#not all of the stories are doom and gloom though | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

moonchildstyles · 6 months

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oleander

oleander part one: nothing could draw y/n in the way harry could

wordcount: 11.7k+

cw: this leans into some darker themes including a description of a dead body, mentions of a parent who has passed away, some panic attack descriptions, and just in general some doom and gloom vibes! but I promise this is a love story im just doing something diferent!

—————

(Y/N)'s eyes followed the immaculately dressed figure floating through the shop. Barred from getting closer with the counter in front of her, she could only watch as he made his way through the small apothecary. He never glanced in her direction, though she doubted he was unaware of her eyes on him.

Dried herbs hung around his head like a dreary halo, the muted tones falling in line with the rich brown of his hair. He was tall enough that he just barely grazed the line of lavender sprigs strung up and dehydrating above his head. His coat was of a deep green velvet, tailored to show off the broad of his shoulders and strength of his arms. The matching cravat around his neck stood out starkly against the white shirt under his grey waistcoat, his skin appearing almost as pale as the starchy collar standing stiff against his throat. She wished that he would turn around for just a second; she wanted to see his eyes. Were they really as dark as she remembered, or had the town's gossip altered her memory?

As if hearing her thoughts, he quickly picked his head up and made to turn and match her gaze. She urgently dropped her eyes to her hands, pretending as if she had been preoccupied the whole time by the bundles of sage she was meant to be tying. Now her wishes turned to that of hoping he didn't catch her staring. She was sure he got enough of that as is when he bothered to venture down to their small village; he didn't need any more when he was simply trying to shop.

Forcing herself to keep her eyes down, (Y/N) tried to forget the Count's presence (was he even a Count? She wasn't sure, but that was what she had heard the women at church calling him, and no one seemed to object). She hoped he couldn't hear the sound of her heart as easily as she could, the beats pounding through her ears just from the fact she knew he was traipsing around her father's shop. Casting her gaze out the small window situated by the collection counter, she tried to see past the thick fog that had gathered that morning and done little to dissipate through the hours. If not for the fact she had lived here all her life, she would have had problems navigating through the mist. She wondered how someone like the Count fared under these conditions. He barely left that castle of his, how did he or his footmen know where they were going this time of year?

Granting herself a single peek in his direction, she saw he had gone back to shopping. He moved so silently, she wondered how he was able to cross the apothecary so vastly without a single footstep being heard. She watched as he brought bundles of herbs to his nose, taking in the heady scent. He always did this, she noticed. He always looked around until he found the strongest smelling bundles.

Truthfully, to (Y/N), all the bundles smelled the same. She couldn't notice if one sprig of lavender smelled richer than another, but maybe he knew something she didn't. It wouldn't surprise her if he spent his young years studying herbs and reading books about all of the healing plants, or whatever it was that young gentlemen did in their formative years.

Though it was a hard task to pull her eyes away from him, (Y/N) made the effort to do so. Her father really would be upset if she didn't tie up all these bundles before sundown; he barely liked her working at the apothecary as is, he didn't need any other reason to boot her from the counter.

With her eyes trained on her fingers and the clumsy bows she was tying out of twine, (Y/N) practically jumped out of her skin when she caught movement from the corner of her eye. Pale hands dropped bundles of herbs on the counter, just barely in her line of sight. Her breathing stuck in her throat when she whipped her head up, finding the Count looking at her with his dark eyes.

She hadn't misremembered, it appeared. His eyes really were almost black, just barely tinted a forest green on the edges—if the forest in question was being spotted in the pitch of night, only a sliver of the moon and stars above allowing any distinction.

Her heart jumped in her throat, running faster than it had any reason to when their eyes met. She forced herself to swallow it down.

"I'm sorry, sir," she muttered, unable to pull her gaze away from his even if she instinctively wanted to look anywhere else. "Did you find all you were looking for?"

"I did, yes." His voice was a lulling rumble, rounded and heady as if the goal was to lure her nearer. If not for the table separating them, she would have fallen for it.

Offering a quiet smile, she gave him a polite nod.

No other words were exchange, as per usual for his visits. The Count wasn't much for conversation and idle chatter like the rest of the village. Instead, she could feel him watching her as she counted up his herbs and the price of each bundle.

He was buying the same ones he always did: winter savory (he switched to chamomile when out of season), tobacco, and lavender.

The buds together created a confusing scent, adding to the mishmash of what the apothecary already was. She couldn't imagine how he would put these three together in any space of that castle, the mixture too aggressive.

Though she tried her best to concentrate on only the herbs, (Y/N) was too aware of the static of his presence. She wondered what he thought when he came down to the village, what he thought when he interacted with people like her. He was always so stoic. He never gave anything away, though that didn't stop the village gossip from running wild about him.

Swallowing around her dry throat, heartbeat bubbling against her ribs, she matched his gaze. The pricing for his bounty came out on buzzing lips, "Sixteen shillings please, sir."

He didn't bat an eyelash at the price despite it being the biggest single purchase her father's apothecary would see until the next time he ventured down. Instead, he looked at her with his dark eyes and a tic in his jaw. He was unbearably handsome, made of cut edges and smooth planes, but he always looked at her as if he were angry and working to bury it down. She could never figure out why or what exactly made his nostrils flare or his jaw tight when he spoke to her, but she hoped she wasn't the only one he reacted to like this.

His hands moved quickly, pulling out a small pouch of tinkling coins before he plucked out the exact amount for her. For a moment, she could see bank notes tucked inside the pouch as well. While she wasn't surprised that someone like him would have that kind of wealth, she had never seen it before with her own eyes.

Passing off the change to her, his pale fingers grazed her open palm. Goosebumps immediately raised across her skin, his touch feeling as if he had been standing in the dawn's dew for hours, allowing the chill to cling to his skin and leach away all hope for warmth. The graze was quick, barely a heartbeat long, but she swore she could feel the lingering touch for moments after. Maybe he really did have a hard time navigating the village when the fog was this thick, having traveled in winding routes and wrong turns for so long he still hadn't been able to heat up even after spending time in the shop.

Flicking her gaze up to his on instinct, she saw he was looking at the swatches of skin exposed from her dress, eyeing the goosebumps he had plucked up on accident.

(Y/N) cleared her throat, nothing more than a reminder to herself to keep professional and not to gawk at the man. She placed the change in the small cup underneath the collection counter before reaching for his herbs of choice. A length of twine was used to tie up his product, ensuring he didn't lose anything on his way back home.

"Thank you," he muttered once she passed them back, their skin no longer grazing this time.

"Have a pleasant journey back home," she chirped, her voice decidedly pleasant against the bubbling she was feeling inside, "Stay warm."

The Count didn't give any kind of reaction to her before he was leaving the shop in a flourish. Taking advantage of the window at her disposal, she watched as he ventured out into the fog. The mist mingled around him, making him appear as if he were a ghost—one with the Earth-bound clouds. She was only vaguely aware of the way her body heat ticked up some now that he had left.

Though she could hear the sound of footsteps descending the stairs that led up to their home a floor above, (Y/N)'s head was outside the shop and away from her father. She didn't turn even when she could tell he had made it to the landing. He was used to it by now, she knew. Her head was always miles away as far as he was concerned—thinking too big for the village with daydreams that were only going to hurt her in the long run.

The air around her shifted, telling her that her father was just behind her, likely watching to see what had caught her attention this time.

"Is that Harry?" he grumbled, spitting out the name while dismissing the faux-title since they were alone.

Her father didn't much like the Count—Harry, as he bitterly spat out. (Y/N) was never sure what precisely had set off her father's distaste for the man, just knowing that he thought Harry to be something of a boogeyman against the village. He didn't even go to church, her father regularly complained. What kind of man was he if he couldn't even bother to trudge down from his palace to spend some time with God, even if it was in the presence of commoners?

(Y/N) never really minded. Though she'd never tell her father, church was boring. She couldn't blame Harry—the Count, whatever she was supposed to call him—for skipping out. Especially with the peeks at the castle she could garner if she trekked through the woods far enough. She wouldn't want to leave that place for anything.

Nonetheless, (Y/N) answered with a soft, "Yes." Her eyes were still locked on the form of him she could barely make out through the mist.

A grunt of disapproval left her father's lips. She didn't have to look at him to know that he had his arms crossed over his chest. "Are you okay?"

It was when he settled a hand on her shoulder that she snapped out of her staring.

"Yes, I'm well," she answered as placidly as possible when she turned to face him. She didn't want to show just how affected she was by the Count. Her father would do more than just grunt and disapprove if he knew just how drawn to the man as she was.

He peered through the window, his eyes surely finding the one dark figure filtering through the fog. His brows slanted into harsh slashes over his eyes. "From now on, I want you to find me when he comes in, and I will take over. I do not want him talking with you."

Her fingertips buzzed at the new instructions, matching the kickstart to her heartbeats. As much as she heard her father's concerns, and had listened in to all the of the stories and webs spun about this man, those did little to deter her interest in Harry or quell the bubbling in her chest every time she saw him step inside the apothecary.

"I can handle him, father," she countered, trying to sound as uninterested as possible while attempting to hold her ground, "We barely talk when he comes in, anyway."

The creases between his brows only deepened when he matched her gaze. "I do not want you becoming one of his victims, (Y/N)."

Her lips thinned at his words. "All of those stories are rubbish, father, you know that," she pressed, her words lighthearted despite the argument she was wagering by not immediately giving in, "Since when have we started listening to what Mary and Ethel have to say?"

He didn't break any, even when she knew she was making a valid point to him. Gossip was prohibited according to the Bible, and yet he was citing stories she had heard the worst of gossipers weave?

There was no real reason for anyone to believe that Harry had anything to do with what had been going on just outside of the village, he was just easy to pin it on seeing as no one really knew him. She doubted any of them—including Ethel and Mary—could actually believe that he was the one behind the bodies that had been found in the woods, and the disappearances that had been added to the murder count.

From what she'd heard, all signs pointed to animal attacks—wolves, or bears, or anything viscous. Though her stomach curdled at the thought, she couldn't see the Count being the one to rip out commoner's throats, to leave them crumpled in the brush with blood sinking into the earth. All of it was gossip and evil rumors that had not even a shred of truth inside.

"Still," her father stated, countering her argument, "There's something wrong with him, (Y/N)."

Wrong was very far from threatening as far as she was concerned, especially when it came to Harry. Though, this most likely wasn't the time to share that opinion. She would keep her thoughts about him to herself, her own small secret against the rest of the village.

Harry didn't scare her like he did the rest of them, but they didn't need to know that.

"Okay," she relented with a quiet nod, turning back to the collection cup so she could pass off the earnings to her father. "I will come grab you next time."

(Y/N) wasn't sure if it was the additional shillings added to the cup or her pleasant agreement that had her father's features relaxing with a small smile on his lips, but she wasn't going to object.

Besides, she wasn't going to actually follow through on her promise. Harry was her favorite customer, even if she wouldn't admit it out loud. Her father would have to try harder to steer her clear of Harry.

—————

(Y/N) struggled with the strap of her shopping baskets, one hanging from her shoulder over her back with another dangling from her hand. They were stocked full and heavy, filled with everything her father requested that morning before she was sent off. She hadn't even realized how late she was running with her errands, how many items she had picked up and how heavy her bags were becoming until the sun had already gone down and her shoulder ached with the amount she had packed in.

With the season's change, the sky was almost pitch by the time she made it to the edge of the village, the air chilled and crisp. Her father was going to have her head for making it back so late, but what could he have expected, really? He was the one that wrote the list, knowing half of the items were only available in the neighboring village.

She hummed as she followed the path, giving herself some company and filling the silence. She hated being out this late—the dark scared her more than it probably should at her age.

Her steps slowed as the bag hanging from her shoulder once again began to shift. No matter how hard she tried, it wouldn't stay put. She attempted to adjust the strap once more as she cautiously stepped over the path.

With her attention placed elsewhere, she didn't notice the man in her way until she bumped directly into him.

Her heart started in her chest, rattling against her ribs. She jumped back, whipping her head up with wide eyes. Before her stood the familiar dark-haired figure she had seen just a week prior, pursuing through the apothecary.

Harry's cut features were pinched with a furrowed brow, his dark eyes trained on her. He was pale like a ghost compared to his dark clothing that blended in with the rest of the night. He reached out to steady her, baskets and all, when she tottered on the low heel of her boot.

His touch singed her like snowflakes as he grasped at her bare arms.

"H-Harry," she gasped, his name falling from her lips before she had a chance to collect her bearings. Her skin warmed when her brain caught up with herself; she'd never called him by his name before—or called to him at all now that she thought about it. "I am so s-sorry."

What exactly she was apologizing for—using his name so brashly or running right into him—she wasn't sure, but she could cover for both, she figured.

"It is alright," he murmured to her, his hands lingering on her biceps, "I didn't mean to frighten you. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, thank you," she asserted, "I wasn't looking where I was going. It has been a long day."

Tipping his head, as if her word wasn't enough, Harry looked her over before dropping his hands from her arms and taking a calculated step back.

"I'm sure it was," he said to her, his voice still a low whisper, "Is what why you are out so late?"

(Y/N) eased into the conversation, despite knowing it was more than a little inappropriate to be alone with a man this late into the evening. She was flattered the Count wanted to speak to her at all, honestly. He always seemed so eager to flee from the apothecary and the rest of the village during his visits. In her dreamland, she liked to think that he actually enjoyed seeing her, this run-in being his opportunity to speak to her without all of the prying eyes trained on him.

"Yes," she sighed, shifting the small basket on her aching wrist to the other, "I had to do the shopping today, and my father always requests things he knows I have to search all over for, so I've been busy since I woke up."

Harry hummed at her words, his dark eyes seemingly lighting up with amusement at her trivial complaint. He eyed the heavy bags she was carrying before he met her eyes once more. "Would it be alright if I accompany you back home? It's too dark for a lady like yourself to be walking alone."

Biting back a smile, (Y/N) felt her blood warm under her skin. Someone of his status would know a lady when he looked at one, and (Y/N) definitely wasn't. He had to be teasing her.

"I'm no lady," she explained, though she didn't sound that convincing under her smile, "But, I think I would really enjoy some company. Thank you."

(Y/N) was well aware of what it would look like to be walked home by Harry at this time of night, alone on the path and unchaperoned. It would have been bad enough with any man, but seeing as this was the Count, she could only imagine the kinds of rumors Mary and Ethel would spin. The fluttering in her heart urged her to ignore those worries, though; Harry most likely knew better about societal standards than she, given their stations, and he had enough rumors swirling about him that he wouldn't want to add to if he could help it. If he wasn't worried, then she wouldn't either.

"Lead the way," he said, smiling at her with dazzlingly perfect teeth.

"Its not too far," she started, peering down the path to see the late night tavern still boiling with people and the small homes that decorated the mouth to the village. "It's just down that way," she told him, nodding her head in the direction they were to take.

