Fenton/Tim Drake #Pretend/Fake Relationship #Promises Promises #my writing

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bullet-prooflove · 9 months ago

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Ford Mustang: Tyler Owens x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @hunterthecharmer @heylookwhoitis @Nameuknownthings @shakespeareanwannabe

Companion piece to:

The Mechanic - Tyler faces a problem when Boone brings his mechanic ex girlfriend back into the fold.

Rigs -Tyler reflects on history with you.

The men before Tyler have only ever seen you as a one night or a wife. They’ve never understood your tenacity, your wicked humour, or fierce intelligence. They haven’t stayed up all night arguing the semantics of classic cars, or spent entire weekends helping you restore the 67 Ford Musang someone had abandoned after it had totalled by a tornado. They don’t pick up that special orange blossom honey hand cream you use to keep your skin from cracking underneath the harshness of the cleaners you use to rid your hands of car oil.

You think about this when you turn up to your garage that morning to find a small pot of it resting on the doorstep along with a note that has Tyler’s name and phone number etched in tidy block capitals. He’d had to change it a couple of years ago, Boone had told you. One of his ‘fans’ had gotten hold of it, she wouldn’t stop calling.

You open the small jar and inhale the sweet, soothing scent before dipping your fingers into it and rubbing the balm over your hands. Today’s a paperwork day and you’re going to spend it tucked away in your office, dealing with the admin you’ve been putting off because you’d rather be underneath a car than filing paperwork.

You pin the phone number to the corkboard on the wall behind your desk, your fingertips lingering on the picture stuck beside it. It’s one of you and the first incarnation of the Wranglers, Tyler, Boone and Dani. Tyler’s arm is draped around your shoulders, his lips brushing over your temple as you smile at the camera. That had been before the tornado had disfigured you, before you’d needed thirty stitches to hold the left side of your face together.

You sit down in your ergonomic chair and stare at the jar of hand cream that now resides upon your desk. You know it’s an olive branch, Tyler’s way of reaching out after dismissing you the other day. This stuff doesn’t come cheap and it can only be picked up in one place in Oklahoma. The fact he’s made the four hour trek round trip speaks volumes.

Acts of service, it’s always been his love language.

When Boone had first called you, you’d been adamant about not returning. You’d learned the hard way what happened when you went up against a force of nature.

“We just need help with the vehicles.” He had assured you. “You don’t have to come chasing with us.”

“Have you spoken to Tyler?” You’d asked him and you could hear his hesitation down the line.

“Not yet. I thought it was best if I got you on board first.” He’d said and you could imagine him playing with that fidget spinner he used to have as he talks to you.

“You know I would do anything to keep you guys safe.” You’d said quietly. “Just because I’m not around doesn’t mean I don’t care.”

“I know.” Boone had said. “And just because we’ve not been around doesn’t mean we don’t care. It’s hard for him…”

“It’s hard for me too.” You remind Boone because every time you walk down the street someone does a double take when they look at you.

You used to be such a pretty girl, an ex had told you after he’d given you a pity fuck last year, now you’re just damaged.

You’d used your keys to scratch a line along the entire side panel on his brand new SUV after he kicked you out of bed.

“You’re lucky I didn’t use acetone.” You’d told him when you’d picked up the phone to him screaming. “Keep on calling and I will.”

He’d gotten the message after that and you had kept yourself to yourself because you’d rather be alone than with someone who views you as charity case.

Your gaze strays back to Tyler’s phone number and you’re flung back into a memory, the one from after the hospital when you looked into the mirror for the first time

“You’re still the most beautiful woman I’ve laid eyes on.” He’d whispered against your mouth as he’d cradled your face between his palms, his thumb chasing over the black thread that lined your jaw. “This isn’t anything to be ashamed of, it’s just another part of your story.”

You’d believed him at the time because Tyler, he doesn’t lie, especially not to you. You’d taken solace in his words, held you head up high when you went out on the street, ignored the stares and things were good until they weren’t. There was another tornado outbreak out in Louisiana and Tyler, he just had to do the thing he loved even if it wasn’t with the person he loved.

You give up on the paperwork, you’re too distracted for that level of organisation. You set yourself to work on the Mustang instead, cranking up Zach Bryan on the sound system, singing along under you breath as you continue your restoration. You’re in the fight of your life with a rusty bolt when you hear a light rapping on open garage door behind you.

“I’m not done with you.” You threaten the bolt before you set the wrench down on the work bench and pick up a rag to clean your hands.

When you look up that your breath catches in your chest because it’s Tyler standing there, in those worn Levi’s he’s owned since his rodeo days and that orange flannel shirt you used to wear to bed at night.

“Sophie.” He says softly, his arms crossed over his chest as he leans in the doorway. “Can we talk?”

Love Tyler? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

#tyler owens #tyler owens x reader #tyler owens imagine #tyler owens fanfiction #twisters #twisters 2024 #twisters movie

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seeminglydark · 4 months ago

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‘Johnny!’ he turned, familiar voice that had lulled him to sleep for the past 5 years, staving off nightmares with a calm and even flow. Caro was standing in the street, grinning at him, though he could read the edge of nerves in their eyes. That was the kind of reading he was good at, people. His heart skipped.

‘Caro. What are you doing here? I-I thought you were on tour.’ He stood still, feet frozen in place, feeling like the butt of some joke, but Caro just took a hesitant step toward him, that big bright smile they were known for shining in the dark, the twinkling lights from the grocer bouncing off their pale skin and atrocious ski jacket. They shrugged, fidgeting.

‘When you live alone, and you don’t have family or close friends to spend the holidays with,’ they began, looking sideways past him, grin faltering, ‘sometimes you get tired of being peoples pity invite. I know we’re just barely gettin’ to know each other again but… well. I thought maybe you might feel the same way.’

He blinked, disbelief coloring his tone, ‘You’re… saying you’re here to spend Christmas with me?’ They shrugged again and met his gaze, hopeful smile, bright eyes. He started to laugh, but it wasn’t a mean hollow laugh, it was an infectious joyful one, confusion and humor and before he knew what had happened, they’d leapt into his arms, knocking the breath out of him, while he tried to confess he only had a turkey tv dinner and a half bottle of strawberry Boones Farm between his laughter. How could they just show up unannounced.? maybe they could order Chinese or something, he thought, hanging onto them like his life depended on it, and it would be alright after all.

✨I haven’t had much time to draw since I’ve been visiting my hometown and spending time with my mom, but I had a chance to make a little something for the holiday season today. Enjoy! Johnny and Caro are from my webcomics Seemingly Dark and Mil-Liminal.✨

#original characters #happy holidays #otp #I just wanted to draw some joy and some Christmas lights #and even though this only took me a few hours between making dinner #I’m so proud of it #thank you for everything #I’m so glad you’re here

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yuesya · 4 months ago

Text

“… so someone like you should know your place!”

Fujiwara no Tadahira pauses mid-step, and looks askance.

There is a group of children clustered together beside the lotus pond. More precisely, it is a group of children towering over a little girl on the ground beside the pond.

Tadahira glimpses a flash of white hair, and instantly recognizes who she is. There is only one little girl with bone-white hair like that in the Fujiwara Clan, and that’s Tokihira’s daughter. The one born of a nameless servant who died during childbirth.

Tadahira wonders if his eldest brother realizes how his daughter is treated within the clan. Being the daughter of a powerful father is only a boon if the father in question cares for the child –and Tokihira has not done anything other than pass the girl to a maidservant after proclaiming her as his daughter. While it’s true that the duty of child-rearing does not fall upon the father… this little girl is motherless. Tadahira finds it hard that his brother would have forgotten that, so–

Was this purposeful, then? Or did he simply not care about the child he’d gotten off some lowly servant girl?

… But it’s not Tadahira’s place to interfere in his brother and clan head’s household, and so he does not say anything. This is not the first time that he has witnessed harsh words and rough shoves heaped upon the girl, and he doubts that it will be the last. Perhaps if she finds a husband of some status and renown one day, things will take a turn for the better… but that is still a long ways off in the future.

It is rather odd, though. Tadahira doesn’t think he’s ever once seen the girl scream or cry in response to the way she’s treated. In fact, he doesn’t think he’s ever really seen her react at all. Oftentimes, she’ll sit there in silence like a living doll, barely responsive, and it’s–

It’s quite pitiful.

But it’s not Tadahira’s place to do anything about it. It’s Tokihira’s.

Tadahira closes his eyes, and turns away from the juvenile roughhousing between the children–

And it’s a mistake.

Between one moment and the next, there is a loud splash. Mocking laughter turns into cries of alarm instead, and Tadahira whirls around.

Had those children just pushed Tokihira’s daughter into the pond?

Tadahira takes one step forward–

And lets out a startled exclamation, when someone shoves past him and dives into the pond without hesitation.

… Wait, was that Tokihira?! Where did he suddenly spring out from?

No, no, that’s not what’s important right now.

