annoyinglovetyrant

[annoyinglovetyrant]

hey so since i’m in the season of ovulation here is degrading simon riley feeding my size kink. i’m not ok send regrets. 18+

“beggin little whore f’me. not so smart now that i’ve got your brain leakin outta your cunt.”

——-

yeah. you’ve pushed it. simple as that.

and god, you knew better. you really did. but some might say you’re a sucker for punishment. others might say you’re a masochist.

you think it’s probably a bit of both, when it comes to simon.

maybe it’s because he’s a big mean brute. emotionless. big ol wall of mass and muscle. tough bloke like him don’t feel a thing, yeah? at least in your mind. makes it easy to needle - easy to poke and prod and toss little jabs about his eyes or mask or whatever slivered sign of life he might be displaying that day.

he’s contractually obligated not to kill you, might you add. that brings a level of safety you got comfortable with.

but what you didn’t get comfortable with — what you couldn’t possibly ever get comfortable with, is the size of him in your fucking guts. the growl of him in your ear. the clutch of him around your throat.

even big dead-eyed men like simon have a limit. and by the grace of god, you’d found it. the bottom of this particular mine shaft, if you will—

“y’alright down there?” his voice is slick. fuckin slick with glee. a first for him, you’re sure. “still with me, sweet’eart?”

you can practically feel the smirk barring those teeth to your neck. you try to toss something smart assed back, something to keep it goin, but he’s got your wrists pinned behind your back and his cock stretchin your walls in a way that screams he shouldn’t even be able to fit — yet you’re clenching around him like you’d die without it.

all that comes outta you is a moan.

and he laughs. bastard. fuckin filthy rasp right against your ear. “tha’s what i thought. mm. s’what i fucken wanted.”

your eyes roll. he’s so deep your hips hurt. he presses a palm between your shoulder blades to pin you harder to the floor of his barracks. all that pent up aggressions got you leakin down your thighs. pathetic. humiliating. delicious.

“tha’s it. fucken stunned now, yeah?” he thrusts deeper. free hand smacking your ass til it stings. “always mouthin off. startin shit—fuck—y’knew what this was. you’ve always known what’d it take t’shut you up.”

you hiccup when he hits your gspot. over and over. so goddamn good it hurts. “fuck—fuck you—“

“yeah. y’are.” his hips jerk, hissing against the back of your neck. “feelin every inch of me, aren’t you? go on. fuckin tell me how i feel. wanna hear y’say it.”

you bite your tongue. squeeze your eyes shut. he fucks deeper. harder.

“say it.” another smack to your ass.

“big—“ you gasp, choking on it. “fucking—huge—“

he growls like you’ve fed him. “tha’s right. eight inches buried so deep in your tight little cunt y’forgot how to lie.”

youve never heard him talk like this and all you can do is whimper - the airs gone thin. every inhale is like sandpaper scratching at your throat. every thrust is like being punched open. and when every sound you make comes out as something pathetic you know you’ve lost.

you twist your head to try and adjust for reprieve but he fists your hair to still you. “y’wanna tell me again you can’t take it? huh? wanna tell me m’too big?”

he is. he totally is. but it’s delicious pain. makes your eyes water and your walls flutter. something about you can’t help but egg him on.

“s-shut up—“

he slams forward. breath cuts sharp against your neck. “wrong answer.”

you jolt. cry out. the heat is a wildfire across your skin. “s-si-mon—“

“try again.” he breathes, curling his fingers from your hair to your jaw. “or i’ll just keep pushin till y’feel it in your fuckin spine.”

he makes good on the promise with a bruising thrust. you wail with it. vision blurring blue. “fuck! fuck i wanted this—but you’re so—you’re too—fuck please—“

and it’s that last little word. the syllables that slip past your teeth presenting pleas on a silver platter, that make him moan. fucking moan.

“oh yeah. shit. now we’re gettin somewhere.” he exhales with it, shifting just to drag at your walls and angle deeper. “beggin little whore f’me. not so smart now that i’ve got your brain leakin outta your cunt.”

you long to tell him to shut up, fuck off, goto hell — any other circumstances you might have. but the first fuck with simon riley after months of pushing and prodding ain’t one to be won. you’ll be lucky to walk tomorrow. the monster can only be poked so many times before it wakes with vengeance.

[annoyinglovetyrant]

The day was unremarkable, mindless chores that had been falling behind occupying your hands, your mind blank with the image of suds and plates, cutlery taking up too much time, splashes of water accumulating on the belly of your shirt. The day was like any other, yet your mind comes to a realization you didn’t even know you were pondering on. 

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley will never come for you.

It was a game of cat and mouse, a ‘will they or won’t they’ dynamic forming between you and the elusive soldier. Always catching his eyes on you, his hand somehow making its way to the small of your back, his eyes growing almost unnoticeably softer with each smart remark you shot at him, none of it mattered. He will never pursue you, never confess the feelings you know are there. 

You don’t know what made the realization click, your mind subconsciously working the pieces together without your knowledge, but you can feel your heart fall, a unique pain, a pain of something that could have been, but never will. 

For the sole reason that cannot allow himself to. 

You are younger than him, maybe too much so, and the nativity of your dreams has clouded your judgement, hiding the reality that your love could never be. 

War.

Rainfall of blood and bullets, a pain he does not deserve but fights against anyway, that is all he knows, and maybe that’s all he wants to know. Perhaps he’s come to terms with this, or maybe he hasn’t, the inner workings of his mind a mystery even to him.

What’s more likely than anything, is that in the man of Simon Riley, there just isn’t enough room for you.

[annoyinglovetyrant]

TW: non-con, NSFW

an: this isn't my favorite work, but I've been wanting to write this character forever, if any of y'all like it and want me to go more in-depth please lmk.

Ninja!yandere who’s the epitome of chivalry and masculinity, who saves the damsel without thought of reward. 

The type of hero that women cling to, the type that men silently disdain for his strength and character. 

A ninja!yandere that loved another, until you. 

His obsession grew quietly, his vow of silence prohibiting him from singing his love. Instead, he’s a silent protector, a second shadow you don’t always know is there. He knows your feelings for him, a noticeable uptick in your heart rate when he’s near, an unspoken welcoming to his affinity. 

You do not know his affections, nor will he allow you to see them. He does not deserve your touch, your love, his disfigured face shrouded behind the mask a warning of the man hidden deep underneath. 

Each orgasm pulled from you in deep sleep are from him, a living incubus as he steals your pleasure night after night. Too quick, too silent for him to be caught, too skilled for you to ever wake while he’s near. A part of him wishes you would, to see the look of horror slowly morph into understanding, daydreaming about how quickly you’d fall to your knees for him. 

His erection is tight against the black cargo pants, his gloved hand pulling himself out to start in his own pleasure. His heart sinks once again, the same feeling every night. Shame. Disgust. Too trapped in your essence to stop. His sighs are quiet, almost indiscernible to anyone other than him, his hand wrapped around his cock squeezes tightly around his base, his knees jerking ever so slightly as a jolt of pleasure shoots through his groin at the sight of your parted lips, your unconscious self writhing from his fingers curled in you. 

He pumps himself harder, imagining your soft hands touching him instead, his fingers shoving inside you with an almost angry thrust. His head falls back, the Adam's apple in his throat bobbing as he forces himself to stay quiet. Knees jolting, he removes his fingers from your cunt slowly, standing as he continues to pleasure himself. Resting a hand on the headboard, he stares, hunched over at your sleeping form, the soft sounds of fabric rubbing on flesh the only noise in the room. 

His breathing turns to grunts, his hips bucking as he nears. Using his free hand, he covers his tip, his jerking motions turning sloppy, and with a grunt louder than intended, he cums forcefully in his hand. Hips jerking forward and back, he throws his head back once again, moving through the pleasure, he squats un-gracefully, shoving two of his fingers back in you with less grace than before, the warm, wet feel of your walls causing another round to shoot through him, panting as he forces his whimpers inside, more of his orgasm leaking onto his hand.

He sits motionless for a minute or two, gauging if you’ll wake, soothing the shame building high within him. Despite that, he climbs on the bed gracefully, barely a dip in the mattress as he does, and uses his sullied hand to curl his fingers in you once again, his mind trying to block out the assault he's inflicting. Using his fingers, he worms the cum inside you, effectively marking you as his without you ever knowing. The sound is wet, suctioning his digits as he moves around inside you. Feeling sick with himself, he stands once again, staring down at you, your beauty and innocence in the moment making his actions all the more abysmal, yet thrilling.

He leaves quietly, nothing out of place to prove he was there. In the cold of the night, he stares down at his hands, wanting to cut them off in justice for what he did, for what he will continue to do. Regardless, he knows he will be back tomorrow, when the sky matches the color of him.

[annoyinglovetyrant]

Whispers of love long forgotten echo, the weight of subjugation carries within me wherever I go. Many nights I spend crying out to you, praying for the time you hear me. Gone are the days we spent lying in bliss, your warmth holding my sanity in its grasp, a fickle flame left alight by your luster. A hollowing bitterness is left in its wake. A being whose sole purpose was to take, and precisely that is what did. 

You took from me, ripped my flesh from my bones, drank from the river of pain devoted to you. My blood is yours, and yours mine. Two beings with anguish embedded in our souls, forever marked by the actions of one. A soul tie made, whether deserved or not, linking one with the other in the infinite swirl of reality and choices. Hatred and love connected, one refusing to exist without the other. My existence, a reminder of the duality of awareness. Light swirling in an endless void, vacuumed by greed and hopelessness. A dance between high and low, a push and pull of right and wrong, sweet lies told by ushers of morality proclaiming the strength of love. You were one of them, naive of me to believe honey covered words. Now, you show the kindness you could never convey. A sickening display of the polarity of spirit. Would I be considered immoral to not consider such change? Since that dreaded night, I search for a home that no longer exists, a refuge only felt by your hand. Would you bless me with such safety? A salvation in this never ending agony. When horrors claw their way out of your subconscious, will I be the one you sought for? An entwinement of being should not be so easily slipped away. A collection of the heavens and the stars beyond did not rid us of each other. Neither space and time can stop a call of the heart; a replacement of worlds can not hinder my hands from gripping yours once again. Here and now, your soul exists before mine again. A testament of light in that endless void.