Before she went too far, she adjusted her grocery-laden baskets once more, barely holding back a wince at the weight on her shoulder.

Harry still seemingly noticed even if she had tried to be discreet. He didn't immediately follow her steps back home. "Let me carry those for you. They can't be too comfortable after such a long day."

While she was sure it was good form to decline his offer, feign strength she didn't have and continue on without complaint, she wasn't going to pass up on the offer to relieve the stress on her shoulder.

"I would really appreciate that, actually," she sighed, shifting the basket off her shoulder in a haste, "Thank you."

"No need to thank me," he answered simply, a pleasant lightness to his features as he took the strap from her hands. He slung it over his own shoulder with an ease (Y/N) could only dream to have. He didn't stop there, taking the smaller one from her wrist as well.

She was free to roll her joints and feel circulation return to all limbs, more than gracious for her impromptu partner for the night.

"You said it was this way, yes?" he prompted, starting down the path towards the edge of town where both the apothecary was as well as the flat above it where she and her father resided.

"That way," (Y/N) affirmed with a smile, falling into step beside him as they started off through town.

A careful silence fell between them, full of opportunities that twinkled like stars. This was her chance to know him, bask in his presence, learn who she had only gazed at from afar. Though every time she looked at him from the corner of her eye, she felt her throat dry. He was even more gorgeous under moonlight.

"You know," he started first, unbraiding the silence, "I don't think I've ever seen you come out from behind that counter. I was starting to think you never left; like you were some kind of spirit attached with manning an apothecary at all hours."

A bubbling peal of laughter felt from (Y/N)'s lips, her hands a fumbling bundle at her waist. "It feels that way, sometimes," she smiled, "But I promise I do have more hobbies than only drying herbs and counting coin."

"And what might those be?" the Count pressed, looking down at her. In the low light, (Y/N) expected his eyes to look impossibly dark, more like coal than even in the daylight, but she found that ring of green to show more prominently now under the moon.

"Um," she floundered, tearing her eyes away from his when she felt goosebumps raise over her skin and her heart bounce against her lungs, "I-I like to tend to our garden—for the shop."

"I didn't know grow everything yourself. That must keep you rather busy."

(Y/N) shrugged, "It can, depending on the season. But, I've figured it out through the years, and made it easier on me."

"You grow everything for your shop, then?" Coming up to a fork in the path, Harry paused, waiting for (Y/N) to take the first step in the right direction before he followed.

"Most of it," she mused, an immediate list of their inventory coming to mind, "There's still a few things that I have to scavenge for, but I've become rather good at that as well."

"I don't doubt that," Harry smiled, the curl audible in his voice, "Was it your idea then to start the shop? Fill it with all the things you could grow?"

"Oh, no," she declined, a furrow appearing in her brow, "My father and mother started the apothecary when my sister and I were still babies."

"I don't think I've met your sister or mother," Harry shared, casting his gaze towards her once more, refractions of green shimmering in his irises.

While (Y/N) dreaded the subject, she couldn't exactly complain since she had been the one to bring them both up. Truthfully, it wasn't hard to talk about any more, it was harder to field the reactions of those around her when she shared the story. It was never easy to quell retroactive grief.

"My sister married and moved to the country almost two years ago," she started easy, keeping her gaze forward, "My mother passed away when I was a child."

When the Count didn't immediately answer, (Y/N) peeked up to find him looking at her differently than before. She didn't find pity swimming through his eyes, only sympathy. He looked at her like he knew her pain.

"It is a hard thing, losing family," he murmured, shifting his gaze towards the sky, "But, it can only grow easier as time goes on."

Tracing her eyes over his profile, through the immaculate stone-like chisel of his features and unblemished skin, she swore she could spot the same fine lines by his eyes and slight crease between his brows that she and her sister had sustained since their mother passed.

She swallowed, hoping her next line of questioning didn't breach too far. "Have you lost family before?"

"I have," he smiled, though it didn't completely reach those fine lines by his eyes, "It was a long time ago. It's funny how after a while, you can forget what it was like before."

Though (Y/N) loved her mother dearly and cherished those memories she had with her, she had been without her for longer than she had been with her. She knew what Harry was talking about, exactly. Missing her mother was just a part of her now, and it wasn't anything she tired to push away or get over. She grew around the grief and held onto her mother in that space.

"Exactly," she agreed, relieved to not be trying to quell someone else's grief and pity for her, "I've remembered her for longer than I actually knew her, but it does not upset me any more."

"Good," Harry cemented, "She wouldn't want you to be bothered by her memory."

Looking ahead, the town square was approaching with the town's tavern still full despite the late hour. That was the one place that could be bustling at any time of night, any day of the week. (Y/N) hoped no one would peer through the windows and catch her late night stroll.

"I apologize for speaking so morbidly," (Y/N) laughed, though she didn't exactly feel guilty to be learning that much more about Harry, "Since you know more about me, I would like to know more about you."

"I'm sure we could arrange that," he smiled that dazzling smile, "What would you like to know?"

"I don't think I've ever seen you out in the village before, except for when you do your shopping," (Y/N) mused, hoping to learn a little bit more about what he did up in that castle of his.

She watched as he shrugged, still completely unbothered by the weight of her shopping. "I come out every once in a while," he prattled, "But I suppose we never have run into each other until now. What a shame."

Her blood warmed at his final comment. He really must be teasing her, trying to pull those shy reactions from her.

Before she had a chance to say much in response, the rowdy tavern only a few meters ahead burst open with sloppy patrons spilling onto the street. The men were undoubtedly drunk as was apparent in the slurring of their shouts and the stumbling of their feet. Everything was too loud for the quiet of the night, including the calls coming from inside the bar, urging the few that had escaped to come back inside. The night couldn't already be over, it was still early, those beckoning voices said.

Maybe it was the dark of the night, the fact she had never been around anyone drunk enough to slur their words, or the stark sound of it all, but (Y/N) startled at the disturbance. She almost jumped out of her skin, her feet stumbling with her heels digging into the crumbling sidewalk. She could hear a gasp falling from her throat though she couldn't remember making the noise herself.

Before she had time to recover, Harry had swiftly tugged her to his other side. She was now covered by his body with her other side sandwiched with the walls of the other buildings lining the street. From where the drunken men stood, she doubted they would be able to accurately spot her given her new cover.

"Thank you," she murmured, her thrumming heart beginning to slow finally.

When he didn't respond, she looked up to find him shooting daggers towards the men that were being pulled back into the tavern. His sharp jaw was clenched shut with his eyes narrowed in their direction.

"Harry?" she sounded, breaking him from whatever he had running through his head.

He whipped his head to face her once more, blinking with a flutter of curling lashes.

"Yes, sorry," he finally responded, "My apologies, I would have pulled you away sooner had I seen them coming."

"It's alright," she tried to soothe, giving him a small smile, "The shop is just up there, I think I can survive a little while longer."

He cast his gaze over her form for just a beat longer, his shoulder relaxing some by the time he met her eyes again. "I'll make sure of it," Harry teased, cracking a smile at her.

They shared those final paces in silence, (Y/N) feeling rather proud of herself and a bit giddy to have had him at her side for this long, his attention on her. By the time the dark apothecary topped with the small flat came into view, she almost wished they would round the block once more. She still had more she wanted to ask him.

"It has been a pleasure, Ms. (Y/N)," he bowed to her, carefully pulling her shopping baskets from his shoulder and wrist, "I hope I will see you again soon—maybe we'll run into each other like this more often."

"Maybe," she smiled, taking the bags from him, "Thank you for escorting me home, and helping with my baskets."

"It's my pleasure," he repeated once more, the green in his eyes flashing with amusement, "Have a good night."

Inching towards the door, (Y/N) gave him a nod. "Good night, Harry."

A soft lipped smile on his marble-perfect face was the last thing (Y/N) saw before she was stepping inside the apothecary. The bell above the door tinkled, alerting her father who would no doubt still be awake upstairs.

"(Y/N)? Is that you?" he called down the stairs, the creak of his favorite rocking chair sounding as he stood.

"Yes, sorry!" she answered, bracing herself to trek up the steep stairs to the flat with her body weighed down with all of the groceries. "I didn't mean to take so long."

"I don't like you staying out so late after the sun goes down," her father chided her, pulling the bags from her form and taking them towards the tiny kitchen, "There's no telling what could be waiting in the dark."

(Y/N) kept her mouth shut as her father went off on his complaints. She didn't mention Harry once.

—————

Dressed in her favorite nightgown with her hair braided back with the same twine she tied her herbs with, (Y/N) peered once more out her window, finding the same black cat that had been out there since she readied for bed still sitting in the garden.

Her moon-yellow eyes were bright in the dark as she stalked and played with the bugs that threatened the state of (Y/N)'s herb garden. She had never seen the cat before, but she was tempted to convince her father to let her bring the creature inside. She would be a good pet, (Y/N) decided.

Laying back against her pillows, only dim candle light allowing her to see her ceiling, (Y/N) cast her mind back to the hours earlier. Her day had been terribly uneventful, but had ended in heart-fluttering territory.

Though she realized, thinking back to the conversation she had indulged in on her walk home, she never caught why Harry was out so late by himself, anyway.

—————

Grey clouds crowded the sky as (Y/N) carefully stepped over the vining brush at her feet. The hem of her dress snagged once or twice on some of the thorny bushes and the rough bark covering unearthed roots. Acres of towering trees formed a canopy above her head, barely letting any of the limited light through. She had her eyes on the ground as she tried to scope out those few herbs she wasn't able to cultivate at the home garden. The basket at her hip was already teeming with a good handful of different bundles, but she still needed to find some winter savory.

More than once, her mind wandered as she trekked through the trees. It had been a week since she had last seen Harry, and yet he was still the one thing that floated through her mind whenever she drifted to her daydreams. She could still see the line of his profile, backlit by the cloudy moonlight. In her dreams, she had the courage to reach out and trace over the line, grazing the bridge of his nose and the dip of his cupid's bow. He grew more and more gorgeous every time she revisited her memories.

She was already known to have her head in the clouds, dreams too big for the village to contain, but she definitely floated upwards more and more since seeing Harry.

A small smile worked its way onto her lips the longer she wafted through her reverie. (Y/N) liked to think that if she had acted on that impulse—dragging her fingertip along the planes of his features—that he would have cracked a smile, showing off the thumbed dimples and dazzling teeth. Maybe, he would have even looked at her, wrapped an arm around her waist and dragged her to his chest before dipping her in the middle of the street. He could kiss her then, the moment romantic and brazen and—

(Y/N) stopped in her tracks the second she saw the dead body on the forest floor.

If not for the pallor of her skin, she could have assumed this woman had fallen asleep peacefully among the brush. She looked to be around (Y/N)'s age, unbound hair spilling around her head. Her eyes were closed with her features set in a serene scene and arms crossed over her chest. Her palms were pressed flat over her collarbones, the same way those in coffins were laid to rest six feet under. The pose reminded her of her mother.

Though all of that tranquility went to hell when she saw her throat.

While the woman had been laid to rest with utmost respect, that didn't take away from the fact her throat was ripped open. (Y/N) swore her own esophagus grew sore and tight while looking at the women. The skin had been slashed out of the way by something sharp and angry, revealing frayed sinew and torn muscle. The raw red hue stood out starkly against the snowy pallor her skin had taken on. Something had attacked her, taking out her throat and leaving her to die right where she lay.

The most unsettling part, (Y/N) realized the longer she stood there, was that there was no blood. Where she expected to see a crimson crust forming around the wood or a puddle haloing the woman's form, there was nothing. Her wound didn't even look that gruesome, truly. It was clinically clean instead, as if a healer had already cared for her and planned on bandaging the tear before letting her head home. She had been bled completely dry, leaving her with rubbery skin, thin veins, and a clean white dress.

She had heard about these incidences—people going missing only to turn up later dead—but she never pictured it was like this. To her, everything sounded as if wanderers were attacked in the woods are lost through the elements. Never once through her forages in the area had she ever met the face of someone whose life was taken so decidedly.

(Y/N) wanted to scream, she wanted to cry and panic and run. But, she just stood there.

Time was stuck as she saw the woman with long red hair, unblemished skin, and a fine gown.

All at once, the severity of the situation flooded back to her.

Her sore throat was split open with a loud scream, blood-curdling and eye-watering. She dropped her basket to the floor, returning the herbs to where she had plucked them, before she sprinted towards home. Her dress caught on the thorns of the brush, her feet stumbling over the unearthed roots. None of the obstacles slowed her. She tugged her dress free with every pump of her legs, keeping herself steady with nothing other than the will of adrenaline and fear pushing he along.

She didn't realize she had been crying until she saw the edge of the village in sight, her cheeks burning with her hands going numb. A man she recognized as one of her father's friends was out in his garden, cultivating the family vegetables when he looked up to see her, concern striking his features.

"(Y/N)," the man called out, his voice echoing over the space.

Stumbling in her tracks, she fought to keep herself steady. Instinctively, she wanted to keep running until she made it back to her bedroom with her safety intact. She knew she couldn't do that, though. She had to tell someone about the woman, find her family and lay her to rest properly.

Find who had hurt her.

"Th-There—She's—Dead," (Y/N) panted, floundering around her jumbled mind. She couldn't find a single coherent thought in her head.

The man's thick brows only furrowed as he cautiously approached her. "Dead?" he pressed, making himself appear smaller as if she were the creature to be cowering from for survival.

Hearing someone else say the word had another round of sobs wracking through her body. "Sh—The girl—She's dead. In the woods, there's been another."

Horror took the man's features. Blood drained from his face, leaving him shades paler than just moments before.

"Another?" he asked, "Like the others?"

"I-I think so," she stuttered, moments away from crumbling to the ground. She couldn't be sure if the state this young woman had been in was what the rest of the others had gone through. She hope it wasn't.

A curse was uttered under his breath before he shouted towards his home. He called for his wife, a woman (Y/N) vaguely knew from church. It only took a moment for a woman to stick her head out of the doorway, her features screwing up in worry the second she saw (Y/N)'s blubbering form.

She was only vaguely aware of the man explaining to his wife what (Y/N) had shared, and that he was going to get the others together to recover the body and care for her. His wife needed to take care of her, inform her father of what (Y/N) had seen today.

Time moved impossibly slow while racing through each second simultaneously. At some point, she checked out, shock setting in as she came to terms with everything she had seen. By the time she returned, she had been deposited on the stoop of the church, a knitted blanket around her shoulders. Shivers wracked down her spine though she could feel herself breaking into a thin sweat. Many of the women of the village had swarmed around her, including Mary and Ethel. Feet away, her father was speaking with the vicar of the church.

"Drink this, dear," Mary said, shoving a warm mug of something in her hands.

(Y/N) made no move to follow her given directly, loosely gripping the cup in her palms. Her gaze was barely focused, tears still running down her cheeks, as she absently stared at the cobblestone under her boots.

