#the moon trembles and shatters

[reginrokkr]

Tag dump #1:

◟༺✦༻◞ glimpses in the past of a shattered spirit ┊headcanon.┊ ◟༺✦༻◞ events to be remembered in blue veins ┊addendum.┊ ◟༺✦༻◞ fragments of light from the roots of truth ┊reference.┊ ◟༺✦༻◞ analysis within the ley lines ichor ┊study.┊ ◟༺✦༻◞ ethereal moon dust sunken in ripples of light ┊reflection.┊ ◟༺✦༻◞ fear not the long night if malice is to fade ┊musings.┊ ◟༺✦༻◞ moon on the sky as a trembling heart ┊aesthetic.┊ ◟༺✦༻◞ requiem of the echoing depths ┊music.┊ ◟༺✦༻◞ searching for a long lost fate ┊meme.┊ ◟༺✦༻◞ what use has the veil of falsehood? ┊ask.┊ ◟༺✦༻◞ lament of a fallen seraph ┊thread.┊ ◟༺✦༻◞ sapphire flames in their wake ┊ic.┊ ◟༺✦༻◞ crystalline traces splattered with stardust ┊open.┊ ◟༺✦༻◞ chaos is hardly different to poison ┊dash comment.┊ ◟༺✦༻◞ shall fair divination be imparted ┊dash game.┊ ◟༺✦༻◞ what lays behind the mantle of faux stars ┊ooc.┊ ◟༺✦༻◞ trust not the gods; nor overthrow them ┊psa.┊ ◟༺✦༻◞ connections of an ancient twilight sword ┊promotions.┊ ◟༺✦༻◞ forgo that which is cursed by the gods ┊self promo.┊ ◟༺✦༻◞ gifts to prevail into eternity ┊keepsake.┊

[ghosts-cyphera]

♡ 18+ / mdni - fem!reader ♡

thinking about pornstar!Ghost and how he would—without a doubt—be one of those male actors who’d be whispering the nastiest, most goddamn earth shattering things into your ear while fucking you.

too quiet for the mics around you to pick up: making it so personal, so intimate despite the crew and cameras and studio lights around you.

his fingers closing around your throat, guiding you to look him in the eyes as he fucks you faster and deeper: his crotch grinding against your clit, making you see stars. forehead pressed against yours, fingers digging into the flesh of your thighs, nails digging crescent moons into your skin.

“look at me, darlin’. keep ‘em eyes on me, yeah? wanna hear you fuckin’ scream for me, baby. not for them—,” he shakes his head with his laugh. “no, you’ll come for me, yeah? you’re mine, aren’t you? all fuckin’ mine, baby—“

his words would push you straight over the edge: your body trembling as you'd come screaming your pretty voice hoarse, and his lips would capture your in a kiss, deep and adoring.

all genuine, from both of you.

“that’s a good fuckin’ girl. did so good for me.” he would plant kisses on your hairline as he’d help you ride down your orgasm, angling you just right for the camera to catch the way you were clenching around him, your pussy milking his cock and drawing the deepest of laughs from his lips.

“y’know you’re makin’ it so fuckin’ hard for me to hold back, right?“

he’d tug a strand of hair behind your ear as you’d laugh against his lips—trying your best to remember that you are on set. because fucking hell, does he fuck you like means it. kiss you like it’s the only thing he knows: eyes twinkling as he looks at you, voice warm as he checks if you’re alright.

like none of it is for the cameras, or the money.

like it's all for you.

it is. it is. it’s now canon that pornstar!ghost is utterly in love with you, and I will gladly talk more about this lmao 💌

more wholesome pornstar!ghost here, hehe.

[moonstruckme]

poly!marauders all eating out fem!reader at the same time. i cant vision how it would work but say sirius has your hole, james has your clit and remus is at your thighs. thank you my love if you choose to write this!🫶

Hi, thanks so much for requesting! I couldn't quite figure out how their heads would all fit so I hope this is alright?

cw: smut mdni (praise, oral fem receiving)

poly!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 480 words

James is laughing at you. Laughing, as you writhe and gasp in his arms. You'd never have taken him for a sadist, but here you are.

"You're okay, angel," he chuckles, moving his hand from around your waist up to your chest to keep your back pressed against his front, and indulging in palming one of your breasts while he's there.

"I—" you gasp, scarcely able to think, much less speak, after the two orgasms you've already had in the past hour.

Sirius takes his lips from your clit with a lewd popping sound, and you cry out. "She's gonna crush Moony's head if she doesn't keep 'er legs open," he complains.

Remus only mumbles, and you can't decipher whether it's in agreement or denial as the reverberations of his rumbling voice in your hole make your head swim. Your trembling thighs press against the long-fingered hands keeping them spread apart on either side of his head.

"I've got it," James supplies, securing you against him with the hand on your chest while using his other to bring your knee upwards, freeing Remus on the one side. "Don't listen to him sweetheart, you're being good for us, aren't you?"

Sirius snickers at your blubbering, nonsensical response, going back to sucking your clit with renewed vigor. A moment later, Remus swirls his tongue inside you, and the coil in your core that's been tightening, slowly but surely, shatters completely. Sirius raises his head from between your legs, crooning at the sounds you make as James smooths a soothing path up the inside of your thigh and Remus works you through your orgasm with his blessed tongue.