[annoyinglovetyrant]

Demon x Tribe leader!reader

(Remake)

Chains clink in the dark cavern, soft breathing amplified by the winding halls of the cave. The demon rests on his knees, his arms aloft by the bindings that have encircled his wrists for millennia. Dried blood splatter the ground below him, reaching up the walls and to the ceiling like perverted sun-rays. History has forgotten how long he has been here, or how he began here in the first place, now only a biblical fallacy belonging to the Garden of Eden. Perhaps he is its guard. His torture being the key that allows humanity to enter back home. Man has found him many times before, each time adding to the sullied floor, each one failing in their belief to be the one to murder Sin itself. 

With each triumphant slice and bash of their weapons, his disdain grows. Leaving nothing in his hollow heart but hatred, a maddening need to survive, to one day escape and inflict the torment so joyfully administered onto him. Many times he’s tried to leave, chewing and ripping off his arms like a cornered animal, only for him to heal before he’s able to snap the bone clean. Each attempt at freedom only carves deeper the sadism in his heart. He dreams of blood not of his own, a deep meditative-like state he resides in to prevent him from falling deeper within himself, the madness lingering close behind his mind, now an old friend. 

A sudden creak of the ornate doors pulls him back, the images of gore subsiding. The doors scrape against the dust ridden stone floor that lead to the pedestal he kneels on, an offering to those brave enough to seek the ancient halls, brave enough to try and find the holy land. He pries one eye open with no other movement; each time the door opens, a signal for what's to come. Two large, burly men push the heavy entrance open, their muscles straining against the heavy gateway. One of them grabs a torch from behind, him lighting it with a faint ‘woosh’. Holding out the item, the man's eyes land on the beast settled in the middle of the room, the other quickly following his friends’ gaze. They say nothing, but the demon can sense their tension, an unspoken conversation happening as they look at each other.  To the demons’ surprise, neither one step any closer, nor pull out a glittering blade to dull its shine with his blood. Instead, the one holding the torch turns his head and calls out, his voice deep and firm, but a clear hint of hesitation, “Chief, you’re gonna wanna see this.”

Slowly opening his other eye, the demon can make out the silhouette of another, this one much smaller than the other two. A female. His brows furrowed imperceptibly, not once in his captivity has a woman been here, the males deeming them too frail to partake in their so-called godly mission. For the first time in centuries, a slight hint of curiosity prickles in him. He’s always had an affinity for human women, their sight and grace taking his interest more than he enjoys. Despite that, the gender means nothing for when they prolong his torture, him having no bias on those who have wronged him. 

The bout of time between visits was much larger this time, his skin starting to turn to marble from the sheer duration and dust accumulating.  Sounds of cracking emit from where he kneels as he lifts his head ever so slightly, small pebbles of rock falling from his neck, his gaze flickering from each of the three. The woman steps forward, her footsteps light as the dust moves around her feet. A sound, a mix of a growl and a guttural scream emit from his throat, a threat to not step any closer to him, though none ever listens. The woman pauses, her face emotionless but he can see her mind working, a thousand scenarios running in her head. He growls deeper as she reached behind her -presumably grabbing a weapon- though his eyes are dead, his fight taken from him long ago, even as much as a fire still lives in his soul. 

A soft jingle echoes in the dark chamber, only barely illuminated by the torch in the hand of one of the men behind her. Shadows dance behind him, and he can only barely make out the features of the one in front of him. The one thing he is able to make out, is a rustic set of keys held tightly in her palm. The keys are unfamiliar to him, but he knows their purpose. The woman takes a small step forward, reaching out slowly, his perception slowing the interaction even more so as his mind races on her motives. A soft click brings him closer to reality, and he is unable to comprehend the chain falling from his wrist, the other one following suit. 

For the first time in over a millennia, he starts to lower his arms, dust and rock falling from his skin as he does. His eyes convey his disbelief, the dull red of them having a small glint as he begins to hope for this to be reality. He twitches his fingers, curling them into fists, clenching and un-clenching to bring life back to them. Slowly, he moves his eyes to look at his savior, her smells and features more prevalent as she stands closer. With a speed he shouldn't have from being in captivity for so long, he lunges at her, his clawed hand wrapping around her small neck, droplets of blood oozing from where his claws dig into flesh, hunching over her like a starved predator. 

The two men are quick to act, their hands pulling out their weapons with a speed to match his. He sees her hold out a hand, effectively stopping them in their place. 

“Chief, don’t get sentimental! It’s dangerous, look-”

“Enough.”

Her tone is final despite the hand around her throat, an air of authority masking her small frame. He stares down at her, his mind racing with an instinct to protect himself, but also at the incomprehension he feels at being set free. Notwithstanding his actions, she stopped her men from protecting her, too. The adrenaline he felt when his chains fell, quickly dissipates as he’s curled over her, replaced with an unfathomable hunger, a deep, unbearable ache in each muscle fiber, his grip on her neck loosening with each second that passes. His knees shake, and his eyes tremble, a feeling of fear erupting in him for the first time in countless years. Although the chains kept him captive, sometime over the centuries, they became his safety, too. 

Something within him seems to break, and he lets the woman go, his body slowly slinking to the floor. In an effort to protect itself, his mind takes over, pulling him back into the familiar images that have comforted him for so long. The woman stands, rubbing her throat, she flicks her head in the demon's direction, signaling the two men to grab him, to take him back to their home. The men give each other another look, again, a silent conversation in their eye contact, however, they do as they are told. Muscles rippling under their clothes, both grunt from the weight of the beast, a tremendous effort in dragging him away. 

``

Eyes straining against the unfamiliar light filtering through tattered sheets, the demon wakes. Under him lay soft furs, a buffalo skin lays on top, the comfort of such materials almost painful. A soft pop comes from his neck as he turns his head, eyes finally landing on his savior once again. Sitting on a wooden chair, her beauty strikes him, and he can't help the anger that rises at feeling a non-negative emotion towards the primitive creature. He sits up slowly, his eyes never leaving hers, his face contorting into a terrifying scowl. Though, he’s certain you know as well as him he has no real fight, any attempt to flee or kill will be quickly shut down. So, instead, he watches, watches you. 

“You got a name?”

Her voice is soft, almost a melody compared to the sounds he’s used to, and his fingers twitch in an effort to silence her. 

“Kal,” he says curtly, his voice inhumanly deep. He knows nothing else, his name the only mantra he kept to remind himself of who he is. The only word to keep him sane. The woman nods, a soft smile spreading to her face. Kal grimaces, the sight almost disgusting from the beauty. As he sits there, Kal decides he does not like her, her face too perfect, her skin and voice too soft, her smell sickeningly sweet. ‘Disgusting’, he thinks to himself. If given the chance, he thinks he’ll take that beauty from you, to strip your humanity until only a hollow shell is left. 

Kal smells the two that dragged him here standing close outside the hut, their senses on high alert to help their leader if the time arises. The knowledge of being set free by the human woman doesn’t go forgotten by him, and he feels a hatred for her kindness, a war of emotions deep inside. He cannot allow himself to feel gratitude, to be thankful in any way, for she will surely take that from him, as they all have before her. He knows human affinities, he knows what a human could want from him other than suffering, and he’ll use his own hand to end his life before willingly doing anything for such beings. 

“What is it that you want? You did not save me from my captivity because you have a godly heart. Is it children? Are you wanting to be bred?” 

He sees the look of shock on her, maybe even a hint of embarrassment, and he tilts his head as he watches the red creep up her cheeks.

“What? No. No, I don't want that..” She says softly, “I want your help. I help you, you help me.”

Kal’s brows furrow, a look of distrust on his face, “Why would I do that?” he asks, his apprehension palpable. 

“Because, I'll make sure you have a safe place to stay, plenty of food. Freedom.”

The mention of the word ‘freedom’ causes his ears to prick, and the Chief knows she’s grasped his attention, “There is a war coming, one I can't win alone. My people are strong, but that is all they are. People. If you help me, I will reward you greatly.” Despite not wanting to be, Kal is interested, his hope of vengeance seemingly coming from this unassuming female. He studies her intently, and he can’t decipher any deception in her voice. Forcing a hint of gratitude down in his chest, he nods reluctantly, not knowing any other life beyond war. Within himself, and against those too weak to rule themselves. 

“Very well. You help me, I help you.”

[annoyinglovetyrant]

Loser Stalker Yandere

(He’s a fucking loser but he’s hot and down bad. And a total virgin.)

You didn’t expect to fuck him.

He’s a little too quiet. A little too intense. The guy who watches you like you invented the color red. Always hovering at the edges of rooms, starving. Your voice makes him flinch. Your body makes him twitch.

You noticed it—how he always seemed to know your schedule before you did. How he’d bump into you too often.

You weren’t supposed to say yes.

But tonight? You were bored.

Curious. Cruel.

You whispered: “Fine. Let’s see if you’re as desperate as you look.”

And now?

You’re between his legs. Back against his chest. Your thighs spread. His hands all over you. His breath is already ragged. You haven’t even touched him.

He’s got one hand sliding between your thighs, the other palming your breast like he doesn’t know whether to squeeze or sob. You feel the tremble in his fingers—the awe, the disbelief.

His thumb finds your clit and he gasps. You’re soaked. For him.

“Oh my god,” he whispers into your neck. “You’re really letting me—fuck—you’re actually—” He cuts off with a choked moan, his lips dragging over your skin, his teeth scraping your shoulder like he wants to bite, but doesn’t dare.

He rubs you with shaky, frantic circles. Clumsy, but desperate. Desperate to please you. To make you cum. To make it count.

“You’re so soft—so warm—so wet, holy fuck-I’ve thought about this every night since I first saw you. I know your scent. I fucking know the way your heels sound in the hallway—”

You arch your back, lips parting. He moans—like you’re hurting him just by existing.

“You let me touch you… You don’t know what that does to me, Bunny. I’d kill someone if they even looked at this pussy now. You understand that?”

He’s rubbing harder now, his breath catching every time your hips twitch. His other hand slides down to your stomach, pressing you back into his lap so you feel how hard he is.

“You can’t leave after this. I’ll lose my fucking mind.”

You cum hard.

Harder than you meant to. Harder than you should, considering the freak behind you.

Your head falls back on his shoulder.

Your whole body tenses—legs shaking, clit throbbing against his fingers as you grind against his palm. You cry out. And he moans with you. Louder. Needier. Like your orgasm is his.

“Yes. Yes—fuck—thank you. Thank you for letting me. Thank you—thank you—thank you—*”

He’s crying. Literally. Holding you like you’re a fever dream and the second he lets go, you’ll disappear.

“I can die now,” he whispers.

