Title: "Winter's Son": The Chronicles of Narnia fanfiction
Pairing: Peter Pevensie x Reader Male
Genre: Fantasy | Romance | Hurt/Comfort | Magic | Slow Burn |Found Family
Warnings: Emotional vulnerability, heat sickness / fainting (non-graphic).
Summary: A winter-touched boy living under Aslan’s protection meets Peter Pevensie, whose warmth draws him in despite his fragile nature. As Peter becomes part of his world, their connection deepens in ways neither expected.
Warmth.
That was the one enemy you had never been able to fight.
Most creatures in Narnia loved the sun, the soft grass, the summer wind carrying the smell of green fields. But your body reacted differently. Heat made your breath thin, your skin sore, your head heavy until you could barely stand. Even spring sunlight left you dizzy.
You had been born with winter in your blood.
White hair.
Icy blue-white eyes.
A pulse that beat slower in warmth and steadier in cold.
But your heart—everyone said your heart was warmer than anything else in Narnia.
Aslan said it first.
And because he believed it, you believed it too.
----
You lived on the warm side of Narnia, by choice. Because that was where Aslan remained most of the time. And you refused to be away from him.
He saw your loyalty, your stubborn devotion, and your fragile body struggling against the heat of the forest. So Aslan created something only for you:
A small circle of land, no wider than a meadow, where winter never left.
Snow fell gently without storm.
Ice shimmered in delicate lace across branches.
A cozy cottage—warm in spirit but cool in temperature—rested at the center.
It was perfect.
It let you stay close to Aslan without burning yourself alive.
The Lion visited you often. He spoke to you in that deep, ancient rumble that vibrated through your bones. He would lower his massive head into your lap and let you braid little strings of snow-silk flowers into his mane. You would talk for hours.
He treated you as a son.
And you loved him like a father.
----
The day the Pevensies arrived, you knew before Aslan even said a word.
You heard the footsteps.
The sound of warm-blooded beings crunching through snow where they shouldn’t.
You stepped outside your cottage and the sun hit your skin—the tiny bit of warm air at the edge of your boundary. It made your head spin instantly. You gripped the doorframe, breath trembling.
Aslan padded toward you from the treeline, golden and bright.
“Easy, my child,” he murmured. “Do not push beyond what your body allows.”
“I’m fine,” you said—lying, as always.
Behind him stood four humans. Smallest to tallest. You recognized nothing about them except the way Aslan’s gaze softened when it swept across their faces.
“These are the Sons of Adam and Daughters of Eve,” Aslan said. “They will help heal this land.”
You bowed in respect, though the movement made your vision blur.
And then your eyes landed on him.
Peter.
Golden-brown hair, blue eyes, posture rigid with courage he clearly hadn’t always had. His gaze caught on you instantly—and did not move.
Your white hair flickered in the cold wind. Snowflakes clung to your lashes. Your skin glowed faintly blue in the frostlight.
Peter stared like you were something carved from starlight.
You stared back like he was something carved from warmth you’d never dared to touch.
Aslan noticed.
Of course he noticed.
He huffed a very small, very knowing sound.
----
Aslan guided them toward you.
“This is Y/N,” he said. “He dwells here under my protection.”
Peter stepped closer—too close. Past the line where your sanctuary ended. The warm air from his side hit you like a wall.
Your breath caught. A wave of heat rolled into your chest. Your knees buckled.
“Y/N!” Peter lunged forward, catching you before you hit the snow.
His arms were warm.
Too warm.
Fire raced under your skin and you hissed in pain, curling involuntarily against him.
“Sorry—!” Peter panicked and immediately tried to lower you, but you grabbed the front of his coat with shaking hands.
“It’s… okay,” you forced out through clenched teeth. “Just… too hot.”
Peter flushed scarlet, guilt flooding his features. “I didn’t know—I’m so sorry—”
Aslan stepped beside you both, huge and calm.
“He is not harmed,” Aslan said gently. “Only overwhelmed. Y/N’s body is not made for warmth. Even the heat of another person can distress him.”
Peter looked devastated by that knowledge.
You touched his sleeve—your fingers, cold as ice, brushing his warm arm.
“It’s all right,” you whispered. “You didn’t hurt me. Don’t look like that.”
His breath hitched.
He looked at you like you were something delicate and precious.
You realized you were still holding onto him.
Neither of you let go.
----
Over the next days, the Pevensies accompanied Aslan as he prepared for the coming war. And Peter…
Peter kept finding excuses to visit your cottage.
Sometimes he brought questions about Narnia.
Sometimes about strategy.
Sometimes he brought nothing but his presence.
And every time he crossed into your winter sanctuary, he shivered pleasantly, adjusting to the cold.
“It’s always so beautiful in here,” he murmured, brushing frost from his coat.
“It’s just snow,” you said.
“No,” Peter corrected softly. “It’s… you.”
You froze—not from your element, but from the way his voice dipped, warm and earnest.
He stepped closer. His breath misted between you.
“Can I…?” he whispered.
You tilted your head. “Can you what?”
Peter reached out slowly, giving you every chance to move away.
His fingers brushed your white hair, sweeping a strand behind your ear.
“You have snow in your hair all the time,” he murmured. “It suits you.”
Your cheeks warmed—not from heat, but from him.
“You shouldn’t get too close,” you breathed. “I don’t want you cold.”
Peter gave a small smile, something soft and almost shy.
“I don’t mind a little cold,” he said. “Not if it means being near you.”
Your heart stuttered.
“You shouldn’t say things like that,” you whispered.
“Why not?” he asked, stepping closer still, blue eyes fixed on yours.
“Because…” Your throat tightened. “Because I’ll start believing them.”
Peter’s breath faltered.
“I think I want you to,” he said.
----
One afternoon, Peter convinced you to step outside your sanctuary—just for a moment—to show him a lake he couldn’t find on his own.
You tried.
Truly.
But the moment the warm air hit you, your skin flushed painfully. Your lungs burned. Sweat dampened your forehead. You stumbled, gripping a tree as your vision blurred to white.
“Y/N?” Peter’s voice sharpened with fear. “Hey—look at me—look at me—”
“I—I can’t—too hot—Peter—” you gasped.
He caught you in his arms again, but this time he didn’t panic. He held you gently, firmly, lifting you against his chest.
“Hold on,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”
You curled against him helplessly. Your body trembled in fever, but Peter kept whispering, voice low and soothing.
“I’m here. You’re going to be all right. Don’t you dare pass out on me.”
He carried you all the way back, not caring how the cold bit at him once he crossed into your sanctuary.
Aslan met you at the door of your cottage. His golden eyes softened with deep worry.
“Peter,” Aslan rumbled, “lay him down.”
Peter didn’t hesitate. He placed you gently onto your bed, brushing cold hair from your face.
Aslan’s massive head bowed beside you.
“You pushed yourself too hard, little one,” the Lion murmured.
You blinked up weakly, voice cracked. “I wanted… to help…”
Peter swallowed hard. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize— I didn’t mean to—”
You caught his wrist with trembling fingers.
“It’s not your fault,” you whispered, weak but sincere. “I’d follow you anywhere. Maybe I… shouldn’t.”
Peter’s face broke—soft, aching, full of emotion.
Aslan watched him carefully, then spoke in a low, rumbling tone.
“Peter,” Aslan said, “he trusts you. And I believe you may be the one person his heart listens to even more than mine.”