James lowers your leg back over the edge of the bed once your breathing starts to steady again, and Remus pats the one he's been holding affectionately, making you jump. "You did so well, love," he says. An embarrasing little frission goes through you at the praise.

James hums in agreement, letting his finger drag over the sweat-slicked skin of your underboob. "So well," he repeats, and his voice is all sweetness, almost making you forget his amusement at your torment a minute before. "Our good girl."

"Thanks," you manage, brain still fizzing like a shaken soda bottle. "Thank you."

"Aw, you're welcome, baby. What do you think?" Sirius' grin is all teeth. "Another?"

At first, you assume you must have misheard him. You raise your head from James' shoulder, every muscle in your body seeming to tremble from being held at attention so long, but before you can ask Sirius to repeat himself, James says, "Yeah, I think she can handle another, can't you angel?" He kisses at the slope of your neck coaxingly, and when he reaches down to tug playfully at Remus' hair, his knuckles brushing your sensitive cunt, you let out a whimper. "Moons, get up here. I want another turn."

[strlingsav]

Dark

– Simon Ghost Riley x F!Reader

— You're afraid of the dark.

Warnings: Mentions of panic-attacks, hyperventilating. Explicit/potentially triggering content under the cut. Read at your own risk.

The lantern beside you flickered, a deep buzz plateauing before it shut off completely, enveloping the barren room in darkness. You were already on edge, in the middle of enemy territory, residing in a run-down safe house.

You flipped over on your makeshift bed- a thermal sheet and wool blanket placed over the floorboards. With a quiet sigh of irritation, you reached your arm out, slamming your hand down on the battery-powered light a few times. It flickered again.

"Don't think that'll help," Ghost's monotone voice cut through the silence.

"Better than nothing," You shot back, eyes focused on the lantern.

You watched as the lantern finally decided against working, and shut off completely. Only the dull light of the moon offered some relief.

"Fuck me," You groaned.

"Shut your eyes," Ghost said gruffly.

You peered over your shoulder at the white skull, about an arm's reach away.

"How's that gonna help if we're ambushed?" You asked, finding his nonchalance frustrating.

"You've got your goggles," He argued.

You were quiet for a moment, deciding whether or not to argue. Panic had nearly set in. Your experiences with the dark, over your entire career, hadn't been kind. Every time, you were brought back to the cold, unwelcoming embrace. The screams, the blood. You recalled the horrifying memories with a shaky sigh, hand coming to your forehead in an attempt to grab some semblance of yourself for reassurance.

"Not good enough," You said finally. "Piece of shit." You grabbed the lantern, throwing it across the room. It landed with a crash, surely damaging something in its wake.

"You afraid of the dark or somethin'?"

"No," You tried to be resolute, firm.

"Sounds like you are."

"Piss off," You replied, letting out a huff.

"There are worse things than the dark."

You knew he was right, knew you were overreacting, but the visceral reaction you felt quickly settling into your body made you think otherwise. Your heartbeat thumped loudly in your ears, jugular pounding in your throat. You could hear your shaky breaths in the quiet of the air, and knew Ghost could too.

You did shut your eyes, only for a moment, pursing your lips while you let out soft exhales. It was a feeble attempt to calm yourself down, before you were driven over the edge of panic. You'd experienced it before- without interference, it could be ugly. Sweat covering your body, quick, heavy breathing, shaking so hard your body ached, nearly shattering your teeth while clenching your jaw.

Disassociation followed close behind- after that, you drowned in the deep end.

You couldn't count how many times you'd talked yourself down on other missions, but it felt different now- harder to ignore. Maybe it was the idea of humiliating yourself in front of your Lieutenant. In front of Ghost; whose body was so far, yet so close. And ordinarily you'd be equipped to run, to avoid his gaze, shrug from beneath the spotlight. But now, you had no choice, all your cards on the table, vulnerable.

"Still got your eyes open?" He asked.

"Yeah."

Your voice barely trembled, which would go unnoticed by most, but not your lieutenant. Not with his fine-tuned observational skills.

"C'mere," He said quietly.

You swore you felt your heart stop. Ghost, beckoning you to move closer, to lie with him as you fell asleep- the warmth in your stomach interrupted your heavy breathing. You wondered if he knew how you felt, how your blood ran cold whenever he looked at you, touched you, spoke to you. Body devoid of all warmth, aside from the heat settling between your thighs. You didn't know whether he offered for his own safety or yours- or something different altogether.

But as your heart resuscitated itself, you couldn't resist the temptation of moving closer. You wanted the physical contact. Anything to remind you of where you were, and in truth, Ghost's offer was even more enticing because it was him.

There was a history of longing stares, fleeting touches on a shoulder or back between the two of you. You couldn't deny the facts. But those were moments of weakness, derived from being without intimacy for so long. Flirtatious encounters between battle buddies; it happened to everyone.

Did it feel like this for everyone?

"I ain't askin' you to marry me, hurry up." His voice interrupted your overthinking, a twinge of impatience in his voice.