Tadahira dashes forward, determined to lend his brother a hand.

…

(Eventually, Tokihira makes his way back to the banks with a dark, thunderous expression, soaking wet and dripping water. It’s good that it’s currently the summer season; there’s far less of a chance for the cold chill of the water to set into his bones and cause any illness.

He’s… holding tightly onto the little girl in his arms. It’s several long, agonizing moments before the child coughs lightly and stirs, slowly opening her eyes.

… A pair of glowing, eldritch blue eyes.)

#writing #zenith of stars au #fujiwara au #tacking on to our second heian au haha #yes shiki still has meodp here

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alexanderlightweight · 24 days ago

Note

you forgot a few of my requests last time :) fix pls? <3

for you of course <3

so, i'm finishing the rest of the prompt for my bf because yes, I did cut it off halfway through the prompt because between these two prompts (okay between these two halves of a single prompt) its over over 6k when I combined the fills. but here is only 4k of malec smut.

here we are <3

~ lumine

Magnus is just finishing his trap when his prize arrives.

Alexander pulls himself up past the crest of the valley by sheer strength and will. His body is trembling from overexertion despite his runes and Magnus lingers in the warded shadows of the layers he's placed.

There’s something strange in the air around Alexander, a glimmer to his clothes and skin and hair that Magnus’ unglamoured eyes can track.

Patience rewards him with a boon for once.

Alexander strips, washing both himself and his clothes and baring himself to Magnus, letting Magnus see what is his to claim. Magnus crooks a finger, adding yet another layer to the wards.

Magnus will not allow himself to be easily interrupted.

Not when he is so close to his goal.

It seems a pity to let Alexander cover himself back up, but Magnus doesn’t mind unwrapping the whole package. At least until Alexander inconveniently reaches for his boots instead of his shirt.

Magnus enjoys unwrapping his presents but his quickly waning patience has finally snapped at the thought of Alexander trying to run.

Which he does.

He’s smart.

Trying to flee from a battle his instincts will warn he can’t win. It’s delicious, to drag him closer to the maw of the beast waiting to devour him and watch as he struggles in vain.

To see how he stills, quiet and limp like prey when Magnus pins him down and purrs his name.

“If you have any other tricks, play them now, sweetheart. This will be your last chance for leniency.”

��

There’s a moment, a moment where everything hangs in the balance of Alec’s answer.

Blood pounds, his heart beating so loud that he can no longer hear the babbling of the brook of the even, unbothered breathing of the warlock atop him.

There’s no need to answer.

Alec could just let it happen.

The warlock pinning him down is going to fuck him whether Alec lies or not.

He could just himself be fucked into oblivion and then fade, the Clave will find a new prize for the downworld.

This is his last chance for defiance.

The only moment from now on that his choices will actually ever matter again.

Except, do choices really matter when there is only one he can pick?

—

Magnus can practically feel the submission when his shadowhunter finally relaxes beneath his touch, eyes dropping from his own to look down and away. It’s a beautiful victory — though Magnus wouldn’t have minded Alexander playing hard to get — and Magnus wants to set his teeth to Alexander’s neck when his boy finally speaks.

“There’s an antidote in the lining of my pants.”

Edom roars in Magnus’ ears and his fingers and magic tighten, Alexander shifting beneath him yet unable to move.

“And just where did you get poison, Alexander?”

It appears Magnus is going to need to keep a very tight leash on his boy from now on. Alexander had been checked over by warlocks — to ensure nothing that could be used as a weapon was on his person — before the hunt began.

The poison might also be the answer as to why it was so difficult to track Alexander.

“I stashed it days ago in an underwater cave. It’s in the pond supplied by Lake Lynn.”

Alexander doesn’t need to say more, they both know that Magnus is fully aware of the dangers of Lake Lynn. It had been a place he hadn’t even considered looking. Not when he’d known that the Lake can be just as dangerous for nephilim. It was only so as not to be accused of assassination that the Clave let them know to avoid the location at all.

Magnus hadn’t considered that Alexander would put himself in that much danger but since his boy was also willing to take poison, it’s clear Magnus underestimated him.

“Well aren’t you clever.”

It should be a complement but it isn’t and Magnus uses magic to find the antidote, his fury building with every moment the poison continues to course through his boy’s veins.

The vial is thin, cleverly concealed in one of the reinforced seams where traditionally a sword-harness would attach. The liquid is thick and blue, the strong smell of wintermint covering any other recognizable scent.

Magnus diagnoses Alexander with a grimace of anger.

The poison will begin corroding his boy’s internal organs any moment now and yet Magnus checks the vial again.

It’s as unfamiliar as the poison slowly killing his prey.

“If you’ve lied, Alexander, and this is another poison. I can promise you that you will not die. Instead you will live to regret disobeying me.”

Alexander swallows the potion obediently, not a shudder of fear going through him as Magnus’ magic carefully entangles with it. It can't be pleasant, swallowing the viscous liquid or the dense shard of Magnus’ magic, but Alexander doesn’t flinch or close his mouth.

Not that it would help if he did, not with Magnus keeping Alexander jaw open with a harsh press of his thumb.

For a moment the potion wavers, seeming unsure of if to hinder or help, then it does something strange. Magnus thinks that despite his warning, it is another acid, except what it eats regrows, thrice as fast as it devours and what it regrows is healthy again. Alexander chokes on a gasp, wrenching his head from Magnus’ bruising grip to turn, coughing out a mouthful of silver blood. His lips are stained with it, dripping down his chin and it’s only because it contains poison that Magnus uses magic to clean it away rather than his tongue.

“Good boy,” even as he says it — enjoying the shudder that goes through Alexander at his praise — he double checks.

Nails dragging down Alexander’s chest before he stops, palm over his boy’s heart.

The poison is truly gone, but Magnus’ wrath has yet to be soothed.

“This?” Magnus finally lets his sharp points of his rings bite into the skin over Alexander’s heart, “this is mine, darling. You do not have my permission to die.”

Alexander keens as Magnus kisses him, the taste of Magnus’ own magic greeting him on Alexander’s tongue.

Alexander is enthusiastic and clumsy, unable to do anything but accept as Magnus licks into his mouth, tongue-fucking him until Alexander is writhing, barely breathing but still trying to kiss back.

His boy keens when they part, but Magnus merely croons and uses magic to shred the leather of Alexander’s pants and slicks his fingers with magic.

Alexander struggles, not away but into Magnus touch, trying to fuck himself on Magnus fingers the minute they pet over his hole. He’s so desperate, wanton and begging and Magnus has barely begun.

It’s more time than it’s worth to stretch him for long, Magnus’ ring-clad fingers fuck into him hard and fast as Magnus bites deeply. Teeth sinking into Alexander’s skin with eager victory. Blood wells beneath his teeth, pooling in his mouth and running down Alexander’s neck as Magnus finally unclenches his jaw.

Alexander’s stays in place, bleeding neck arching in supplication as he lets Magnus move him as he wants, muscles trembling but otherwise still.

There’s no resistance, Alexander pliant and obedient beneath him as Magnus finally lets himself take. Pressing his cock into Alexander until there is no space between them, the sound of skin slapping together the evidence of a covenant taking place.

“From now on when you exalt your god, darling. It will be my name you praise.”

With that last instruction Magnus bends down, pressing his lips to Alexander’s ear and whispers both the name of his body and the name of his soul. Tying it to the magic Alexander consumed and binding his names to Alexander’s heart with immortal chains.

—

Alec feels like he’s dying.

It’s too much and not enough and the magic pinning his wrists down means he can’t touch Magnus. It’s a torture far worse than the poison burning through his body only moments before.

“Please—” he starts because he wants to touch but Magnus fingers shush him, pressing into his mouth and Alec reflexively swallows around them.

Magnus tastes like power.

Like sun and bone and ash and moon and the way shadows linger on your tongue during a hunt.

It’s overwhelming and yet stokes a desperate thirst that has Alec chasing it. His tongue desperately laps for anything taste, twining between Magnus’ fingers and Alec barely notices Magnus’ stifled groan or the way the magic on him tightens.

He’s too lost in the feel of calluses petting over his tongue and the way Magnus’ rings are cool against his lips, tasting of star-metal forged in bone-fires.

From the minute Magnus’ magic had caught him, Alec had lost.

The feel of it on his ankle had been searing, as if penetrating to the bone in a brand that would never leave. Even now, Magnus’ magic feels like fire demanding its due, claiming him as Alec’s reforged around Magnus’ cock.

But the choice Alec made, telling Magnus about the poison.

It hadn’t been a choice at all.

It stopped being one the moment Alec had met the golden eyes of the warlock, of Magnus, pinning him down

—

Alexander looks like sin given form as he fights.

Oh he's not fighting Magnus, hasn’t since Magnus caught him..

But he is fighting his own desires and the fact that Magnus still has him tied down, unable to do anything but writhe beneath him as Magnus takes his fill. Fucking Alexander harshly as Magnus’ takes out the remainder of his bloodlust on Alexander’s body.