“Or I can kill for you. Just say the word.”

[annoyinglovetyrant]

Insane!Knight x Dead!Reader

TW: descriptions of violence and death, grave-robbing, implied necrophilia (not from the Main Guy) homicidal and suicidal ideations

The sound of sharpened metal slashing through flesh fills his ears, the echoing cries of the dead, the clomping of horses’ hooves as they run across stone roads. He can taste the iron in the air, the warmth of the blood seeping through his armor. The man before him lay motionless, eyes open and aghast, a permanent picture of the horrors he faced before succumbing to them.  The knight stares at him a moment; the man wore peasant clothes, dirty and tattered from the years of use, his hands calloused and muddy from his work on the land, a young man no more than twenty-five. The knight turns away, the man he had just killed not leaving a second thought in his mind. 

The town is dead, few managed to run before the ensuing slaughter, some others hide and pray, eventually being the lucky few who manage to survive as the others are hacked and sliced apart in a rainfall of gore. As the dust settles and the fires rage, the men take their trophies. Some being the ears or tongues of rival men, others the stiffening bodies of the dead. The leader takes nothing, only watching the carnage and the joy elicited from it.  

The cavalry mount their steeds, no remorse in the onslaught of them after committing their heinous crimes, they talk and laugh among themselves, parading their trophies with pride. The leader, a knight in armor stained almost black with blood, a large and foreboding presence, almost spits in disgust. He watches the creatures, the men, under his command, waiting for the day he allows himself to murder them all. All of them, including him, will fall by his hand. The god of justice will use him as a vessel to end the tyranny he is a part of. 

The men pass through the forest, through a small lake, a moose looking up from the water to eye them as they go, and through the small village that leads to the castle, to their King. The towns-people parade around the knights, men shouting their praises while women throw roses, children running along the road to try and keep up with the large war horses. The dark knight ignores it all, solely focused on getting back, on seeing you. The princess. His princess. As they ride up the winding path, they are greeted by the guards and nobles who stay there, allowing their entrance into the land; a few women look on with disgust, others with respect and awe.

The kings’ praises are a blur, the banquet dinner, the drinking, the rowdy men who fight as much as they speak, all of it leaving no real impact. Nothing matters, nothing is real until he gets to you. Wrapped in the finest shawls and silks, you lie there waiting. Oils and herbs coat your skin, a black veil resting over your porcelain face, a dress made of silver and cotton adorn you. You lay in your casket, stiff and cold, the life that sparkled your eyes long gone. The knight kneels before you, his armored hand coming to grasp at yours.

“I missed you, my love.” 

His other hand moves to the veil, lifting it to see your now hollowing cheeks, your sunken eyes, your pale skin and cracked lips. No one knows you’re here, just hours after your service and burial, once the overbearing light of the Sun had gone, he came to get you. He knew you wouldn’t like being buried alone.

Even under the armor he can feel your skin is hard and cold, a mockery to the warmth you would bring him. Your love was forbidden, a disgrace to your family name, but that would never stop him from devoting his life to yours. Even now, in death, his love will not falter. You had made him promise you that he would never leave, that he would love you forever, no matter what happens, and he’s not anything if not a man of his word. 

He stares at you for a long time, the pain in his heart unbearable, if not for the belief you had for him to bring this world to something greater, he’d soon join you. Alas, his work here is not finished, he will have to wait a little longer to see you. He will leave this Earth as something you would be proud of. “I forgot your flowers. How careless of me.” His voice is monotone, no feelings erupting from it or his features, him just as dead as you, the only difference being his heart still beating. He stands quietly, making his way out of the abandoned dungeon that's been sealed off from the rest of the castle, to your spot in the garden. You loved it here, it’s where you two kissed for the first time, the moonbeams shining down on you two like a divine blessing from the gods. 

He eyes the flowers before him meticulously, only the most beautiful being worthy to die along with you, before he spots one. The color so vibrant and beautiful, it makes all the others look dull. He squats down to pick it before a soft voice calls to him, 

“Don’t.”

Of course, how careless of him, you don’t want such a beautiful thing to die. He smiles softly, the soft glow of the moon reflecting off his helmet and armor. An overwhelming relief washes over him; he relishes when you’re here, when you speak to him. He hadn’t heard from you since he had left two days ago, only a full day after he came back to get you, and he started to worry you wouldn’t come back, that you were angry with him for leaving. Though, he knew better than to doubt you. He may not be able to feel your warmth with his hands anymore, but he feels it in his heart. He knew you’d never leave him, even the night you were taken from him, you still came back, whispering sweet nothings in his ear as he lay in bed, a ghost-like trace of your hand running along his muscles as sleep eventually overtook him, granted only by your presence. 

“I can’t see you. Please, let me see you.” He calls into the night softly, a desperate yearning clawing its way out. He swivels from one direction to the next, praying to catch even the smallest glimpse. He hears nothing, sees nothing. You left again, just as quick as you came, and he can’t feel your presence anymore. If possible, the grief grows, the pain so excruciating he can do nothing but let out a small, quick breath, as though if he were to breathe, his whole body would shatter like glass. He clutches his chest softly, physically feeling his heart tear apart. Eventually, he gains the strength for his eyes to shift to the garden again, before bending down and quickly snatching the next best flower he could find. 

His knees feel weak as he descends into the dungeon once again, seeing your lifeless form resting in a cacophony of jewels and dying white lilies. He replaces the flower he had left in your hands that rests on your abdomen, a fresh one taking its place. You look so peaceful, if it isn’t wasn't for the early signs of decay, he could’ve convinced himself you were just sleeping. 

He removes his helmet and armor, the soft clinking of the metal the only sound in the room: he does not know his age, who his parents are, or where he came from. He knows he is a man no younger than late twenties, with raven colored hair and eyes as bright blue as a cloud-less sky. At least, that’s how you used to describe them. A large scar runs diagonally across his face, causing him to have a slight cleft lip, a feature he hated but you adored. He lies down beside you, no clothes or blankets to cover him, the cold stone floor causing a chill to run deep into his bones. He deserves any pain or discomfort he feels, because he was not there to save you, and he will spend the rest of his days making up for that fact. 

He was a wretched man, almost no better than the knights under his liege, until he met you. For the first time, he was understood, you did not believe he was a man born evil, only inflicting the horrors he faced back on to others. You were smart, and did not allow him to speak, or even see you, in a negative way. Demanding respect with the kindness to earn it. You were enigmatic, almost philosophical in the way you taught him to love. He will never find another like you, nor does he want to. 

His hand comes up to grip your arm softly, his skin only now touching yours. You were cold in a way he could not describe, a cold that shouldn’t be. It felt wrong, unnatural. For the first time, he feels your warmth truly stripped away, leaving a hollow husk behind, and whatever sanity he had left until that point, was gone.

[annoyinglovetyrant]

Simon Riley who gets clingy after a mission.

It was like clockwork when Simon got home after a mission. No matter how long it was, Simon would enter his home, smell the delicious steak you cooked every time he came home from a mission, and feel the stress leave his body.

It was as if Simon could hear everything, and then as soon as that door clicked shut, it went silent. He was home, he was safe.

Simon toe'd off his boots and slowly made his way to the kitchen, his muscles aching but his mind determined to see you.

"Hi honey" you smiled warmly as Simon entered the kitchen that his bulking figure made look small.

Simon didn't respond, instead walking up behind you as you worked on his steak and wrapped his arms around your middle, his face burying into your neck.

Once the two of you had finished dinner, you took Simons hand and pulled him gently upstairs, sitting him on your bed and starting a bath.

Simon used to feel silly getting into a bath that smelled like lavender. But now, he craved nothing more than to sit between your legs in the bath and let you wash his hair, massage his shoulders sore from kickback.

You had giggled softly when Simon growled quietly. A soft rumble deep in his chest as you scratch his scalp, and he hissed every now and then when you massaged his shoulders.

Once you'd both dried off, you slipped on one of Simons shirts and some panties, Simon putting on a pair of sweatpants before climbing into bed with you.

Now, you had about three seconds before Simon was going to grab your hips and pull you under him. So you had to get comfortable quickly and find the remote for the tv in your bedroom.

You successfully did, letting out a squeak as Simon hauled you underneath him. His head on your chest as you picked out a movie. You knew you weren't moving all night and for most of tomorrow. Simon would likely be following you like a lost puppy dog, reaching out to touch you whenever he could.

Simon made a small sound of approval at the movie you chose, letting out a soft rumble as you began scratching his scalp and his shoulder blades at the same time.

It wasn't long before Simons full weight was dropped on you. He always tried to keep his full weight off you, but when he fell asleep after a mission like this, it was inevitable.

You knew you likely wouldn't be told the details of his mission in the morning, but you didn't care. Your husband was home without a scratch, and that's all you cared about.

⛧°. ⋆𓌹♰𓌺⋆. °⛧

[annoyinglovetyrant]

Air Divers

Pt. 1

2k words

The oceans are empty. No life exists in its murky depths, to step too far into the water is equivalent to stepping into space itself. Cold, desolate, murderous to anyone unprepared. The ocean here isn’t a deep blue, but a poignant black, reflecting off the dark violet of the sky. The two almost indiscernible when they entwine upon each other among the horizon. 

The ship, held together by little more than outdated bolts and rusty metal, traverses through the water at a dull pace. Occasionally, passing through patches of bioluminescent seaweed as the men aboard the ship make their way to their destination. 

It’s not the water the men are needing to be in, but the sky.

Fish dance above the land and waters, as whales sing their melancholic music, the wind carrying it to the people below them. The wildlife glows a beautiful purple and blue, their scales a small beacon of light in the dark night sky. The almost divinity of the sky is mirrored by the hellish-ness of it. 

The men aboard the ship are revered for their work. Many, if not all, before have died as soon as they dive off their ship, into the dark and frightful sky. They get too close, and they fall. They fall through the firmament into the unforgiving depths of space. If they’re lucky. The unlucky ones are torn apart by entities we cannot see. Them hiding in the barrier between the sky and the void beyond. 

The three sit amongst themselves, cards in hand, the beeping of the ship's hull the only sound. Smoke floats through the air, causing the filtration system to kick into overdrive, a lit cigarette hangs loosely from Orion’s lips, causing the bigger man across from him to shoot a stern look. “You tryin’ to blow us up?” Says Axel, the demolitions expert, and brother in arms with Orion and their leader, Cassius. Cassius says nothing, not bothering to listen to the two, nor commenting on the lit cigarette in their failing submersible.