You obliged, moving closer, eyes focusing in on the white of his mask. You felt his large hand grip your arm, turning you over. His heavy arm dragged you in, resting over your waist. You let out a sharp exhale when you felt his chest against your back, the warmth shooting goosebumps all over your body.

You didn't take Ghost for a man with much compassion, empathy. You weren't even sure he truly cared for anyone outside of those he had command over. The moments you shared, you knew were insignificant, or at least you'd convinced yourself they were, but as he squeezed you around the middle- once, then twice, for reassurance- you knew that wasn't possible. It made your heart race.

"Feelin' better?" He asked quietly, his voice in your ear.

"Yeah," You breathed.

A little white lie, told to save face. Now pulled back from the brink, you did feel better. You still couldn't breathe, but that was all Ghost's fault. And you'd never admit to the fondness festering for him in the back of your mind.

"Thanks."

"Been there."

"I'm still working on it," You mumbled.

"Takes practice."

You shut your eyes, trying to drown out the feeling of the weight of his arm around you, the pattern of his breathing in your ear, his chest moving softly against your back.

He shifted, letting out a sigh. You took a deep breath, clearing your mind of all sinful thoughts. You moved, trying to get comfortable on the hard floor.

It was nearly impossible.

You stirred again, finding yourself unable to sleep with Ghost's body against you. The undeniable tension was palpable. With a quick stretch, you tried to snuggle back in under the covers, relishing in the warmth that welcomed you back in.

"Stop movin'," Ghost said, a bite in his tone.

"Sorry," You whispered. "Thought you didn't sleep?" You said.

"It ain't my sleep I'm worried about," He replied gruffly.

You didn't reply, but your eyebrows drew together in confusion. Deciding against pushing for answers, you let out a sigh, relaxing your body. You fell in closer to him, your ass flush with his hips. He grunted softly.

Feeling something against you, your eyes flew open. It had to be his pistol- you tried not to allow yourself to think anything else. Mostly, because you didn't know what you'd do if he was aroused. Maybe nothing- but maybe something. The idea alone set your whole body on fire.

Your throat was dry, body rigid as you weighed the pros and cons in your mind. Maybe it was the delusion of your racing heart and frenzied thoughts, but you felt the desperate urge to feel him. Not a new feeling, but stronger now than it had ever been.

You firmly decided you needed to know. Wanted to know. You couldn't ignore the feelings you had for him, regardless of how badly it could end. The bitter taste of hopeless yearning was getting old. Watching from a distance, his hands ghosting your body at every opportunity. You were tired of being left in the dark.

"Did you put the safety on?" You threw your head back, trying to look at him in the dark.

Your question came across as genuine, an innocent tone in your voice. Regardless of how pathetic you felt asking, you were determined.

"What?" He asked, confused.

"Your pistol," You clarified. "It's still in your holster. Did you put the safety on?" You knew better. You knew it wasn't his gun. You just wanted to hear him say it.

"That ain't my pistol. Like I said, stop movin'," He answered, monotone.

Your eyes widened, the shock of him admitting it rendered you speechless.

"Oh," You said, breathing in deeply.

"Can't blame me," He said. "You're practically ridin' me."

"You offered," You shot back.

"Talkin' about you ridin' me makes it worse."

Your heart raced, his low, raspy voice made your stomach flip. Your mind darted to images of Ghost beneath you, gripping your thighs as you dragged your hips against him, burying his cock inside you. You sighed, trying to cleanse your imagination.

"I'll move over," You answered, reluctant to leave his grasp but you didn't want to make him uncomfortable.

His hands trapped your waist, tugging you closer.

"Didn't say I didn't like it. I'm alright if you are."

You felt your cheeks flush, body heating up. His statement shot straight to your abdomen, your stomach in knots. Your eyes darted around in the darkness, searching for what to say next.

"It's fine," You replied.

It was more than fine, actually. You felt your womb ignite, burning with desire. Wetness began to gather in your panties, pussy flinching every so often when you rubbed your thighs together.

"You're movin' again," He said.

"I know," You answered. "Can't help it."

He hummed in response. The hand draped over your waist moved up, fingertips tracing the dip between your ribs and your hips. You shut your eyes, savouring the way his calloused hands felt against the soft skin of your torso. He was moving at a torturously slow pace, fingers seemingly caressing whatever part of you was accessible.

"Ghost," You whispered, voice quiet, laced with pleasure and impatience as you urged him to touch you. You finally had your answer, closure, at last. You weren't going to waste it.

Unexpectedly, his hand drove up your shirt, meeting your bare skin. Surprised, he grunted in approval. His warm hands reached further up, cupping your breasts. His fingers brushed over your nipples, erect from the cold. The smallest bit of relief washed through you at his touch, finally seeing a small glimpse of pleasure. You sighed, his touch rousing the desire in your abdomen. You needed him elsewhere.

You gripped his forearm, pulling it from your shirt before gliding his hand along your stomach, to slip down past your pants waistband. His fingers crawled from your pelvis to your core, feeling the wet patch on the seat of your panties. He groaned softly, almost silently, rubbing your pussy through your panties.

"You're soaked," He said in your ear. "Barely even touched you yet, love."