Every time she blinked, she saw the bloodless wound on the woman. Her thin, lavender eyelids masking unseeing eyes. Her thin fingers, the pale skin barely covering the bones underneath. The sections of her neck that were frayed and ripped, matching that of the hem of her dress.

Murmurs arose once more around her. (Y/N) had no doubt there was already speculation about who could have done this—who would have killed someone in such a way that an onlooker end up as traumatized as the dead. A part of her brain pinged, knowing that Mary and Ethel would no doubt be peering accusingly at the castle in the distance, their accusations known without a single word leaving their lips.

Now more than ever, having seen a body, (Y/N) had no doubt that Harry had nothing to do with these disappearances.

No human could do what she saw in the woods.

—————

"Let me grab my coat, and John and I will escort you back home."

(Y/N) did her best to school her features, regulate her reaction before reaching a gentle hand on Margret's shoulder to keep her from ascending the stairs.

"Oh, no," (Y/N) declined, canting her head with a soft smile, "You've already been too kind tonight. I can make it on my own—home's barely a block away."

Margret chewed her lip between her teeth, looking over her shoulder to where her parents were standing by the hearth. So many eyes were on them and their interaction.

"Really, Marg," (Y/N) tried again, "My father and I appreciate everyone's kindness enough, I would hate to put you out even more and make you go out in a storm like this."

"But," Margret started, "I don't want to leave you alone. The storm is bad enough without everything that... happened."

Almost two weeks had passed since (Y/N)'s run-in in the woods, and yet the village's paranoia was at an all-time high. Her father had been at her side near constant since he had finished speaking with the vicar, promising her that he wouldn't let that happen again—finding something so gruesome, as well as a silent promise that she wouldn't become the gruesome sight. He had been shaken by her reaction, telling the vicar that he had never seen her so vulnerable, on the edge of hysterics.

Any herb they couldn't grow in the garden would now be out of stock until he himself could forage through the woods, but she would never be tasked with going by herself. Otherwise, he was going to be at her side as often as he could be, ensuring she was never alone. If he couldn't be there, then he had pooled together a batch of close family friends who would be willing to stand in for him. She would never be by herself, never vulnerable to another fright.

(Y/N) was losing her mind.

Everyone walked on eggshells around her, having seen her breakdown in real time. They heeded her father's request as if law, never allowing her even a second of alone time if not in the safety of her bedroom. Even her time in the garden had been reduced to a field trip for every young woman who was tasked to be at her side, chattering about the most lighthearted of subjects.

While in a few ways, (Y/N) couldn't blame her father, she selfishly didn't really care. She needed her freedom, even if that freedom came in the form of a short walk to her home by herself.

"I promise I will be alright," (Y/N) tried to soothe her friend, offering her beaming smile to Margret's parents and brother as well. "Thank you all for dinner, please don't let me add to the burden by making you all escort me home in a storm. I would never forgive myself if any of you fell ill."

It was Margret's mother that seemed to waver from (Y/N)'s reasoning. She most likely didn't want her children out in the rain, either. (Y/N) wasn't the only one in the village that needed to be protected from whatever lived in the woods.

Peering over her shoulder, Margret searched for her parents blessing that came in the form of a small dip of her father's chin.

"I will come visit you in the morning, then," Margret cemented, "to make sure you're alright."

"I look forward to it," (Y/N) chirped, bringing her friend in for a small hug before inching towards the front door. She gave her beaming smile to the rest of the family. "Thank you again," she said, "Dinner was wonderful. I'll have to steal the recipe sometime, Mrs. Wayfield."

"I'll send it with Margret in the morning, dear," she said, her smile tight, "Get home safe. Don't linger longer than you have to."

"Absolutely," (Y/N) promised, pulling the hood of her purple cloak over her head.

Final goodbyes were shared before (Y/N) stepped outside, the raging storm that had been rattling the roof of the home now whipping against her form.

As much as the wind stung her eyes and the rain chilled her skin, she reveled in the experience. She was alone, finally.

Despite what Mrs. Wayfield said, she definitely lingered longer than she needed to, allowing the rain to soak her cloak and begin to seep through her dress. She had never been one to steep in the rain or bask in storms, but that was going to be changing tonight.

The direct walk home was decidedly short, taking less than a block's worth of steps to take her there, but she was going to make it as long as possible. She might even take the scenic route, stepping through the center of town for no reason at all other than she wanted to.

Heavy droplets of rain weighed down her cloak the longer she took outside, the wind whipping the hem around her in waves. Taking her time, she ambled over the cobblestones of the town square, ignoring the drops that slipped over her warm cheeks.

Suddenly, the storm changed once she reached the center of town.

Before, it had been nothing but rain and wind, the kind of storm that would put her to sleep in a matter of minutes. Something shifted in a matter of moments, taking the wind and amping it up into swirling chills. A crack of lightning lit up the sky, making shadowy ghosts of all the buildings and turning the trees into bony hands reaching towards the heavens. Thunder rattled the Earth a moment later. The large drops of rain quickly became a heavy downpour, slicking down her form until her clothing was stuck to her body and her eyes were struggling to blink through the droplets. Every time she peeked through slitted eyes, the sheets slammed down thick enough she could barely see through it.

The scenic route no longer seemed fun now that she was out here. She should have just gone home like she promised.

(Y/N) had to step carefully over the cobblestones, not trusting the grip of her boots over the cracks. She wished she could sprint though the barrage, but she would no doubt lose her footing and smash her face into the rocky ground if she did.

Instead, she kept her head down and tried to navigate back home through the rain, lacking sight. She kept her pace as steady as possible, giving all her focus to the task of making it home, though she was vaguely aware of a familiar panic growing in her chest.

As much as she had wanted to be alone, take time by herself and live in the village without her father's word being law, she still saw the gruesome body every time she closed her eyes. (Y/N) had nightmares of that moment she had come across the young woman, though this time she blinked her eyes open when (Y/N) grew close enough before snatching at her foot. A shaky breath expanded (Y/N)'s lungs at the childish fear that something could even be following behind her at the moment. She would have no idea if there was; every sound was drowned out by the pouring rain, her sight impaired by the water running over her eyes and the heavy sheets acting like a fog over the village.

Unable to resist the urge, (Y/N) whipped her head around, trying to catch the monster in the act of following her. Unsurprisingly, no one was there.

She was alone, just as she had wished.

Spinning around, the village was completely vacant. No one knew she was out here. No one would even know if she had been snatched like that young woman. Not until she was found again.

That flare of panic in her chest rose again, clogging her throat and thickening her head.

She needed to get out of here. Being alone wasn't worth this. She should have just taken up Margret and John on their offer and gone straight to her room. She could have found her alone time on another day.

Picking the first direction in front of her, (Y/N) stormed through. This had to take her home, right? She had lived in this flat almost all of her life, she wouldn't forget where it was.

Until, of course, (Y/N) noticed she had taken the complete wrong direction, heading towards the opposite end of the village. A strike of lightning lit up the grey sky, showing off the vague shadow of the towering castle in the distance.

The Count's home. She had to turn around; she was no where close to the apothecary.

This time, when (Y/N) spun around, trying to find a direction to head through her woolen throat and mounting panic, she couldn't decide. What if she went the wrong way again? What if she ended up back in the town center?

What if she died out here?

The morbid turn of her thoughts took her breath away.

She was stunned in place, unable to make any move in any direction.

Suddenly, a hand settled on her shoulder, stilling her shaking form.

"(Y/N)? What are you doing out here?"

(Y/N) stumbled, turning around to face to familiar voice speaking right behind her.

There, backlit by another round of lightning and thunder, was Harry.

His hair was almost black under the rain, near soaked despite having barely been out in the elements for longer than a few moments. His velvet jacket grew darker with every drop absorbed into the thick fabric. He pale skin was a beacon in the gloom.

"H-Harry?"

"You can't stay out here, (Y/N). You're going to fall ill, or worse," he told her, concern dripping from his tone the same way the rain clumped through the length of her lashes.

When she gave her body permission to do so, she wasn't sure, but in a heartbeat she was clinging to his form. He was her safety in the middle of his storm, keeping her from falling victim to the most morbid of her thoughts. It was beyond improper, but she didn't care as she dug her fingers into his waistcoat. He couldn't leave her here.

"I-I was trying to go home," she whined, her voice fragile under the weight of everything. "I think I'm l-lost."

She felt pathetic to utter something so silly given she knew this town like the back of her hand, but it was a truth.

Harry lingered in front of her for a moment, seemingly assessing her before he sprung into action.

"That's alright," he murmured, speaking as if she were an injured animal, "Let me take you home. I think I remember the way. Is that okay? I have my carriage over there."

He pointed behind himself, where another slice of lightning revealed a black, boxy carriage led by regal white horses. She could see the vague form of someone sitting in the coach box.

When she didn't immediately answer, he wrapped a tentative arm around her form. "Let me get you home, (Y/N)."

She gave an absent nod, willing to let him take her anywhere—anything was better than this, she decided. He bundled her against him as he took her to the side of the carriage, sacrificing an arm holding her middle to open the door. He helped heave her inside, getting her in as quickly as possible.

"Thank you," she peeped when she settled on the bench seat. She kept her eyes on him as he waited a moment, relaying to the driver the new destination.

Her body shook with unstoppable tremors as Harry climbed in after her, her soaked clothing ruining the red velvet under her. She would have to apologize to him later.

It was here, in the dry of his carriage, that (Y/N) realized she was sobbing with rivers of hot tears pouring down her cheeks. It wasn't just the chill of the rain that had her feeling as if she couldn't breathe, she realized. In the safety of the cover, wracking sobs kept her from properly filling her lungs, her inhales way too short to be safe.

The carriage spun around her despite the way (Y/N) tried to focus on her hands on her lap. This wasn't good, she knew.

"(Y/N)," she heard, the voice firm and commanding, "Look at me, darling."

Absently, she pulled her head up to face Harry.

He was inches away from her. (Y/N) could make out the the shattered shards of green around his black pupils. The strong line of his nose and pillow lips were right there.

Harry was dazzling. Breathtaking.

Unfortunately, breathtaking was the last thing she needed right then.

Before she knew any better, (Y/N)'s lashes fluttered as her eyes fell closed on their own accord, her breathing stunted in her lungs. The last thing she was aware of was Harry's panicked call of her name before she spilled over the velvet seat as she lost consciousness.

—————

When (Y/N) finally cracked her eyes open, her limbs felt impossibly heavy as if she had rocks tied to each end as she sunk to the bottom of the ocean. Her bleary sight took it's time clearing, allowing heartbeats to pass before the blurry streaks around her came into focus.

She was in an immaculate bedroom, she realized. Her body was cushioned by luxurious velvet, dyed a deep crimson. The mattress underneath was plush and inviting, urging her to sink deeper and deeper into the dreamy bedding and warmth it offered. A length of fur ran across the end of the bed, tickling her bare ankles as she stretched.

Sitting up where she had been nestled atop the bed, more and more of her head came to her. The bed was even more opulent that she thought. Four posters shot up from around the frame, holding curtains made of delicate black lace. Her hands ached just looking at it, thinking about how long it would take to make something so beautiful, even with the help of one of those sewing machines. More furs and velvet decorated the large space; everything honing in on the darker spectrum of colors. Here and there, pops of gold thread appeared like minute rays of sunlight. At the bedside was a bouquet of cut flowers, all in rich violet hues and smelling sweet enough to draw her in like a butterfly. And she almost did, sticking her nose into the tall stalk of trumpet shaped flowers until she realized what kind they were and jerked back.

Foxglove, she recognized them to be. Poisonous.

Around the stalk were wisteria blooms and plumes of baby's breath. The wisteria was another set of flowers that were gorgeous to look at, but deadly in the end.

Pulling away with a stiff back, she set her bare feet on the ground. Now that she was free from the flowers, the woody scent of winter savory and spike of tobacco in the background were the prominent aromas taking her attention. Looking around her, her cloak was dry, laid on the end of her borrowed bed alone with her boots set up in a neat row by her feet.

This place was extravagant. A fairytale daydream, perfect for her head-in-the-clouds mindset.

This had to be a castle. No random hut could have something this indulgent.

There was only one castle she knew of.

Memories came back to (Y/N) in pieces.

The storm. She had left the Wayfields' home, telling them she would head straight home despite knowing she was lying. She had wanted some time alone, away from her father's overprotective gaze. But the storm was too much. She had pathetically lost her way and panicked, remembering the woman she had found in the woods.

Then, there was the gleaming black carriage. The ghostly pale face of the Count who offered to take her home, get her out of the rain and into safety before he would be on his way. She remembered him helping her into the carriage, telling the coachman that they needed to drop her back at the apothecary. Her emotions had fluctuated to opposite ends of the spectrum: extreme panic under the sheets of rain to the deep relief she felt at seeing a familiar face who could help her.

The last few things she could remember was the guilt she felt at ruining the luxe seating in the Count's carriage before looking up to see him facing her directly with his breathtaking features. That was all that had been left before she tumbled back and lost consciousness.

This was no doubt the Count's home. There had been times she had wondered what kind of interior a building as magnificent as this one would have, but she had never thought of something this indulgent.

Though, despite her admirations, she couldn't stay here.

She was never supposed to take even the long walk home, let alone travel all the way to the gargantuan home that the most notorious member of the village resided in. (Naming him as a member of their village was a stretch, but the easiest way for (Y/N) to think at the moment). There was no telling how long she had been out, but her father was going to kill her even if it was ten seconds.

Despite the ache in her bones and the stiff fabric of her ill dried dress, she forced her boots back on, the laces pulled into clumsy bows. Her cloak was grabbed in a haste before she started towards the door. She didn't know what she was going to do, but she needed to get back home as soon as she could.

Swinging open the heavy door, (Y/N) swayed on her feet, stopping in her tracks when she saw who was on the other side.

Propped against the opposing wall, between more cut flowers and immaculate paintings, was the Count himself.

He was at attention within a second, but (Y/N) had caught the way he had been slumped against the wall, his shoulders a sullen slope. In an instant, he had crossed the grand hall to meet her at her door, his hands reaching out towards her. His eyes looked darker than ever, only light shatters of deep green apparent in his iris. His usually flawless hair was left in disarray. Somewhere, he had shed his coat and cravat, leaving the billowed sleeves of his shirt and grey waistcoat the only articles on his torso. Even the neckline of his white shirt had been left loose, a stretch of creamy skin on display.

"Are you okay?" he breathed out, his gaze immediately tripping down her form before she had a chance to answer, "I-I tried to make sure you hadn't injured your head, or-or worse when you fell faint, but I couldn't be positive."

Her lashes fluttered in a blink as she startled over his concern. She had never seen him so discomposed, his demeanor world's away from calm.

"I-I'm alright," she breathed, finding her tongue in her dry mouth, "You brought me to your home?" She could vaguely remember him ordering the coachman to take her home, back to the flat above the apothecary.