“Please—” his shadowhunter finally manages to get out, desperate and eager and pleading desperately, “Magnus please.”

Magnus knows exactly what he wants.

What Alexander is praying for without even knowing himself.

“Don’t you beg so sweetly.” Magnus croons, kissing Alexander and being eagerly met, Alexander trying to rock up against him which he allows for a moment before pulling away. “Yet the answer is no.”

Magnus pets over Alexander’s thigh, laughing as Alexander keens in protest as he takes both his mouth and the promise of release away.

“When you come it will be in my bed, on my cock with my magic in and around you. Not here where Idris can lay claim to one last piece of you.” Magnus’ magic is a gleeful binding on Alexander’s body, still such a small tether but already one brimming with potential. “Besides darling. You’ve been mine since the moment I laid eyes on you. Did you really think you could hurt what belongs to me without punishment?”

Magnus had offered benediction for tricks. He had not offered forgiveness for the crime of Alexander harming himself.

Alexander whines again, body bucking under Magnus’ touch, his cock quivering, balls taut but even as Magnus finally touches his cock, he doesn’t come.

He can’t.

It’s such a sweet proof of how deep the claim Magnus’ already has on him is.

“Your first and most important lesson, Alexander.” Magnus chuckles as Alexander squirms closer, drying desperately to fuck Magnus’ hand. “If you run, I will chase you. Fuck you unconscious no matter where I catch you and when you wake where you belong, in my bed and arms. It will be to find another mark only tying you closer to me. Until your own body obeys me more than it does you.”

Alexander clenches around him, body convulsing with effort as he trembles, his body betraying him even as it obeys Magnus.

—

Alec would tear his own heart out and offer it to Magnus if it meant only a moment of relief.

Instead he’s unable to speak, his raw throat too caught on sounds he never knew he could make as Magnus plays his body like it was an instrument made solely for him.

He was.

Alec thinks to himself.

Alec had to have been made for Magnus because what other answer is there? Not when he feels delirious as he tries to cling to the feeling of Magnus pressed against him, memorizing the brand of Magnus’ skin and magic and body against his own.

Euphoria floods him at how well Magnus' body fits to his own. To know that even when he’s not doing anything — can’t because of how Magnus is forcibly keeping him still — there’s something about him that makes Magnus want him.

Magnus comes with Alec’s name on his lip and Alec’s blood on his tongue and who cares if Alec can’t come. He’s felt more pleasure from Magnus fucking him and using him as he wants then Alec’s ever had with his own hand and fingers.

It’s a pity that before Alec can bask in the sensation — ignoring just how badly he wants to beg again to come — his instincts flare.

—

“Let me up, Magnus.”

Magnus’ name on Alexander’s tongue — voice quiet with how raw his throat is — is just as delicious now as when he begged Magnus during sex.

A pity his boy won’t get what he wants this time either.

“No.” Magnus tells him, leaving Alexander there as he stands. Stretching to enjoy the ache in his muscles and only stopping to zip his cock back into his pants. He lets his magic keep Alexander pinned, naked and splayed out on the forest floor as Magnus steps away.

Whatever lucidity he’d fucked out of his boy is returning far too quickly for Magnus’ taste. It’s clear that his shadowhunter can also sense the incoming presence of an intruder. An enemy that has pinged his senses and in his currency state of vulnerability, he means to fight or flee.

Magnus will happily dissuade him of the notion that he’s allowed either.

“Settle, Alexander. A warrior you may be but you’re under my authority now. You’ll allow me to protect you unless I decide otherwise.”

And currently his only job is to be a spectator as Magnus prepares to greet the werewolf stepping out of the thick bramble on the other side of the clearing.

“Bane, already started then.” The man grins, “any fight left in him?”

Magnus vaguely recalls the name of the werewolf in front of him, but seeing as how his existence is forfeit, there is no reason to use it.

Magnus is still wearing his battle rings, chains interloping down his knuckles to his wrists and without answering he catches the arm of the werewolf, the man screaming from the contact as silver talons rip through his flesh and Magnus shreds sinew to the bone.

—

Everything is awful.

If Alec had realized telling Magnus about the poison would result in no orgasm, he would have just risked his health and waited until the sex was over to confess.

Surely whatever punishment Magnus would have dealt can’t be worse than the one Alec’s already enduring.

It feels incredibly unfair to be fucked and claimed by the man of his unknown dreams and then not even be allowed to come.

It’s even worse when Magnus moves away — taking away his touch which is the only thing keeping Alec sane and grounded — and keeps Alec there.

Pinned like a carcass to the ground, as if he’s nothing more than slaughtered prey to be fought over.

He should hate it.

He does hate it, or at the least the idea of it.

But all protests die at the thought of Magnus killing because of him, for him, up-close and with Alec watching this time. Using Magnus’ own hands rather than just magic in what Alec knows is meant to be an object lesson.

For both Alec and everyone who looks at him.

Because Magnus will eviscerate anyone who comes for Alec.

He’ll torture them too.

Alec can tell by the way Magnus is toying with the werewolf.

Taunting him with words and actions and loudly praising just how good of a fuck Alec is in a way that should make Alec flush with indignation at just how blatantly he’s being objectified.

Instead a part of Alec preens, wanting to do even better next time if this is the kind of reward he gets.

How can Alec have any protests when he’s watching — body trapped and still trembling from how hard Magnus fucked him — as Magnus taunts and teases and laughs cruelly before falling silent.

The wolf says something.

Something he shouldn’t have that Alec can’t make out over the pounding of his own heartbeat but he can tell that Magnus’ playfully violent mood has snapped.

One moment Magnus is mocking the werewolf and the next he’s pulling a blood-slick wrist out of the other man’s chest. The silver-clawed rings that cling to Magnus’ fingers sear into the still sizzling heart and the body drops with any aborted howl.

Alec can see the blood dripping from the gleaming points, thick and dark and for a moment he wonders if Magnus offer him his fingers again

Coat Alec in the blood of the intruder and slick himself up and back into Alec’s body with the blood of his competition. Alec can’t tell if he loves or hates the idea with how desperate he is for Magnus to touch him again.

There’s nothing he can do right now. Just take whatever is given to him and he desperately wants more, his dick even harder after the fight.

“Aren’t you greedy.” Magnus mocks as he gets closer, the heart in his hand that Alec is eyeing warily turned to pulp. Crushed in Magnus’ palm before he drops it to the ground to step over. “Now do you really think I’d dirty you with just anyone's blood?”

The blood disappears with a twisting flame of magic and Magnus stands over him with a smirk, “those who dare to covet you don’t deserve to touch you. Even in death.”

Alec swallows down a whimper and tries not to start begging for Magnus to put his hands on Alec again.

“Now darling, should I finish what I started, before we were interrupted?”

Raziel, yes.

If it means Magnus touching him again, even if Alec still can’t come, then he wants that.

Needs that more than he’s ever needed anything in his life.

—

Magnus licks the mess of his own come, sweat and precome from Alexander’s skin, forcing his boy’s thighs further apart and uncaring of the burn already left by his goatee as he runs his teeth in a searing line down the crease of Alexander’s inner thighs and groin.

Alexander will feel it chafing under his clothes for days since Magnus won’t be letting him use an iratze.

His sweet prize keens but doesn’t resist as Magnus nips, leaving marks that will overlap with his fingerprints and finally, after pressing a long, sucking kiss to the tip of Alexander’s cock, Magnus slides back into him.

It’s like being welcomed home.

Alexander’s hole is just as greedy and tight around Magnus’ dick as the first time and this time his shadowhunter's body is desperately tense.

There’s an awareness now that wasn’t there before, Alexander squirming closer even as Magnus’ balls slap against his ass.

“Please,” is whispered, just a breath between kisses and Magnus finally relents, because this time Alexander is asking for something else.

Something Magnus is now willing to allow.

For the first time he lets the magic binding Alexander relax.

It doesn’t leave him, it won’t ever leave him again, but it does let him move.

Alexander is quick, arms coming up and with a grip so tight it could be taken as an attack if he weren’t desperately trying to pull Magnus even closer.

His trembling fingers leave bruises, harsh marks that Magnus can already feel forming as somehow Alexander’s squirming earns him a free leg, one he gets up and over Magnus’ hip.

His boy is so demanding now that he’s been allowed just a hint of freedom. His kisses are consuming, like a drowning man begging for air and well, who is Magnus to refuse such a plea.

Magnus has been hard since the fight and he comes again, grinding his hips deep and digging his teeth for one last time into Alexander’s chest, stilling and letting out a pleased sigh as his boy clenches as if desperate to prolong Magnus’ orgasm and keep him from leaving.