You didn't answer, only shifting your hips to entice him, begging silently for his fingers to move more.

"Please," You whispered, head turning to meet his gaze.

He let out a soft breath, his middle finger pressing against your clit from over your panties. You breathed out in frustration, body writhing under the light pressure. It wasn't enough, not nearly enough. You wrapped an arm around his neck, pushing your hips into his fingers.

"Bloody fuckin' hell," He grunted, his eye contact unwavering as he watched you ride against his fingers.

He seemed to be motivated by your actions, and gently pulled your panties aside. Running a finger up and down your pussy, he groaned as the wetness spread between your folds. You gasped softly, goosebumps spreading across your body when the pad of his finger hit your clit.

"Fuckin' sight you are, sweetheart," He whispered, lips finding your throat.

You moaned even more now, as he added another finger to run circles over your clit, and kissed the soft skin of your neck.

"Yes, Ghost," You whimpered, the hand around his neck grabbing at his balaclava.

You could hear the wetness between your thighs, vulgar and loud as Ghost worked his fingers against you.

"Take 'em off," He ordered.

Pulling his hand from your panties, he undressed himself while you stripped out of your shirt and pants, panties around one ankle.

Suddenly, the lantern exploded with light, illuminating the small room. You watched Ghost's eyes, trailing over your naked form, half covered with the thin blanket. Your hand between your thighs, the other over your breasts, attempting to cover yourself.

His gaze flipped to your eyes, licking his lips when he found you, cheeks flushed, eyes half-open, hair strewn on the blanket beneath you.

"Christ," He whispered.

You took your time running your eyes over his body; large biceps, abs that flexed every time he moved, his pecs. The muscles that ran down his torso were magnetic, drawing your eyes in. His body glistened with a thin layer of sweat, tattoos highlighted against his skin. You pulled your lip between your teeth, pussy now aching for him.

"Please, touch me," You said, barely above a whisper.

He didn't waste any time, his hand running down your body to the familiar crease of your pussy. Fingers continued where they left off, but shortly after, he slid a finger into you. You arched your back off the ground, turning your head to lock eyes with him. Your lips parted as you panted.

"Pussy is so tight," He said, through strangled breaths. "So fuckin' wet, sweetheart."

His long finger was able to reach the sweet spot inside you, curling them gently to simulate you further. He added a second finger, watching you writhe on his palm. The calloused part of his palm rubbed against your clit, and you couldn't help the airy moans that left your lips.

"Oh God- Ghost," You cried, your abdomen tightening with every movement.

"Say my name sweetheart," He goaded. "My real name. Y'know it," His other hand reached up, lifting his balaclava up past his lips.

He craned his neck to run his tongue over your nipple, taking the soft flesh between his teeth and tugging softly.

"Simon," You said, a whimper in your voice as you began to come undone.

"Cum on my fingers, F/N."

You were riding his palm at this point, calves aching as you flexed them, thighs burning. Your stomach and hips tensed, your body enveloped in a rigid stance before your climax erupted. You let go, your muscles relaxing as you came over his hand. The back of your hand lifted to your lips, biting the skin as you indulged the remaining traces of your orgasm.

"Atta girl," He whispered, lifting his head to press his lips against yours.

You were still panting, but allowed him to run his tongue along yours. You breathed into his lips, nose exhaling against his face. You savoured the warmth his tongue offered, biting at his bottom lip.

Teeth clashed together, your kisses were sloppy, still reeling from your orgasm. Your body was desperate to feel the rest of him. Your hands ran down the back of his neck, then flat over his chest. He groaned with approval, the way your soft hands felt against his body was euphoric.

His fingers left your pussy, and when he lifted them, your face burned. Sticky juices coated his fingers, stringing between his fingers.

"Jesus Christ," He groaned.

He knelt between your thighs, kissing your lips again before he left a trail of soft, wet kisses down to your pelvis, thighs shaking as he parted them. He made himself comfortable, his tongue suddenly pressing against your clit. His first moan, loud, as he tasted you, then his second as your pussy clenched around his tongue diving inside you.

You were still sensitive from your orgasm, unable to sit still as he devoured you. His hands were pressing against your hips bones as he kept you locked under his grip.

He moaned, lifting his gaze to watch you. "Pussy tastes so fuckin' good."

You shivered, shutting your eyes as your hand ran through your hair. Your other hand fondled your breasts, teasingly tugging at your nipples.

"Do that again," He demanded.

You obeyed, gently rolling your nipples between your fingers. He moaned against your pussy, and the vibration lit a fuse up your spine. As he kissed and sucked at your clit, you felt another climax build. You were inconsolable, shivering under his touch as he stimulated your clit. It didn't take long before you came again, thighs clamping around his head, thrusting yourself against his mouth.

You sucked in a sharp breath through your teeth, hands roaming your body.

He sat up, kissing your lips softly before he let his hand run up and down his cock. Your eyes shifted to see him, and his impressive length. Your eyes widened when you really took in his size.

"Think you can take it, sweetheart?" He asked, hips jutting into his hand.

"Yes," You nodded, biting down on your lip.

"Turn over," He said, watching you as he massaged his cock.