He wet his lips, his eyes searching through hers as he collected his words. "When you fell faint," he started, "I was not sure if you would have been alone if I took you home. I was worried; I decided to take you back here, so I could keep an eye on you. That's all, I swear it."

She was sure he knew just as well as she that being alone like this—unchaperoned, neither of them dressed as they typically should be, no one aware of her whereabouts—was more inappropriate than a single moonlight stroll through town. This could ruin both of them if anyone found out; (Y/N) would be deemed unbecoming for marriage, and the small amount of reputation Harry had would be buried six feet under.

Throughout all, (Y/N) still found her skin warming, seeing how genuinely he spoke of her and his worry of her well-being. Other than her cloak and boots, she could tell none of her clothing had been tampered with. He had done nothing more than keep an eye on her.

"Thank you," she swallowed, nodding her head as she allowed a small smile to curl her lips. She felt a bit desperate then, hoping he knew how deep her gratitude went. "Truly, thank you. I-I don't know what happened to me, it was scary."

"I'm sure it was," he murmured, the tight set to his features loosening the longer she stood in one piece before him. "I am glad I found you when I did."

"How long has it been?" she asked, noticing not a single window that could give away the time of day. She wasn't even sure if it was still night time.

He deflated some at her words. "A few hours, I think" he shared, dropping his gaze as if realizing just now how long he had been her self-appointed guardian, "The storm finally ended not too long ago. You were exhausted, (Y/N)."

She had never heard her name wrapped in his voice before. Looking at him now, she was back in that carriage with her lungs stunted and mind only on him. She swore she could see his eyes lightening before her gaze, more and more green coming to the surface like a murky pond under sunlight. The panicked urge she had to race home slowly melted out of her.

"I'm not surprised," she agreed, finally breaking her gaze from his for no other reason than to allow her breath to come back. She cast her eyes around the opulent space, taking in the priceless art around her, the glossy flooring and detailed decor. "This is your home?"

"For as long as I can remember," he smiled, pride straightening his shoulders as he followed her line of sight, "It's my sanctuary. If you'd like, I can have the kitchen make something for you and I can give you a tour of the grounds in the meantime."

Instantly, she wanted to accept. She wanted to see what kind of creations a place like this could make in the kitchen. She wanted to know where he had found such gorgeous, but deadly plantlife. She wanted to know if any of her daydreams had been right about this place.

Unfortunately, there was that niggling worry that popped back up in the back of her mind.

"As much as I would love to, I can't," she reluctantly let out, "I have to go home. My father... he's probably rallying the village as we speak, trying to find me before he loses his mind."

Harry's expression fell, losing that pride over her praise. Nonetheless, he gave her a relenting nod. "I understand," he said, cracking a small smile, "I have had you hidden away for long enough, I suppose. I'll have my staff ready my carriage, and I'll have you home by dawn."

"Thank you," she said earnestly once more, "Really, Harry. I fear where I would be if you hadn't come across me."

"I do as well," he shared, his voice low as if sharing a secret with her.

This time, (Y/N) didn't wipe the smile from her lips as she looked up at him. Another shade of green seemingly appeared in his gaze.

—————

"You're not coming with me?" (Y/N) asked, poking her head out of the door of the coach when Harry didn't immediately follow after her. The first rays of sunlight were beginning to crest the horizon, giving away just how long she had been far from home, though that didn't stop her from stalling.

"Unfortunately," he said, keeping his feet planted on the ground outside the carriage. He looked up at her from where he stood, holding the door open as he spoke to her. "I have business to attend to very soon; I wouldn't have time to arrange everything if I escorted you this morning. I hope you'll accept my apologies, anyway."

Though she was disappointed she would lose out on time with him, she couldn't blame him. He must be a busy man if he had this place to call home and a full staff to take care of it. He didn't have time to chauffeur her around the village, even if that was what she wanted. He didn't even have a chance to tell her where he had found the flowers for his bouquets.

"I suppose I'll forgive you this time," she said, a sly smile on her lips that had Harry's own lips blooming, "But next time, I won't be so lenient."

"I appreciate your grace, my lady," he played along, offering her that dazzling smile and dimpled cheeks. "I promise to see you soon. I feel like I'll need to visit the apothecary sooner rather than later."

(Y/N) could take that promise. "I will make sure we stay stocked, then."

"Until next time," Harry said, inching away from the carriage with reluctant steps deeper into the shadows.

"Until next time."

With that, Harry closed the door to the coach, relaying the destination to the driver.

With her hands in her lap and heart bubbling in her chest, (Y/N) allowed her cheeks to split with her smile. Definitely better than any kind of daydream her cloudy head had come up with.

—————

As soon as she approached the church, (Y/N) was grateful for the instructions she had given to the coachmen to drop her at the edge of the village, leaving her to be the only one who had seen the carriage at all. As she had suspected, her father really had rallied every able body in the town. She could only imagine she had caught them right before they started combing the woods and terrorizing the neighboring villages until they found her.

It was Margret who had seen her first, breaking down into tears with a bursting sob before she was running towards (Y/N).

"Where have you been?!" she screamed, collapsing around (Y/N) in a steely hug, "I—We—Everyone thought you were—"

Margret didn't have to finish her words for (Y/N) to know what had been on the village's mind.

Before she had a chance to do anything more than reciprocate the hug and draw a breath, her father was barreling over. "(Y/N)!" he shouted, a mix of relief and anger tinting his tone. She doubted he even knew how to feel in that moment.

"I'm sorry, Margret," (Y/N) muttered, offering a consoling smile before pulling away from her hug. The Wayfields stepped forward to collect their daughter while (Y/N) went towards her father, already dreading the lecture she would receive. "Father, I—"

The air was stolen from her lungs the second he scooped her into a tight hug. "My daughter," he murmured into her hair, nestling her against his chest, "I thought the worst."

"I'm sorry," she whispered, aware of the eyes watching their embrace.

"What happened?" he asked, pulling away to face her with watery eyes and warm cheeks, "Why didn't you stay with Margret and her family? They said you went through the storm alone, promising to come back home."

(Y/N) felt immense floods of guilt bubble through her system. This wasn't the welcome home she had thought she'd garner.

"I hadn't meant to frighten anyone," she started, hoping the rest of the village overheard, "I only wanted a minute alone, but I was planning on coming home right away. But, the storm was so heavy, and I scared myself. I was disoriented and ended up a village over. I stayed in their church for the night, until it was safe to come home."

The lie slipped off her tongue like water, the story planned from her time in the carriage. Her guilt only worsened knowing she was deceiving her father, but she didn't want anyone to know where she had spent the night. Despite the impropriety of the whole thing situation Harry, she didn't want Mary and Ethel chattering to her father that the Count was trying to steal away his daughter and flay her before dropping her in the forest.

She didn't want Harry to be dragged into this.

His features tightened at her words, but she could see as he ultimately accepted them. "Okay," he relented before flexing his arms around her in a pulsing hug, "Never again, (Y/N). Do you hear me?"

"I hear you," she promised, holding him back just as tightly.

Over his shoulder, she could see the gleaming of a black carriage ascending the trail towards the large castle in the distance.

—————

oleander, if consumed, can slow the heart and cause death within hours.

ahhhhhh! super super super different for myself ngl! I changed a couple of ideas I had just bc I started scaring myself but thank you so much for reading! im so happy im finally putting out a halloween fic! so sorry for any mistakes and if theres any ideas or thoughts please send them in!

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m00nlight-ramblings · 3 months

Text

Waiting Room

You see Astarion again, years after the final battle of the Elder Brain.

Pairings: Ascended Astarion x GN! Reader

Warnings: swearing, angst, sad girl hours, discussions and allusions to sex but no smut, NOT a happy ending. MINORS DNI 18+

Word Count: 2.9k

A/N: Based on "Waiting Room" by Phoebe Bridgers. Get ready to cry because I love hurting my own feelings. Graphic made by me, I do not consent to my work (graphic or writing) to be shared without my permission

The first time you had fallen in love with Astarion was the first time you laid eyes on him.

Sure, the handsome, charismatic vampire had threatened a knife to your throat at first meeting, but that was only because he was scared – unsure if you and the other companions were trustworthy. Though there were ups and downs throughout your journey, eventually you had all fallen into a found family dynamic – looking out for one another as if you had all grown up together, though you were all as different as the next.

It only took a few days for the magnetic connection to take hold between you and Astarion. Once the initial shock of the parasites wore off, you often found yourselves near each other. In battle, tents next to teach other, nights around the fire…where one of you was, usually the other was as well.

The romance started the night of the camp party with the Teiflings. You were sure Astarion was only looking for sex – which, to be fair, was the most incredible sex you had ever had in your life – and that was how he acted.

For a bit.

Late night sneaking into your tent turned into talking until the sun rose, or secret walks alongside creeks, or stolen kisses when the companions weren’t looking. The secretive nature of your love was exciting – a bright light in between the doom and gloom of the Ilithid, and battle, and blood. When Astarion finally started to open up, and the reality of his traumatic past set in, you were there for him in more ways than one.

Soon, the others in camp started to notice. There was no denying how you stole glances at him, or how Astarion looked at you, totally enraptured as you spoke. His smile when you entered the room, or the gleam in your eye as he teased others.

“You two have been in love since the moment you met,” Karlach had mentioned one night, smiling, “We’ve all seen it. There’s no denying it. It’s a beautiful thing to witness throughout this whole thing…in a way, it’s giving us all hope.”

Heavy breathing, gentle touching, hair pulling, and names muttered like prayers. Silent laughter while the rest of camp slept, promises of finding a ring so Astarion could walk freely in the sun, admitting to fantasies of your future together. A renewed hope in both of you, finding solace in each other’s hearts and bodies. Trusting each other with stories of your dark pasts, pacts to never lie, promises to love each other for ever. And ever. And ever. And ever.

Your love. Your light…your life.

“I will love you for my lifetime,” Astarion had promised one night, his voice barely above a whisper. He tucked a piece of hair behind your ear gently, “You have brought me a happiness I had never thought possible. My whole life I have lived in fear…only after meeting you have I finally begun to know joy.”

Eventually, you had made your way to Cazador’s palace – the plan in place to stop the ritual, kill him, and set free the rest of the spawn. Astarion came face to face with his past, and confronted his actions and decisions head on, ready to settle the score and start anew. It was unlike anything you had ever seen before – Astarion stabbing Cazador so many times it seemed like there wasn’t any blood left. His body covered, as his heaving sobs wracked his body so hard he shook, his cries echoing through the dark hall. Tears in all of your eyes – Karlach and Gale holding you back to give Astarion his time to mourn the past 200 years. All he needed to do was free the spawn, to give them another chance at life, and you could leave, Astarion leaving behind the trauma and hurt.

But something happened. Something went wrong.

Before you knew it, the ritual was completed. The cries from the bodies of the dying spawn had infiltrated your ears before you could figure out what was happening – Astarion had finished the ritual, ascending. Never to fear again, only to be feared. Tears fell openly from your eyes, screams from your throat, fear in your heart. Why Astarion did it, you would never know.

All you knew was that the future that both of you had longed for was gone, never to be seen again.

You tried your hardest to stay with Astarion, to be by his side like you promised. But when you tried to discuss his newfound love of evil, he turned on you – he didn’t want a partner, he wanted a slave. A pet in a way…someone to follow exactly what he wanted to do, and say. His offer of turning you into his spawn made you sick – the words he spat at you when you told him “no” forever ingrained in you forever.

“I can’t believe I thought you were worthy of a life with me,” He said, his dark eyes shining, “When this little journey to finish the Elder Brain is done, so are we. I never want to see you again – the very sight of you makes me sick.”

Your whole life turned to tragedy in the blink of an eye, and you were so depressed, you didn’t even truly feel there. In fact, you and Astarion never spoke another word to another the rest of the time around each other, which only worsened the blow of your depression.

Numb the rest of the journey, you tearfully finished your task, saving Baldur’s Gate and more. The months you had travelled together, you had envisioned a giant sendoff together when you were done – food, drinks, dancing, music…to celebrate your victory and time together. One last party before you parted ways.

Instead, you silently slipped off into the night, never saying goodbye to any of your companions. Thinking it would be the easiest move for your shattered heart, you decided to push that time in your life aside, even though it was the most important time in your life.

A shell of your former self, constantly thinking about Astarion. About the Astarion that once was. Life returned back to “normal” – back to working in Baldur’s Gate, pubs with friends, research on magic in your library. Trying to enjoy the life you had desperately wanted to return back to when you were first infected, only to miss the life you had cultivated while in the midst of battle.

Trying to return back to him.

Even though he no longer existed.

The moon shone high in the night, a starless sky. You were leaving the inn; a party for a friend’s birthday. You were the last one to leave, helping them close down the bar. Even though you didn’t have much to drink, you tried to stay around for as long as possible, desperate to not be home alone.

The pub was in an off street of the main road, and its location combined with the late time of night made for a quiet walk home. You’d be back in a half hour or so…you tried to enjoy the warm evening air, reminding yourself of the beauty surrounding you.

The moon is beautiful, You thought, trying to look for happiness in the small things, The air smells nice. The warmth feels good.

Your footsteps echoed in the night, your arms wrapped around yourself like protection. You tried to not think too hard about feelings often – even after two years, your thoughts would always wander back to Astarion, given the chance. As if you had no choice in the matter.

Suddenly, a rustling. You stopped walking, trying to get a better idea of the sound. You narrowed your eyes, your heart immediately racing. You didn’t dare move, but instead swiveled your head so you could stay put.

Nothing. Silence.

You had just began walking when you heard the voice.

“I never thought I would see you again.” He said.

You stopped in your tracks, your body turning to ice. Slowly, you turned towards the voice, your heart racing so hard you could feel the blood pumping in your head. Your fingertips buzzed with adrenaline, and your throat immediately became dry. You instantly met his gaze.

Astarion.

Standing in the shadows of the back alleyway you were walking down, he took a step forward. In an outfit adorned in shining black metal, intricate weavings fit for a king. His trademark smirk was nowhere to be found, only his dark, ruby eyes.

He looked absolutely breathtaking.

“You said you didn’t want to.” You finally were able to manage, your voice more of a whimper. Your worst fear coming true – you knew that Astarion had resided in the same city as you, but you didn’t think you would ever come face to face with him again. The city was big, he was a vampire lord…so many variables.

He chuckled – one quick sound. “I can’t believe you remember what I said.” He took a step forward, causing a shiver to run down your spine. You could feel the frown on your lips.

“I’ll never forget it.”

Astarion paused to look at you, his expression unreadable. Finally, he took another step closer to you and spoke again, “I smelled you…a bit ago. At first, I thought I was going crazy – I thought it couldn’t be. But I decided to investigate and…here you are. After all this time.”

You were not afraid. You knew he would do nothing to you – your fear of seeing him again was not rooted in fear of your life. It was rooted in fear of your heart – how long would it take you to numb yourself again, now that he was standing in front of you again? Weeks…months…years? You had barely begun to feel normal again.