Alexander pants, hole still tight around Magnus’ softening cock and arms locked around Magnus’ neck. Alexander’s cock is a wet, sopping mess between them, almost purple with how desperate he is and he keeps rocking up against Magnus’ abdomen. Rubbing his cock against Magnus’ abdomen with little hitching movements of his hips that while adorable, won’t get him what he wants.

With a groan Magnus pulls out, chuckling as he has to use magic to untangle Alexander’s limbs from his own.

Then he looks down at his boy, ruined and defiled and absolutely begging for Magnus to come back and fuck him all over again.

Even knowing he still won’t be allowed to come.

“Stay.” Magnus orders as he stands, kicking apart Alexander's legs when he tries to close them. Wants to see his come leaking down Alexander’s thighs, this time without the need of magic keeping his boy down.

Magnus is the bloodline of lust and already his cock is hardening again and while the lure of slipping back inside Alexander — fucking him full again and again, defiling him for hours in the hollowed lands of Idris — is near irresistible, he can’t.

Magnus has priorities.

One of which involves showing off just how deeply he’s claimed Alexander to the Clave and every other being in attendance.

It’s a pity to cover up any of his marks so soon, but Magnus enjoys Alexander too much to let him go anywhere without being draped in the signs of Magnus’ victory.

It’s easy to summon a simple but elegant leather collar, threaded with pure silver and buckled with iron for additional safety. It digs into one of the bites Magnus left, teeth marks on either side of Alexander’s deflect rune in a blasphemous claim.

It seals without a buckle, joining in the middle to form a gem made of hellfire and a drop of energy harvested from sol.

Despite the sun having risen, he will suffer no chances.

Magnus knows that among those of lesser ranks there had been whispers but to have it thrown in his face by the werewolf he’d just killed has stoked his wrath.

A man suicidal enough that even in the face of certain death, he’d gone a step further and taunted Magnus. Letting Magnus know that since the nephilim — Magnus’ nephilim — belonged to the downworld now, any downworlder should get to have him.

It would almost be amusing, the delusions that have spread, except they involve what belongs to Magnus and the werewolf should have known better.

Magnus does not share what is his.

No matter who approaches Alexander with the intent to feed, the gem will not discriminate.

Not even against Raphael.

For any who covets what belongs to Magnus, even if only by instinct, is worth no more than fuel for Edom.

Alexander is still barefoot as Magnus pulls him to his feet and unhurriedly dresses him in simple pants and a shirt. Not bothering to clean off the evidence of his claim, just covering it under the fabric of Magnus’ own clothing.

Anyone who gets close enough to Alexander — whether they have enhanced senses or not — will be able to smell the sex and blood. They’ll smell hellfire ash, come and the same unique sandalwood scent that clings to all of Magnus’ personal clothing.

It’s proof of Magnus’ absolute win for those stupid enough to think he’ll share.

“Do you know how many I had to kill?” Magnus asks conversationally as he zips Alexander’s pants, “how many dared try to compete with me for you?”

Alexander shudders under his touch, revulsion from the thought of others but also something eager in his eyes as he questions Magnus’ silently.

It’s such a small defiance, withholding the question that Magnus wants to answer and Alexander wants to hear the answer to.

Yet Magnus allows lenience just this once. Something he’ll need to be careful with, considering how easy it is to want to spoil his boy.

“So many that I quite lost track. We’ll just have to see how many survived. After all, the Clave needs to officially relinquish their hold on you, don’t they?”

AN:

The werewolf taunt was that basically he didn’t get why magnus was being so serious when alec belonged to the downworld now. And that when magnus got tired of him, he’d be happy to fuck him (in wolf form no less) and uh. yeah.

Magnus is like... wow i didn’t realize the local pack was so uneducated. Looks like i’m about to make some object lessons.

This can be practice *takes heart and considers feeding it to alexander before realizing its dirty*

It got contaminated by the werewolves dirty thoughts involving Magnus’ boy. Therefore, cannot be fed to alec.

Magnus is sanitary like that.

#lumine writes #writing wednesday #writing wednesdays #an agile predator at bay #shadowhunters #magnus bane #malec #alec lightwood

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after-witch · 2 years ago

Text

Horrorfest: It Knows Not How it Sounds [Yandere Vampire Chrollo x Reader]

Title: It Knows Not How it Sounds [Yandere Vampire Chrollo x Reader]

Synopsis: He's going to kill you--and this is how you react? Curious, curious, curious.

For Horrorfest request:

Vampire! Chrollo could be interesting? He fits the image of a vampire well, with his inclusion of religious imagery, goth aesthetic and his personal search for his self (his “soul“). Perhaps he becomes interested in one of his would-be meals, being attracted to their humanity and their perspective on his vampirism (maybe them seeing it as a curse, not a boon)

Word count: 1565

notes: yandere, vampire, some descriptions of blood, mild wounds, dying; Chrollo is a pretentious asshole even as a vampire

Humans are so very interesting. And so very predictable.

Chrollo Lucilfer knew the first truth at an early age. He has learned the second truth over the years, the decades, and then the centuries.

For instance, humans always seek comfort. That is certain, whether they are rich or poor, old or young, beautiful or ugly. They want to be held and warm and fed; they want someone to comfort them when they cry; they want to be told that, in the end, things will be alright.

This is true even for the humans that he kills, for so often in their last moments, they cling to him, desperate, wanting him to be their savior even as he is the one draining their blood.

Therefore, it does not surprise him too terribly when your shaking arm reaches up for his face; when your increasingly exhausted expression takes in the sight of him, eyes wide, looking for kinship or absolution or someone to tell you it will be just fine.

It takes his victims some time to really comprehend what is happening, after all.

It is usually at this point that (if they haven’t already--not everyone is so slow on the uptake) they realize what he is--vampire--and he goes back to lapping at his victim’s blood, enjoying the way their muddled dying thoughts are spiked with a renewed bright acidic terror.

The taste is not his only reward. There is the entertainment, as well. The thoughts of the dying.

The thoughts come to him like moving pictures, flashes; not only visuals but sometimes words. Monster. Him, covered in blood. I don’t want to die. Lovers, children, things left unsaid. Mother. This word, so common, most often paired with the foggy memory of a chubby hand held in a larger one.

Your eyes widen after a moment and ah, there it is. Like a clock. “Vampire,” you mouth, lips that were perhaps once rose-red now growing paler, the more he blood he takes from you.

“Yes,” he breathes, and you make the softest of sounds when he nudges your head back with his hands, giving him access to the open, bruised weeping puncture wounds he’d created earlier. Your blood still flows freely enough, and he laps at the edges before he begins to suck from the wounds.

He wonders how he must look from your eyes, though he may see it soon enough. His pale skin and dark hair. The fangs jutting from his mouth. The blood on his lips. Even his clothing, silken black with delicate lace. A storybook vampire, he supposes; all that’s missing is the smell of dirt and decay, though that is perhaps a stench better left to his more unhinged colleagues than his own delicate scent of roses and musk; purloined perfume bottles were easy to come by when you could simply kill the ones who set them on varnished bureaus.

But what pulses through his mind is not pure abject horror at the sight of him or fleeting, terrified thoughts of a life that will be incomplete.

Instead, it’s something that startles him so fiercely that he yanks himself away from your neck:

Pity.

Pity, pity, pity. For him--for him!

A warm almost sour sensation lingers behind on his teeth, and he licks it away. He has never, in his centuries of killing, been… pitied.

Your head rolls a little to the side, eyelids drooping, but you gain enough awareness to realize that he’s no longer feeding on you. Your voice is a soft croak when you do speak, words spoken as if you don’t understand why you’re even permitted to say them at all. You should, after all, be dead.

“Why did you stop?”

He considers you for a moment. He keeps a grip on your shoulders--you might just fall, if he lets go--and makes you face him. Finally, he mirrors your question. But only to satisfy his curiosity, or so he tells himself.

“Why do you pity me?”

Your eyes widen again, but this time not in the realization of the monster before you. You likely don’t know how he felt your pity. He doesn’t care to explain it to you, either, and after a few moments you furrow your eyebrows.

If he weren’t feeding on you, it might be a cute expression. Perhaps it still is; even lambs to the slaughter can have their charms.

“You’re…” You swallow. “You’re a vampire,” you say. But that usual horror is replaced with something else, something Chrollo wants to stick his finger into and pull out so he can see it more fully. Pity, yes yes, but something more. What is it? And why do you feel it so strongly that he couldn’t stand the shock of it?

When he doesn’t respond, you continue.

“You have to kill people to survive.”

He snorts.

“That’s never given me pause before.”

And oh, the way you look at him is absolutely beautiful. Your eyes glisten with tears--not from the pain, surely, but for him?--and your lips, nearly colorless though they are, curl into a pretty pout.

“But it should, and I’m so sorry it doesn’t.”

You wince, the shock perhaps ebbing away, letting you feel the pain of your ripped flesh more fully than most of his victims have time to do. But you don’t even press your hands to the wound, and he likes you better for it.

But still. You pity him because he’s a killer? What a waste of the emotion.

