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muse_prompts
Title: Twisted
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: The Pagemaster
Characters/Pairings: Horror/Adventure, unrequited Adventure/Fantasy
Summary: Books are twisted by the stories they hold. And love has a horror all its own.
Wordcount: 665
Warnings: Ruining your childhood, here.
Books are shaped by the stories they hold. In some cases, twisted by them. No-one knows that better than Horror. He knows it all too well. In the same way Fantasy is optimistic, practical and fearsome as the stories she holds, in the same way Adventure is brusque and brash and only grudgingly emotional ... so Horror is sad, terrified and monstrous. He knows that. He has always known it. He was twisted, long ago, into the shape of the tales he tells, the stories written in his heart. He is horror personified. He is misshapen.
It shapes the way others see him, too. The way people see all books. It's the reason Fantasy is desired and adored, how she is such a source of guilty pleasure, the sense that here is something too good for you to touch. It's the reason Horror can't help but admire Adventure, can't help but trust him despite the other book's hurtful brusqueness. And it's the reason they pity him, the way he fascinates them in a kind of twisted way, the allure of the terrible and the pitiful. It's the reaction he expects, and understands.
It's not the reaction he wants, but then Horror always does have sad endings.
He kissed Adventure, once. It was ... fun and nice, and Adventure had actually let him, for all of a brief moment before pushing him away with a grumpy yell and a snarl that he meant Fantasy. Of course he did. Horror had known that, but he wanted to try anyway. Just once. Then Fantasy had smiled at him, and kissed him too. He didn't like that kiss so much. There was too much pity in it. Adventure, at least, had been fascinated, appreciating, if not accepting.
It surprised him, later, when Adventure came back. And keeps coming back. Just little kisses, strange little explorations. The other book is always brusque about it, demanding and tentative, almost afraid. Horror almost pities him, but he does understand. Fantasy ... she's too good to touch. Too beautiful and magical and otherworldly. Horror ... he's there. And he's designed to be hurt. Not that Adventure means it that way. No. Adventure has more honour than that. If Horror said no, he'd stop. But Horror doesn't say no, even though it hurts. Because Horror understands that beauty, tragedy, love, convenience ... all of them hurt. All of them are meant to hurt. And he does love Adventure, in his way.
It will end in tears. He knows that. Adventure doesn't, not yet. Adventure has beautiful, stirring, heroic endings. He can't see anything else. Horror can. Horror has sad, pointless, tragic endings. But he loves Adventure anyway, because he can, because he has to. He loves Fantasy, too. He loved his master. He loves, and loves, and loves again. He loves them even after they're gone, even after he's destroyed them with his touch, with the taint of the stories inside. Because love has a horror all its own.
Holding Adventure, watching the other book sleep, seeing the way the other book's hand is curled in his, in a way it would never be if Adventure were awake ... he understands the sweet horror of what they're doing. He understands the pain of it, the sickness. He knows it's wrong.
But ... he trusts Adventure. He trusts in the blunt, brash, immutable nature of the other book. He trusts that Adventure can hold out against the sneaking touch of horror, his own stories strong enough and resonant enough to drive back the pain. He trusts that what they do will not hurt Adventure the way it does him. He trusts that Adventure will be alright, and will love him in his own brusque, demanding way, and never need to know the pain of it. The pain that is for Horror and Horror alone, and does nothing to change his love.
Books are shaped by the stories they hold. Twisted by them. Horror knows that. But he doesn't care.
Love transcends genre.
muse_prompts Title: Twisted
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: The Pagemaster
Characters/Pairings: Horror/Adventure, unrequited Adventure/Fantasy
Summary: Books are twisted by the stories they hold. And love has a horror all its own.
Wordcount: 665
Warnings: Ruining your childhood, here.
Books are shaped by the stories they hold. In some cases, twisted by them. No-one knows that better than Horror. He knows it all too well. In the same way Fantasy is optimistic, practical and fearsome as the stories she holds, in the same way Adventure is brusque and brash and only grudgingly emotional ... so Horror is sad, terrified and monstrous. He knows that. He has always known it. He was twisted, long ago, into the shape of the tales he tells, the stories written in his heart. He is horror personified. He is misshapen.
It shapes the way others see him, too. The way people see all books. It's the reason Fantasy is desired and adored, how she is such a source of guilty pleasure, the sense that here is something too good for you to touch. It's the reason Horror can't help but admire Adventure, can't help but trust him despite the other book's hurtful brusqueness. And it's the reason they pity him, the way he fascinates them in a kind of twisted way, the allure of the terrible and the pitiful. It's the reaction he expects, and understands.
It's not the reaction he wants, but then Horror always does have sad endings.
He kissed Adventure, once. It was ... fun and nice, and Adventure had actually let him, for all of a brief moment before pushing him away with a grumpy yell and a snarl that he meant Fantasy. Of course he did. Horror had known that, but he wanted to try anyway. Just once. Then Fantasy had smiled at him, and kissed him too. He didn't like that kiss so much. There was too much pity in it. Adventure, at least, had been fascinated, appreciating, if not accepting.
It surprised him, later, when Adventure came back. And keeps coming back. Just little kisses, strange little explorations. The other book is always brusque about it, demanding and tentative, almost afraid. Horror almost pities him, but he does understand. Fantasy ... she's too good to touch. Too beautiful and magical and otherworldly. Horror ... he's there. And he's designed to be hurt. Not that Adventure means it that way. No. Adventure has more honour than that. If Horror said no, he'd stop. But Horror doesn't say no, even though it hurts. Because Horror understands that beauty, tragedy, love, convenience ... all of them hurt. All of them are meant to hurt. And he does love Adventure, in his way.
It will end in tears. He knows that. Adventure doesn't, not yet. Adventure has beautiful, stirring, heroic endings. He can't see anything else. Horror can. Horror has sad, pointless, tragic endings. But he loves Adventure anyway, because he can, because he has to. He loves Fantasy, too. He loved his master. He loves, and loves, and loves again. He loves them even after they're gone, even after he's destroyed them with his touch, with the taint of the stories inside. Because love has a horror all its own.
Holding Adventure, watching the other book sleep, seeing the way the other book's hand is curled in his, in a way it would never be if Adventure were awake ... he understands the sweet horror of what they're doing. He understands the pain of it, the sickness. He knows it's wrong.
But ... he trusts Adventure. He trusts in the blunt, brash, immutable nature of the other book. He trusts that Adventure can hold out against the sneaking touch of horror, his own stories strong enough and resonant enough to drive back the pain. He trusts that what they do will not hurt Adventure the way it does him. He trusts that Adventure will be alright, and will love him in his own brusque, demanding way, and never need to know the pain of it. The pain that is for Horror and Horror alone, and does nothing to change his love.
Books are shaped by the stories they hold. Twisted by them. Horror knows that. But he doesn't care.
Love transcends genre.
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