“Hasn’t happened, yet.” Says Orion, not bothering to look up from his hand. “You’re either lucky, or too stupid to die. And I’m done botherin’ to figure out which is which.” Orion smirks at the comment, still not looking up from the cards in his grasp. The cigarette ash falling to the floor as the cherry bobs in the half illuminated ship, “Luck has nothing to do with it.” The three continue on in their silence, with no other mention of the lit cigarette. 

Several more hours pass before the ship finally makes it to the point where the water and sky meet. Cassius, the pilot of the sub, pushes through a kaleidoscope of colors as they ripple through water and air, the two elements colliding with one another. Forming into something new, something that shouldn’t exist but does. The multitude of colors reflect off his eyes, a stern look permanently plastered on his features, a stark contrast to the whimsy before him. 

It’s second nature by this point, knowing exactly when and where to go, knowing the paths of light like the back of his hand. Eventually, the submarine comes to a stop, a soft creaking sound emitting from its gears as it does. With that, the men get ready. They adorn their gear, having to use an enhanced mix of a diving suit and a military air force helmet to be able to swim in the sky. 

You sit in the glowing moss, your neck craning as you watch a school of fish make their way to their feeding grounds. 

You sit and wait. You wait to see them, the divers. Little is known why they’re up there, or what they do. All anyone is told is that they keep us safe, and you’ve always been inclined to believe that. You smile to yourself as you see high across the moon, small flickers swimming with the wind. 

There’s always three, never more, never less. 

You don’t know them, hardly anyone does. Their identities shrouded in as much mystery as the reasons they're up there. You don’t know why, but you feel a sense of responsibility for them, as preposterous as the logical part of your brain says that is. It’s dangerous for you to be out here when it’s so dark, it’s not uncommon for sharks and seals to sneak up and decimate a man, leaving crude remnants of what the person used to be. 

But, you can’t leave them, as much as you don’t want to believe it, you can’t rid the feeling that your watchful eye is keeping them safe, allowing the men to make it home another day. Wherever that may be. 

The three dots move methodically, using the same route every time you watch them. Most of your nights are spent here, with them, it quickly becomes your safe place, choosing to be here rather than your home. It’s empty there, having no real family or friends left in this world, leaving you with no one to share the beauty of the planet with. All you have are them, three dots in the sky being the only thing you have to hold on to anymore. 

You wonder what their families think of them, if they even have families anymore. You wonder if they’re just as alone as you. 

The three men board their submersible once again, having found nothing of use, nothing to prove to them why they’re still doing this. Was it the fame? No, no one knows who they are. Was it the excitement of the new world? Or, are they simply not suited for anything other than following orders? The men strip themselves of their suits, a palpable silence filling the ship as Orion reaches into a drawer and pulls out a flask, wasting no time in trying to forget the horrors he’s seen, of the ungodly abominations that linger in the sky. 

``

Cassius makes his way to his office, almost falling into his chair as the exhaustion of the night sets into him. Similar to what Orion did hours earlier, Cassius reaches into a drawer and pulls out an intricate carved flask, untwisting the top with an almost desperation, relishing as the warm liquid slides down his throat with a gulp. Cassius leans back, his eyes flickering to the framed photo on his desk. Bonny was her name, his little girl. Gone but never forgotten, no matter how hard Cassius tries. He takes another swig.

Orion and Axel sit in the mess hall, several empty beer bottles littering the table. “You ever think about getting out?” Orion asks, his eyes briefly meeting Axel’s before looking back down at the bottle in his hand. “Gettin’ out? What would be the point in that?” Axels spouts back, a hint of surprise evident in his tone. “We all get in our heads from time to time, O. Don’t mean we outta follow through with it.” Orion scoffs, not expecting any other response from the burly man. “Sure. You’re not tired of it, though? Those things up there.. they're just not right.” Axel is somewhat taken aback by Orion. All these years they’ve spent together, and not once has Orion shown fear for these Eldritch abominations, not once shown fear at the possibility of diving off the world all together, never to be seen again. 

“It’s not those things up there that’s botherin’ you, O. It’s the girl, ain’t it?” Says Axel, a soft bitterness laced in his tone. “You know she don’t know who you are, who any of us are.” Orion’s face sours at his comrades' words. He knows you don’t know him, he knows you don’t even know that they’re aware of your presence on the ground, watching them as they work. You were flagged pretty early on, with your consistency to watch. The higher ups think there’s a possibility that you are trying to track them, trying to open the hatch that would allow the creatures to swim to us below. You would do no such thing, and Orion knows that. He knows you’re, in your own way, trying to protect them. 

“She’s a young girl, she’s not going to do anything.” Orion almost spits back, not quite knowing why he feels the need to defend you. “Why you always gettin’ defensive lately? It’s not like she can hear you.” Axel says back, unsure himself why such an irritation rises within him with any mention of you. 

A photo of you is plastered along their databases, along with everything there is to know about you. No one on the ground is supposed to know where the men dive to every night, especially the route they take. You know too much. However, since the military has no evidence of any wrongdoing, they are not given the all clear to terminate you. Instead, they watch. Just as you do. 

Orion has excused himself minutes ago, and is now making his way towards his bunk, having to share the room with his teammates. Your face won’t leave his mind, and it frustrates him to no end. He’s a soldier, the best of the best, he shouldn't have his mind distracted by something so trivial. Even as he arrives at his bunk, removes his uniform, and climbs into bed, he still thinks of you. Grabbing his high-tech wristband, he wraps it around his forearm, and begins to type.

Hours later, the soft snores of his comrades fill the room. A small blue light illuminates Orions’ face as he continues to stare at your photo, bewitched by the pixelated features. He rubs his thumb along where your cheek is, inwardly groaning at himself. He doesn’t know you, yet he begins to yearn. Limerating in a love that will never exist. Technically, he does not exist. He will never be able to meet you, never be able to grow a love the deepest part of his heart cries for. He begins to sob.

Axel lays in wake as he hears the soft sniffles of his friend, an anger and resentment growing towards him at the noise. Axel refuses to acknowledge these feelings, he refuses to acknowledge any feelings. He refuses to see his heart starting to ache along with his friend. Orion can get any woman he so chooses; anytime they’re on leave, women flock to him, practically throwing themselves at the handsome soldier. Yet, Axel is left with nothing, not even the ‘scraps’ that Orion didn’t want. He’s too big, too strong. Women are afraid of him, not allowing him to show the devotion he would give to them, if they’d just give him the chance. 

But you, you seem kind, soft. You wouldn’t run from him, would you? You’d show him that he’s more than a soldier, he’s more than an object to carry out orders. He’d do the same in turn, he’d show you how a woman should be treated, he’d care for you, you never have to lift a finger on your delicate hand. A real life love story. Orion could never do that for you. A ladies man like him, he doesn’t know the meaning of the word ‘respect’. 

The clatter of cutlery echoes in the mess hall, no words spoken in the early evening. Working nights takes its toll on the men from time to time, never seeing the sun makes one want to go mad. But, lately Orion could care less about the Sun, the image of you being the only thing he believes he needs. Axel watches Orion as he eats, staring at the photo of you on his wrist, a storm quietly brewing behind his eyes. He sees the sadness festering within his friend, a sadness he mirrors. Instead of pity, or remorse, Axel begins to stir in anger. How dare he take you away? He knows you don’t know either of them, but, you would choose him, wouldn’t you? Leaving Axel alone, again. This time though, he doesn’t know if he could handle it.

[annoyinglovetyrant]

The ride on the chopper was dull, smoke from the plethora of lit cigarettes wafting quickly out of the slid open doors as they fly through the air. The men aboard the ship are quiet, the high of the mission having dissipated long ago. Nikto sat silently, his eyes following the blur of trees and brush as he passes overhead. He thinks how the trees remind him of you; an overwhelming presence among nature, yet silent and strong. A beauty that has always existed in this world, and will always exist. It doesn’t matter if your physical form changes through the years, even when you two grow old and die together, your beauty will always remain. Your love continuously making the universe a brighter place.

He steps off the helicopter with quick and deliberate action, not bothering to say a word to any of his comrades, wanting, needing, to see you again. It’s like this for him every time, cursing himself for leaving you, for not getting to you fast enough. Eventually, he makes it out of the base, to his motorcycle, and heads to you. If you’d ask, he wouldn’t remember anything of the ride back. It’s an overwhelming time for him; his mind alone, consumed with thoughts of you. You. You. You.

It scares him sometimes, the utmost devotion to you. The all-consuming thoughts. Sometimes, he even forgets why he’s doing what he’s doing, why he’s even a soldier. Why hasn’t he quit and moved in with you? What was his purpose? He’ll remember the pain, but always it’ll be overcome with thoughts of you, of your love. A man like him can never go back to how he was, but.. maybe you’re healing him as much as his broken mind will allow.

He steps into your home: it’s warm, comforting, the smell that’s permanently etched into your walls he can only describe as.. kind.

He doesn’t see you immediately, you not sitting in your usual spot on the couch. You don’t run out to him either, something that instantly makes his heart drop to the floor. His feet work fast, the worst possible thoughts and scenarios running across his mind, and he barrels to your bedroom, one you share with him nightly when he’s on leave.

He bursts the door open, not bothering to be subtle in his movements, and he sees you.

He falls to his knees instantly

You’re alive.

But, that’s not what brings him to his knees. No, it’s what you’re wearing

A holy dress, something fitted perfectly to your form. A veil sits on your head, causing the sunlight to reflect off the white of the fabric, resulting in an impromptu halo to form around you. A singular cross sits across the chest, as the short skirt of the dress fits to your thighs. White stockings and heels making your legs look Devine. He was right.

You are his salvation

All the pain, all the torture he’d endured, and now God has sent him his reward.

He doesn’t cry, he can’t. He doesn’t hear your surprise, or what you say to him as you run to him, worried that he’s injured, or worse, dying. No, this is the opposite for him. You’ve saved him. In this moment, he truly believes you are Holy, an angel sent just for him.

His hands trembles drastically, reaching to you, cupping your soft cheeks in his paws. His breathing is ragged and fast, he can’t bring himself to speak either. Can’t bring himself to spout a prayer, can’t bring himself to worship you. He watches the worry on your face, the worry only reserved for him, and his hands fall.

The air around him seems like it’s left, leaving only you, and he enjoys it.

He doesn’t need air, when he has you.

It takes him several efforts to finally swallow the lump in his throat, and when he finally does, all he can manage to say is:

“You are our Holy Devinity.”