“I have lived for centuries,” he tells you, speaking as if to a child, learning lessons at a father’s knee. “I have seen things your mortal mind could not comprehend. I have seen kingdoms rise and fall, seen civilizations turn to dust.”

He can practically see the cogs in the clock of your mind turning. Perhaps you will be one of those who foolishly asks him for the gift. He has rarely given it, and he wouldn’t give it to you; but he wouldn’t tear you apart for the audacity as he has some others. Your death would be merciful, calm--you’ve earned that.

But when you speak again, you don’t ask him to make you into a vampire.

“But you must be so lonely.” Your words are sudden, fast. Perhaps you don’t realize you’ve said them until it’s too late to wonder if you’re being too presumptuous, because you stumble over your next words. Or perhaps you’re just that emotional over the thought of him, and wouldn’t that be a delightful novelty?

“Everyone around you dies… your-your family. Friends.” You shake your head, blinking as a few tears finally do drop from your eyes. “You can’t live a normal life… you can’t go out in the sun.” You look up, as if you’re imagining the warm feel of it on your skin.

It’s a sensation he has long since forgotten, but to you it must be as normal as breathing. “I-I can’t imagine how sad that must be. To never be truly warm. To not see the flowers reaching up to the sky or see the grass in the morning, all green and dewy.”

Your arms, no longer trembling, wrap around your chest.

“I just…” You don’t look at him when you say these last words, but you don’t really need to, do you? Not with the way your voice is choked with emotion, the way tears fall so prettily from your eyes. “I’m so sorry that this happened to you.”

You are a wonder, truly. Bleeding from the neck, no doubt light headed from blood loss, in the face of a nocturnal creature who moments ago was draining the life from your body… and you apologize to him?

When you live for centuries, you often lose the ability to be surprised. But here is that sensation, now queer, once again. And all because you happened to take an unfortunate shortcut through the park on this night, making yourself easy prey for him to pull into a darkened alley and feast.

Now, though, he finds his hunger satiated. Or at least satiated until he finds another victim. Someone less worthy to stay alive than yourself, of course.

After some consideration, he leans backward, and releases his grip on you. His hands ache for the warmth of your skin underneath him, and not for the usual voracious reasons.

Yet another curiosity to add to his growing list.

You look at him like he’s lost his mind. Maybe he has.

“Aren’t you going to kill me?”

Perhaps, if he weren’t who he was, he might feel it too--this feeling of pity. Because you have no idea what he intends to do, and what it will mean for him to keep you alive now.

You have no sense of the impulsive need that has rooted itself in his brain, a need he hasn’t felt since he was a young fledgling of a vampire. He wants to know you; know what you think and why you think it.

What life has created you so earnestly that you can feel genuine sympathy for a creature like him? Have you known hardship, and it was an impulse to sympathize? Or has your life been so unmarred by difficulty that the pty came easily to you, pure, sweet thing?

The most important question of all, he thinks, as he pulls you closer to him and shushes the soft sounds you make--

Will you continue to pity him once he has taken you for his own?

#yandere chrollo #yandere chrollo lucilfer #yandere hunter x hunter #yandere vampire #yandere #afterwitch writes #aw horrrorfest

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ghostly-penumbra · 2 years ago

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Ectoberhaunt 2023. Day Nine

"Dragon"

Ao3 and as a stand-alone

“Would you like a drink, Danny?”

“Just some pop, please.”

Danny’s boss snorted but accepted easily enough, handing Danny a can of cool Pepsi whilst he twirled his whiskey.

“So, do you like your job, Danny?” His boss asked without preambles.

Danny didn’t really need to think about it, he answered honestly, “Yeah, it’s chill. The pay is good and I’ve been kinda nocturnal since I was fourteen so the late hours are no problem for me. The tips are great too, and the patrons are… wild, yes,” his boss huffed a small laugh at Danny’s understatement of the night-club goers, but didn’t interrupt him, “but no one has, like, tried to punch me or something, so I don’t mind.”

“That’s good.” His boss said softly and drank some more of his whiskey. “Look, Danny, contrary to what you may have heard of me, I am not in the habit of conquering other realms and enthralling their rulers, so know that you are not my vassal and I don’t want your Kingdom. I don’t even want my Kingdom! I’ve quit! But! You don’t look like you want to leave.”

“I would very much like to keep my job, if that’s at all possible.”

Lucifer Morningstar, owner of the nightclub Lux and Danny’s current boss (so far, at least), put his tumbler aside and gave his full attention to the young man sitting across from him.

“I don’t want you to leave, either.” The Devil said. “You’re a good employee and even Maze likes you!” He said this like it was either the biggest honour or the biggest abnormality.

Mazikeen was cool, even if a tad violent, so he took the comment both ways.

“But you do know that it’s not a good look for the King of Ghosts to be working for the King of Hell, right? No matter that I’m retired or that you are alive.” He rolled his eyes at the last bit.

“Yeah. That’s, I’ll get an earful for that.” It would be from the Observants, though, and he really didn’t care for their opinion, so it would just be a minor annoyance.

“And whether you stay at Lux or not, the pantheons have certainly taken notice.” Mister Morningstar rolled his eyes again and looked at Danny with pity, which, yeah, inter-pantheon relations was not something the Ghost Zone wanted or that Danny was interested in engaging with.

“Ah, yes, the rammies.” He made a face at that. He really didn’t want any god (lowercase g, all of them) snooping in his realm to see what his relationship with the Devil was.

But if shit was going to hit the fan anyway, why not keep his well-paid job?

“It’s not a problem for me,” the Devil kept saying, “I’m happily retired! For you, on the other hand, they’ll see you as my vassal if you don’t really get anything out of this, –no, a weekly salary with legal benefits means nothing to these beings.” He said before Danny could interrupt. “If there was something I could just give you as a boon–” He stopped and a large smile slowly spread on his face. “That’s it! I am a genius!” He stood up and began pacing back and forth whilst Danny just clutched his can of pop.

“Uh, what is it?” Asked Danny, sipping his pepsi.

“I will give you Hell!” Ignoring his employee choking on his drink, the Devil carried on. “We can say you are my apprentice, or you can be my actual apprentice if you want me to teach you the ropes, and I will give you the Key of Hell and you can add it to the Ghost Zone! No one will be stupid enough to give you any trouble for it, and I will finally get my annoying family off my back.”

“But they’ll be on mine!” Danny protested once he stopped choking. “I don’t want to have Hell! I didn’t even want to be King of the Ghost Zone, I was just the dumbass that defeated the old one! I- I just wanna get through college, afford my half-life, and become an astronaut…” He put his head in one hand, the other one holding the can against his forehead.

Why this? Why couldn’t he be fired for sleeping on the bar, like a normal person?

“Oh, please, Danny, you’re a young King, hardworking too; you must want more than that.” Mister Morningstar looked him in the eye not obstructed by pop and spoke slowly, with intent, “Tell me, Danny, what do you desire?”

“To protect everyone I care about, anyone that needs it, to help them.”

“Mm, kind of basic and boring but-”

“And to reach the stars, to sail through them in the infinite night.” Danny blinked hard and shook himself off. “That’s not cool, sir.”

“Dual Obsession?” The Devil said, easily ignoring Danny’s complaint. “Not very common; befitting for a King. So what you want to do is help. You can do it being King of Hell!”

“That doesn’t sound likely.” Danny’s response only made his boss’s smirk return, and then the Devil really began his sales pitch.

How, if Danny became the new King of Hell, he could totally help redeem the souls of the damned, and since he was already King of the Ghost Zone, he could take the damned souls of the innocent there if Heaven refused to open the Gates for them, wankers that they were.

“What do you mean innocent souls in Hell?”

That only made the Devil lean in cheerily, “Oh?” He asked. “Haven’t you heard?”

Sold souls, of course. From people who sold their soul to delay their loved one’s death, to wronged firstborns whose parents wanted power no matter the cost. All of them, in Hell.

“That’s not fair.” Danny said with clenched fists.

“Well, it’s not like I have a neutral realm where runaway, wronged souls could take refuge in.” Mister Morningstar said, knowing he had the young adult hooked.

“I-” Danny tried to speak, but felt his core thrumming writhing him. He wanted to help. “I will… consult it, first, it’s- it’s too much.”

His boss nodded sagely, and once again looked him in the eye. “I will extend your insurance to your family and include dental.”

Danny would still consult it with Clockwork and his friends, but he knew he was sold.