“I hope you are faring well after our adventure,” He spoke again, his voice far away. He was close to you now, a foot or so away. “I’m assuming you are living here now.” He spoke as if we were old colleagues, not former lovers. Not as two people who thought they were destined for one another.

You nodded, “I’ve came back home. After we were done.”

“You didn’t say goodbye.”

“I couldn’t.” Your voice began to catch in your throat. Astarion noticed, nodding. Giving you space to feel for a moment. After a minute or so, it seemed he was done – he turned to walk away.

Just like that.

“Do you regret it?” You called after him, causing him to stop. He didn’t turn around, but merely stared straight ahead. Your tears threatened to fall as you spoke, “Ascending. Do you regret turning into this?”

Astarion stayed so still you had thought time stood still. Crickets chirped around you, and you could hear the blood pulsing in your body the silence was so heavy. Eventually he turned slowly, taking a few quick steps to you, a smirk on his lips.

“Regret it? Regret it! Regret being one of the most powerful vampires, of never living in fear? Of having every desire, every want, every need met?” His eyes darted between yours, “Of having any body I want, whenever I want?” A blow to your heart – Astarion had added it to hurt you, of that you were sure. “No, darling, I don’t regret it at all. I savor it.”

You nodded, unable to say anything. His smile was a slap in your face – the Astarion you had once loved was completely gone, washed away with everything you had known about him. Instead, standing in front of you was someone you didn’t even know. In that moment, you realized something: ever since he had ascended, you were grieving the death of him. And grief, you knew, never went away, which is why it was so hard for you to think about. The death of who Astarion used to be never left you.

“I loved you,” You said. You shook your head slowly and smiled, embarrassed you were even discussing it. “I loved you more than I had loved anyone ever in my entire life. I will never love someone the way I loved you. I loved you so wholly and completely and fiercely, I-” Your voice broke, the tears steadily streaming down your face now, “I wasn’t sure of anything – if we would survive the journey. If we would defeat the Elder Brain. I wasn’t even sure of who I was half of the time…but there was one thing I was sure of: I was sure that if you were by my side, I would always have the courage to try. I’d have the courage to keep going.” You had to stop yourself, the tears turning into sobs. Your voice trailed off as you wiped the wetness from your face.

Astarion’s face was a snarl, almost disgusted with what you said. He took a small step back, as if he was unable to deal with your emotion.

“Why did you do it?” You asked through your sobs, your voice almost a scream, “How could you finish that ritual? How could you ascend? After everything we talked about, everything we promised each other…you became the very person you hated!”

“You have no idea!” Astarion shouted, his face suddenly centimeters from your face. You felt his hot breath on your cheeks, his voice causing you to jump, “You have no idea what I had been through in my life. That ritual? The ascension gave me freedom! I have become exactly who I was destined to be,” He laughed, extending his arms, “I am exactly who I want to be. I was not meant for a soft life – for a life of love or domesticity, or stillness. I was meant for more.” He started to pace, seemingly overwhelmed, his voice never lowering below a shout, “And you could have lived that life with me! You could’ve had everything you ever wanted…a castle. Jewels. Servants. The finest garments…we could have made love every night until the sun rose. I would have had you screaming my name so regularly, it would become commonplace.” He stopped his pacing and was close to your face again. He was red with anger, his voice finally lowering to a murmur, “But you were weak. You were…pathetic. Saying no was the biggest mistake of your life.” He was breathing hard, his shoulders moving up and down so harshly they seemed to move on strings.

The silence between you was so loud that your ears rang. You took a deep breath in, trying to steady yourself. “That isn’t love, Astarion. I wanted nothing but you. I didn’t need a castle, or servants…I just wanted you. The you that was before.” You took a step back, overwhelmed. You were so overcome with emotion that you felt like you were going to faint. Finally, you decided you needed to leave. Taking one last look into his eyes, you spoke again, “I’m sorry you felt you weren’t worthy of a life of love.”

Without waiting for a response, and hoping you would never see him again, you turned to walk away. You had only made it a few steps before Astarion spoke again.

“You were a gift, you know,” He said, so softly, that if you weren’t listening, you wouldn’t had heard him. You stopped, but didn’t turn. “You are someone who deserves a life so full of love, that every day you are reminded of how much. I…” He sighed. “I am not a someone who could have given that to you.”

Stifling a sob, you finally turned. You looked at Astarion, and for a moment, you saw a flash of the old Astarion, before the ascension. He looked at you, and for the first time in gods knows how long, he looked unsure of himself. His expression reminded you of the first time he had told you that he loved you.

“I’ve never done this before, but…” Nervously, Astarion took your hands, looking into your eyes, “But I love you. At least…I think I do. I’m not quite sure that I know what love is, really, but darling what you make me feel? Is unlike anyone has ever made me feel…and it’s a good feeling. And incredible, perfect feeling, actually. And I promise every day to try and make you feel the same…to remind you how much I love you.”

You smiled softly, sadly, unable to do much else. Fully facing him, you stood tall. “Astarion…I hope the life you chose fulfills you…I hope it’s worth it.”

Astarion looked at you for a minute more, and for a moment, you thought he would smile. That he would smile, and rush to you, and kiss you – that somehow this was all a spell that needed to be broken. That this could’ve been the beginning of the rest of your lives together…the life that you both had spent nights fantasizing together.

But he nodded curtly, and left, his footsteps silent in the night.

The feeling of sadness crushed you, sending you to your knees. You let your sobs echo into the night, releasing everything you had left. You could only hope that this could act as some sort of closure, that the grief you’d feel wouldn’t ruin you.

That it was a way to move forward, not backwards.

No, it’s for the better,

I know it’s for the better.

---

As always, comments, reblogs, likes mean a lot (especially comments and reblogs!) brb gonna go cry now bye.

#astarion romance #bg3 astarion #astarion bg3 #astarion one shot #astarion #astarion x tav #astarion x you #astarion x reader #bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #astarion fanfic #astarion fan fiction #astarion ancunin #astarion angst

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uhgood-girl · 5 months

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if you're unfamiliar, anton is a korean to english translator who actually did the english translation for bts' book beyond the story. from what i understand, he has been on pretty good terms with army since and has not fallen into any of the traps a lot of other people who find themselves in the army spotlight usually do? but feel free to correct me if i'm wrong. though, even if i am, i don't think it detracts from his statements above.

i felt the need to highlight this opinion over here because i maintain the (unpopular, i guess?) position of if you're not being radicalized by this experience even just a little bit, then you need to widen your overall focus.

i do not want to be the bearer of only doom and gloom and please cope as you see fit within reason, but i have seen enough romantic takes on this whole situation that i kind of wish i could shake a few people.

the risk level here for the boys isn't zero. what happened to seokjin already proved that. all of them being strong both physically and mentally doesn't negate people's valid concern for their well being. it is not a lack of confidence in them or some form of "coddling grown men" to express distress over a situation that can go sideways at a moment's notice.

if you don't believe me, by all means, don't take my word for it and go find your own sources, that is something i will always encourage. but here's a freebie for you to start with.

#bts #bts enlistment #anton hur #jimin #jungkook #namjoon #yoongi #seokjin #hoseok #taehyung #now im just on one #seeing jimin's puffy eyes and the saddest thumbs up from jk in the history of thumbs up has me ready to fight

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mcverse · 1 year

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ꨄ︎ Paring: Neteyam x Avatar! F! Reader

ꨄ︎ Requested: Yes/No

ꨄ︎ Type: Part 1 out of 5 (Previous/Next)

ꨄ︎ Word count: 2.3K

ꨄ︎ Warnings: Death, conscious transfer, illness, depression, angst, not spell checked

ꨄ︎ Side Bar: Lied bout how many parts ✌️

please keep in mind that all characters in my stories are always 18+

You were the fault in the stars—an anomaly right from your first breath.

The sky people, who technically were your own, had descended upon Pandora with a singular intention of seizing what was not theirs, continuing the vicious cycle of destruction and resolution that had marred their history.

In the midst of this chaos, your parents, two faceless soldiers whose names and faces are shrouded in a haze of pain and heartache, had their own hidden agenda that they pursued with reckless abandon.

Their clandestine romance, born out of passion and desperation, resulted in your fragile birth—a constant reminder of their illicit love in a world that will struggle to accept you.

Much like spider, whom you considered your own brother now, the two of you were both deemed too young for cryogenic preservation and left behind on the unfamiliar terrain of the alien planet.

Unfortunately unlike Spider, your body was weak, afflicted with a genetic strain inherited from one of your biological parents. Perhaps this, among other factors, contributed to the decision to abandon you on Pandora, leaving you to face the harsh realities of survival alone.

Despite your rational understanding of the circumstances, as you came to accept the voice in your head as your own and not a figment of your imagination, the unjustness of their decision still lingers within you.

It certainly wasn’t fair.

Your delicate condition left you confined to the high camp, unable to roam freely and appreciate the majestic wonders of Pandora like Spider. Every step you took was accompanied by painful bouts of coughing, requiring you to rely on a specialized oxygen mask designed to alleviate your symptoms.

Even within the safety of the base built for humans, the air meant to sustain you offered no respite. Such was the irony of your existence, born into a world where both forms of air you breathed posed a constant threat to your survival. Life had thrown you a curveball long before you even knew what it meant.

But it wasn't all doom and gloom.

Although you were too young to return to Earth and too ill to venture far from your room, you seized the opportunity to explore what was within your reach. Every video log, every movie, and every book, left behind by the sky people, some of which a child shouldn’t have access to was reviewed by you to fill in the absence of adventure in your day.

For a while, it was sufficient, and you gradually came to terms with the inevitability of your fate. There was no cure for your ailment, not on Pandora, and certainly not without the funds to obtain one. You accepted that you would die here, in this place, as you.

It was during this time that you became fascinated with the study of physiology, absorbing every bit of knowledge about your own body and how it could have been saved under different circumstances. You spent countless hours researching medical practices and surgeries, diving deep into your own anatomy and discovering how various medications and herbs could extend or improve life.

Sharing your newfound knowledge with Spider, Lo’ak, and Kiri became a daily ritual that brought you joy and excitement. You would eagerly offer up fascinating facts to the Sully children and Kiri whenever they stopped by to visit or fetch your brother.

Though they didn't always grasp the intricacies of physiology like you did, they were just as enthusiastic to learn and would often opt to stay cooped up in your room, asking questions both silly and serious, and enjoying the happiness that radiated from you.

The moments spent with Spider, Lo’ak, and Kiri in your room were some of the best memories you would always treasure. It was through your eagerness to share your newfound knowledge and energy that you got to know them better, especially Kiri, who became your closest friend and confidante. You were so close that she was like a sister to you, always by your side.

However, the limitations imposed by your illness often left you feeling lonely and isolated when your friends were not around. Your physical limitations reminded you that you had a faulty body that was unable to explore the vast world of Pandora like they could. And that is where you messed up.

You fell into a deep depression, which gradually turned into a false sense of determination. You felt like you could survive out there like Spider, or rather, that you wanted to. What was the point of living if you had to live with this feeling of not being in control? It was actually pathetic.

It was a reckless decision to leave the safety of your home and venture into the forest, following the group of newly-adults, taking care to move slowly so as not to cough and give yourself away. It was even worse when you brazenly entered the Omaticaya clan, knowing full well that you were a stranger and seen as an enemy of the natives.

Being surrounded by creatures larger than you, most of them hissing and armed with weapons, was overwhelming. Panic set in, causing hyperventilation, which was exacerbated by your illness. Despite the mask, it was difficult to breathe, doing very little to keep you conscious and your eyes began to roll to the back of your head.

You welcome the darkness, craving the peace it brought, but never enough to end your life yourself. In that moment, you felt alive for once, and you never wanted to leave. You had no desire to return to the life you once had.

But things don't work that way, and eventually, your eyes flutter open. For a moment, you're disoriented, you wonder if you're still gone—whether you're dead or just existing to not exist. Your vision is still blurry, but as you blink and flicker your eyes, the colors of glowing, bioluminescent blue slowly come into focus.

The sight before you is truly breathtaking. The glow emanating from the tree mesmerizes you and fills you with a sense of wonder and awe. As you gaze at it in rapture, you feel an intense urge to touch it, to feel its warmth and energy. You reach out your hand, but to your shock, the hand that extends is not yours.

The hand that hovers before you is large, bony, and blue, with five fingers like yours. Confusion and bewilderment seize you, and you stammer out a feeble, "W-What?" as you try to make sense of what is happening.

As you stare at the mysterious blue hand, your eyes widen when you see another identical hand firmly grasp on the blue hand hovering before you. It's not just a visual illusion—you can feel the pressure on your skin. Slowly your eyes follow up the arm of the mysterious hand to find Kiri smiling softly at you, tears glistening in her eyes.

The sight of her tears immediately worries you, filling your head with warning bells and you return the squeeze, “Kiri, what’s wrong?” you ask, voice oozing in concern.

She returns your concern with a wider smile, her teeth gleaming under the bioluminescent light and shakes her head, “I’m okay,” she assures you, her hand trembling as she continues, “It’s just… to see you like this makes me so happy.”

Confusion etches on your face as you furrow your brow, struggling to comprehend Kiri's statement, "See me like what?" you mumble, tilting your head quizzically. Your eyes dart back to the now intertwined hands before you, trying to make sense of what you're missing.

As you feel Kiri's hand on the other bony blue hand, you can't help but notice that it's not your own. The hand is obviously Na'vi, which you are not. Your mind is filled with unanswered questions, and the nagging feeling of not understanding the situation consumes you. You look back at her, repeating your question with a sense of urgency, "What do you mean, Kiri? When you say 'see you like this', what am I like?"

Kiri kneels down beside you, and you feel her release your hand. She slides it up your arm and firmly grasps your bicep, while her other arm reaches around your upper back and uses all her strength to pull you up into a sitting position. You're momentarily discombobulated, realizing you must have been lying down before, but you can't remember when or how you ended up in that position.

“You fainted,” she replies softly after a beat of silence, pulling on you slightly to lean more on her. You look up at her, mouth slightly agape at her words, “You almost died,” she continues, brows frowning like her lips, “We almost lost you.”

The weight of her words hits you hard, and you feel a lump form in your throat. You inhale sharply, only to realize that when you do, your lungs contact and flatten smoothly without a following cough. It's a strange sensation, and you can't help but marvel at it for a moment, grateful to be breathing easily again.

Then your attention is back on Kiri, eyeing her questionably, as you notice something strange, “Did I grow or have you gotten shorter?” Whether it was sitting or standing, Kiri is normally seen towering over you by several feet, but right now she’s exactly the same level as you.

Kiri's expression twists into a grimace, and she opens her mouth to answer, but before she can speak, another voice cuts in, firm and straight to the point, “No! You have passed through the eyes of Eywa and returned.”