[annoyinglovetyrant]

see the THING IS I don't feel like I ever worked hard enough to have "earned" the burnout, which is. probably how we got here.

[annoyinglovetyrant]

my doordasher has been fucking around in the restaurant parking lot for a half hour now. probably playing with his tip and maybe even his balls a little bit on the holy day no less

[annoyinglovetyrant]

Bimbo!reader this, bimbo!reader that, how about reader that's just a dumbass. Confidently looks left when someone tells you to look right. Absolutely mispronounced colonel because you'd only ever read it. Ate 4 bananas in one sitting and doesn't know why your tummy hurts. Answers any trivia question anyone gives you with perfect accuracy but though "Citizen Kane" was the guy's first and last name. It is anyone's guess what you know at any given moment, it is both endearing and absolutely terrifying. Can give the atomic weight of hydrogen off the top of your head but you've never heard of the hindenberg. Fucking astonishing

[annoyinglovetyrant]

you’re not alone, someone else is reading this post at the same time as you

[annoyinglovetyrant]

We Are All Dangerous

[annoyinglovetyrant]

TW: Mentions of suicidal thoughts, minor NSFW, reader has slight attachment issues with a sprinkle of emotional instability.

The first time you and Nikto fought.. he almost ended it.

He didn’t, he’s far too strong willed to do that, his survival instincts too sharp. But, he really thought about it, almost planned it, walking into his empty, cold house, sitting on his bed and just staring.. Staring at his knives and guns displayed in perfect order along his bedroom wall; after walking out of your home, the sound of your cries and harsh words keep echoing in his mind, coiling and cementing in his neurons like an acidic parasite. 

The fight was stupid, unnecessary, him saying something to you in a way that felt cruel and unfeeling, and when you called him out on it, he got defensive, too defensive. Once he realized what was happening, it was too late, you were already upset, upset with him. His mind couldn’t handle that, the whispers grew loud within him, screaming at him. He fucked up, he lost you.

Love and happy endings to Nikto always felt like a fairytale, something parents told their children to help them fight their fear of the dark, the growing doom of their mortality. But, when he met you, that feeling slowly started to change. You fell first, something he didn’t see for a very long time, and even longer for him to comprehend. However, once he finally understood you really did like him, he fell much harder, and much faster. He always thought your face and body were ethereal, utterly striking, and once you two finally started actually speaking to one another, he found your soul even more beautiful. 

You’re perfect.

You don’t care that he's broken, because you’re a little broken, too. You find his marred face beautiful. Sexy even. The first time you two made love, you kindly asked him to remove his mask, you’d seen his face before that, but never for so long, so intimately. At that time -he would never admit it- but he was scared. He wanted to say no, he wanted to run away, but he can’t say no to you, not ever, so he complied. That night, you made love to him, you showed him what love truly felt like, what a gentle touch can do to him. 

He cried.

And yet, you still didn’t recoil at him, you just held him in your arms, nuzzling your face into the crook of his neck, gently riding on top of him. He thinks about that night often, not for the sexual component, but because, that was the first time in his memorable life, he felt safe. 

And now he’s gone and screwed it up. 

He doesn’t quite understand that just because you were angry with him, doesn’t mean you don’t love him anymore. 

The connection you two share is something little girls dream of, he’s your knight in shining armor, and you’re his princess, in every sense of the word. He worships you, only devoted to you and your protection, your happiness, how could you ever fall out of love with that? You don’t care about the blood on his hands, you don’t care that his armor is chinked. You just see him for all that he is, and you love him for it. Something that terrifies and excites him more than anything he’s ever experienced. And the thought of something so beautiful and rare slipping through his fingers is almost too much for him to bear. The thought of you never being in his arms again, never hearing your goofy jokes, your achingly gorgeous laugh, it makes him sick. 

Since being with you, the voices have grown softer, his sense of self becoming more prevalent. You’ve helped him to want to get better. But now.. The voices are warring. All he hears are them; he becomes stuck where he is, his mind not being able to handle the situation, the emotions of it. 

Dead to everything but his memories. 

He doesn’t hear his phone ring and ring, doesn’t hear you banging on his door, calling his name. Crying out for him; you needing him right now, just as much as he needs you.

He doesn’t hear you leave, either.

[annoyinglovetyrant]

The Fisherman and The Starwife

There was a sea at the edge of the world. And a fisherman who tried to catch moonlight. And a bride who was plucked right out of the sky. Do you care to hear their story?

It started on a cold night at the edge of the world. Nights were almost always cold in that place where the land falls away forever, but this was a freezing night even by those standards. The sea churned with shards of ice and the waves chimed like rolling glass.

A fisherman was getting ready to cast his lines. And though most fisherman in most parts of the world are busiest at dawn and dusk, this particular man did all his work in the very dead of night.

The nets he cast weren't like any a normal sailor would know. They were woven out of glass - each string made up of hundreds, thousands of clear beads. For this fisherman wasn't concerned with salmon or roe but with another sort of quarry entirely.

This fisherman was fishing for moonlight.

Moonlight was perhaps the most elusive thing to catch. It poured over the land but couldn't be speared or hooked or trapped. Just one pearl of moonlight was considered a king's ransom. Five pearls was enough to buy a man a kingdom. Ten would keep his children and his children's children fed and wealthy for centuries.

But fishing for moonlight was dangerous too. The only place it could be caught was at the very edge of the world, where the sea and sky were so close they almost touched. And the sea here was rough, not just with waves that grew wilder every hour, but with sea bears and moon hounds that could flip a warship with just a flick of their tails.

The fisherman knew all this. He'd seen countless men come and die in their attempts to catch moonlight. Their bodies swallowed by the ice sea, faces blue and bloodless as they sunk below the waves.

The fisherman knew the dangers, but he still went out every night in his tar bottomed boat. For the fisherman had a secret. A way to calm the waves and the water beasts alike.

(And oh, it was a secret costly bought. He'd traded ten years of his life to a sea hag for it and considered it a fair deal).

The fisherman knew the tune of the sea. Each night he would recline in his boat after casting his lines, and unwrap his pan flute from its oilskin. He would play the notes as the sea hag taught him - soft and sweet like the tide crawling out, sharp like the crack of lightning on the waves, mournful as the open ocean.

The sea would listen, and finally calm. The sea bears would dive deep and dream of arctic caves. The wind would cease its mourning. When the fisherman played his flute, all the beasts in the sea silenced their queer voices to hear it.

On this night, the moon was full and bright. Her daughters, the stars, reflected their icy beauty off the water. His music drifted far in the quiet and tonight even more so.

In the spreading canvas of the night sky, one star leaned down to better hear the music.

It was like nothing you'd ever heard before. It wasn't the subtle, tinkling music of the night sky. It wasn't the sweet song of the moon. It was mournful and wild, and you were so focused on it that you didn't feel yourself slipping until it was too late.

A scream. And a spash. And in the span of a breath, a star fell straight out of the sky and into the sea.

The fisherman sat up with a start, and without thinking, reached into the water and hauled you onto his boat.

At first he didn't know what he was looking at. Your hair was soaked and the beads in your hair shone so bright they hurt his eyes. He couldn't understand it - not even with all the strange things he'd seen. How could a girl suddenly appear in place so lonely and remote? Did you fall from the sky?

You sat shivering at the bottom of his boat, too stunned by your fall to realise where you were. And oh, you were the most beautiful creature he'd ever laid eyes on.

In that moment, the fisherman had a choice.

You were dazed and soaking wet. Anything he did to you, you wouldn't be able to fight back. He still had his nets and ropes; he could grab you and take to shore, could force you to be his wife. He was handsome, but strange in his ways and dreams. He didn't have a wife or a lover or even the memory of one. No one would be surprised if he caved to his loneliness and stole whatever good fortune came his way.

For a long, painful moment he was tempted. It would be so lovely to have a warm bed and a warm body waiting for him after a cold, dangerous night. He worked so hard for so little - didn't he deserve a reward?

Instead, he pulled off his oilskin and draped it around your shoulders.

"Be still," he said softly. "Breathe deeply. I will take us back to shore and build you a fire. You won't be cold for long."

You looked up at him, eyes all wide and wet. "Th-thank you."

When he reached the shore, you stumbled and fell to your knees, teeth chattering. You were a creature of starlight and shadow - your feet were never meant to touch the ground.

Carefully, for you looked to him so frail in the thin light of the moon, he picked you up. You smelled like salt and sea, but underneath it was the burning ozone smell of a fallen star. Perhaps that was when he first started to suspect what you were. That what he held in his arms wasn't built of blood and bone.

He brought you to his house and put you down on the hearth. True to his word, he stoked the fire until it roared. You put your palms out to it cautiously, for although your uncle Sun was said to be fire all the way through, you'd never actually seen something burning. Your fingers were so cold they ached and the warmth was a welcome relief.

"Here." He wrapped a blanket around you and set a mug of mulled wine in your hand. "Warm up a little. And then dry yourself off. The sea chill gets in your bones if you aren't careful."

"Wh-where am I?"

He looked at the fire and sighed. "On the shore of the hinterland sea, at the very edge of the world. I fear you're very far from home, wherever it may be."

The wine was warm and sweet, spiced with the last of his cloves and ginger. You drank and finally your teeth stopped chattering.

"Who are you?"

"I'm a fisherman."

You set the cup down carefully, still unsteady. "What is a fisherman?"

He raised his brows but answered you all the same. "Someone who catches fish. Either to sell or to eat. Often both."

You considered this. Stars lived off ether and cloud dust. You had no idea why anyone would want to eat fish of all things.

"What fish do you catch?"

"Ah, that's a difficult question." There was a gleam of amusement in his storm grey eyes. "I'm not like other fisherman. I fish for moonlight instead of animals."

"Moonlight?" That confused you. How could someone catch something so intangible? Did they eat it as well?

"Yes. If you're careful and clever, you can catch moonlight when it reaches down and touches the sea. It's a fortune made to catch even a little."

He looked at you carefully. In the firelight, it was clear you were no ordinary human. Perhaps you weren't mortal at all. As your hair dried, it took on a sheen like starlight dancing on water. Your teeth were small and sharp when you smiled, your pupils shaped like stars in the centre of your irises. It was his turn to ask a question, though he thought he already knew the answer.

"Where do you come from?"

You tilted your head liked he asked the most obvious thing in the world. "From the sky of course. Usually I'm between my sisters Astra and Vena."