You obliged, rolling onto your stomach. You crossed your arms under your head, letting your cheek rest on your forearms. Arching your back, you got on your knees.

His hands gripped your ass, roughly grasping the soft, supple flesh in his hands. You could hear his breathing, fast and loud. He spread your pussy, cock pressing against your entrance. He took his time, introducing his cock slowly.

Soon, he was buried inside you, head thrown back as he savoured the way your pussy felt around him; slick, nearly dripping, hugging him tightly. The angle was nearly torture, so deep, so full, it knocked the air from your lungs.

"Shit, Simon," You croaked out, lifting your head to see him.

"You feel so good, love," He said, leaning forward to kiss your shoulder, teeth biting gently into your skin.

Shivering, you moaned into your arms, biting down as he began to move. His hips hit your ass, cock massaging your walls as he ground his pelvis into you. You couldn't help but clench down, desperate to feel him even more. Your breaths became faster, whimpering as his cock filled you, kissing your cervix just enough to make your body twitch.

His hands came down, landing on either side of you. You could feel his pants from above you. You looked up, eyes meeting as he thrusted into you. He nearly broke watching you move with his thrusts, lips parted with pleasure, nails scraping against your own skin.

One of his hands came up to grip your throat, keeping your eyes where they were while he fucked you. He enjoyed watching you, but wanted to make you feel good.

"Ah, shit," He exclaimed, his other hand slapping your ass.

You gasped, letting your hips thrust back.

"That's right sweetheart," He grunted. "So fuckin' good."

You could hardly breathe, his grip on your throat cutting off most of your oxygen. You didn't mind however, as his gaze was locked on yours, unflinching. It turned you on even more, giving you the push you needed.

"Let me ride you," You said, breathless.

His pace slowed, and he pulled out, grabbing your waist as he laid down. Your thighs spread to land on either side of him, catching your breath as you got yourself situated.

You sat up, pushing his cock back. He took himself in his hand, finding your entrance and helping you slide down onto him.

Your head fell back, sitting still on his cock. Your hips moved back and forth, wanting him as deep as he could get.

"So beautiful," He whispered, his hands sitting on your waist.

You hadn't the mind to answer, only beginning to move your hips forward. He tensed, his head falling back on the floor when you rolled your hips. It wasn't enough, however, and you wanted to feel him, stretching you out.

You lifted your ass up, gliding back down on him. You did this over and over again, until your rhythm settled and you found yourself gasping for air.

His hands flew up to your breasts, moving to your waist, fingers landing on your clit as you bounced on his cock.

"God, love, thas' it, ride this fuckin' cock," He said through his clenched jaw.

His large hand enveloped your ass, helping you up and down as his fingers worked back and forth on your clit. You were breathless, moaning shamelessly as you felt another orgasm working it's way through your abdomen.

"Cum on my cock," He groaned. "Wanna feel this pussy cum on my cock."

You gasped, your hands planting on his chest as your thighs and ass flexed, giving you the extra leverage to take him deep inside. You choked back a sob, your orgasm ripping through you, letting out a loud moan as your body continued to ride him.

Your orgasm wasn't quite finished when he sat up, his hands gripping your waist. He thrusted up into you, his eyes watching you as tears gathered in your eyes. Your body betrayed you, and you grasped his shoulders, trying your best to grind your hips against him.

"'M close, sweetheart," He whimpered. "Where do you want it?"

You shivered, feeling nothing but pure desire.

"Inside me," You breathed. "Cum inside me, Simon."

He groaned, leaning forward to press his lips against yours. His hips faltered, and he moaned quietly into the kiss, fingers bruising your waist as he buried his cum deep inside you.

You shivered again, sitting still for a moment while he recovered from his climax.

"Christ," He whispered.

"Yeah," You said back, with a huff.

You didn't notice when the lantern flickered off again, Ghost wrapping his arm around your waist, flush with your body. His large hand engulfed your breasts, and he couldn't possibly be closer if he tried- he liked it that way. And so did you.

Moments passed, finally finding warmth and comfort. You were so close to sleep, your body relaxed against his.

"Dark's not so bad, is it?" He asked, the timbre of his voice stirring you from your drowsy state.

You cracked a smile.

[solarisfortuneia]

— 𝐣𝐚𝐬𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞.

even the sweetest of scents eventually turn bitter.

✦ featuring: zhongli.

✦ warnings: angst.

"why do you seem to adore this particular flower?" he remembers asking you, one still night, when even the moon has decided to go to sleep. for as long as he's known you, your entire life seemed to revolve around jasmines. 

he remembers you laughing as you hang a bunch of them from his horns mischievously. "i love its versatility, my dear morax. it can be a garland, an accessory, a perfume, it can be infused into tea; it's wonderful, really. and it smells and looks divine." you playfully add later, "in addition, you look absolutely fetching with them on, don't you think?"

it dawns on him that he's never seen you without a cluster of them nestled in your hair, he's never seen you drink anything but various varieties of jasmine tea; at this point, he cannot think of one without thinking of the other. he doesn't even remember what your name means. to his mind, all it invokes is vivid pictures of your smile and the fragrance that always surrounds you.

and when you stand in front of him, a determined aura about you, that memory swims to the surface and he knows. he knows exactly what you'll say.

morax dreads those words he knows will come out of your mouth, and for the first time in a long while, he's afraid. he's afraid of breaking your heart, when all he wants to do is cradle it in his palms— but he knows he must. 