#Danny Phantom #Danny Fenton #ectoberhaunt23 #day nine #dragon #ghostly-scrypts #cross posted on ao3 #CrossOver #Danny Phantom CrossOver #Lucifer (TV)#Lucifer Morningstar #surprise crossover #Ghost King Danny

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drawitblargit · 2 years ago

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”She heard King Renly declare the Lady Brienne of Tarth the victor of the great melee at Bitterbridge, last mounted of one hundred sixteen knights. “As champion, you may ask of me any boon that you desire, If it lies in my power, it is yours.” “Your Grace,” Brienne answered, “I ask the honor of a place among your Rainbow Guard. I would be one of your seven, and pledge my life to yours, to go where you go, ride at your side, and keep you safe from all hurt and harm.” “Done,” he said. “Rise, and remove your helm.” She did as he bid her. And when the greathelm was lifted, Catelyn understood Ser Colen’s words. Beauty, they called her… mocking. The hair beneath the visor was a squirrel’s nest of dirty straw, and her face… Brienne’s eyes were large and very blue, a young girl’s eyes, trusting and guileless, but the rest… her features were broad and coarse, her teeth prominent and crooked, her mouth too wide, her lips so plump they seemed swollen. A thousand freckles speckled her cheeks and brow, and her nose had been broken more than once. Pity filled Catelyn’s heart. Is there any creature on earth as unfortunate as an ugly woman? And yet, when Renly cut away her torn cloak and fastened a rainbow in its place, Brienne of Tarth did not look unfortunate. Her smile lit up her face, and her voice was strong and proud as she said, “my life for yours, Your Grace. From this day on, I am your shield, I swear it by the old gods and the new.”

—A Clash of Kings, Catelyn II

#Asoiaf #A song of ice and fire #brienne of tarth #game of thrones #a clash of kings #renly baratheon #catelyn stark #a song of ice and fire fanart

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bookshelf-in-progress · 1 year ago

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Loving Memory: A Retelling of East of the Sun, West of the Moon

The woman striding across the ballroom floor takes my breath away. She is perfection in human form--regal and statuesque, with hair like a raven's wing, skin like a fresh fall of snow, and ice-blue eyes that can captivate a man's heart.

And the gown! It makes her beauty seem almost divine. It shimmers and swirls like rivers of gold, making the icy-white marble of the floor and walls glow with the light of the sun that has not shone here for a month of days. I nearly fall to my knees, but I am a prince--soon to be a king--so I merely bow over her hand, lead her into the dance, and thank heaven for our impending marriage. Jorunn knows I do not love her, but at moments like these, I have no doubt that I shall.

We whirl through the dancers, the lords and ladies assembled for our upcoming wedding, all of them flawless in form, wearing suits and gowns of impossible beauty--a rainbow of velvets and silks, gold and jewels. My betrothed outshines them all. I feel clumsy and common in comparison, and marvel yet again that I am deemed worthy to join--and soon rule--this court.

When the dance ends, I bring Jorunn to the refreshment table, where we take glasses of sweet blue punch.

"You should drink your tonic, darling," Jorunn says, removing a small silver flask from a pocket in her skirt.

"Must I?" I ask, glancing to the watching crowd. I usually take the tonic before bed, in private. I don't relish my future subjects knowing that their king is an invalid.

"You must have your strength tonight," she says, pouring what looks like a double dose into my punch. The icy blue liquid turns a murky amber.

I down the drink in one gulp, cringing as the bitter aroma fills my head. I swear I can feel it coursing through my limbs. They feel heavier than they had a moment before. My head feels murkier.

It passes in a moment, and once again I'm overjoyed to be here, with her, in this impossibly beautiful realm.

I kiss Jorunn's cheek and thank her for her watchfulness. I feel as if I could dance all night.

The music starts up--an enticing melody of flutes and strings--but just as I pull Jorunn into the dance, a commotion starts at the other edge of the crowd. The music stops, and the crowd parts to reveal...something...crossing the floor. Some kind of animal has entered the ballroom--smaller than a bear, larger than a dog, with patches of fur in every shade of white and black and brown.

As it comes nearer, I see that it walks upright on two legs--two human legs, with two small, white human hands poking out from the folds of the fur.

"What is it?" I ask Jorunn. "Who let it into the ballroom?"

"I did," Jorunn says. "She is my invited guest."

I bow my head in embarrassment. "I'm...certain she's quite charming."

Jorunn pushes my shoulder, gently urging me toward the girl. "Dance with her, Eirik."

"I?" I yelp. How could a prince--a future king--demean himself by dancing with such a creature before all his subjects. "Why?"

Jorunn tilts her head toward me and murmurs, "Because I keep my promises. This girl is the one who gifted me this dress, and in return all she asked was a dance with you."

"A strange boon to demand from a woman about to be married," I say. Stranger still that Jorunn granted it.

"We aren't wed yet," Jorunn says playfully. "I can't keep you all to myself, no matter how much I may wish to." She urges me toward the girl. "Go on, my love. It's not too much to ask."

Despite myself, I feel a pang of pity for the creature. She gave away a dress fit for a queen and had to appear in this ballroom in a bundle of furs. Such unselfishness merits a few minutes of kindness. "For your sake, my dear," I say, bowing over Jorunn's hand. "And for hers. I assure you I'll take no joy in it."

Jorunn smiles. "I've no worries on that account."

Fighting a feeling of revulsion, I approach the girl, bow, and offer my hand. "Might I have this dance?"

The girl--she barely reaches my shoulder--looks up at me. A white face appears from within the furry hood--a pointed chin, high cheekbones, a determined mouth, and defiant green eyes.

The woman faintly smiles, and my heart stops. In this palace of perfection, she seems so real. Not ice and gold and glamour, but sun and earth and, oh, a million ordinary, beautiful things I haven't thought about since I came to this place.

"Who are you?" I gasp, the words slipping out before I can think.

Her eyes go wide--confused and dismayed. She throws back her hood, revealing yellow hair. Not golden or raven or mahogany or any of the awe-inspiring shades that make the people of this realm so beautiful. Just yellow. But it is braided into a crown about her head that suits her better than any jewels.

Those green eyes meet mine. "You know me," she says.

I stare into those eyes, which seem to hold something I haven't known I've lost. If I know this girl, I can't remember her. My past before this palace is a murky haze--standing in such brightness makes everything else seem dim.

I shake away the threads of memory before I go mad from trying to grasp them. "Forgive me," I say, "but if we've met, I can't recall."

I signal to the musicians to start the music, and I sweep the fur-clad maiden into a waltz. She is silent as we dance, gazing up at my face as if trying to memorize me.

I say, trying to be kind, "That's a wondrous cloak you wear. I've never seen its like."

It's not a lie. It seems to be made of the skin of every beast there ever was. I see white fur, black fur, brown fur, some solid, some speckled, some striped, all stitched together in a haphazard pattern, as though someone was desperate to make use of every scrap.

The woman looks down. "It is all I had left to me, after..."

I kindly wait for her to speak.

"I've had a great loss," she finally says. "I have searched ever since to find you."

"If there is anything I can do for you," I say, "you need only ask. You have done a great service for my bride."

The girl stumbles.

I catch her and help her upright. "I am sorry. Did I trip you?"

"No," she gasps, grasping her side. As we slide into the dance again, she looks up into my face. "Do you truly not know me?"

"I wish I could say otherwise," I say, and I mean it with all my heart. There is something about this girl that makes the world seem larger than I realized. "Perhaps if you told me your name?"

She shakes her head. "I can't. Even if I could, what good would my name do if you've already forgotten my face?" She bows her head with a strangled noise, and I see tears streaming from her eyes. "I spent so many months imagining this moment. I hoped you'd be overjoyed to see me. I was afraid you'd hate me. But I never imagined...this. That I meant so little to you that you've already forgotten me."

"There is much I have forgotten," I say, before I can remember that none are supposed to know of my affliction. "This place, it...dazzles the mind. There are many things I wish I could recall about the world beyond this realm. If I knew you there, I am certain you were well worth remembering, and it pains me to say that I do not. But whatever we had before, I am glad to know you now."

She wipes her face against the fur on her sleeve. When she looks up at me, her eyes hold something like hope. "Do you think--"

The music slows to a stop, and before we can finish the step, Jorunn steps between me and the girl. She places one hand on the girl's chest and pushes her away. "You've had your dance," she says. "Now trouble us no more."

The girl steps away, but she takes a hesitant glance back at me.

I smile gently. "Thank you for the dance. I will remember your face next time."

Those words put a determination into her gaze that seems instantly to dry her tears. "I will see you again," she says and disappears into the crowd.

For the rest of the night, I dance with the queen of the realm at the top of the world, a peerless beauty with the radiance of the sun who lays a kingdom at my feet. But my thoughts are on a girl with green eyes, wearing a coat made of all kinds of fur.

At the next night's ball, Jorunn wears a sleek gown that gleams with the silver radiance of the moon. It makes her seem ethereal, a woman of wondrous mystery. But she is not the mystery I find myself pondering.

"You seem distracted tonight, Eirik," she says. "Have you taken your tonic?"

Upon my denial, she pours a dose into my punch glass. After one swallow, my racing thoughts begin to slow. What does that strange girl matter? I can be happy here, with this incomparable queen at my side.

A commotion begins on the other side of the ballroom, and the many-furred girl appears among the crowd. I take a hasty swallow of the tonic, but set down the punch glass while it's still half-full.