He smiled and reached down to throw a log on the fire as though the third brightest star in the night sky wasn't shivering on his hearth.

"Would you like to change into some dry clothes? I haven't any dresses for you to wear, but anything is better than the wet and the cold."

"Oh, yes please."

He brought you the softest, finest shirt he owned.

"I'll wait outside until you're done."

You tilted your head again in that sharp, bird like way. "Why do you have to wait outside?"

He almost choked on his tongue before he could answer. "Because I'm a man and you're... not. It wouldn't be proper."

"But it's cold outside."

You were already dropping the blanket and the oilskin he borrowed you. Underneath it, you wore a silvery white robe that was still wet enough to be see-through. He hurriedly turned away from you, jaw clenched tight.

"It's fine. I'd rather..."

He could hear the whisper of your robe as it fell. He froze, mind racing.

"Rather what?"

Rather not be thinking of you naked in front of my fire.

"... Nevermind. It's nothing."

"You can turn around and stop clenching your hands now," you said, amused.

You were wearing his shirt, the collar gaping at your collarbones. You rubbed the hem between your fingers. "What material is this?"

"Just homespun."

He gathered your still damp robes and marvelled at the almost silk feel of them - woven so light that if it weren't for the water he'd barely feel their weight.

"I like it," you said. "It's warm."

He hung your clothes to dry on the back of a chair. "You can sleep in my bed tonight. I'll sleep by the hearth."

"Oh." You thought about it. "Is it 'not proper' to sleep together?"

Gods in Heaven have mercy.

"No," he said, carefully avoiding your eyes. "It's not proper. That's the sort of thing only a husband and wife can do."

"My mother is married to the Tide. Did you know that? He's not a very nice man."

The fisherman didn't need you to tell him how unpredictable and cruel the tide could be. He made his living by its whims.

"Have you met him?" he asked.

"Once or twice." You came to stand behind him and watched as he made the bed comfortable for you. Fluffing his meagre pillow and dusting out the blanket.

"You have very nice hands," you said. The fisherman stilled. His hands were rough from the salt and hooks and lines of his trade. They ached on bad nights. Were nicked with scars upon scars, a strata of hurts.

You reached forward and took hold of his fingers, drew them towards you. Your hands were soft as only ones untouched by labour could be. 

"You say you are a man, and that we're different. How so?"

He sighed and let you pull him towards you.

"You are from the heavens. You know nothing of cruelty or greed or love. Mankind, earth - it's not the same." He paused. "If I were another, you might be in danger around me."

You looked in his eyes - oh, you creature of starlight, one of a kind, too pure and rare for his common touch.

"My sister once fell to the earth. When she returned, she told me of love. And of lovers. Do you...have a lover?"

He smiled, rueful. "No. This is a cold, remote place. And it's a cold, remote life I've chosen for myself."

"Do you want one?"

You were still holding his hand, and he was all too aware of it. How would your hands feel, touching other parts of him?

"It doesn't matter," he finally managed to answer. "I have nothing to offer. No wealth, no great learning, no family honour."

"Oh, but you are kind. You are gentle. You saved my life and invited me into your home, asking for no thanks in return. Is the world of Man so evil, that these things mean nothing?"

"They mean less than you seem to think."

You held his palm to your cheek, tilted your head into his touch. His hands were rough as only ones knowing hard labour could be. What would they feel like, touching other parts of you?

"My mother told me a boon granted is one that must be repaid. Tell me fisherman at the end of the world, what would you have in exchange for saving my life?"

You. I would have you, girl too beautiful for even my dreams.

Instead he said, "Nought. My mother told me a kindness given should not expect to be repaid in kind. All I would have is that you recover, and return to the place you belong."

You sighed and dropped his hand. "As you will, so shall it be."

That night, you slept on a thin mattress and dreamt of the dark sea outside the door. And he slept not at all.

You were awake at the first sign of morning light. You were firmer on your feet and you made it to the door without stumbling.

The fisherman heard you and fought the urge to stand. If you wished to leave before the dawn, he wouldn't stop you. Already he'd met a creature few thought existed. He would be greedy to hope for more of you.

You didn't leave. You stood on his threshold and watched the sun rise at the edge of the world. For though you knew your uncle through stories and messages, you'd never seen him.

"Hello uncle," you said to the pink and orange sky.

"Hello niece. What are you doing upon the earth, so far from your place in heaven?"

"I grew distracted with music and fell into the sea. But a man rescued me and now here I stand."

"I would caution you, niece of mine. I rise and set each day. And each day I see Mankind's cruelty to one another. Murder and imprisonment and awful acts of lust. Linger not too long in this place, lest your man think to do what so many others before him have done."

"Oh uncle, he is not like the stories I have heard. Not like the monsters you warn me against. The earth might indeed be filled with danger, but here I think myself to be safe."

Your uncle sighed and clouds parted in great gusts. "Niece, things are never as clear as they seem. Not when you stand upon the earth. Take my advice and return to your sisters as soon as the night arrives. Your mother has seen even more than I the awful lechery of Man."

You smiled at your uncle, proud and burning creature that he was. "Thank you uncle. But this place is filled with strange and wondrous things. I can not return until I've satisfied my curiosity."

"As you say, blood of mine. But know that regardless of how we love you, neither your mother nor I can protect you when you're out of our reach. Anything that happens, you must fend off on your own."

You glanced back into the cottage, and at the fisherman sprawled on the hearth. "I am not so alone as you fear, uncle."

The fisherman could understand little of your conversation. He could not hear the sun's voice. When he heard your footsteps whispering towards him, he forced himself to hold still. Was this it? A final whispered goodbye?

You knelt at his side and brushed your knuckles against his cheekbone. "Will you wake, saviour of mine? The new day comes."

He opened his eyes. "You're still here."

"Does that displease you?"

"No!" He sat up in a hurry, eyes locked on yours. "Never. Please, stay as long you'd like."

You smiled, secretly pleased. "What do you do in the day?"

He thought for a moment. "I work at night, and the day is spent mending my nets. But you're here now. I think I'd rather show you the secrets and wonders of this place."

"You said few people come to the edge of the world. What secrets could there be?"

"Oh, plenty. All the more secret for having seldom been found."

He turned away from you and built up the fire. "It will be cold today, and the wind will be sharp. Still, would you like to see what I wish to show?"

You watched the firelight flicker across his face - lined at the eyes like he smiled too often, tanned and ruddy from the sea.

"Yes," you said, "I'd like that."

He borrowed you thick furs to wear and wrapped a scarf around your neck. Your robes had dried overnight but one glance at them was enough to know they weren't nearly warm enough.

He packed a small pack with food and wine. At the door, he held your hand while you got used to having the fine pebbles of the beach under your feet.

A cold wind was blowing from the north and stirring the patchy snow on the ground.You could almost hear a voice in it, coldly amused.

"A star so far from heaven?"

And another, softer. Pitying almost.

"Run back to your sisters, little star. The hearts of men have no room for mercy, or for you."

When the wind disappeared, so too did the voices. You leaned closer against your fisherman and let him lead you down the beach. The still rising sun painted the water orange, and the stones reflected it as a bright gold.

Oh, how many colours in this new world. How wonderful the gold, the silver, the thousand shades in between.

"Do you walk the beach often?" you asked.

"No." He sounded amused. "At least, certainly not with company."

He lead you towards a high embankment, and a narrow path crawling up it's side. He kept hold of you as you climbed, his arm steady and strong around you. The loose stones of the beach hardened to shale that crumbled if you stepped too heavily, the path growing steeper as the embankment curved around the cliffside.

The sun was well above the water when you reached the top. But oh, was it worth the effort. The view from the cliff dwarfed anything you'd seen before. The ocean stretched from one end of the horizon to the other, the water black near the shore and then lightening to a dark greenish-blue. The sun caught on the peaks of the waves, turning them aquamarine and gold.

The fisherman set out his bundle of food on a rock. Fresh bread, a thick hunk of cheese, raisins. You ate breakfast with the sea spread at your feet and the warm south wind tugging at your hair.

You pressed the cheese and raisins between two slices of bread and held it to his lips. "Try it like this. It's incredible."

He raised a skeptical brow but leaned down to eat from your hand.

"Sweet," he said, eyes crinkling with his smile.

You thought the cliff and its view was his secret, but that was far from it. After you ate, he led you to a small, hidden path carved into the cliffside. You wavered - the drop down was beyond treacherous.

He held both your hands in his and showed you how to walk down the carved steps.

"I won't let you fall. I promise."

You believed him.

The path led to a cave, its entrance little more than a gash in the cliffside. You squeezed through, not sure what to expect.

What you saw made you gasp. Your fisherman hadn't brought you to a cave at all, but to the last remains of a castle. You stood in a great hall, it's pillars carved out of the stalactites. Moss had grown over the walls and the ceiling, and the whole room glowed a deep blue.

"What is this place?"

"The barrow of a long dead king. Killed before his time, killed in vain."

Flowers were pushing up through the cracked floor tiles. Strange blue flowers that only grew in the dark. Their pollen rose in golden clouds when you passed them by.

"Oh, no place so strange and wondrous exists in the sky."

You twirled in place, your eyes on the ceiling and its strange, twisting patterns. The fisherman watched you, his heart pulling him in two different directions. Would it be so wrong to keep you? To ask you stay with him for the rest of your days?

Yes, some fierce part of him whispered back. You cannot keep a star from the sky. You think you could love her. But what sort of love is captivity?

You grabbed his hands and pulled him from his thoughts.

"Will you dance with me? My sister says palaces are filled with dancing, with music. This dead king must feel awfully lonely, with a hall so cold and quiet."

He followed you, hands slipping to your waist.

"I must warn you. I'm no king's man, to dance gracefully."

You laughed and let him twirl you in his arms.

"I don't want a king's man, nor a knight, nor a prince," you told him, "I only want you."

He caught you again, dropping you in a slow, graceful dip.

"Don't be cruel, little star," he whispered. "To give me dreams I can never have."

The night flower pollen hung in the air, dancing in patterns from your movement. The room was a mosaic of midnight blue and gold. You reached up and brushed your fingers across his lips.

"I am never cruel. I offer what I willingly give."

It would have been so easy to kiss you then. To have, even for just a moment, a love so far out of reach.

"No," he said quietly. "You're too good for me. I will not pull a star from the sky for my own satisfaction."

He put you back on your feet and let you go.

The walk home was quiet. He held you when he needed to, but his touch was light. Afraid almost.