"i cannot return your feelings," he says, steeling his gaze, lifting his chin and hardening the curve of his mouth. 

he watches the hope in your eyes break, shatter like glass. he watches passively as somewhere, deep within, your heart cracks, and he swears he could hear the sound reverberate throughout the stone hall the two of you stand in. he watches as your hands start to tremble, your voice shake the tiniest amount.

he almost reaches out with his pattern covered arms, desiring naught but to hold them still and whisper honey-glazed words in your ears, rock you in his embrace and offer you uncertain promises of a happy future, but he forces them down. there is no place for love in a war, he thinks. and my presence cannot make them smile more than my absence would make them cry.

"why?" he hears you ask, voice barely more than a breath. "i-" you seem to be frozen in place, only capable of moving your lips the tiniest amount. "i thought we had something."

he swallows, saliva scalding his throat. "i'm in love with another," he blurts, knowing this would stop you from chasing after him. every syllable stabs at him as it leaves his mouth. "i always have been."

"oh," that soft, silent, broken breath of yours cuts through his armor and pierces through his core. "i understand," you lower your eyes, displaying the same grace you've always shown, and he hates that he cannot be true to both himself and you. "i hope you will be happy. i wish you the best, morax." he nearly winces. morax. not 'dear morax', and not 'my dear morax.' just morax.

as you turn to leave, he gets a whiff of the flowers in your hair, and he retches at how absolutely acrid they smell. he takes a step backward, once again fighting the urge to reach his arms out. he plants his feet firmly on the ground and watches as your figure gets smaller and smaller before you start running. 

if doing it this way is how he must keep you safe, then he'd step on his own body, heart and soul, without hesitation. 

of what use is a god who cannot control his own destiny? who cannot promise happiness to those he cares for?

he will wait, he swears. he will wait for as long as it takes. after the war, he promises himself. when time is favorable, he promises. as long as it takes for him to see you again, meet you on the other side, where the future is bright. but he knows it, in all the possibilities of the world, is pointless. after all, you were just a mortal, with a life akin to the blink of an immortal's eye, were you not?

it is the unmistakable scent of jasmine that wafts through his nose, many, many, many years later. he is simply zhongli now, the funeral parlor consultant who frequents teahouses, nothing more, nothing less, but the bitterness still bites at his nose each and every single time, all the same. 

he smiles into his cup, a little sad, a little nostalgic and he absentmindedly wonders why he chose to order jasmine tea today, of all days. a cheerful lilt reaches his ears, and he laughs to himself.

why do you think of them now, after all these years?

the voice grows louder and he jolts uptight, not trusting his hearing. he stands up hesitantly, searching, scared all over again. and it is then he hears a laugh he never thought he'd hear again. he finds the same set of features, giggling at something the other person in front of you said.

impossible. people rarely reincarnate with the same face. but hope strikes to a flame nevertheless, and he sits back down again, looking for signs that it might be you. 

sharp amber eyes find a small jasmine flower nestled behind your ear, and he can't help but smile. 

perhaps, this time, he could try again?

[sky-is-the-limit]

“𝑺𝒉𝒐𝒘 𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒆𝒔 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝒈𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒔..”

𝑷: 𝑲𝒚𝒍𝒆 '𝑮𝒂𝒛' 𝑮𝒂𝒓𝒓𝒊𝒄𝒌 𝒙 𝑭!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓.

𝑾𝑪: 1,208 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅𝒔.

𝑵𝒐 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔, 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒑𝒖𝒓𝒆 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆<3

Outside, a gentle breeze stirred the curtains, sending them fluttering softly against the window.

It was a peaceful night, the kind of night where time seemed to stand still, where the world faded away and all that mattered was the warmth of Kyle's body beside you, the softness of his lips against your skin.

As you laid in bed, naked beside Kyle, you could feel the warmth of his body seeping into yours. He had just returned from another mission and now he was finally home, safe in your arms.

The weight of his presence beside you felt comforting, reassuring, like a lifeline in the darkness.

Sergeant Garrick was gone and Kyle, your Kyle, was safe beside you.

The room was cast in a soft glow, illuminated by the gentle light of the moon filtering through the window. Its silver beams danced across Kyle's features, highlighting the delicate contours of his face, the chiseled lines of his jaw.

You traced your fingertips lightly over the scars that crisscrossed his arms, each one a testament to what he went through.

They seemed to catch the moonlight, gleaming faintly in the darkness. Perhaps it was just your imagination playing tricks but to your tired eyes it almost seemed like he was glowing.

Some marks were faint, like wisps of memories barely clinging to his flesh while others stood out boldly, jagged and deep, stark reminders of the pain he endured away from home, from you.

In the moon's soft embrace, they seemed to dance with a ghostly luminescence, painting intricate shadows across his skin. Despite the horrors they symbolized, you found them strangely captivating.

It was impossible not to when they adorned the body of a man whose very presence was like poetry in motion.