Peter’s eyes widened, stunned.
Aslan nudged his great head toward you.
“Stay with him.”
Peter sat beside you instantly.
You reached for him blindly, and he took your hand, pressing it to his chest.
“Don’t scare me like that again,” he whispered, voice trembling. “I can’t— I can’t lose you.”
Your breath caught.
“Peter,” you whispered. “Why do you care so much?”
His fingers brushed your cheek, cool from the sanctuary’s air.
“Because I’ve never…” His voice cracked. He tried again. “I’ve never met anyone like you. And I don’t want to.”
Your heart pounded weakly, but you managed a small, soft smile.
“You’re warm,” you said.
Peter leaned closer, forehead nearly touching yours.
“Is that a bad thing?” he whispered.
“No,” you whispered back. “Not when it’s you.”
His lips brushed yours—gentle, hesitant, full of the warmth you could feel safely.
You kissed him back.
Slow.
Careful.
Beautiful.
You felt his breath tremble.
When the kiss broke, Peter rested his forehead against yours.
“You are winter,” he murmured. “And I want to stay in your cold forever if it means I can be the one who warms your heart.”
Your eyes stung with emotion.
Aslan watched with a soft, knowing smile.
“My son,” the Lion rumbled softly, “you have found your warmth at last.”
You squeezed Peter’s hand.
“No,” you whispered. “My warmth found me.”
Peter kissed your forehead gently.
“I’m not leaving,” he promised. “Not tonight. Not ever.”
And for the first time, warmth didn’t hurt.
It healed.
───
My main masterlist
The Chronicles of Narnia - masterlist
The different flavors of Magical Femboy Reader and how they approach their Yan Arch Enemy.
-
The Fanboy: Stealing again?! That calls for twenty lashes this time. I'll make sure you learn your lesson - take this!
Yan Villain: ha.... I'm just horrible, aren't I?~ You might have to double my punishment if you're searching for even a chance of me improving-
-
The Sacrifice: Sorry.
[Smack!]
The Sacrifice: Sorry! This hurts me as much as it hurts you. Why can't we all just get along :(
Yan Villain: [internally] he's so cute <3
-
The "Hero" - driving his heel into the villains cheek: Freak. Are you actually getting off to this? Maybe I should just kill you and be done with it... but then what would I do without my favorite punch bag?
Yan Villain: ha....ha... More... Give me more!~
-
The Crybaby: Wahhhhh- You're gross! Don't touch me! You'll get blood all over my skirt! Please just leave me alone! It's karaoke night :'(
Yan Villain: Mine. I won't let anyone take you away from me. Allow me to bask in your glory just a little while longer, my love~
[Yan Villain wraps their arms around Reader's thigh - rolling their tongue over his skin. Reader squeaks, smacking them repeatedly with his wand]
People call them "Contracts" but few, if any, ever read the fine print.
Maybe it's because of all the media from my first life; the horror stories and tales of deals gone wrong. Yet it seems like I alone, remain cautious. Careful. It feels like I alone, even understand the concept of "a deal with the devil". Though granted... not by that exact wording.
There are no devils here. IS no Christian Heaven or Hell. (As far as I can tell.)
But... but oh, there is so much more. And all of it is dangerous.
There are demons, yes, but they are creature made of malicious Energies. So too, exsist spirits. Minor and major Gods. It is a full and complete fantasy set up. They whole package. A wonderland of world building. And? A horror story to live in.
Those self same demons? Eat people. Attack travelers. Trains. And those Spirits? Fight for dominance in some sort of ever shifting court intrigue, using mortals as power sources and pawns. Are just as, if not more, destructive then the demons!
But, oh. What of the Gods?
What OF them? Do you think they care?
Beneath the glamorous adventures and magical veneer of the Story, this world was a rotten thing. Barely holding together. Yet... yet it was all I had, now. And that terrified me. Because I could not protect... anyone. Could I? Not.. not a single soul.
In the Story, the Protagonist (bless his empty little head) went to a magical academy. Met friends and foes. There was a love story and eventually? He saved the day. Huzzah. Good for him. But... here was the problem. The one which haunted me so.
That Love story? The "girl" he fell in love with? A nice, if proper, young lady from a house far above his station. But, oh! It was a turn of the century magical fantasy! He became famous! Wealthy! Saved her life with his incredible power! Of course her family approved in the end.
I did not want to BE his love story.
He was... a nice young man. Really! But... but it was like talking to, well, a high school student. Which he effectively was. And I? Had already been in college. Damn near graduating! (Not that I was bitter. No. Of course not. Perish the thought!) Only to then? Reincarnate and go on to live over a decade more.
I was at least twice his age.
The day I'd look at him as a romantic prospect? Is the day I'd gouge my own eyes out. That is a CHILD. My whole class is full of children. It's... exhausting. Ha! "Mature one", indeed. "Class mom", indeed! If only they knew.
But now? Now‽ The school wanted us to make Contracts! For a fucking GRADE! It was horrifying. Ill conceived and frankly? A GREAT way to push kids to over reach themselves. Try and Contract with a more powerful Being then they could handle. Get burned up or used.
"Mandatory". Ha! Mandatory my ass. I should refuse. If I was sane, I was refuse. But the problem was?
The school was fronting the Contact materials and safety arrays.
It was the safest chance I'd ever get. Fuck. Damn it.
So I read. I read and I read. Research til my eyes cross. Practice writing until my hands cramp. Splurge on the highest grade calligraphy instruments and inks I can afford. And with my allowance? And years of saving up? I'm literally buying alongside royals.
But it's the CONTRACT that takes the most time. I have to research law. Act under the assumption that I will be faced with some sort of malicious genie. It... gods, it can only end poorly. I know this. Yet? Here I stand.
Doing it anyway.
(I am a fool... aren't I?)
Unlike my fellow students, I don't do a vague Call All. While yes, the odds are higher for a response (due to it being basically an APB), you will have no control over what responds. Better to call for something specific and fail, in my mind. Then at least? You can plan ahead.
Besides, with the sheer quality of the materials I'm using? Someone will answer. They won't be able to resist. It's like leaving a box of diamonds on the sidewalk.
It takes all day, slowly, carefully writing out the hundreds of thousands of sigils and qualifiers. The "if X then Y, except when Z unless AB" of it all. I magically drain myself twice. Have to eat trail mix on the floor then nap in the corner. I rented the hall for the week, but... once begun? Only an IDIOT would open the safety arrays to leave.
Great way for foreign influences to completely fuck up your spell work. Either try to harvest the building Energies or, more likely, sabotage the Contract for a friend or ally, so they get more then they should. Fuckers.
After nearly two days? It's done. Still, I wait. Even as the air nearly burns with power. The scent of Green so over powering it's like someone dumped a cologne aisle on the floor. Wood and moss and old growth. Deep dark, pitch black earth. Petrichor. All humming, Humming, HUMMING like a bow string pulled back as far as it can. Straining, shaking, desperately ready to release the tension and STRIKE.
But I am no fool.
I wait for my energy to refill. Wait for a nap and some food to clear my mind. For all my papers to be nicely in order. I have called upon you, not the other way around. You can wait. (Because, frankly? I haven't even called you yet!)