He stoked the fire and showed you how to feed it. Showed you where the food was kept and how to slice the bread. And then he left you.

He claimed to be going fishing, but his nets and lines stayed in the corner of the room.

You watched him from the door until he was out of sight. And then you curled up on the narrow windowsill and waited for his return.

In your chest, your heart ached in a way you couldn't explain.

You asked him to take you with him that night. He hesitated, his glass nets slung over his shoulder.

"It's dangerous."

"Perhaps so, but I want to hear your music again. The sound I fell from heaven for. Will you not let me hear it once more?"

He gave in and told you to sit as still as you could, for the waves were rougher than usual. The night was clear, and as he rowed you out to sea, you sisters' voices chimed in your head.

"Little sister, why do you stay upon the earth? Your place in heaven is cold and empty."

"Little sister, does the man do you harm? Does he hold you prisoner?"

"Little sister, mother worries for you. Will you speak to her?"

"Little sister, will you not come home?"

"Soon," you promised them. "Soon."

The fisherman cast his nets and began to play his tune. And all thoughts of your sisters and your home vanished. To watch him at sea was to witness a creature in its element. Calm and careful, slow and thoughtful.

You didn't leave that night. Or the one after that. Your mother moved through her phases and still you chose to stay on the earth.

You learned how to light and keep a fire, how to mend the fisherman's lines and snares, how to bake bread and mull wine. You learned to sleep with the moon and rise with the sun.

"Oh niece," you uncle sighed, "I fear this love will be your undoing."

"Love? Is that what I feel? This aching in my heart?"

"Love indeed. Why else would a star choose to be a fishwife?"

At first, your fisherman tried to keep his distance. But you were persistent in your questions, in your conversation, in following him wherever he went.

Finally he caved. Started speaking to you without holding himself back, started taking his meals with you. He was careful not to touch you, and perhaps even more careful not to let you touch him. It was friendship, companionship - but always tinged with longing. You would sometimes catch him watching you, eyes sad as the sea.

Each night your fisherman would tell you a story. Both of you sitting on the hearth rug, his hands carving the tale out of the air, his eyes twinkling. Stories of love, of bravery, of treachery.

He told you of a queen carved from the sea foam, of a wolf who shed its skin to find a bride, of cities so bright and sprawling that to see them from above was to think earth and heaven had switched places.

You would dream of his stories, and of his hands. Skimming down your back, warm and strong.

A full month after your fall, your mother frowned down at you and demanded to know when you would be done with your adventure. You wavered, for your mother wasn't the type to accept a flimsy answer.

"When our story is all told," you finally replied.

She kept her frown, but your man was returning from the sea and you were too distracted by him to notice it.

You would happily have stayed just as you were. Sleeping in his bed and sharing his clothes, waking to see him already in front of the fire. But your luck changed - yours for the worse and his for the better.

For the fisherman finally caught moonlight.

You were with him when he reeled his nets in, and you both saw the silver gleam break the water at the same time. He stilled, eyes wide.

"I can't believe it."

He plucked the pearl from its string and let it sit on his palm. It cast its glow all the way across the boat and still beyond. There was no doubt now as to why moonlight was so valuable. Looking into it, you could see what your mother saw. Could see the ocean spread at your feet, could see the stars dancing, could see the breadth of heaven and earth.

"Here." He dropped it into your palm and closed your fingers around it. "Hold onto it."

You looked at him, eyes wide. "You trust me with it?"

He smiled his crooked half smile. "I trust you with more than your know, little star."

As he rowed back to shore, you wondered at how your life might change. Hadn't he once said that the only goal of a fisherman at the edge of the world was to catch moonlight? That even a little was a fortune made?

Would he leave the sea? Would he leave you?

When you were back in the cottage and out of sight of your mother, you felt brave enough to ask.

"Oh, never. I'll never leave you, little star. Not for as long as you'll have me."

You looked at the pearl in your palm. A fortune made... What did that really mean?

"What now?"

He came to stand behind you, reaching out to carefully run his fingertip across the shimmering surface.

"Now I will head away. To civilisation. To find a way to sell it without getting my heart cut out first."

"Why would anyone do that?"

He sighed. "Because of its value. Some men will do terrible things to possess a single beautiful thing."

That worried you.

"I want to come with you," you said.

You could hear the smile in his voice when he answered. "I would have it no other way."

The preparations took almost two weeks. Food to be dried, smoked and packed. Water to be stored. Clothes to be mended and altered for travelling. The boat to be tarred and dragged ashore.

The fisherman was in no hurry. He still told you stories at night, the moon pearl sitting in a box between you and lending its strange silver light to the tellings.

If you'd known what was to come, you would have thrown that cursed thing back into the sea. But though you were many things, you were not an oracle. You couldn't guess the misery it would bring.

On the day before you and your fisherman planned to leave, three men came to visit.

They wore the deep black of thieves and killers, and the knives at their belts spoke plenty of their profession.

They found you both on the beach at sunset, wrapping canvas around the boat. Their shadows stretched long in the fading light, so you weren't sure what you were seeing until they were too close to avoid.

Your fisherman stood to greet them, though from his eyes you could tell he wasn't pleased.

"An unpleasant place, this," said the first of the three.

"Cold and miserable," said the second.

"Though we suppose it does have its charms," said the third.

The fisherman considered them for a long while before replying.

"An unpleasant place, aye. The work is dangerous and the reward an impossible dream. Still, some of us are suited to places like these."

The first of the killers looked at you, ran his eyes over your body.

"For you perhaps. But what of your woman? Surely she would like somewhere warmer."

The fisherman tensed. Just the tiniest tightening of his shoulders, but you noticed it all the same.

"I keep her as warm as she needs," he said.

That made the men smirk. Made them eye each other like the joke was oh so funny. The sun was almost gone now and the brightest of your sisters were peaking out of the purple sky. You could feel their worry at the back of your mind.

"Hurry and come away, little sister. I like not the look of these men."

"Quickly. Before they play any tricks."

You didn't like the look of the strangers either, but you refused to leave the fisherman on his own. Whatever this was, perhaps it might still end well.

The leader rolled his shoulders, sighed like this was as mildly unpleasant as a persistent itch. And then he pulled a moon pearl out of his pocket.

It was much smaller than the one your fisherman caught, but it had a strange red tint to it that made you shiver. If you looked closely, you could see yourself in it. Not a reflection, but a view from on high. Whoever these strangers were, they'd been watching you.

"Enchanted to find others like it. Thought it wasn't worth the money at first. Never bloody did anything," the first one said.

"Not until a few week ago at least," another continued.

You felt yourself going cold. They knew.

Your fisherman must have realised the same thing, because his eyes slipped to you and the pearl hidden on a tether under your shirt.

"That's all you want?"

They looked at each other again, and whatever passed between them was only for them and the wind to know.

"Aye," said the third, "That's all - the bounty of the night sky. Give us that and we'll leave you be."

Your fisherman shrugged like they weren't demanding a king's ransom and then some. He turned to you and carefully pulled the pearl free of its cord. You grabbed his hands and held them.

"Why?" you whispered.

He looked in your eyes and there wasn't any regret there. No grief or anger over losing the thing he'd spent years fishing for.

"I worry of losing something far more precious than a stone."

He pulled away from you before you could stop him and tossed the pearl to the leader. He caught it easily and held it to his eye.

"A finer thing I've never held," the thief said.

"Aye, and a finer thing I've never seen," said the other.

"But that's not all you have, is it fisherman?" said the third.

The fisherman rolled his shoulders and anyone could see the threat in it.

"That's the only thing of value here. The only thing you can take. So have joy of it, and be gone from this place."

"Daughter."

Your mother's voice was sharp. "Come away. Now. These men mean you harm worse than you realise."

"Not yet," you murmured, "Not while my love stays."

The thieves smiled at each other. Nasty grins filled with blades.

"Oh, but you have another thing worth perhaps even more than moonlight. Tell me, fisherman at the edge of the world, how did you rip a star from the sky?"

The fisherman snarled, all quiet calm forgotten.

"Come now, don't be so hostile," the thief mocked. "You promised us the bounty of the night sky. That was our deal."

"The star is not mine to keep nor give."

The thieves laughed. "She wears your clothes and helps in your labour and whispers her secrets to you. How can you claim that she isn't yours?"

The fisherman kept his hands loose at his sides but it wasn't only you who noticed his eyes dart to his knife, stuck into the roll of canvas you were working with.

You reached out and grabbed at his hand. It was dawning on you now what your mother meant. These men were worse than you first assumed, and to stay in their presence was to invite death to your door.

A star leaping back to heaven is an easy thing. Your bones are light and your magic is strong. But to take a human with you? That was another matter entirely. Their feet were rooted to the earth, their bones weighed down by the nature of their birth. You pulled with all the magic you had, but you couldn't move him. Your heart was a fluttering, panicked thing in your chest.

"Mother, please."

"I cannot," your mother said, her voice torn with grief. "He is of the earth. I cannot lift him to heaven no matter my strength."

The fisherman and the thieves didn't seem to notice your efforts. Their eyes were on each other, hackles raised.

The thieves moved first. Drew their knives and rushed your man all at once.

But the fisherman didn't survive on the hinterland sea by being slow or cautious. He pushed you behind him and in one graceful step, pulled his knife loose from the canvas. He slashed at the closest man, his blade a silvery arc that turned the night red with misted blood. The man fell away, clutching his eyes and screaming.

The fisherman was too slow to dodge the oncoming strike, so he threw his arm up and let the leader's blade carve a long furrow down his forearm. Blood welled at his elbow and fell onto the black pebbles of the beach.

He kept you behind him as he retreated, his eyes darting between the two standing thieves.

You were frozen. Eyes glued on the fallen man and the blood welling up between his fingers.

So this is what you meant. That Mankind will do terrible things to each other without a second thought. Oh uncle, I'm sorry I doubted you.

Your mind raced. How to escape with your man alive and in one piece?

The two thieves were spreading out, flanking him as wolves would. The blood from his arm had soaked his side and you could tell he was growing pale.

You needed to fight. You needed to kill. But how?

Stars are no great terror. You aren't like the moon, who can wreck cities with her pull on the sea. Not like the sun, who can turn crops to dust and cities to deserts. You had no weapon, no strength, no great magic.

But I must have something.

Oh. Oh. You did indeed have something. A little magic of your own. There was a reason people wished on the brightest stars. There was a reason a falling star was considered lucky. And you, well, you were one of the brightest stars in the night sky.