It was as though the divine had spent centuries perfecting every curve, every line, every spot. You marveled at how someone could look so breathtakingly beautiful, even after returning from hell itself.

You cursed them in silence, cursing the world for what it had done to him, for the terrors it inflicted upon his soul despite it being his choice.

And though you wished you could hurt them back, you never doubted, even for a second, that he had already taken matters into his own hands, eliminating those who wanted to harm him before they could inflict any more pain.

"What about this one?" You whispered, your voice barely breaking the silence of the night.

Your fingertip delicately trailed the deep, large scar on Kyle's shoulder that almost reached his collarbone, tracing its path with a tender curiosity, as if mapping out the constellations in the night sky.

For a moment, Kyle remained silent, his breathing steady and measured, as though he was caught between being awake and dreaming.

His touch remained on your back, caressing your spine so softly that it was a surprising how you didn't fall sleep.

"Attacked from behind." He murmured, his tone eerily calm despite the gravity of what he said.

Wrapped in his embrace, you couldn't shake the overwhelming sense of fragility that enveloped him whenever he returned from a mission.

Kyle hated it, of course. He would reassure you, his voice soothing, telling you that he was okay, that he was back in one piece and that no one was going to take him away from you, at least not in that moment.

Despite his words, your fears lingered like shadows in the corners of your mind.

You feared the phone ringing in the middle of the night, dreaded the thought of waking up to find the bed empty and his uniform missing from the closet. You feared those fears becoming permanent, nightmares creeping into reality.

And so, for the first few days after his return, you treated him like porcelain, as if the slightest touch might shatter him into a million pieces.

With a trembling breath, you whispered against his scar, a kiss so tender it barely brushed against his skin,

"I'm sorry."

It was a futile apology, you knew. It wasn't your fault, couldn't be your fault. Yet, the weight of helplessness pressed down upon you, a suffocating burden you couldn't shake.

It felt like you were apologizing for not being there, for not being able to protect him from the dangers that lurked in every corner. Irrational, perhaps, but the feeling lingered nonetheless.

His job was a choice he made. He had chosen this path, this life of danger and sacrifice and found his peace with it in a way that you couldn't comprehend. While he accepted the risks as part of his duty, for you, the worry, the fear, it gnawed at your heart like a relentless tide.

Those who preached about gender roles, about the man being the protector and the woman needing protection, seemed like nothing more than empty rhetoric to you.

Love knew no boundaries, no predefined roles.

When you loved someone as deeply as you loved Kyle, you would willingly face any danger, endure any hardship, just to keep him safe.

But reality was far less forgiving.

And so, the weight of that realization bore down upon you, consuming you whole as you sat in the darkness, waiting. Waiting for the door to open, for his footsteps to echo through the silent house, for the confirmation that the monsters he faced were put to rest, at least for the time being.

Not permanently, though. That was his choice to make.

"S'not your fault, baby. Never your fault." Kyle murmured and despite the weariness etched in his tone, he fought against the pull of sleep.

He refused to succumb, his determination evident in the furrow of his brow and the set of his jaw. He didn't want to leave you alone with your fears, not for a moment.

That was your man, determined to fight and protect you, even from the invisible dangers that only existed within the confines of your mind.

But eventually, exhaustion won out, and you saw the struggle fade from his features as he finally yielded to the embrace of sleep.

You glanced up at his beautiful face, softened by the gentle glow of the moonlight, it was clear that he was lost in a dreamland.

All you wished for in that moment was that his dreams were kind to him, that they offered him the peace he deserved.

In that moment, you promised to protect him as best you could. You vowed to guard his heart, to love him as he deserved. Through all of life's ups and downs, in sickness and un health, you swore to stand by his side, no matter what. You'd wait for him patiently, never losing faith.

Your pledge went beyond just keeping him safe physically. It was about preserving his kindness, his humor, his ability to love fully and honestly.

Kyle Garrick loved with a sincerity that felt like springtime warmth, like the innocence of a child. It was a love that knew no bounds, overcoming barriers with its purity and sincerity.

Even if you couldn't shield him from every danger, you knew you could at least protect what truly mattered. His essence, his spirit, his heart.

The very things that made him, him.

[lalacliffthorne]

when Az has a nightmare, because even in this alternative universe, he has just as many scars. but also someone to kiss them better.

(this broke my heart a little and healed it at the same time. urgh. I´ll go cry in my lil corner now.)

Carefully closing the door to the bathroom as quietly as possible, I started to pad through the dark hall towards Azriel's room, pulling the sleeves of his sweatshirt over my hands and shivering at the coolness of the wooden floorboards under my feet.

The moon and the streetlights outside threw a soft light into the hall from the living room and the kitchen as I snuck past Cassian's room, barely holding back a giggle when I heard a soft snore from the other side of the door. Rhys had left the kitchen window open, and the smell of rain and cool night air filled my lungs.

Slipping through Azriel's half-closed door, I heard the blankets rustle and winced, because damnit; apparently, I hadn't been as careful as I had thought I'd been when I had snuck out from under his arm.

Cursing inwardly, I softly closed the door, then I turned around.