Contract ready, I step into place. And each step, as it lands, is like the falling of trees and the baying of hounds. Thunderous in the sudden silence. Crashing as they fall. It is not me, whoever does this, the heraldry is both dramatic and not something I've ever even practiced. The scent of Green is thick enough now to choke. I'm genuinely surprised that the scent alone has not inspired plant growth.
My meticulous work surges to life, like it was a beast, only barely holding itself a bay. Like it can no longer. Roots and vines, made of then thousand shades of green-Gold-GREEN light shoot forward and up. Restrictive and choking. I am consumed in seconds.
I have to remind myself not to panic. To keep my feet still. As long as I don't move? I am safe. It is all for show. Like a cat, arching it's back. They can't truely hurt me. Bruise? Yes. But true, actual injury? No. It would hurt THEM too.
"Well, now, what have we here?" Mused a voice beyond comprehension.
It was eons of growth, beneath aliens skies. The cries of animals long lost and longer dead. Things that weren't and have never been, but could have. Growth, growth, GROWTH. Hunting and savagery and Death. Trees so tall the eclipse the heavens. Roots so deep they consume the world. Each leaf a tapestry. Decay. Growth from the rotting.
My... my ears were bleeding.
The vines-roots writhed in agony and pleasure under the weight of those few words. And... and that wasn't right. S-something was wrong. Very, very wrong. A spirit wasn't supposed to be that... that powerful.
I could FEEL the Safety arrays all but screaming under the weight they were trying to hold. Like toothpicks trying to hold up a mountain range. W-what? What was happening? I picked an earth spirit! Statistically, the calmest and mildest out of all available options! So... so why...‽
"Not going to bargain, kid? Plead for power and wealth?" The next sentence was no less agony then the first. Like being slammed by a wall of power. "Or are you here to make demands? Hmmm? I'm curious, honestly, to see where this one goes. It's been a while, after all."
The world had a pink tint. I... I tasted iron. Ha ha... oh god. Shit. I fucked up. I knew I should never have agreed to this stupid fucking-!
Wet dribbled down my face. A wheezing gurgle rattled my lungs. My heart was racing... but... but I could get enough air. I tried to suck in more. But the wet gurgle only got louder, as pink tinted foam worked it's way up my throat. Filled my lungs. I couldn't breathe. Something wet trickled from my ears. I Couldn't Breathe!
"Ah. I forgot about that. Fragile little creatures, aren't you?"
Unhurried steps casually strolled closer. Iron flavored foam clogged my air ways, as muscles spasmed, and creeping tendrils of darkness began to work their way closer, around the edges of my dying eyes. The world was muffled yet I could hear him perfectly. My sense were burning out, yet he imprinted himself beyond that. What had I summoned? Oh god... what had I done? W-what had I-‽
A calloused, treebark colored hand (the shade ever shifting, just ever so slightly) passed through the vines. Rather, the vines parted for it. Sun warm. Glowing as though containing that sunlight itself. Big. It... it was a strong, gardeners hand. A hunter's. Yet at the same time... unmistakable for anyone but that of a powerful man's.
Casual in it's impropriety. Sliding through my hair to grip the top of my head like it was simply his due. His skin... buzzed against me. Was almost too hot. Like standing near a live wire. And...? Then...
Then everything was gone.
My lungs free and clear. My eyes sharper then they'd ever been. Hearing so crisp, the silence of the room around us was nearly vertigo inducing. It was like my body had been reset to factory settings. Upgraded. I shuddered, eyes clenching shut. Because even with the pain gone? The horror was still there. The memory of the taste still lingered in my mouth.
"There we go, good girl. All fixed." There was a condescending lilt to his voice. His hand didn't move. Just tightened lightly and dragged, forcing me to tilt my head up, if I didn't want my hair pulled. Making me look him in the eyes. They were shifting, lazily, between hawk and wolf gold even as I watched. "Now, you were trying to be clever, yes? Had your little plan and every thing. Come on, let's hear it. I'm curious to see where this scheme goes. You always think your so creative, after all. So bold and new."
I wanted to send him back.
Now.
Fuck this. Fuck, grades. To hell with "mandatory". I'd drop out if I had too. Gods damn it, I'd go be puppy boy Protagonist's Love Interest if I had too! This was insane. I... I fucked up so bad. Earth spirits don't glow. Light spirits glow! For obvious reasons. But you know who does‽ Who FUCKING DOES‽‽ Gods.
"Ah, ah~." He chided, all but curling over me as he loomed.
There was laughter threatening to escape his control, hidden in his voice. Mocking amusement in the deliberate non-smile that kept him from baring his teeth in a grin.
"Don't go running now. Not when you've already invited me in." Phrasing. Horrifying phrasing! "You wouldn't want to be rude would you? There are Rules, after all. And you know better. Don't you, little thing?"
I wanted to laugh hysterically. Cry a bit. Fuck. God DAMN IT. FUCK! He's right. Of course he is! He mocking me with it! Shit. Oh god. Fuck, damn it! O-okay... I... I can... I just-!
Fear? Truely is the mind killer. For long moments, I could not move. Could barely bring myself to breathe. My mind, a horrible static. But... like slowly forcing yourself to unclench a white knuckled grip. One finger at a time. I... I made myself focus. Tried to bring my arm up. Miraculously, the vines let me. I held the Contract I had written out.
"Oh? And what's this then? Deman-?"
I could feel the pages leave my hand. Hear the rustle as they were flipped. The ringing silence, as he registered what it was he held. But my eyes were closed. I... I didn't want to see the end coming. Maybe I was a coward for that. But damn it, gods damn it, I was scared!
Crashing of horns against horns, the bray of dying beasts. Cracking growing and the fall of mighty trees. Mycelium surging through deep dark soil. Ripping flesh. Hunting cries. Green and grow. GREEN AND DEATH. Green Green Green Green Green Gree-!
"Audacious little pet! Aren't you? Oh, you do think your clever!" Amusement sang like venom and traps yet to be sprung. Dying, dying, DYING-! "Oh dear. Again? My poor thing. Hold still. This 'spiritual partner' will make it all better, hmm?"
The hand was back. Cradling my lolling face. W-when had I? G..Gone limp? I can't feel my legs. Can't feel... can't feel.... c-cant f...feel...
GREEN.
I gasp in air, like a drowning man final breaking the surface. My face is sticky. Blood? Tears? Gore? I am terrified to know. Don't have the strength to lift my own head. My magic is being all but ripped out of me. Faster and faster. Like it's being drained into a bottomless pit.
Something beyond sunlight, beyond growth, is reaching back. The very Concept of nature made manifest. What did I summon? What creature? What GOD?! Did I SUMMON?! Please. Forgive me. I.. I didn't mean too! I swear! Please! P-please!
"You know? It's been far too long, since I've had an excuse. I needed a good vacation. And to think," A second hand comes up to cradle my face, with a terribly deceptive gentleness. Tilting my head this way and that, as though to inspect me. "It comes with a free pet. Oh you're going to be so very amusing, I can already tell."
"But don't worry, pet." He nearly crooned. Clearly warming up to his own idea. "I take care of my things."
Summary: A winter-touched boy living under Aslan’s protection meets Peter Pevensie, whose warmth draws him in despite his fragile nature. As Peter becomes part of his world, their connection deepens in ways neither expected.
Warmth.
That was the one enemy you had never been able to fight.
Most creatures in Narnia loved the sun, the soft grass, the summer wind carrying the smell of green fields. But your body reacted differently. Heat made your breath thin, your skin sore, your head heavy until you could barely stand. Even spring sunlight left you dizzy.