No great magic, but maybe you didn't need to move mountains or spilt the sea in half.

Your fisherman once showed you how to use a needle and thread, told you that sometimes injuries were sewn up just like a ripped shirt. You focused on that now. Thread in, thread out. You pulled your fingers through the air like you were sewing a sail.

The fisherman flinched but kept his injured arm raised. There was a faint glow from under his sleeve and the blood slowed it's dripping. His steps grew steadier.

As though sensing the change, the thieves pounced. Coming at him from two sides at once. He wouldn't be able to fend them both off.

You acted without thinking. Earth magic and sky magic didn't mix well, but you were beyond caring. You pulled at the ground with your magic and one of the thieves fell, their leg thigh deep in a narrow sinkhole. The fisherman took the opportunity he'd been given. He stabbed his knife into the man's throat, all the way up to the handle. There was an awful, wet choking sound when he ripped it out.

You looked away, sick. And that's when the final thief stabbed your man in the back. The blade sunk deep into his shoulder and he roared, whirling around. Too late, too late. The attacker had a second blade ready and when the fisherman turned, he plunged it straight between his ribs.

You screamed.

The fisherman fell to his knees, blood not just trickling but pouring down his chest.

You caught him before he fell entirely, his head falling back against your collarbone. When they said the dead had no light in their eyes, you finally understood what they meant. You could see it fading.

You poured your magic into him, not caring about technique or luck or skill. That little bit of brightness that makes a star glow, you gave it all to him. Your hands were glowing silver, burning like the coldest night.

And still the blood came. Still his life bled out of him.

"Please," you begged. "Please."

What more could you do? You were light headed, cold.

"Stop!"

Your mother's voice was a frantic shout.

"You'll kill yourself giving him that. Stop it daughter. Stop now!"

Kill yourself? Hope bloomed in your heart. The world needed balance. Death was meticulous with his scales. If you burnt yourself out, wasn't that one life gone? Didn't that mean another could stay?

If you gave your life for his, would he live?

You didn't hear your mother scream. Didn't hear your sisters' horror echo through the night. You dug for that last glimmer inside of you, the last breath of the brightest star.

You gave it to the man you loved.

Kindness need not be repaid in kind, he'd said. But he saved your life. He showed you tenderness, care. You loved him. And if only his body was left, you owed him.

You kissed his hair. Pressed your cheek against him. You felt so cold. Colder even than the night you fell into the sea. I'm dying, you realised. There wasn't fear there. Only regret.

Was it ever so hard to breathe? Your lungs stuttered. You barely cared. All you needed was to know he would live.

The last thief standing watched you for a long while. Saw your glow fading. What use was a dying star to him? He picked up the moon pearls, skirted the injured man who was still rolling on the ground and left. If there was honour amount thieves, he didn't have any.

You were beginning to think it all for nought. He was a limp, heavy weight against you.

"Please," you whispered. "Please."

He stirred. Drew in a breath thick with blood, like the first gasp of a drowning man. When he opened his eyes, his pupils were shaped like stars.

"Love," he whispered. He reached up and cupped your cheek in his palm. "Oh, love."

You kissed him. His lips were rough, but not in an unpleasant way. There was blood on your mouth when you pulled away.

"All those nights with you just across the room, all I ever wanted was to feel your lips on mine."

You sighed, pressed his palm closer against your cheek. "Oh, love. That we could have had more time."

He was still drowsy, still reeling from blood loss. But at your words his eyes sharpened.

"We have time."

He sat up slowly, his hand still on your cheek, his knees in the dirt.

"We do. Don't we?"

Whatever he saw on your face was answer enough.

"No."

"Yes." It wasn't you who answered, and perhaps it was the nature of the speaker that only you heard him.

You looked beyond your lover's shoulder. Standing in his shroud, Death waited.

"A fair trade?" you asked.

The fisherman turned to follow your eyes, but all he saw was the open sea.

"Better than fair."

Death shook his head, long nails click clacking on the handle of his staff.

"It is rare indeed that I claim one of your kind."

There was no triumph in his voice, no sorrow. He truly was implacable as the grave.

"Who do you see?" The fisherman asked you, hands gripping your shoulders, frantic.

You thought he already knew. He was not so long out of the underworld that he could forget the feeling of Death's footsteps passing by. He pulled you into his chest, one hand cradling the back of your head.

"No, no. Reverse whatever you've done. My time has come and passed." His voice was raw, flayed by the salt of blood and tears. "Please."

You grabbed a handful of his shirt, felt the heart beating strong and true in his chest. "I cannot. I will not."

Above you, the moon and the stars wept.

"Daughter. Oh, my poor daughter."

"Little sister, gone, gone, gone where we cannot follow."

Death brushed his hand across your brow and you shuddered. The fisherman pulled you closer, spoke to the air where Death stood.

"Take me instead. It's me you came for, it's me you want. You won't be cheated by a fisherman, will you? So do as you came to do."

"Fair is fair, fisherman at the edge of the world," Death said in a voice like bones rattling.

"A life must be taken. The scales must balance. Even the stars in heaven die at my hand."

The fisherman paled. Very few heard the voice of Death while they still lived, and fewer still kept their minds together after. It was the sound of the tomb, the grave, the earth thudding on the coffin top. When he spoke, his voice was wretched with grief.

"I'm begging you. Let her live."

"We beseech you, let our sister go," the stars chorused after him.

"Please," said the moon. "Please have mercy, Lord of the end."

Death stood at the edge of the world and all of heaven begged him to be kind. Just once. Just for a moment.

"No."

You felt his hand on your heart. And then you felt nothing at all.

The fisherman knew the second it happened. Your body sagged against him, your fingers dropped from his shirt.

He cradled your body and wept his terrible grief into your faded dress.

Death held your soul between his fingers. The size of a moon pearl, but ten thousand times as bright. Few things in his collection were quite as fine.

"I will not be cheated. Not by the innocent nor the wicked."

The wind and the sea sighed. They knew all too well how inflexible he could be. To all the witnesses, this should have been the end. Lovers were not spared by Death. Why would he make an exception now?

And to all who knew the moon, in her timed phases and careful rotation, this too should have been the end. But the thing they most often seemed to forget was this; the moon was still a mother. And though you were dead and on the earth, you were still her blood.

"A link!" your mother whispered to herself. "He lives with a part of her inside him, creature of the earth that he is."

Death didn't notice when the moon reached down for your body. Why would he? The soul was what mattered to him. But she wasn't called the wise woman for nothing. He was about to leave, about to step from one world to the other, when your mother snatched your soul straight out of his hand.

Too late, too late he whirled to catch it, to curse at the moon's trickery. Already she was gone, your body and the fisherman gone with her.

Death cursed, gathered his shroud to pursue, when the Tide finally spoke. The moon's husband was quick to anger and slow to forgive, but he loved his wife. Hated to see her grieve.

"Still yourself, bone lord. I ask you not for mercy or for kindness. I ask you simply to trade."

"What could you have, sea beast? Drowned men are a dime a dozen. What can you offer for a star's soul?"

The Tide sighed, for he knew that Death measured by a metric none living or dead fully understood.

"I can give you a mermaid's heart, still beating with the pull of the waves. I can give you a fishwife, still young and in love. I can give you the most beautiful of my pets, to forever keep as own."

Death laughed, as terrible and grating as a tomb opening.

"No deal at all, sea beast. Life for life must willingly be given."

"I thought so," said the Tide. "But if you are as quick and wise as they say, you would look to the heavens and realise whatever soul you wanted is beyond your reach."

In the sky, twin stars burned. The third brightest in the sky.

Death laughed again. "Oh, the moon is a tricky one indeed. Two stars, sharing a soul."

You might have expected him to be angry, might have expected cursing and rage. Thought he would reach up and pull you both from the sky. But few understood the whims and wiles of Death.

He gathered his shroud and smiled and winked away. He would have you eventually. No one could escape him forever. But a star lives a long time and when it came down to it, he didn't mind waiting.

Death of all people could appreciate a good trick.

You pulled in a breath that rasped and burned. When you opened your eyes, the fisherman was kneeling at your side, your head in his lap.

"My love, how do I live?" You sat up slowly, afraid that he somehow undid the magic you cast.

"You've done a dangerous thing, daughter of mine."

Your mother stood waiting for you, her robes silver and red and the dusty gold of a full moon hanging low in the sky.

"Mother!"

"Don't stand. You're still weak." She frowned at you, and at the fisherman at your side.

"I did not think to ever have a son-in-law. And I did not think to ever watch my daughter die."

You looked her in her eyes, pale silver from end to end. "I'm sorry to have done that to you mother. But I'm not sorry for my choice."

She sighed, harsh from trying to hide her grief.

"You have him now, daughter of mine. The man you gave your own life for. I hope he was worth the sacrifice."

"He was. He is."

The fisherman's arms tightened around you and his head dropped to your shoulder. He was crying, but only you knew, only you could feel his hot tears soaking into your dress.

"Very well. Have your moment with your man. And then come and take your place."

She left you. For a second between the moment she opened and closed the door, you could see the faces of your sisters. Still worried, still pale.

The hall of your mother's palace was quiet. The fisherman kept his forehead pressed against your shoulder, breathing hard.

"I never should have kept you," he said finally. "I should have sent you back to the sky the second you landed in my arms. Oh love, how could I be so selfish?"

"Don't you dare say that. All you did was show me kindness. It was I who chose to stay. And even now, my only regret is that I bought you to such grief."

You intertwined your hands with his.

"I love you. I loved you the moment I heard your music and fell from the sky to hear it better."

He brought your knuckles to his lips and pressed a kiss against your fingers.

"I loved you the moment I pulled you from the sea." Another kiss pressed against your hands. "I loved you the moment you spoke to me, the moment you smiled."

You hesitated, suddenly unsure. "I've made you give up your dream of catching moonlight."

He laughed, eyes crinkling at the corners. "Oh, I've caught myself something much better than moonlight tonight."

I've caught myself a bride. And oh, I'm never letting her go.

If you look to the sky at dawn and dusk, you'll see twin stars. They always rise together, always move across the heavens in tandem, always set hand in hand. Lovers wish on them, pray that Death is as kind to them as he once was at the edge of the world. Fishermen sail by them, trust the steadiness of their light to bring their boats safely home. And stories are told of them. Of the fisherman who tried to catch moonlight. And the bride who was plucked straight out of the sea.

The third brightest stars in the the night sky - the Fisherman and the Starwife.