Your gaze shoots up to the source, and you find yourself gazing into the piercing yellow eyes of a female Na'vi standing before you. They felt as if she was looking straight through you, leaving nothing hidden or unexamined. Immediately your struck by the intensity of her. There's a raw power to her presence that feels both intimidating and awe-inspiring, as if you're standing before a force of nature.

“Come again?” you stutter, worry slowly creeping up on you as you are once again confused by another statement. You weren’t understanding a lot of what was going on right now. You tear your eyes from her to look back at Kiri and raise your brows at seeing Lo’ak and Spider now standing behind her.

When did they get there?

“What does she mean? Who is she?” You whisper hurriedly to your best friend, glancing occasionally at the boys, hoping if Kiri doesn’t give you the answers you want, they will.

“[Name],” another voice speaks, calling out to you. You perk up at it, instantly recognizing it to be Norm, which it was when you find him standing in his avatar body beside the mysterious woman from before. He walks closer to you, kneeling when close enough just like Kiri, “Sweetie, when you fainted, you stopped breathing for a few minutes. Jake called Max and I to help.”

Jake. That’s Kiri and Lo’ak’s dad. You’ve only met him once when he was stopping by to talk to Norm. He was really sweet and made you feel normal just like his kids.

“Okay…” you stare at him warily, waiting for him to get to the point.

He looks away briefly, seemingly to gather his thoughts before looking back at you, “Max and I know more than anyone how much you’ve been struggling. So even though we didn’t have the resources before, we were determined to help you,” he pauses as Max comes up behind him and beam at you, “We started making you an Avatar 6 years ago. Some test still needed to be ran but we’re out of time.”

You push away from Kiri slightly, lips forming a tight line as your squint at him, “What are you trying to say, Norm?” A part of you knew deep down, but the denial was heavy, to think you could be like everyone else, no illness or restrictions was a myth.

“You’re human body died, you are now consciously living in your avatar.”

His words caused a reaction, albeit a slow one. First your lips start to quiver, and your body trembles in disbelief before tears pool at your eyes. Kiri quickly wraps you in her arms, laying her head on top of yours as you lean your face into her to conceal your choked sobs.

To think something you had dreamed about has actually came true. The many nights you stay up, coming up with solutions to you, the problem. You didn’t know what else to feel, if not relief beyond the depths of your soul.

“Eywa has gave you a second chance,” Kiri mutters lowly, but it was loud to you as her hot breath fans your ears and cause it to twitch, “I’m so happy for you, [Name].”

This time you pull away from her completely, smiling up at her with glossed over eyes and chest filled with so much warmth, you might overheat, “Thank you, Kiri.” Slowly, you rise up from your sitting position with her help. You were stunned at the distance from the ground at full height. This was going to take some time to get used to.

“Max, Norm… Thank you, I can’t express that enough.” You try to walk to them, but your legs were wobbly so you more like stumble instead. Eventually, you reach them and pull them both into a hug, which probably looked silly as Max was the shortest by far in the bunch.

“You being safe and healthy is enough.” Max says, being the first to pull away and Norm nods, agreeing with him as he pulls away next, “We still have to run test though.”

You chuckle at that, rolling your eyes as you nod to him, “Understood.” You didn’t care how many test they had to run, as long as you were able to run and breathe without falling over.

Run.

You wanted to run.

Your ears flicker at the thought, stalling your side quest as your attention is drawn to them. You went to grab them in awe and felt something swish behind you, “Huh?” You twist your body, wait a second, and laugh when your eyes land on a tail; your tail, “Amazing!” You exclaim, smile growing wider.

Someone clears their throat, successfully making you stop and look at who did. To your surprise it was Jake, who was standing by the female Na’vi from earlier. He too had a smile on his face, happy to see you back and better than ever.

Though he haven’t spent much time with you, he was sympathetic to your situation, as it felt somewhat similar to his past self and unknowingly to you, have allowed Norm and Max to create a Avatar for you. It was only a matter of time before you became one like him.

“How are you feeling?,” he smiles warmly at you, like a father does his child. It made you feel giddy and shy, “It might feel strange at first, but you'll get used to it.”

You give him a curt bow, afraid to look him in the eyes. Before it was easy, it just felt different now. You couldn’t explain it, you just knew, “Thank you, it feels… different but I’m still me.”

He nods, walking closer to stop a foot away, “Good… [Name], you are Na’vi now. That means you have the opportunity to become apart of the Omaticaya clan.” He raises a hand and places it on your shoulder.

You knew what that meant. That means you’ll have to complete rites to become one of them. But that was the least of your worries; you knew nothing out the land except from what you read or what Norm brought back and you didn’t know how to hunt or fight for yourself. There was no way you can pass.

As if he can read your mind, he points to a male Na’vi, much younger than him with braided hair and sharp features. He resembles a handsome sculpture you read in history books, but better, “My son, Neteyam, will teach you the way of Na’vi.”

“Dad,” Lo’ak steps forward to protest but gets shut down with one look, his eyes cast down and he steps back into the background.

Poor Lo’ak, you thought, didn’t even stand a chance.

“Neteyam is a good teacher and warrior. You’ll learn fast.” Jake tells you, proudly.

“T-Thank you.” You bow again, much deeper this time. You didn’t know why you were bowing or if it was even appropriate in this situation, you just read somewhere that it was respectful.

He nods again, turning away to walk over to his son, the one he calls Neteyam. He whispers something to him, something that causes his lips to form a tight line and look over at you in annoyance as his dad leave him there.

You flinch at that and look away abruptly, just now taking notice how there were a whole ton of Na’vi circling around you all. How overwhelmed must you’ve been to not notice?

Suddenly, the air was knocked out of you temporarily as a force hits your stomach. Looking down, your body relaxes when you see it’s Spider. It was a little weird to be the taller one this time, but that didn’t stop you from returning his hug.

“Do that again and I will kill you!” He spits, glaring up at you in faux aggression. His hold on you, along with the pout on his lips tells the opposite of his words, “Scared the hell out of me.” he eventually admits, glare softening a great deal.

“That’s the opposite of what we want, bro.” Lo’ak comes up beside you and swings his arms over your shoulder, pulling you into a side hug of some sort, “But if you do, I’ll team up with him to make it happen.” He teases, smirking at you.

Kiri comes up from behind to push him off you, replacing his arm with hers around your waist, “Over my dead body,” she rolls her eyes and cheese at you, “I can’t wait to show you pandora. You’re going to love it,” she says, tugging you with her towards the forest, “Come on.”

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lalal-99 · 2 months

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of timeless love {h.j.} | track 1

©March 2023, February 2024 by lalal-99

Han Jisung x afab!reader | trope: slice of life, coming of age | word count: 2.6k

Synopsis: You and your annoyingly adorable boyfriend Jisung move off to university, to make new friends, find a calling and learn how to live on your own for the very first time in your lives.

Check Chapter Overview for complete list of warnings

Note: I first thought of this story about a year and a half ago. I didn't feel ready at the time, but as I got better over the years, I picked this story up again. Updates might be slow, so bear with me please

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Please don't flag as mature or repost this story - Thank You!

You, 6 years ago, wouldn’t have bought this romantic af, straight out of a fairy-tale storyline.

You going to University? With the love of your life? Like the picture-perfect couple, smiles glued to your face? Nuh-uh. Not you. Not in this lifetime and most likely not in the next dozen—if you ever were so unlucky.

Family, love, college. All of it was bullshit. Temporary.

Nothing good ever lasted. If anything, a dark twist was already lurking around the next corner at any given moment. You couldn’t imagine a dimension in which you were ever happy. Let alone content.

Your 14-year-old emo self would never grow out of the jet-black hair. Or the countless piercings decorating your face. Or those cole-coloured ripped skinny jeans you wore like a second skin. So much you knew. Past-you only ever wanted to gloom through life in a hazy blur. Depressed about My Chemical Romance breaking up and all the other hardships life had already put you through.

That girl would have despised who you had become. Hair grown back to its natural colour. Wearing shirts without some underground metal band’s logo printed on the front. That girl would have likely made fun of you for even thinking about grades. And your future? If you ever had one, your 14-year-old self knew it would include nothing but darkness and despair.

Every teenager around you went through that phase, though you were sure it was more than that. A phase. A short and survivable part of your story. You fully and whole-heartedly believed nothing would ever change about your attitude towards life. It couldn’t, not after everything that had happened.

Overcoming that horrible chapter of your life seemed unimaginable. That you even got the chance to reach out and grab your future by its horns only had one reason. One person who was to become the most meaningful part of your life. Of the same future, he was the reason you even considered having.

Han Jisung.

A boy of innocence and noisy introversion. A boy who, despite having lived through similar trauma as yourself, had a will for life toxic enough to capture you. A boy who you became sure was the closest thing to a soulmate you would ever find.

No one could have prepared you for how hard you’d fall for Jisung. You loved him at his best, worst, and everything between. And you had fallen in love with him despite his lousy sense of humour and silly persona. Or maybe, you had fallen for him because of it. Because he had a similar story to yours but an opposite look at it.

Your 14-year-old, always-depressed, doom-certain-self could have never imagined being with someone like him. Let alone being head-over.heels. All while doing what? Watching him do something so mediocre and none-life changing as buying toothbrushes?

“I don’t know. Which ones do you think?”

Jisung presented you two indistinguishable packs of toothbrushes, waking you from your daydream. Thus, the blurriness faded and your eyes focused on the tiny words on each cover.

“These,” you decided on the left option. “Those bristles are too hard for your gums.”

“Oh, we definitely can’t have that.” With a dramatically disgusted expression, he returned the wrong set to its place on the shelf. “I want to keep at least some of my teeth.”

“Thankfully,” you agreed with a snicker. His words cracked you up more than they should have.

No doubt, your 14-year-old self would have hated yourself six years later.

“Okay. What else is on that magic list of yours?”

“Microwave popcorn and some instant ramen. And we should get some notebooks and highlighters for tomorrow. That’s it.” You listed the remaining articles off the slip of paper while crossing out the products you had retrieved from the hygiene section. “Should we split up?”

“Nah. That’s how they die in horror movies. And I’m not going out in the food court of a 7/11.”

“Fair. How about the Back-to-School aisle then?”

Jisung pondered his reply as he wandered past toothpaste and mouthwash. “Too many pens for people to draw penises on my face. The cleaning section, however? That’s a whole other conversation.”

“How come?”

“Well, there’s bleach and mops already. Also, buckets. So they can simply wheel my corpse away.”

As you walked by the pasta and other canned foods, you picked up a tray of ramen each. For convenience, if anything. Had it not been for the thinness of your wallet, you would have gone for fresher produce. So much for independent living.

With an intensive focus on your absurd conversation—Jisung listing places he would most likely die in if he were a character in a horror movie—you didn’t notice a tray of stacked goods blocking the path. It wasn’t until you bumped your shin on the square-edged tower that you finally took notice.

As a wave of pain swallowed your leg, you left out a shriek. “Gosh freakin’ dang it!”

“You good, baby?” His concern was genuine, though he couldn’t help smiling at your desperate attempt not to swear. “Let me see.”

Jisung kneeled in front of you, noticing a reddening wound once he had dragged the jean fabric up your leg.

“Just a bruise.”

“Easy for you to say. You’re not the one feeling like your skin is being dragged off your flesh.”

“No. But I can make it better.”

He rose to his feet, arms hugging your frame as he picked you up without any effort. You giggled as he heaved you into the cart, careful not to squish the food.

“What are you doing?”

“No girlfriend of mine should have to walk when she’s in pain,” Jisung explained, helping you get settled. Pushing the crushable goods out of the way, you sat on the cans. Not the most comfortable seating, but it worked, nevertheless.

“Damn, those other girls are lu-cky.”

Jisung was pleased at how casually you had joined in on his joke. A smile formed on his lips as he pushed you along the shelves of seasonal produce.

You soon reached the Back-to-School aisle. There you took your sweet time deciding on notebook formats and highlighter colours. It kept surprising you how much fun it was to go grocery shopping when done with the right people. Everything was about 50 percent less boring because of Jisung. Jisung and his ability to find something ridiculous in anything and everything.

After you had made some other critical decisions—like which folders would make organising the year easiest, the ones with dogs or flowers in front—you finished up your school-supply-run.

When you reached the cash register, you noticed the strange looks the other customers gave you. Two young adults strolling through a supermarket, pushing each other in grocery carts? Definitely side-eye-worthy.

Maybe you would have cared more had you not been so enticed by Jisung’s mindless humming of Can’t Take My Eyes Off You.

“What?” Jisung questioned your glances as he started unloading the items from the cart.

“Nothing.” You joined him, unloading all the trays of food you had picked minutes earlier. “This feels weird. Going grocery shopping together. Feels grown-up somehow.”

“We go grocery shopping once a week,” he declared with a thoughtful pout.

“But that’s different.”

After you had emptied out your purchase, he wheeled you further down the band. The woman behind the cash register seemed equally interested in you as all the customers. Soon enough, she continued doing her job.

“You mean because we didn’t have to pay for it ourselves?” He held his hand to his heart as if heartbroken. “I miss your dad, too. Always so kind, paying for all our stuff.”

You chuckled at his playful sincerity.

“No, idiot.” As Jisung reloaded the cart, you payed for this week’s necessities. “Because we’re grocery shopping on our own, living off at uni. We have officially moved out of our home, living in the big city. It’s— new. That’s it.”

As soon as you had reached the exit, you picked reached for the strawberries, unable to abstain any longer. Strolling towards his car, you handed one over to your boyfriend while sucking on your own. Like the gentleman he was, Jisung helped you jump from the car and you packed everything into the trunk.

Once you had placed the cart back by the others, you finally headed home. Or rather, the dorm room you would be living in for the next four years.

You weren’t at that point of calling it your home yet.

A comfortable silence surrounded you throughout your drive. It remained while you stacked away your half of the food back at your place and lasted until you finished. This sort of silence wasn’t uncommon these many years into your relationship—you hardly noticed it anymore.

“Man, all this talk about horror movies makes me want to watch one.” That you hadn’t mentioned this topic for over 30 minutes seemed irrelevant.

“But you’re horrible with horror movies,” you pointed out.

“Not when you’re there to protect me.”

An hour later you were sprawled out on your bed, the last sweet strawberry long gone.

With your legs entangled, Jisung’s face rested on your chest as you massaged his scalp. After minutes of fruitless discussion, Spiderman was now webbing his way through your laptop screen. In the end, it really didn’t matter what movie was playing. It never did as long as you were with each other.

Not even 20 minutes into the movie, Jisung had fallen asleep on top of you. His faint snoring was now mere background noise as you followed the plot, ehich wasn’t as simple as it sounded. Your energy was more than drained from running around all day.

Only three days ago, you had still been back home. Packing for your upcoming move to a new city, two hours from every place you had grown up in. The one thing keeping you calm throughout the stress was your sweetheart-boyfriend. To no one’s surprise. He was the only person able to keep you sane when all you wanted was to scream and cry. Had you not had him by your side, you would have drowned in all the noise your brain usually produced.