You had been born with winter in your blood.
White hair.
Icy blue-white eyes.
A pulse that beat slower in warmth and steadier in cold.
But your heart—everyone said your heart was warmer than anything else in Narnia.
Aslan said it first.
And because he believed it, you believed it too.
----
You lived on the warm side of Narnia, by choice. Because that was where Aslan remained most of the time. And you refused to be away from him.
He saw your loyalty, your stubborn devotion, and your fragile body struggling against the heat of the forest. So Aslan created something only for you:
A small circle of land, no wider than a meadow, where winter never left.
Snow fell gently without storm.
Ice shimmered in delicate lace across branches.
A cozy cottage—warm in spirit but cool in temperature—rested at the center.
It was perfect.
It let you stay close to Aslan without burning yourself alive.
The Lion visited you often. He spoke to you in that deep, ancient rumble that vibrated through your bones. He would lower his massive head into your lap and let you braid little strings of snow-silk flowers into his mane. You would talk for hours.
He treated you as a son.
And you loved him like a father.
----
The day the Pevensies arrived, you knew before Aslan even said a word.
You heard the footsteps.
The sound of warm-blooded beings crunching through snow where they shouldn’t.
You stepped outside your cottage and the sun hit your skin—the tiny bit of warm air at the edge of your boundary. It made your head spin instantly. You gripped the doorframe, breath trembling.
Aslan padded toward you from the treeline, golden and bright.
“Easy, my child,” he murmured. “Do not push beyond what your body allows.”
“I’m fine,” you said—lying, as always.
Behind him stood four humans. Smallest to tallest. You recognized nothing about them except the way Aslan’s gaze softened when it swept across their faces.
“These are the Sons of Adam and Daughters of Eve,” Aslan said. “They will help heal this land.”
You bowed in respect, though the movement made your vision blur.
And then your eyes landed on him.
Peter.
Golden-brown hair, blue eyes, posture rigid with courage he clearly hadn’t always had. His gaze caught on you instantly—and did not move.
Your white hair flickered in the cold wind. Snowflakes clung to your lashes. Your skin glowed faintly blue in the frostlight.
Peter stared like you were something carved from starlight.
You stared back like he was something carved from warmth you’d never dared to touch.
Aslan noticed.
Of course he noticed.
He huffed a very small, very knowing sound.
----
Aslan guided them toward you.
“This is Y/N,” he said. “He dwells here under my protection.”
Peter stepped closer—too close. Past the line where your sanctuary ended. The warm air from his side hit you like a wall.
Your breath caught. A wave of heat rolled into your chest. Your knees buckled.
“Y/N!” Peter lunged forward, catching you before you hit the snow.
His arms were warm.
Too warm.
Fire raced under your skin and you hissed in pain, curling involuntarily against him.
“Sorry—!” Peter panicked and immediately tried to lower you, but you grabbed the front of his coat with shaking hands.
“It’s… okay,” you forced out through clenched teeth. “Just… too hot.”
Peter flushed scarlet, guilt flooding his features. “I didn’t know—I’m so sorry—”
Aslan stepped beside you both, huge and calm.
“He is not harmed,” Aslan said gently. “Only overwhelmed. Y/N’s body is not made for warmth. Even the heat of another person can distress him.”
Peter looked devastated by that knowledge.
You touched his sleeve—your fingers, cold as ice, brushing his warm arm.
“It’s all right,” you whispered. “You didn’t hurt me. Don’t look like that.”
His breath hitched.
He looked at you like you were something delicate and precious.
You realized you were still holding onto him.
Neither of you let go.
----
Over the next days, the Pevensies accompanied Aslan as he prepared for the coming war. And Peter…
Peter kept finding excuses to visit your cottage.
Sometimes he brought questions about Narnia.
Sometimes about strategy.
Sometimes he brought nothing but his presence.
And every time he crossed into your winter sanctuary, he shivered pleasantly, adjusting to the cold.
“It’s always so beautiful in here,” he murmured, brushing frost from his coat.
“It’s just snow,” you said.
“No,” Peter corrected softly. “It’s… you.”
You froze—not from your element, but from the way his voice dipped, warm and earnest.
He stepped closer. His breath misted between you.
“Can I…?” he whispered.
You tilted your head. “Can you what?”
Peter reached out slowly, giving you every chance to move away.
His fingers brushed your white hair, sweeping a strand behind your ear.
“You have snow in your hair all the time,” he murmured. “It suits you.”
Your cheeks warmed—not from heat, but from him.
“You shouldn’t get too close,” you breathed. “I don’t want you cold.”
Peter gave a small smile, something soft and almost shy.
“I don’t mind a little cold,” he said. “Not if it means being near you.”
Your heart stuttered.
“You shouldn’t say things like that,” you whispered.
“Why not?” he asked, stepping closer still, blue eyes fixed on yours.
“Because…” Your throat tightened. “Because I’ll start believing them.”
Peter’s breath faltered.
“I think I want you to,” he said.
----
One afternoon, Peter convinced you to step outside your sanctuary—just for a moment—to show him a lake he couldn’t find on his own.
You tried.
Truly.
But the moment the warm air hit you, your skin flushed painfully. Your lungs burned. Sweat dampened your forehead. You stumbled, gripping a tree as your vision blurred to white.
“Y/N?” Peter’s voice sharpened with fear. “Hey—look at me—look at me—”
“I—I can’t—too hot—Peter—” you gasped.
He caught you in his arms again, but this time he didn’t panic. He held you gently, firmly, lifting you against his chest.
“Hold on,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”
You curled against him helplessly. Your body trembled in fever, but Peter kept whispering, voice low and soothing.
“I’m here. You’re going to be all right. Don’t you dare pass out on me.”
He carried you all the way back, not caring how the cold bit at him once he crossed into your sanctuary.
Aslan met you at the door of your cottage. His golden eyes softened with deep worry.
“Peter,” Aslan rumbled, “lay him down.”
Peter didn’t hesitate. He placed you gently onto your bed, brushing cold hair from your face.
Aslan’s massive head bowed beside you.
“You pushed yourself too hard, little one,” the Lion murmured.
You blinked up weakly, voice cracked. “I wanted… to help…”
Peter swallowed hard. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize— I didn’t mean to—”
You caught his wrist with trembling fingers.
“It’s not your fault,” you whispered, weak but sincere. “I’d follow you anywhere. Maybe I… shouldn’t.”
Peter’s face broke—soft, aching, full of emotion.
Aslan watched him carefully, then spoke in a low, rumbling tone.
“Peter,” Aslan said, “he trusts you. And I believe you may be the one person his heart listens to even more than mine.”
Peter’s eyes widened, stunned.
Aslan nudged his great head toward you.
“Stay with him.”
Peter sat beside you instantly.
You reached for him blindly, and he took your hand, pressing it to his chest.
“Don’t scare me like that again,” he whispered, voice trembling. “I can’t— I can’t lose you.”
Your breath caught.
“Peter,” you whispered. “Why do you care so much?”
His fingers brushed your cheek, cool from the sanctuary’s air.
“Because I’ve never…” His voice cracked. He tried again. “I’ve never met anyone like you. And I don’t want to.”
Your heart pounded weakly, but you managed a small, soft smile.
“You’re warm,” you said.
Peter leaned closer, forehead nearly touching yours.