I look to Jorunn, whose eyes are narrowed toward the girl. "Another dance in exchange for tonight's dress?" I ask.

"Two," Jorunn says. "She drives a hard bargain."

I squeeze her hand. I know my duty with this marriage. She has no need to be jealous. "I will do what I must," I say. "We must keep our promises."

I smile as I approach the girl. She smiles in response, and it makes her more radiant than Jorunn's dress. Again, I am struck by how real she is, practical and solid in a world of wisps and dreams.

"You returned," I say, as I whisk her into a waltz.

"I said I would," she replies.

"I'm glad to know you keep your promises."

She winces, and tears spring to her eyes.

"Forgive me," I say. "I don't wish to cause pain."

"No," she says, shaking her head and wiping her tears into a furred sleeve. "It is no more than I deserve."

"You have broken promises?" It seems cruel to ask, but I think she might welcome the question. It could shed some light on the past that she wants me to remember.

"Only one," she says. "But it destroyed everything."

I remember what she said about her cloak last night. It was all that was left to me. I have suffered a great loss.

"We all break promises sometimes," I say, trying to soothe her.

"Not like mine," she insists. "I did the one thing I was asked not to do. I betrayed the man I loved, and now he is lost to me."

"And he is why you have sought me out? You think I can convince him to forgive you?"

She looks into my face for a long, long moment, step after step, turn after turn. "I don't think," she says at last, "that he knows there is anything to forgive. And that's the worst thing of all."

How can this man be lost to her if he doesn't know she betrayed him? Has she run from her failure, rather than face disgrace?

I know well the temptation to hide from dishonor. Don't I hide my own affliction? This girl has no kingdom to run, but she still has pride to protect.

"Tell him," I say.

Tears flow freely down her cheeks. "I can't."

"I can help you."

"You can't!" she says, dropping my hand. She buries her face in her sleeve. "I don't know why I came."

I place a hand on her shoulder, and fight the strangest urge to turn it into an embrace. "Forgive me," I say. "You come to me for help, and I only cause you pain."

She wipes her face and swallows down a sob. "It's not your fault," she says. "Here I am, wasting our dance by crying."

The song fades to a close. "I still owe you another." I find myself panicked at the thought she won't take it.

"You do," she says, with a wet little laugh. My heart leaps at the sound of it. "Will you give me a chance to compose myself?"

"Take all the time you need," I say, leading her to a seat by a towering window that looks out upon the vast snow plains and a gorgeous spectacle of northern lights. She sits in the soft wing-backed chair and looks out the window, while I stand behind her leaning over the headrest. Despite knowing Jorunn for months, I have yet to have a moment with her that feels this...comfortable.

In the blue-black night, ribbons of violet, blue and green dance and flicker across the sky. The girl snuggles into her robe and gazes upon them with wonder.

"Have you ever seen such lights?" I ask. No matter how many times I see them, they never lose their appeal.

"Many times," she says. "Perhaps not quite this beautiful. Though they are lovely when seen from outside." She lays her head contentedly on her arm rest, using her furs as a pillow.

Her phrasing surprises me. "Do you often travel at night?"

"Night after night after night," she says. "Day after day after day. I never stopped. I climbed mountains, crossed rivers, rode the backs of all four winds."

"To find me," I say. "To find the man you love."

She startled and sits up, looking me straight in the eye. "Yes," she breathes, quivering with excitement.

"I wish I knew how to help you," I say. "You must love him very much."

Her shoulders sink. She sighs. "More than you may ever know."

"I only pray my wife and I can know such love."

She examines me closely. "You mean the princess. Do you mean to say you don't love her?"

It seems improper to speak of such things, and yet I find myself able to tell this girl things I couldn't tell anyone else. Why should I speak less than the truth? "Ours is a political match," I say. "I find her beautiful. I respect her strength. I appreciate her care for me. Love can come with time."

"What would she need to do to make you love her? What would you want in a wife?"

Someone who can come into a ballroom clad in furs and not feel shame. Someone who knows how to laugh and cry. Someone who loves to watch the northern lights. Someone who travels night and day to apologize to a man she betrayed.

In the end, I choose the diplomatic answer. "I don't know that I can ask for more than what I already have."

The girl is quieter during our second dance, carefully content. Her tears are stored away and she will not risk letting them out again.

Now that I'm not distracted by the mystery of her identity, or my lack of memory, or her sorrow over her lost love, I am able to focus on the dance itself, and I find that she is a marvelous dancer. Not so supernaturally graceful as Jorunn, but surprisingly easy to dance with, especially considering that she is wrapped in furs. The woman follows at my every touch, stepping smoothly through turns, patiently waiting if I stumble. I don't stumble often. My limbs feel lighter tonight, my head clearer--strange, given that I've had only half a dose of tonic.

"How did you come to have such wondrous dresses," I ask, "when you have only furs to wear yourself?" The question that had been easy to dismiss last night now seems impossible to ignore.

"You meet lots of strange people when you travel the world," she says with a smile. "They were gifts from some of the most marvelous old women I've ever met. Of course, I've had no occasion to wear them."

"A royal ball is not reason enough?"

"Not if I can't get inside. I'd rather have the dance than the dress."

A dance with me, worth more than a gown of celestial wonders? All for the chance I could help her reconcile with her lost love?

"I am sorry to have been such a disappointment."

"You're not that," she insists. "It's been wonderful just to see you."

"Worth a trip around the world and two wondrous dresses?"

"Not quite," she admits with a smile. "But enough for now. There's still time."

The music slows and falls silent. I bow her out of the dance. "Not for us, I'm afraid. I can give you no more dances."

"Tomorrow, then," she says, smiling over her shoulder as she disappears into the crowd.

Something about her glance--the twist of her hair, the angle of her head--sparks what might be a memory in my mind. Those green eyes flashing. That mouth open in a laugh. White flakes flashing around her as she runs through the snow, while I follow her--strangely--on all fours.

I cannot explain the memory or remember her name. But I do know, whatever her name is, or whatever she was to me, that somewhere in the past, in some way, I have loved her.

The next evening, the last night before our wedding, Jorunn wears a deep blue dress that shimmers with the light of the stars themselves. It is breathtakingly beautiful, but coldly, distantly so--like the woman who wears it. She doesn't smile like the girl with the furs. She doesn't converse while we dance--we can't think of anything to speak of. I can think of no part of my heart I could share with her as I did with the girl last night. I wonder how I thought I could ever grow to love her.

Tonight, Jorunn's offer of the tonic seems, not considerate, but overbearing. Last night I had only half a dose, and I felt better than ever. After Jorunn pours a dose into my punch, I barely sip at it, and when her back is turned, I dump the rest into a potted plant. There will be no more dances after our wedding tomorrow. If I'm to help the girl find her lost love, I want my mind to be as clear as possible.

The glance Jorunn gives the strange girl as she enters the dining room is cold enough to freeze. The girl doesn't seem to feel it through her furs. When Jorunn hands me off, her behavior toward the girl is sullen and hostile.

The girl smiles and curtsies. "The dress is stunning on you, majesty."

"It ought to be, for what it cost me." Jorunn starts to stride away, but then turns around and levels a fierce finger toward the girl. "Not a moment past the stroke of midnight."

The girl bows her head. "I know the bargain."

"Until midnight?" I ask, as I lead the girl into a dance.

The girl smiles. "For tonight, at least, I have you all to myself."

We dance a few dances, while the girl asks me on occasion if I remember anything about my life before. I have flashes of images that might be memories, but nothing that will help the girl in her search. After a while, the girl grows warm in her furs, and we leave the ballroom for the cold quiet of the balcony.

Together, we gaze at the stars and across the vast plains of snow. I remember seeing her like this, on a sunlit balcony in a faraway palace. I wanted to kiss her then, but I couldn't. Probably because she loved another. Just as I am promised to another now.

"Please," I ask in a low whisper. "Can't you tell me your name?"

She shakes her head with tears in her eyes. "Please stop asking. If you don't know it on your own, I can't tell you."

"Why not?"

"It is part of the bargain."

Does Jorunn know who this girl is? "The queen isn't here."

The girl squeezes her eyes shut against some memory. "I have seen the consequences of breaking promises to her. I will not risk it again."

It destroyed everything.

"Your lost love?" I ask.

She nods.

How could that great queen separate this woman from the man she so faithfully loves? What role could Jorunn possibly have in this spat between lovers?

We start down a staircase that leads to a stone path through the snow around the palace. The light from the ballroom windows pours out over us, shining on the girl's furs. The cloak I wear is mostly decorative, and I find myself wishing for furs of my own.

I wore a coat of white fur, thicker than thick.

The flash of memory has no bearing on the mystery I'm trying to solve.

I ask the girl, "If Jorunn knows of your lost love, why do you come to me for help? Why do you not ask her?"

"Allowing me to speak to you is all the help she is willing to give."