His ability to calm your nerves when you needed him to—know when to make you laugh or when to distract you from your everyday stresses—surprised you to this day. You couldn’t begin to explain how you had been lucky enough to find someone like him. Someone you loved as much as you had seen your parents do when you were younger. Let alone how he loved you the same way, almost self-destructively so.

Your 14-year-old self would have called bs. But that girl was someone else—you, but in another lifetime. You but pre-Jisung.

When the door to your room rushed open, it pulled you from your quiet slumber. You had turned off the lights earlier to set the mood but still knew the intruder was your roommate. Besides you two, only Jisung knew the code to your dorm—a decision you had previously discussed with your new roomie, of course. Seeing as he was knocked out on top of you, you could cross him off your list of possible visitors at 8 pm on a Monday.

Adapting her eyes to the darkness, she checked her surroundings before tiptoeing into the room. The light remained off as she expected you to be asleep.

“Hey,” you greeted the dark-haired beauty, making her jump in surprise at the sudden noise.

“Fu—God! You scared me.” With one hand over her heart, your roomie calmed herself from your unexpected jump-scare. Once her heart rate had settled, she slipped out of her heels and left them by the end of her bed. “Is he asleep?”

“Yeah,” you confirmed, letting your finger run along his jaw to check. He didn’t move, so you knew he was most likely out for the night. “Long night?”

She gagged with an eye roll, pulling her jeans off her legs and exchanging them for grey sweatpants. “Don’t get me started. I haven’t even started writing my thesis, and it’s already kicking my ass.”

You watched her as she also changed out of her dress shirt and into an off-the-shoulder crop top. She slipped into a pair of sneakers while making her way to her dresser where she sprayed herself in a cloud of perfume.

“You’re leaving again?”

“Yup. I spent so much time at the library today, I apparently neglected,” she air-quoted with an eye roll, “my girlfriend. At least that’s what she said.”

“The things we do to keep our loved ones happy.”

“Exactly.” Unleashing her long curls from a tight ponytail, she ran her fingers through them for a few seconds. Her beach-waves veiled her face, so she pushed them behind her ears to instead frame her near-perfect features. “Anyway, I’m staying at hers tonight, so don’t wait up for me.”

“Okay,” you agreed with a yawn, your roommate replying with a deep chuckle.

The past few days, you had mainly spent in your new room, settling in and getting ready for the start of the semester. You liked planning ahead, knowing your life was organised to a T, so you could focus on the important stuff. Your studies, and your boyfriend.

Your roommate seemed to have most of the same priorities. She had gone out every night since you moved in, be it to study at the library or spend some time with her better half. However she managed to squeeze in all the partying? You had no clue. You could only hope some of her togetherness rubbed off on you. But then again, never judge a book.

“I’m going to take you out one of these days. You are not going to be sitting inside all year. Not on my watch.”

Spending the first two days inside, you must have looked like the biggest couch potato ever.

“Sounds good.”

As she waltzed towards the door, you grabbed her attention one last time. The hallway lights blinded you with their brightness, framing her curves in a halo.

“Oh, and Hwasa?” She turned to face you, looking like she had jumped straight off a Vogue cover. How she did that without trying was a mystery to you. “Can you not tell Wheein he’s sleeping over? I wouldn’t want my first warning on the third day already.”

“Babe, as long as you’re my roommate, my dorm-supervisor-girlfriend won’t dare write you up. Just don’t set anything on fire, and you’re solid.”

With that, she waved goodbye, leaving you and your boyfriend alone. Well, apart from the ever-so-handsome Tom Holland, who somehow made full-body suits look like a reasonable choice of clothing.

Not soon after, your eyes fell close, sending you off into a deep rest.

Next Chapter >>>

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ckret2 · 4 months

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I was mentally playing devil's advocate because I have a terrible habit, thinking "While I agree, there are authors who might just add details for the sake of visualization without any intended impact to the scene and it's important to keep in mind, like with the outfit descriptions in my immortal" and immediately realizing

That is a silly comparison to begin with

The outfit descriptors in my immortal DO impact the scene and the reading, especially in terms of how you imagine the author of the story

My Immortal would not have been as impactful as it is without these details

Even if the author didn't intend it as a meaningful detail, if it can be read as having meaning, then it can have meaning

those outfit descriptors are absolutely intentional

YEAH BABY THAT'S WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT!!!

The curtains were blue for a reason and Ebony Dark'ness Dementia Raven Way had icy blue eyes like limpid tears for a reason!!!

Was it GOOD writing? By most measures, no! But the author told us every color in Ebony's hair, every garment on her body, and every product on her face because she was deliberately trying to craft the perfect visual representation of the quintessential 2006 white goth girl.

Even the simple little fact that her fishnets are pink instead of black tells you something—the scene-tinged aesthetic movements the author was drawing from even though she only references "goth" style, the fact that Ebony as a character skews feminine in her presentation rather than the genderbendy androgyny that's also common in the goth scene—but we would have gotten a very different description if the pink fishnets had been the only color mentioned in her wardrobe.

You know and I know and everyone knows that the author gave her pink fishnets because she probably thought they looked "cool" amidst all that black—but the fact that the author prioritized a "cool" main character (rather than a dull everyman or a dislikable villain) tells us about the author's literary priorities, and what the author considers "cool" shapes the whole story.

Those over-the-top descriptors tell you exactly what kind of a character Ebony is going to be, exactly what aesthetics & tropes the story is going to explore and glorify (doom, gloom, goths, vampires!), and exactly who the author idolizes and considers admirable—from the specific (Amy Lee and Gerard Way) to the broad (nonconformist counterculture rebels who stand defiant against conformist "preps").

Was every detail in Ebony's appearance necessary? No. But did every detail matter? Oh yes. Every last bit told us a little bit more about her character, the story to come, and the author behind it all.

#anonymous #ask #writing

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barbwritesstuff · 8 months

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Iliya is a romanceable character in my interactive game Thicker Than.

Name: Iliya Sudlenkov

Gender: M

DOB: 11th May 1910

DOD: 25th April 1945

Height: 190cm

Build: Muscular

Skin: Fair

Hair: Fair

Eyes: Grey/Blue

Note: Facial scar, tattoos

Skills: Fighting (close range, hand to hand, and fire arms), Languages ( Eng, Rus, Fre), Path of the Beast

You look up and see… a man. Tall, muscular, and watching you with amused grey blue eyes. His smile is crooked, twisted out of shape by an old pink scar on his lips. "Who are you?" you ask. "Your new best friend," he says. "I'm a very very good friend. Very good at keeping secrets." Even though the music you hear the distinctive short, heavy vowels of a Russian accent.

Iliya is a lover of stories, both real and imagined, with a special fondness for books of all kinds. He's also a thug for hire, and damn good at his job. If you need someone roughed up, he'll rough 'em up good.

Iliya was born and raised in Russia, and served as a soviet soldier in World War II. There, he was fatally wounded. But death didn't stick.

As a vampire he has travelled the world and watched the night light up neon blue. As far as he's concerned, there is no better time to be dead. Being a vampire doesn't have to be all doom and gloom.

Iliya's vamperic powers manifest in strength, speed, and sheer brutality, known to some as 'the path of the beast'. He can teach these powers to a vampire eager to deal some damage.

Art by @dahliadrawthings :

Dahlia is the one who gave him his tattoo. I can take no credit for that idea. The English translation of the text is: I don't want to live without teeth. I don't want to die without being bitten.

#thicker than if #interactive fiction #Iliya #a romancable character #for your consideration

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gabessquishytum · 6 months

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This has been haunting my head forever, but as we all know Robert Smith was the leading inspiration for Dream in the comics with more than a bit of Neil sprinkled in there (and a few other goth rock bands like Bauhaus' Peter Murphy) and I just can't get over the image of a goth rockstar Dream.

It's the late 70s, and our boy Dream is riding a creative high of LSD and pedal effects to the top of the pops. They're calling the band he fronts, name and members are up to you or whoever takes this idea on, Goth bc they're too dark for New Wave but are just upbeat enough to steer clear of Televison's particular brand of Post-Punk. It's a newer label but a fitting one considering how dour and moody the genre has gotten since Ian Curtis's death. One he despises as he claims he's very happy with his current success and how his life is going.

But he's not happy. He hates playing to the newly forming stereotype of his fans, but he isn't. Celebrity Marriages hardly ever last and his relationship with his novelist wife is crumbling around him. He loves his son but the touring schedule is killing all of his free time. He's also pretty deep into substance abuse but he wouldn't admit it to his big sister let alone the random journo who has a camera in his face while he's trying to catch a 5:30 am flight to start his newest tour. He's just burnt out and creatively stuck as the label tries to pigeonhole him into this new subgenre, which he doesn't want anymore. Life, his life, can't be doom and gloom forever even though that's where it looks like it's heading. Forever being hailed as the Nightmare King.

Meanwhile, three radio stations over, Hob Gadling is desperately trying to hang onto life. He's a bit older now than when he first broke out onto the music scene as a rambunctious coat rider of the Sex Pistols, but he's still going strong. Punk has always been his outlet. Life sucks and you keep on living despite it. It tried to kill him not long after he debuted with substance use, but he powered through it and got clean. His wife died in childbirth, but he stuck around to raise his son. He even took a three-year hiatus and completely missed how much the sound had changed from his younger years. Even as post-punk has risen in popularity and the friends he knew have either died or changed their sound completely, he won't give up hope! Punk's not dead and neither is he. No matter how long his hair gets or if he grows out of his leather jacket.

The two meet rather coincidentally. Hob just happens to be opening for Dream on the Europe leg of his tour. Unsurprisingly the tension around Dream's band has become a powder keg and when he finally snaps and fires his guitarist, his bassist also leaves. With half the band gone, Dream considers calling it quits right then and there. Fuck the new album, fuck the last fifteen or so dates. He wants to go home. But Hob sees how close they are to finishing the tour and puts his foot down. They will finish the tour! So he offers up his services to Dream. He's not bad with a guitar and if Dream can cover the bass, then he'll play all night if he has to. Because out there on stage? That's life and he wants to keep making people happy and give them something that might transcend time and space. To never die bc his name is there among the annuls of rock history.

And in time, Dream will come around to his new friend. He will learn to appreciate the zest for performing and living his new friend has. He will also think he has the greatest body known to man and will forever laugh at the terribly done anarchy A Hob has tattooed on his ass, but that's neither for here or there. For now, Dream pulls himself together and gets his bass out from the dark pits of hell the roadies call gear storage. For the show must go on.

Oh god I want an entire novel length story around this. It’s fantastic! I have so many thoughts about these two!!

Hob is falling in love with all the new sounds that he’s hearing. He spent his time on his hiatus being a suburban dad, and now he’s back on the scene is just feels amazing. He can’t get enough of Roxy Music and David Bowie and Elvis Costello. And he’s determined to drag himself back up among those names! He’s got so many ideas of where punk can go! And he’s fascinated by Dream and his band. The lyrics are a little dark and wallowy, but Hob understands that actually people need to hear that. Life in the UK isn’t easy, particularly for young people. They need something loud and desperate and real. Little does he know, Dream feels like what he’s doing is so far away from being real. He feels likes such a fraud. He can’t get off the hamster wheel except by shooting up and passing out.

Hob recognises all of this in approximately 0.5 seconds after meeting Dream. It makes him pretty sad, but he’s determined that he’ll lift Dream out of his funk. If nothing else, he’ll make him love music again.

So when Hob said he was OK with a guitar, he was lying - he's actually a bit of a genius, and it's fair to say that Dream falls a little bit in love with him about half way through the sound check. Instead of hiding in the dressing room and licking his wounds over the band breaking up, he actually watches as Hob opens for him. Hob is very classic punk, it's all very "fuck the government, fuck me up the arse" kind of stuff, but Dream doesn't get bored for a single second. Hob is just that entertaining, and his riffs are insane. Dream itches to write a song for him. And when Hob ends the set with a jokey little song that his five year old son allegedy wrote the lyrics for (lil Robyn is very punk, just like his daddy) Dream’s eyes actually get a bit misty. It's probably all the smoke.

And there's really no time to get emotional! Dream’s drummer, Constantine, thankfully didn't walk out with the rest of them. So somehow, with Hob’s virtuosic guitar skills and sheer determination, plus Dream’s refusal to fail yet again, they actually make a really decent show. Dream feels a tingle of the old spark that he used to get when he first started out - it probably has something to do with the way Hob upends a bottle of water all over his head half way through the show and grins like a maniac.

After the show they crash in a local hotel. Hob calls his kid from the payphone and Dream wishes that he had the courage to do the same. Instead he takes some pills so he doesn't have to feel the high from the show gradually wearing off into nothingness. He doesn't know why Hob comes and sits next to him in the dark, pressing against him from thigh to shoulder. He stays for the whole of Dream’s trip, in fact, humming something quiet and classic. Dream feels quite ashamed of himself, and for the first time he thinks that maybe he'd feel better without the drugs. Maybe.

As the tour gets off to a slow start, Dream starts to notice that Hob is having some kind of positive effect on him. Just little thing. They get breakfast together, so Dream actually eats something, which is unusual. Their little arguments don't get out of hand, because Hob never lets them escalate. When Dream is angry and spitting at the world, Hob is sure to point of something positive. Not that Hob doesn't get sad, too - he just deals with it differently. He goes for long walks, and turns off the news when it gets bad. He gets himself a snack when he's irritable, and laughs about it afterwards.

Dream writes him a near impossible guitar solo and it feels like a "thank you".

They have a sweet, unexpected first kiss. It's 2am and they're standing at the edge of the road, waiting for a mechanic to come out to their broken down tour bus. There's no one around to see, so Dream rests his head on Hob’s shoulder. He's sore, and weary. Hob turns his head slightly and tucks an arm around him, and it just happens. They kiss. It is, of course, the first of many.

And you can bet that Dream kisses that anarchy tattoo a million time, too.

#the sandman #dreamling #nsft #cw drugs #cw substance use

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raven-at-the-writing-desk · 11 months

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the shroud parents

Okay, so I’ve been thinking about this for a while 🤔: “Why are the Shroud parents so warm and loving when the impression we had of them from Idia are so... negative?” And then I realized it’s very obviously because CHARACTERS CAN BE UNRELIABLE NARRATORS.

Like. That does NOT mean that what happened to the characters didn’t actually happen. The events very obviously DID happen as described (especially as it pertains to post-OB flashbacks), but it’s how the characters tell the information that paints the perception of events and how certain elements are presented or omitted entirely.