“Is that a bad thing?” he whispered.
“No,” you whispered back. “Not when it’s you.”
His lips brushed yours—gentle, hesitant, full of the warmth you could feel safely.
You kissed him back.
Slow.
Careful.
Beautiful.
You felt his breath tremble.
When the kiss broke, Peter rested his forehead against yours.
“You are winter,” he murmured. “And I want to stay in your cold forever if it means I can be the one who warms your heart.”
Your eyes stung with emotion.
Aslan watched with a soft, knowing smile.
“My son,” the Lion rumbled softly, “you have found your warmth at last.”
You squeezed Peter’s hand.
“No,” you whispered. “My warmth found me.”
Peter kissed your forehead gently.
“I’m not leaving,” he promised. “Not tonight. Not ever.”
If You Were To End up in Twisted Wonderland (Part 1)
(Do not worry. The author is generous; they have given you magic)
A Place With Too Much Sky
Consciousness returned in fragments.
Heat came first—not sharp, not burning, but heavy, like a blanket soaked in warmth laid over my chest. It pressed the air out of my lungs slowly enough that it didn’t hurt, just made breathing feel… deliberate. Necessary.
I didn’t open my eyes.
Not because I was calm—but because something felt wrong in a way I couldn’t name yet, and I had learned that opening your eyes too fast in unfamiliar situations only made things worse.
The ground beneath me was uneven. Grit pressed into my cheek. Sand, maybe. My ear rang faintly, like I’d just stood up too fast after lying down too long.
I tested my fingers first.
They moved.
That was good.
My arms followed, sluggish but intact. I rolled onto my back with a small sound that scraped out of my throat, more breath than voice.
Then I opened my eyes.
The sky was wrong.
Not metaphorically. Not poetically. Structurally wrong.
It was too big.
Blue stretched endlessly in every direction, uninterrupted by buildings, wires, planes, or clouds thick enough to feel familiar. The sun hung high and unapologetic, brighter than it ever had any right to be, glaring down like it had personally decided I was an inconvenience.
I squinted and raised an arm to shield my face.
My sleeve was dusty.
That was when the panic started trying to crawl up my spine.
I sat up too fast and immediately regretted it. The world tilted, horizon spinning slightly, and I had to brace one hand against the ground to keep from falling back over.
Sand.
Not beach sand. Not playground sand.
This was dry. Pale. Mixed with brittle grass that snapped softly when I shifted my weight.
I turned slowly, very slowly, taking in my surroundings like sudden movement might cause them to collapse into something else.
There was nothing close.
No road. No sign. No noise but wind brushing through tall yellow grass in a sound like something breathing.
The land stretched outward in rolling plains, dotted with flat-topped trees whose silhouettes I didn’t recognize. Far away—very far—stone shapes rose from the earth, pale and angular, catching the light like teeth.
My heart started pounding.
“No,” I whispered.
The word felt small.
I checked myself next—not my surroundings, but me. Hands trembling slightly. Dirt under my nails. My hoodie still on. Shoes intact. Weight familiar. Body responding normally, aside from the headache blooming behind my eyes.
And then, instinctively, I reached inward.
Magic answered.
Not brightly. Not eagerly.
It was there the way a limb is there when it’s fallen asleep—present, but slow, muffled, resisting clean movement. That alone made my throat tighten.
Magic had always felt clear.
This felt like pushing through thick air.
I swallowed and looked around again, slower this time.
The smell hit me next.
Dry earth. Warm stone. Something animal, distant but unmistakable. The kind of scent you only noticed when your brain reminded you that you were not at the top of the food chain.
My mouth went dry.
I stood up.
The horizon didn’t change.
The sky didn’t shrink.
Nothing snapped into place.
This wasn’t a dream.
Dreams bent when you tested them. They blurred, skipped, offered you mercy.
This place didn’t care whether I understood it or not.
The realization settled in piece by piece, heavy and unavoidable:
I didn’t know where I was.
I didn’t know how I got here.
And there was no sign—none—that anyone was coming.
I turned in a slow circle, counting my breaths to keep myself from spiraling.
Wind. Grass. Heat.
Then—movement.
Not close. Not immediate.
But there, at the edge of perception, something shifted against the distant stone shapes. Tall forms. Upright. Moving with purpose.
I froze.
Every instinct screamed at me to crouch, to make myself smaller, to disappear into the grass. Another part of me—the one that remembered every stupid survival guide and every mistake fear had ever made for me—warned me that running without knowing what you’re running from is how you die tired.
So I stayed still.
I watched.
As they came closer, details resolved.
They were people.
No—not quite.
They walked on two legs, carried themselves upright, wore clothing that caught the light—but their silhouettes were wrong in subtle ways. Tails flicked behind them. Ears sat too high, too mobile. Their movements were fluid, predatory without being rushed.
My breath hitched.
I had seen nothing like this in real life.
Which meant one of two things.
Either I was hallucinating so vividly that my brain had finally snapped—
—or reality had changed without asking my permission.
The figures stopped some distance away. Close enough now that I could see the glint of metal at their sides, the way their eyes tracked me with open curiosity rather than surprise.
One of them spoke.
I didn’t understand the words.
But I understood the tone.
Not friendly.
Not hostile.
Evaluating.
I raised my hands slowly, palms open, every movement measured. My heart was pounding so hard it felt like it was trying to escape my ribs.
“I don’t know where I am,” I said, voice rough and too loud in the open air. “I’m not a threat.”
The words felt flimsy the moment they left my mouth.
The figures exchanged looks. One tilted his head, ears twitching, and said something again—shorter this time.
They began to approach.
And as they did, I understood something with sudden, terrifying clarity:
Whatever this world was—
It had rules.
And I had arrived without knowing a single one.
First Contact Is Silence
They stopped far enough away that I could still run.
That fact alone mattered.
Predators that intend to strike do not announce themselves, and they do not halt at a comfortable distance. Whatever these beings were, they were choosing to be seen.
That didn’t mean they were safe.
It meant they were thinking.
I kept my hands raised, fingers spread—not because I thought they understood the gesture, but because open hands meant I wasn’t holding a weapon. It was one of the few signals that crossed cultures on Earth. Whether it worked here was unknown, but it cost me nothing.
My breathing was too fast.
I slowed it deliberately. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Hyperventilating would make me dizzy. Dizzy would make me fall. Falling in front of unknown armed entities was not acceptable.
They spoke again.
The sounds were structured—clear syllables, consistent rhythm. A language. That ruled out animals. It also ruled out immediate chaos. Language meant society. Society meant rules.
Rules meant leverage.
I did not speak back.
That was important.
Responding in my own language would establish noise without meaning. Worse, it might signal confidence I didn’t have. Silence, on the other hand, was neutral. Observational. Defensive.
One of them took a step closer.
I did not move.
Another gesture—one arm lifting, palm angled downward, then slowly lowered.
I watched closely.
This could mean calm down.
It could mean stay.
It could mean submit.
I mirrored it.
Not perfectly. Not exaggerated. Just enough to show I was paying attention and willing to reciprocate behavior.
Mirroring is a powerful tool. It tells the other party: I am watching you. I am learning.
Their ears flicked. Tails shifted.
They were reading me as much as I was reading them.
That realization steadied me.
I was not an object.
I was a variable.
They circled slightly—not surrounding me, but repositioning. One stayed directly in front, the others widening their angles. Classic containment. Not aggressive. Preventative.