I do not begin to understand the complicated politics of this realm. When I am king, I will have to learn, but I will rely on Jorunn for a long while.

"After our wedding, perhaps, I can ask her to help..."

"After the wedding, it will be too late!" She storms down the path. "You'll be married to a woman you don't love! She'll have trapped you forever!"

I try to soothe her. "She won't be able to stop me from speaking to you."

She throws her hands in the air. "You don't understand! You'll never understand!" She is sobbing now. "It was hopeless from the beginning! You can't see the truth about her, or me, and I've no way to tell you! I've doomed us all! I don't deserve redemption, or mercy, or even compassion! I'm the faithless wife who threw away love!"

As she speaks the last words, something flies off her hand, flashing golden as it spirals into the snow. The girl flees down the path, silently sobbing.

I dive for the divot in the snow where the item fell. I pull out a small golden ring set with amethysts and emeralds and ice blue diamonds--the northern lights captured in stone. The ring glitters on my palm, round and flawless. I remember its every facet.

By the One who made the sky and stone, I pledge my heart and soul to you.

Clutching the ring, I race after her and call out, "Karina!"

I stood outside a cottage, trapped in the form of a white bear. The girl with a crown of yellow hair faced me fearlessly and agreed to be my bride, sliding the golden ring upon her left hand.

Short sunlit days on a beautiful tundra. She would ride on my back for hours, laughing for sheer joy as we raced across the snowy fields.

For nearly a year, she shared my bed. I was man by night and bear by day. She was forbidden to see my face and did not mind.

A year and a day, and the curse would be broken. Eleven months after our wedding, I woke to hot wax dripping on my shirt, from a candle she held over my face.

The palace dissolved into dust, and the troll queen arrived to claim her lawful prize. My wife screamed my name as I disappeared into a whirlwind of magic and snow.

In the shadows and snowbanks far from the palace, I grip Karina's shoulders and gaze deep into her familiar, beloved face. "Karina," I breathe. "I remember."

"Everything?" she asks, as tears stream down her face.

"Everything," I say, and kiss her senseless.

Karina and I sit huddled together beneath her coat of furs. I have told her of my months of imprisonment, of the magical tonic the troll queen forced upon me until I thought myself a willing captive. Karina has told me of the harrowing journey she has taken--the three dresses she received from three magical women, the way she rode the backs of all four winds to find me. If there was ever anything to forgive her for, the devotion she has shown in finding me more than absolves her.

I kiss her again as she finishes her tale, finding joy in finding her so real, in knowing my own mind and knowing her.

My own.

My beloved.

My wife.

It is like falling in love all over again.

"I'm so sorry," Karina says again. "I should never have listened to mother. If I hadn't burned that hateful candle--"

I silence her with another kiss. "If you hadn't betrayed me, I wouldn't have this moment. Meeting my wife all over again." I press her to my heart. "I could have no greater joy."

"But you're getting married tomorrow," Karina says. "By the terms of the curse, you must wed Jorunn."

"Trust me," I say, "and all will be well. So long as you will let me borrow your wedding ring."

In the bright light of midday, the ballroom has become a wedding chapel, filled nearly to bursting with lords and ladies and lesser subjects. I now know them for what they are--trolls whose perfect human appearances are nothing but glamours over huge, thick, ugly faces. My would-be wife is ugliest of all, her cruelty coming out upon her in black boils upon her snow-white face and long, pointed nose. The glamour hides her face for now, but it cannot hide the malicious triumph as she gazes upon me--her pet and prize. Her wedding to me will give her dominion over a human realm, and allow her kind to wreak havoc across the world of ordinary men.

She wears the golden sunlight gown, but in daylight, it seems dim and colorless. Even her flawless glamoured face is ugly when I compare her to my ordinary, beloved Karina. My wife is somewhere in the crowd, I know. She has promised to be here, and I trust her to keep her promises.

I do my best to play the magic-addled prince as the highest-ranking of the lords reads aloud their marriage ceremony--endless lists of the glories this alliance will bring to our two realms.

At last, the high lord cries out, merely for form's sake, "Is there any impediment to the marriage between this man and woman?"

"Only one," I shout, stepping away from Jorunn.

Jorunn's expression is black. I can almost see the troll's face beneath the glamour. "Eirik, what is this?"

"Under the laws of troll-kind," I tell the crowd, "Queen Jorunn can wed me if she keeps me here for a year and a day. But there is another law--as would-be husband to the queen, I have a right to set a standard for my bride. If she fails to meet it, all bond between us comes to an end." I stride across the dais to stare into Jorunn's black eyes. "All bonds," I say. "Matrimonial, moral, and magical. Isn't that right?"

Jorunn seems a heartbeat away from tearing out and eating my eyeballs, so I turn to the lord performing the marriage rite. "Isn't that right?"

The troll lord blinks at me. His human form looks like a jittery old man. "That is... technically correct," he says. "But I don't believe this is the right time."

"There is no better time!" I say. "The very last moment when I can see if she is worthy to be my bride."

Jorunn is proud, regal, icy. She steps toward me. "What is your challenge?" she demands. "Make it anything, and I will meet it."

No doubt she thinks she can. I have seen what her magic can do. If I set an enormous challenge--moving a mountain, emptying a sea--she will accomplish it easily. Fortunately, the challenge I plan is impossibly small.

"In the human realm," I say, "we marry under another law--older and more sacred. This marriage rite is bound by the words of a man and woman, and symbolized in the exchange of a pair of rings." I brandish the Karina's ring and hold it high. "By that law, my lawful wife is the one who fits this ring, and I can wed no other."

I search the room for Karina, but I can see her nowhere in the teeming, agitated crowd.

Jorunn stride toward me and snatches the ring from my hand. "Is that all?" she sneers. "Any woman can do that."

Her glamour has fooled even herself. She has forgotten that her hands only appear slender. Trolls can change the forms of others--into a white bear, for instance--even addle the minds of others into believing in changes that aren't real, but their own bodies are impervious to magic. Any alterations to themselves are mere glamours. Beneath her glamoured image, Jorunn's hands are as thick and blocky as any troll's.

Jorunn is unable to slip the ring onto so much as a fingertip.

In rage, she throws the ring onto the floor. It bounces down the stairs and lays flat at their base. "A trick!" she cries. "He has set an unfair challenge! Find me a woman who can fit that ring, or else the challenge is void!"

In the snowy plains outside, I hear the wind building in strength--a whistle, a howl, and at last a roar that bursts open the wide doors of the ballroom. The wind blows the crowd of trolls toward the walls and down to the floor, leaving an open path down which a tiny, yellow-haired girl, clad in a cloak made of every kind of fur, strides fearlessly toward the dais.

I climb down the stairs, pick up the ring, and go down on one knee to offer it to Karina. This time, I can do it with human hands.

"My lady," I say, gazing up into her smiling eyes. "Will you take this ring?"

I slide it upon the fourth finger of her left hand. It fits perfectly.

I kiss her in triumph as Jorunn roars with rage.

Her roar is soon drowned out by the roar of a wind that surrounds me and Karina, lifts us into the air, and carries out the ballroom doors. Soon, we are soaring over snow-covered plains, and before I can fully understand that I am free, the pointed towers of the troll's icy palace have disappeared from sight.

Karina lays on her stomach, the pale blue currents of wind keeping her aloft. She helps me to do the same. While I marvel at this miraculous wind, she is perfectly at ease, and I realize she has done this. My ordinary, unmagical, entirely human wife has saved me.

"Eirik," Karina says, "I would like to introduce you to an old friend of mine."

The North Wind takes us far beyond the tundra where I lived with Karina as a white bear, beyond even the cottage where she lived with her parents, and to a castle in a rocky mountain range that I remember from my boyhood. As the wind sets us upright on the ground before the main doors, I laugh for joy.

"Am I...?" I ask, barely able to believe that I'm standing in this place, where I can recognize every rock and flower that emerges from the melting snow of the springtime ground.

The North Wind now looks like a man--huge and old, with an impossibly large beard. "Prince Eirik," he says, "I have brought you and your bride to the lands of your family."

The full understanding of my freedom comes upon me. Not only am reunited with my bride, not only am I free of enchantment, but I am home, able to move about in the ordinary world like any ordinary man. After so many years of magic, I can think of nothing more wondrous.

I sweep Karina up in my arms and point her gaze toward the door. "Come, my love," I say. "I've waited a very long time to take you home."

#the bookshelf progresses #fairy tale retellings #east of the sun west of the moon #i wanted very desperately to write another fairy tale retelling for new year's eve and i barely made it #forgive the inevitable horrendous mistakes for i've no time to edit #for those who've been following along this is *not* the version of east of the sun west of the moon #that would live up to my idea of the traditional fairy tale #that's an entirely different story #this is a mashup i came up with yesterday and wrote in a frenzy today #and i came up with a title in like ten seconds so please forgive the cringe

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