***Content warning: I briefly mention a few dark topics under the cut (including suicidal ideation and depression) and link to a related post on those topics!!***

As an example, let’s look at the Shroud parents. Idia previously described his grandma and dad as being very gloomy and negative people. He also says his parents as being the types to value results over their children’s feelings. We also notably do not see Mr. or Mrs. Shroud in Idia’s backstory flashback when he was going through a difficult patch of coping with Ortho’s death. This all led to us having an impression that the Shroud parents were cold, distant, calculating, and just overall not very good parents. Then we meet the parents in book 7 and Mrs. Shroud is SUPER bubbly, and both parents readily welcome Ortho as an official member of the family. It’s a huge juxtaposition which completely recontextualizes the information Idia previously gave us.

Idia is Mr. Doom and Gloom, a huge pessimist. It could be possible that he was greatly exaggerating elements of his parents’ personalities, usually when it pertains to them asking him to do something he doesn’t want to (ie pulling him out of school to research on his classmates). Alternatively, it’s implied that he barely left his room for two years following Ortho’s death. The lack of the Shroud parents in Idia’s flashback could indicate that as their own method of coping, they distanced themselves or they gave Idia space to heal on his own. Or maybe Idia was even the one who actively shut his parents out? It’s extremely possible, especially given that there are theories floating around that Idia’s memories and thoughts are greatly impacted by grief, depression, and/or suicidal ideation.

This makes me kind of want to go back and reevaluate all the other OB boys’ flashbacks and see just how much of the information could have been colored by the bias and the perspectives of the storytellers 🤔 POV actually adds a LOT to whatever is being told!! Like you can tell in Riddle’s flashback that even though he now knows his mom’s parenting has fucked him up, he doesn’t appear to hold any ill will toward her. He’s moreso confused and unsure how to proceed, feelings which are perfectly encapsulated by Riddle asking why his chest still hurts, even though he has followed every rule his mom has set for him. As a result, Riddle is shown to be a lot more hesitant and charitable to his mother compared to other people.

Interestingly, fans are quick to bypass Riddle’s own neutral telling of his story and demonize his mother (I think maybe because his circumstances are more relatable?), whereas with Idia he tells us the worst of his parents and it paints our ideas about the Shroud parents in accordance with Idia’s telling.

I also wonder if the fandom’s assumption that Leona’s whole country despises him or that Azul’s mom didn’t know about him being bullied is true at all??? Because if you think about it, Leona’s flashbacks only ever depicted palace servants talking badly about him, which are not representative of all of the Sunset Savanna. We don’t meet locals that speak badly of Leona in his hometown event either??? Then for Azul’s flashback, you can’t really take omission of information as confirmation of anything.

This line of thought also applies for the information the boys relay to us; how much of it is embellished or slightly altered in order to project a certain outward image to their peers? Especially considering how NRC is teeming with (mob) students ready to pounce on you if you seem weak??? It’s really interesting stuff to think about.

#Ignihyde #twst #Azul Ashengrotto #Leona Kingscholar #twisted wonderland #Riddle Rosehearts #Idia Shroud #Ortho Shroud #disney twisted wonderland #spoilers #notes from the writing raven #tw // depression #tw // suicide #tw // suicidal ideation

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unabashegirl · 3 months

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Vicious 2 || Harry Styles x Mafia

Summary: Harry Styles, the cold and calculating son of a powerful mafia don, must consolidate power after his father's passing. He faces challenges from his unpredictable younger brother, Silas, and navigates a complex world of alliances, ruthless decisions, and family loyalty. Amidst the intrigue, the elegant and alluring Y/N Castellano, the daughter of an Italian mafia boss, attends the funeral and finds herself drawn to Harry. As power dynamics shift and the future remains uncertain, the story explores the dark and dangerous allure of the mafia, the weight of family legacies, and the potential for unexpected connections in a world defined by secrecy and ruthlessness.

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word count: 2.2K

The gloomy and wet day in London mirrored the somber atmosphere surrounding St. Anthony's Cemetery. As the mourners huddled beneath their umbrellas, Harry stood on the drenched grass, his gaze fixed on the casket slowly descending into its final resting place. Raindrops trickled down his face, mingling with the unshed tears that lingered in the corners of his eyes.

The eulogy was underway, the trusted family advisor delivering words that attempted to encapsulate a lifetime of shadows, power, and whispered alliances. However, just as the most trusted man's speech gained momentum, the harsh sound of a car door slamming shut sliced through the air, drawing Harry's attention away from the eulogy.

His eyes shifted toward the source of the interruption. Emerging from the sleek black car that had disrupted the proceedings was a figure cloaked in the shadows, an enigma against the gray backdrop of the London day. The man approached with measured steps, his silhouette betraying no emotion. Harry's gaze shifted, and his furrowed brow deepened as he recognized the figure emerging from the car: Silas, his younger brother.

His brother stumbled toward the gravesite, an unsettling contrast to the solemnity of the occasion. Dressed in the same disheveled attire from the day before, he seemed utterly unaffected by the gravity of the funeral. His eyes were glazed, betraying the haze of intoxication that enveloped him. The suit, a relic from a night of revelry rather than a symbol of mourning, clung to him as a mockery of propriety.

The gathered mourners exchanged uneasy glances, their attention shifting from the eulogy to the unexpected disruption. Silas, seemingly oblivious to the collective disapproval, reached the edge of the gathering.

Harry's jaw clenched as he watched his brother's erratic movements. Silas, though blood of his blood, embodied a stark departure from the composed and calculated demeanor expected at such a solemn occasion.

Ignoring the stares, Silas slurred, "What's the fuss, Harry? Old man's gone, ain't he? No need for all this gloom and doom." His words, a discordant note in the elegy of the funeral, hung in the air like an unsettling omen.

As the most trusted man paused in his speech, casting an uncertain look at the uninvited disruption, Harry felt the weight of not only his father's legacy but also the unpredictable presence of his younger brother.

The rain continued to fall, a steady rhythm that underscored the tension hanging in the air. Harry's jaw clenched as he watched his younger brother's approach. The onlookers exchanged uneasy glances, their expressions a blend of disapproval and discomfort.

As Silas neared the gathering, Harry's patience reached its limit. He closed the distance between them in quick, determined strides. Without a word, he grabbed Silas by the back of the neck, his grip firm and unyielding. Silas, momentarily taken aback, met Harry's stern gaze with a bleary-eyed defiance.

Harry's face remained stoic, a mask that betrayed no emotion. The raindrops splattered on his coat as he leaned in, his voice low but commanding, "You better not make a fuckin’ scene here This is our father's funeral, and you will show some damn respect."

Silas, still under the influence, chuckled dismissively, his words slurring. "What's the big deal, Harry? The old man's gone, and it’s not like he cared about us”.

Harry's grip tightened on Silas's neck, a subtle warning. "You will care. You will behave. This is not the time or place for your shit show."

A ripple of discomfort passed through the onlookers as the brothers engaged in their silent confrontation. The most trusted man resumed his eulogy, his words now competing with the tension between the two siblings.

Silas, seemingly grasping the severity of the situation, nodded begrudgingly. Harry released his grip, and Silas stumbled back a step, composing himself. The rain intensified, a metaphorical curtain falling on the brief but impactful clash.

The final words of the eulogy echoed through the cemetery, the casket had been lowered into its final resting place, and the mourners lingered, preparing for the procession of cars that would take them away from the burial site.

As Harry stood amidst the subdued crowd, a black umbrella shielding him from the persistent rain, a shadow fell over him. Federico Castellano, the formidable Italian boss, approached with a steady stride, his expression a blend of condolence and business.

"Harry," Federico greeted, his voice a low rumble that cut through the hushed ambiance. Beside him stood his youngest daughter, Y/N Castellano, a figure of grace and composure despite the mournful occasion.

Harry inclined his head respectfully. "Federico, thank you for coming."

Federico's eyes, sharp and calculating, met Harry's. "Your father was a respected man, Harry. A valuable ally."

As the rain continued to fall, Federico extended his condolences before veering into the realm of the unexpected. "You know, Arthur and I shared more than just business. There was a time when our interests aligned in more personal matters."

Harry, intrigued yet guarded, nodded for Federico to continue.

Federico glanced at Y/N, who stood silently by his side. "Y/N here," he gestured to his daughter, "is a living testament to the bonds forged between our families. Me and your father shared an understanding, a certain... arrangement, if you will."

Y/N's expression remained neutral, her eyes focused on Harry. Federico's revelation hung in the air, a cryptic acknowledgment of a dark and unspoken facet of their familial connections.

"In times of uncertainty," Federico continued, "alliances are crucial. Your father knew that well. I trust you'll carry on the legacy with the same wisdom."

Harry, his mind processing the weight of Federico's words, maintained his composure. "Thank you for coming”

Harry's car, sleek and somber, pulled up just as Federico Castellano and his daughter disappeared into the waiting vehicles.

Harry approached his car, the driver holding the door open for him. As he slid into the backseat, attempting to find a moment of respite from the tumultuous day, a sudden intrusion disrupted the stillness. Silas, seemingly undeterred by the earlier confrontation, stumbled toward the car, an unsteady determination in his gaze.

"Come on, Harry," Silas slurred, reaching for the door. "Let me in. I want a ride."

Harry, his patience thinning, met his brother's erratic approach with a stern gaze. With a swift and decisive motion, he pushed Silas away from the car. "Go back the way you came from."

Silas, undeterred, tried to regain his balance, a defiant glint in his eyes. "Why the hell not? I'm family."

Harry's expression remained unyielding, his tone firm. "After the stunt you pulled? You really think I would let you ride with me? You stink. Find your own way home. Now shut the fuckin’ door”.

The driver, sensing the tension, stood ready to close the door. Silas, teetering on the edge of defiance and inebriation, took a step back. The door closed with a decisive thud, separating the two brothers, each standing on opposite sides of the car window.

As the car pulled away from the cemetery, leaving Silas behind in the rain-soaked aftermath of their father's funeral, Harry's gaze remained fixed on the road ahead.

The sleek black car navigated through the rain-soaked streets of London, the cityscape blurred by the persistent drizzle. The vehicle made its way towards the outskirts of the city, where the sprawling English manor of Arthur Styles stood as a stoic testament to the legacy of the Styles’ family.

As the car approached the entrance, the imposing wrought-iron gates swung open, revealing the long, winding driveway flanked by well-manicured gardens. The manor itself, a grand estate nestled within the verdant landscape, exuded an air of timeless elegance and discreet power.

The English manor was a blend of Tudor and Victorian architectural styles, its facade adorned with ivy-covered walls that added a touch of mystery to its imposing structure. Tall, narrow windows punctuated the exterior, offering glimpses of the opulent interiors within. The roof, steeply pitched and adorned with ornate chimneys, conveyed a sense of regality.

The sprawling grounds surrounding the manor were meticulously landscaped, featuring lush lawns, ancient oaks, and a network of stone pathways. A sense of quiet authority emanated from the estate, a silent acknowledgment of the influential role it played as the headquarters of the English Mafia.

As the car approached the main entrance, the imposing oak door swung open, revealing the grand foyer beyond. The interior of the manor was a blend of rich mahogany, plush velvet, and intricate tapestries. A sweeping staircase adorned with a luxurious crimson carpet led to the upper floors, while crystal chandeliers hung overhead, casting a warm and muted glow.

Harry, seated in the back of the car, took in the familiar surroundings with a steely resolve. The manor, once his father's domain, now stood as a symbol of both legacy and responsibility. The echoes of hushed conversations, clandestine meetings, and whispered alliances resonated within its walls.

The car came to a halt, and the driver opened the door. Harry stepped out onto the cobblestone driveway, the rain continuing its soft descent. As he made his way up the stone steps and through the towering oak doors, the manor embraced him with a mixture of familiarity and foreboding.

The heavy oak door creaked open, revealing the dimly lit expanse of Arthur Styles’ office. The air inside was thick with the scent of aged cigars, a fragrance that had become synonymous with the patriarch's presence. The desk, an imposing mahogany structure, was adorned with scattered papers and half-burned cigars—a tableau frozen in time, a reflection of the man who had once held court within those walls.

Harry, his footsteps echoing in the silence of the room, took a moment to survey the space. His father's leather chair sat empty behind the desk, casting a long shadow in the muted light. The room seemed to hold the weight of countless decisions, whispered conversations, and the unspoken agreements that had shaped the destiny of the English Mafia.

As Harry settled into his father's chair, the room came to life with the quiet murmur of anticipation. Most of Arthur's trusted men were gathered, their faces etched with a mixture of reverence and curiosity. They had assembled to hear the reading of the will, to glean the final words and wishes of a man whose influence extended far beyond the boundaries of the manor.

The air was tense, charged with the weight of expectation. Harry's gaze swept across the room, meeting the eyes of each man present. They were more than associates; they were comrades bound by the unspoken codes of honor and loyalty that governed the clandestine world they inhabited.

Seated at the desk, Harry cleared his throat, signaling the beginning of a significant moment. The stillness in the room was broken only by the soft shuffle of papers as he retrieved the will from one of the drawers and handed them to the families attorney.

The family attorney, Mr. Reynolds, a man of stoic demeanor and an encyclopedic knowledge of the Styles affairs, stood at the head of the room. He cleared his throat, unfolding the parchment that held the last testament of Arthur Styles. The attentive eyes of the gathered men, including Harry and Silas, fixed upon him.

"Esteemed gentlemen," Mr. Reynolds began, his voice measured, "we gather today to execute the last will and testament of Arthur Styles, patriarch of the Styles family and head of the English Mafia."

The room fell into a hushed silence, the weight of anticipation palpable.

"As per the allocations outlined in the will," Mr. Reynolds continued, "the vast majority of Arthur’s properties and assets are bequeathed to his eldest son, Harry, who will assume the mantle of the next English Don."

A collective nod passed through the room. The expectation lingered in the air as Mr. Reynolds continued to elaborate on the distributions of the estate.

"However," he said, pausing for emphasis, "there are two specific properties designated for Silas Styles."

Silas's eyes flickered with a mix of surprise and disappointment. The revelation seemed to confirm what many had suspected—the divergence in Arthur's confidence in his two sons.

"As for the English Mafia," Mr. Reynolds intoned, capturing everyone's attention, "Arthur Styles has bestowed the leadership upon Harry with one condition."

The room held its collective breath.

"Harry Styles is to marry Y/N Castellano, the youngest daughter of Federico Castellano, the esteemed Italian boss and longtime ally of the Styles family."

The gravity of Arthur's condition echoed in the room, met with varied reactions from the assembled men. Harry maintained a composed exterior, concealing the unexpected twist that now determined the trajectory of his leadership. Silas, on the other hand, bore a contemplative expression, his thoughts veiled behind a facade of indifference.

Mr. Reynolds continued to detail the specifics of the will, delineating the legal nuances that accompanied Arthur's final wishes. The room, once filled with muted murmurs, now resonated with the weighty realization that the path ahead held challenges not only in the world of power and influence but also in matters of the heart. The legacy of Arthur had woven a tapestry of alliances, obligations, and familial ties that would shape the destinies of those within its intricate web.

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