I adjusted my stance so I could still see all of them without turning my head too much. Peripheral awareness mattered.
One of them pointed—past me.
I followed the direction slowly, turning my head first, then my shoulders.
The land behind me was empty.
Then he pointed again—this time toward the distant stone structures.
A city.
My pulse jumped.
They were indicating relocation.
That could mean shelter.
That could mean questioning.
That could mean imprisonment.
But here was the key detail:
They had not restrained me.
They had not touched me.
They had not drawn weapons.
Which meant, logically, I still had perceived autonomy.
Running now would redefine the interaction.
If I ran, I would become prey—or hostile.
If I stayed, I remained an unknown.
Unknowns are handled carefully.
I nodded once.
Slow. Controlled.
Then I pointed at myself, questioning, and tilted my head slightly.
They watched. One responded with a short phrase and a brief nod.
Confirmation.
Not understanding, but acknowledgment.
I took one step forward.
They did not react.
Second step.
Still nothing.
Only then did I continue walking—carefully, deliberately—allowing them to set the pace. I positioned myself slightly behind the one in front but not so far back that I could be isolated.
As we moved, I catalogued everything.
Their clothing was functional—light, layered, designed for heat. No insignia I recognized, but uniformity suggested organization. Their weapons were worn, not decorative.
Soldiers. Guards. Enforcers.
The city grew slowly larger, its scale becoming clearer with every minute. Walls of pale stone. Angular architecture. Elevated structures catching the light.
Civilization.
Which meant laws.
Which meant I needed to survive long enough to learn them.
I did not attempt magic.
That was critical.
Unknown world. Unknown physics. Unknown consequences. Revealing a capability without understanding how it would be interpreted—or regulated—would be catastrophic.
Power without context is threat.
I would not be a threat.
Not yet.
As the sun beat down and my throat dried, one of them offered me a container—water, judging by the way he tilted it and mimed drinking.
I accepted it with both hands.
That mattered too.
Gratitude without submission. Care without dominance.
Every movement was a sentence in a language I didn’t speak.
And as the city gates loomed closer, I understood something fundamental—not with fear, but with clarity:
I was no longer trying to get home.
I was trying to stay alive long enough to understand where I was.
And understanding would take time.
A Body Out of Context
Walking was a mistake.
Not immediately—but ten minutes in, the heat began to matter.
The sun here wasn’t just bright; it was direct. No haze. No humidity to diffuse it. Each step pulled moisture from my skin faster than I could notice. Sweat formed, then evaporated almost instantly, which meant my body wasn’t getting the feedback it relied on to regulate itself.
That was dangerous.
I adjusted my breathing again. Shorter steps. Less wasted motion. My shoes weren’t made for this terrain, and every time sand shifted underfoot, small stabilizing muscles fired in my ankles and calves. Tiny energy drains. They added up.
The guards—if that’s what they were—moved easily. Their posture didn’t change. They were adapted to this environment.
I was not.
That imbalance mattered more than weapons.
We reached the outer edge of the city without incident. No crowds rushed forward. No alarm sounded. That told me two things:
Outsiders were not unprecedented.
I was not currently classified as an emergency.
The gate itself was tall enough to block sightlines into the city. Defensive architecture. Old stone, weathered but maintained. The kind of wall that had been repaired multiple times over generations.
This place had history.
Inside, the temperature dropped slightly—not cooler, but less punishing. Shade from buildings broke the sun into manageable sections. My shoulders loosened a fraction without me meaning them to.
I noticed people now.
They noticed me back.
Eyes lingered too long. Conversations paused. Children stared openly until adults redirected them. No one screamed. No one fled.
Curiosity. Assessment. Social awareness.
I kept my gaze level—not fixed on anyone, not darting. Predators lock on. Prey avoids eye contact. I chose neutral.
We stopped near a stone structure that smelled faintly of oil, dust, and something metallic. A checkpoint, maybe. Administrative space. Somewhere decisions were made.
One guard spoke to another, longer this time. More detailed. They gestured at me—not rudely, but clinically.
I was being described.
That realization tightened my chest.
I stood still. Weight balanced. Knees unlocked. If they intended to restrain me, resisting would escalate things immediately. Compliance gave me more time to learn.
A different individual approached.
Taller. Older. Scars visible even from a distance. His presence changed the posture of the others—not fear, but attention.
Authority.
He studied me without expression.
Long enough that it became uncomfortable.
I resisted the urge to speak.
This was important: language is not just words. It’s tone, timing, hierarchy. Speaking without knowing who should speak first can be read as disrespect, challenge, or deception.
He spoke.
The words were still meaningless to me, but his cadence was different—measured, deliberate. He expected a response.
I did not understand.
So I did the only logical thing.
I pointed to my ear.
Then I shook my head once.
Clear signal: I cannot understand sound-based communication.
Then I pointed to my mouth and repeated the gesture.
I cannot produce it either.
Not mute—just incompatible.
This reframed the situation.
Confusion is less threatening than silence.
The authority figure watched closely, then responded with something shorter. He gestured again—this time toward the interior of the structure.
Inside.
I hesitated for half a second—not enough to challenge, just enough to communicate awareness.
Then I went.
The interior was dimmer. Stone absorbed heat differently. My eyes adjusted slowly. The air smelled stale but cooler.
They guided me—not grabbed. Hands hovered near my arms but did not touch unless necessary.
That restraint told me something critical:
They were choosing control through compliance, not force.
Force is messy. Force causes retaliation later.
This was governance.
They seated me on a stone bench. Cold against overheated skin. My body reacted immediately—goosebumps, slight shiver.
Shock prevention, whether they knew it consciously or not.
Water was brought again.
I drank slowly this time. Small sips. Letting my body absorb without triggering nausea.
The authority figure watched my hands, my throat, my posture.
He was checking for tells.
I kept my movements efficient and boring.
After a time—minutes, maybe longer—another individual entered. Smaller. Different clothing. Less martial.
They spoke. Slower. Repetitive.
Interpreter? Scholar? Administrator?
They gestured between themselves and me. Then they drew shapes in dust on the stone floor.
Symbols.
I leaned forward slightly.
This was the first bridge.
I pointed to myself.
Tapped my chest once.
They paused.
Then drew a mark and pointed to it.
A designation.
A label.
I didn’t correct it. Correcting requires shared language. Accepting provisional labels buys time.
Then they drew another shape—circular, with lines radiating outward—and pointed upward.
Sky?
Place?
Origin?
I hesitated.
I could not point anywhere meaningful.
So instead, I drew a line downward with my finger—straight, abrupt.
Then spread my hands apart.
I did not travel intentionally.
Their expressions changed subtly.
Not fear.
Interest.
The authority figure spoke sharply now. A brief exchange followed. Faster. Lower tones.
I was no longer just lost.
I was anomalous.
And anomalies do not get released.
But they also do not get killed quickly—because killing destroys data.
I sat back.
Kept breathing steady.
Kept my hands visible.
And for the first time since waking up, I allowed myself to think this fully formed, terrifying, grounding thought:
I am not a visitor here.
I am a problem they will try to solve.
Which meant my survival would depend on one thing above all else:
Remaining understandable before I became dangerous.
Containment Is Boring on Purpose
Nothing happened for a long time.
That was the point.
They did not rush me. They did not interrogate me aggressively. They did not isolate me in darkness or parade me through the streets. Those are reactions born of fear or inexperience.
This city had neither.
I was moved to a smaller interior room with one entrance and no windows. The stone walls were thick enough that outside sound barely carried. The temperature was stable—cooler than outdoors, warmer than shade. Intentional. Someone understood human thermoregulation well enough to avoid shock.
I was told to sit.
I sat.
A guard remained inside. Another outside the door. Neither stared at me constantly. That mattered. Continuous staring is intimidation. This was supervision.
Time stretched.
Without language, without reference points, the mind begins to invent patterns. I focused on concrete things instead: my breathing, the texture of stone under my palms, the way the guard shifted his weight every few minutes to relieve pressure in his hips.
Eventually, food arrived.
It was simple. Flatbread-like. Dry. A bowl of something thick and aromatic—protein, judging by the smell. No spices that would shock an unfamiliar digestive system.
Someone had thought about this.
I ate slowly.
Not because I was afraid of poison—though that thought existed—but because eating too fast after dehydration can cause cramps, dizziness, vomiting. All of which would make me harder to manage and therefore more dangerous in their eyes.
They watched my reaction closely.
No one spoke.
After eating, they waited.
This was a test.
In institutional settings—prisons, hospitals, military holding areas—what happens after food matters. Aggression. Lethargy. Confusion. Vomiting. Those are data points.
I stayed calm.
My body began to ache as adrenaline ebbed. My shoulders slumped slightly. I allowed it. Exhaustion reads as non-threatening. Hypervigilance reads as intent.
When they finally moved me again, it was to a sleeping area.
Not a cell.
A room.
Stone platform. Woven mat. Thin covering. No restraints.
The door was closed but not sealed.
This told me something important:
They did not believe I was an immediate physical threat.
That assessment could change.
I lay down and slept in fragments.
The first night in an unfamiliar environment is never deep. Every noise snapped me halfway awake. My brain kept trying to reconcile the sounds—footsteps with different gaits, distant calls layered with unfamiliar tonal ranges.
Morning came without ceremony.
Light filtered in through a high opening I hadn’t noticed before. Food arrived again. Water. No conversation.
Routine was being established.
Routine reduces stress responses.
After the second meal, they brought in objects.
This was where things became dangerous.
They placed items on the floor between us.
Stone. Metal. Wood. Fabric.
Tools.
One guard watched my hands. Another watched my face.
This was a cognition test.
What do I recognize?
What do I ignore?
What do I gravitate toward?
I did not touch anything immediately.
Impulsivity equals unpredictability.
Instead, I looked.
I catalogued.
Then I chose the least threatening object—a piece of fabric—and lifted it slowly, examining it the way a curious but cautious animal might.
They relaxed fractionally.
Good.
Then they placed a new object among the others.
A pen-like instrument.
Magic.
I felt it before I saw it.
The air pressure shifted subtly, like the moment before a storm breaks. My internal magic reacted—not flaring, not responding, but tensing, the way muscles do when you’re about to be struck.
I kept my face neutral.
This was critical: do not reveal reaction speed.
I picked it up last.
Held it loosely. No grip. No activation.
The guards stiffened anyway.
So they could sense it too.
That told me magic here was ambient, externalized, monitored.
I set it back down gently.
Then I did something very deliberate.
I took my empty hand and placed it flat against my chest.
Then I shook my head.
I am not using this.
That moment likely bought me days.
They removed the instrument immediately.
Conversation followed—quick, intense, layered with concern rather than aggression.
I was no longer just an outsider.
I was a magical unknown.
And unknown magic is how catastrophes start.
From that point on, containment shifted.
Not harsher.
More controlled.
I was allowed to move within limits. Watched at a distance. Given materials to occupy my hands—non-magical. Stone carving. Simple weaving.
They were testing fine motor control. Patience. Obedience.
They were building a profile.
At night, alone, I finally allowed myself to think fully, without suppressing it:
I might never leave this place.
Not because they were cruel.
But because releasing me without understanding me would be irresponsible.
If I were them, I would do the same.
That acceptance didn’t make it easier.
But it made it survivable.
Because once you stop waiting for rescue, you start adapting.
And adaptation—slow, quiet, unnoticed—is how organisms persist in environments they were never meant to inhabit.
💬 0 🔁 0 ❤️ 0 · Twisted Wonderland · If You Were To End up in Twisted Wonderland (Part 2)
(Do not worry. The author is generous; they have
Qrow can't believe his eyes when you finally reveal to him, after almost half a year of dating, that you're magical. And not just magical, but a fairy! That really was the creature of legends, so much so that he thought it was just that: fiction!
He, of course, asks you to take him flying. By that, though, he means fly with him since it turned out he had a few magical secrets of his own. You were shocked to find out he had a spell cast on him as a young boy, by his late guardian. It was meant to protect him, but magic like that came at a very high cost..
Qrow constantly worries his bad luck will rub off on you, but since revealing you're a fairy, his anxieties seemed to be more at ease.
If the stories were true, fairies had luck that was neither good nor bad. It simply just was. This meant any impact of his spell was either nullified, or the bad luck was irritating at best. Like the time he got caught in a robin's nest on a flight out with you.
He finds your shrinking ability adorable and you are horrified when you see him working on something late at night only to realize just what it is.
It was a fairy house.
He asks you endlessly creative questions, the kind you didn't expect him to have. Like do you grant wishes? And do you have a magical home in the forest made of candy? And can you talk to butterflies? Are they scared of me?
His curiosity was endearing, if unexpected.
He totally let's you ride on his back when you're tiny.
In exchange, you let him fly with fairy dust. He was thrilled when you told him that one wasn't just a myth.
He's very grateful that you have healing abilities. It eases his worry about hurting you through his bad luck. He asks for a charm to counteract it, but unfortunately you're still learning and all you can provide is a vial of golden dust mixed with a crushed up clover plant. It wards off bad luck temporarily. You kiss his forehead when you tell him you'll work on it.
You say nothing about the tears in his eyes when you make such a promise.
⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨⋆❆⋆୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹
Winter thinks you're telling her a very bad joke at first. She only believes you when your wings fold out, glittering and delicate looking.
Then, she asks methodical questions. Ones digging into your reasoning for hiding this from her after dating a year (you both needed some time to warm up to each other before getting closer). You explain it was a matter of trust and protection.
She insists you don't need to protect her, unless whatever you're willing to fight is a real threat. Cleverly, she has you explaining the so-called threat. A large part of it is hiding the existence of fairies which she agrees to. She'd never want to see you taken from her, even if she is burning with curiosity.
Which also takes the forms of conducting several tasks for you to complete, studying the fairy dust you produce. It takes much prodding to get her to cover herself in it and fly. She asks a million times if it's really safe and you tell her you can always catch her if it runs out.
"Runs out!?" She asks the first time you go flying. You try to reassure her that would only happen if she rubbed it off herself, or let her doubts consume her. She demands you hold onto her in the sky, but that at least leads to a sweet, tender moment where you're suspended among the starry heavens and share a kiss.
She asks if you feel any different transferring your human sized mass to such a tiny body. She wonders how the transfer of activities like eating or working out effect you. You ask her why she doesn't think it's cute?
"It is," she says with a rare laugh, "I'm just wondering how much I need to watch you, when you're like this."
She tells you how much she needs to protect you, too.
She's quietly delighted by the magic you show her, the spells you cast, her favorite of which being snow falling from inside her bedroom. The snowflakes turn her lashes white for only a moment, but with her blue eyes closed, she looks almost asleep and peaceful.
⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨⋆☾⋆୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹
James is in disbelief and perhaps shock when you show him. Much like Winter, he needs proof along with your word, but never did he imagine you were joking. You'd been dating two years and he admittedly hates that you felt you couldn't share such an important, hidden part of your life with him, but he is understanding of the secrecy. If it meant you were both protected, he couldn't exactly argue.
A lot like Winter, James asks you the semantics of your abilities. He very badly wishes to test your fairy dust in a lab, but refrains out of respect. The last thing you needed were some crazed humans stealing you away from him. He did request taking personal notes and given his emphasis on security in his home and generally all areas of life, you agree.
The first time you catch a sketch of yourself, wings out, in his home office on his desk, you're touched. The detailing he captured looked so beautiful. Art was something James rarely dabbled in anymore after losing his right hand in the past, before he met you, but he learned to draw with his prosthetic and somewhat with his left hand.
It left his artwork more abstract than before, but the presses of pastels to paper looked prettier than a rainbow to you.
James asked you to demonstrate your abilities with him. Everything from making flowers bloom to talking with animals (he made a mental note to buy different chew toys for his dog next time he shopped), and his personal favorite, your shrinking ability.
He loved, and definitely encouraged, whenever you decided to ride on his shoulder, rest on his hand, or most adorably- in his opinion- in his shirt pocket.
He tells you one day it feels like he can protect better you this way, when you literally fit as the smaller version of yourself in the palm of his hand. In the metal one, with the soft magical glow of your wings, James never liked the silver of his hand better.
The first time you take him flying, he is positively vibrating the whole day leading up to it. You've never seen your giant boyfriend quite so enthused about something, well, other than normally spending time with you!
You take him high in the clouds, on a night where the full moon shines bright, and watch as his arms grip yours, smile broader than you'd seen it in weeks of tiring work and late nights, and he takes off with you. He's definitely a natural and he feels a pang in his chest when you tell him you can't believe he was born without wings.
The day James asks if your healing abilities could fix his hand, you hold him and kiss the top of his head. Old wounds like that, especially grievous ones, would never quite heal, even given a fairy's old magic.
He reassures you it's quite alright and you take him out to a beautiful meadow to lift his spirits, watching fireflies come out as the sun set, along with other magical creatures. Light dragons disguised as fireflies, butterflies that sparkled green and blue and pink, and even a flash of a white mane and a spiraling horn in-between the trees.
You gave him a vial of dust and crushed up lavender for the nightmares he sometimes had. He never divulged in details, but you knew it was of the time he lost his arm. Whether it was the event itself, or the hospital after, you didn't know. But you knew for a fact the vial would help.
I've been juggling around a Haunted Dorian idea, ever since I saw that artwork piece by @purpleblch. Then I couldn't stop myself when I started daydreaming that the haunted place Dorian is in, is the gilded age mansion that's for sale in my state. So I decided to write a little something~
Magical AFAB!Reader x Haunted!Dorian
Before you, was a broad and tall haunted man... Of sorts. Twisted in posture; his hunched body took up the entirety of a door frame that he was leaned up on. Clothes battered and torn. What was once a very well tailored suit, now peeling away to show the near skeleton underneath. Flesh rotting black around metal pieces that were screwed into his bones. An array of knife dug scars covering his forearms. Face hallowed with white eyes that gawked at you, filled with his own set of horrors.
When he let out a small garbled sound, your silent assessment of the man before you halted. Your feet itching to run, but magical college taught you to do everything, but run away from thing that were potentially dangerous.
"Hi..." Your voice was breathy, like you had been running for miles. And while, you were exploring this gilded age mansion that you suddenly inherited from an unknown source, you were more scared breathless than anything. "Are you... The poltergeist I've been hearing?"
The man narrowed his blank white eyes at you immediately for the assumed suggestion.
You knew this mansion was haunted. The second you walked in through the front door earlier that morning, you could feel the blurred lines of reality already slipping under your feet. You had already talked yourself out of the possible demon you felt initially. You were purely relying on wishful thinking and manifestation to not give you that, you swore. So you weren't entirely surprised to see this— man thing, on the second floor. Except, to see it so obviously annoyed through his brow that you called him a poltergeist, was a little unsettling.
"Oh, you look offended by that." You let out a nervous laugh. "I'm sorry, Demon?"
He looked even more offended.
"Oh! Okay! Not a poltergeist or a demon. Good to know!" You tried to laugh off the awkwardness but your stomach did a nervous churn as the man thing shuffled in the door way. "Morgen la Fey, I should have took Afterlife more seriously—"
Hello everyone. This is my first time writing here and I am using my Oc, but you can also imagine it as yourself. English is not my first language so I hope it´s ok. Nicknames included are Lu and Je. Female is a born magician without a Devil Fruit
There is only one option how Luffy wakes her up, since he is basically married to food.
tapping on your nose before it comes over to whining
"Je...Je...JE! come up up up! I can already smell Sanjis food"
followed by shoving and more whining until you either wake up or he glomps onto you, which will defently wake you up now.
Luffy simply laughing and chanting for food and jumping up and down
"Wait up. I´m not even dressed yet. Go on if you want"
Cue on him dashing out, yelling over the whole sunny for food
Eating with him is just like any other crewmember, just with the fine difference of him giving you puppy eyes
Luffy swallowing food left and right, not caring for any of the yells of his friends until Sanji hits him
Pouty baby for the rest until you hold one piece of your own food out for him
Sunshine boy awakes and happily gets feeted with the biggest grin of happiness
Showing magic to Luffy was probably something you loved the most. Nami needing help with her tangarines? Watering in one sec. Chopper and you probably would talk endless hours on different magical plants to treat, Robin also listening in on that.
"Here we go! Now these have to dry and then we can use it for salves and medicine", you beamed at chopper who looked eagerly at them
"JEEEE!!!", cue on Luffy hanging on you like a coala.
"Yes, lu?"
"What is this?", taking a plant before eating it, "...ah! spicy mint! Ha ha ha!!!", cue on jumping around, making chopper sigh
Moving your hand, a little viral appeared in your hand as you gave it to Luffy, who eagerly drank it down.
"Better, Lu?" Only nodding in responce.
Or
simply taking his hand while jumping from board
others would became a heart attack
bouncing off the water surface only to land back on the sunny
or making him hover
taking him underwater to see the fishes and breathe freely is a MUST!
That the marines never found the sunny because of luffy shining of exitement is a mystery
CONSTANT!!! praise about your magic
Luffy wants to see a robot? you make a golem with your magic
just imagine keeping him busy with your magic
The others were never more blessed then now
You swear you saw Nami, sanji and Usopp praying once
And in battle?
magic in battle is something you have mastered!
don´t even need to leave the sunny
attack from marines? One hand move and the water cut the ship into even cubes
even going so far as to sense danger from afar, either from the water or the wind
Luffy would be so amazed and happy he´d just grab your face and kiss you full-on, then snuggle and praise!! THE PRAISE!!!
It would go so far that Luffy would only leave with you because of how cool you are, amazing but also kind and gentle!
He would be head over heals for you, knowing that someone so kind and sweet is being able to defeat a whole fleet in mere minutes without even trying! Like pls, you´re the prize for him