Something in my chest lost it's footing when Azriel threw his head around and gave a soft sound that made something cold wash over my spine.

Shit.

From my spot at the door, I could see his face, illuminated by the light falling through the curtains, his jaw shifting and tensing, brows drawn together and eyes squeezed shut. There was sweat forming on his forehead, his hair sticking to his skin as his shoulder muscles shifted and flexed and his fingers curled into the blanket, gripping it so hard, my heart turned over and toppled.

Shit, shit, shit.

Azriel had told me about the nightmares that used to be frequent and became rare after years and years of working through the reason they haunted him. It had been the same night he had told me about the burns scarring his hands, leaned back against the headboard, eyes tired but steady as I had sat across from him, something shattering silently in my chest as I had stared at him and felt a weight on my chest that had made my sight blur.

"Az?"

My voice was soft and a little weak as I stared at his trembling form, curving my hands into fists to keep them from shaking as a pit opened in my chest.

Carefully, I took a step forward, only to jump when Azriel jolted abruptly. His eyes flew open, and he scrambled up, fingers digging into the blanket as he threw his head around.

"Hey." My breath got caught in my throat at the sight of his eyes, wide blown and frantic as they darted through the room until they landed on me.

A shudder went through him, his shoulders slowly sagging, and Azriel squeezed his eyes shut, dropping back against the headboard as he dragged his trembling hands into his hair, tugging harshly as his breath staggered.

“Az?” My heart turned over, and quickly, I moved over the cold floorboards, carefully climbing onto the mattress. My heart clenched tightly when Azriel glanced at me through the gap between his flexing forearms, the muscles in his jaw shifting as his hands slipped out of his hair, one of them dropping to grip at his chest.

“Can't. Breathe,”, he pressed, deep voice husky and muscles in his jaw working as his eyes squeezed shut again for a second, and his breathing got quicker, clipped and shuddering.

Something like an iron fist closed around my heart, my fingers trembling when for a second, my head simply felt empty, gaping as panic rose in my chest. Then I blinked, my breath hitching and voice small when I whispered: “Tell me what you need me to do.”

Azriel blinked quickly, his fingers digging into his chest as something like panic flashed through his eyes as they darted through the room, his breath now heaving, and something skipped high against my ribs.

Without thinking, I leaned forward, grabbing his hand and pulling it away from his chest.

“Azriel, look at me.” My voice was soft but somehow, I managed to keep it from trembling as my fingers slipped through his and squeezed tightly as I tugged his hand towards me. “I need you to breathe, baby, okay; focus.” My grip tightened, maybe to keep myself from shaking. “Az. Look at me.”

Az squeezed his eyes shut as I pressed his palm onto my chest, and I leaned forward, staring at him desperately. “Azriel, look. At. Me.”

Azriel's eyes snapped open and found mine, and I tried to keep my heart from staggering when I saw the way his pupils were dilated, almost swallowing the amber of his eyes.

Somehow, I willed my breath to stay steady as I whispered a little shakily: “C'mon, baby, breathe.”

Azriel exhaled shudderingly. There was a harsh sting in my chest as I felt his fingers curl into my sweatshirt, and I squeezed his hand, drawing slow and long breaths as I fought the way my throat closed up, felt something surging in my chest as Azriel's eyes pierced into mine, still slightly frantic but slowly, very slowly, loosing the panic deep within as he started to breathe, harshly but steadier with every minute.

I didn't know how long I crouched on the mattress in front of him. The flat was silent, only sometimes broken by the muffled sound of a car passing on the quiet street outside. At some point, I slipped into a seated position, my knee pressing against Azriel's side as little by little, his breathing calmed. His body slowly sank back against the headboard, the rise and fall of his bare chest evening out little by little, still sometimes broken by deep shuddering inhales that slowly ebbed off into small hitches. His shoulders slowly lost their tension until they slumped, and his head tipped back against the wall as he stared at me, his tired eyes piercing into mine like he was holding onto it.

Finally, when his breathing was quiet and steady again, Azriel blinked. His hand twitched under mine, and quickly, I loosened my grip, but Azriel's fingers threaded closer through mine, and something tipped over in my chest when he mumbled, deep voice impossible rough: "'m sorry."

I stared at him, feeling my throat tighten as a gentle weight settled on my chest, and quickly, I shook my head, whispering: "It's okay."

Azriel's golden eyes pierced mine. Then he leaned forward, and my breath hitched when he wrapped an arm around my waist and dragged me into his lap.

My arms slipped around his shoulders like muscle memory, and Azriel pulled me closer, his hands sliding under my sweatshirt as he wrapped his arms around me, closer, tighter; until it felt like he was trying to wrap himself around me. Drawing his knees up to press me more into his body, he curled his fingers into my sides, and something pulled tight in my chest when he buried his face in the crook of my neck and breathed in, soft and with the barest tremble.

Quickly sliding my arms tighter around his shoulders, I dropped my head to press my nose against his warm skin and squeezed my eyes shut tightly.

I didn't know how long we stayed like that. Azriel's grip was unwavering, but his body slowly melted into mine as he buried himself further in my neck.

When he finally pulled his head back a little, the cold sweat on his skin had dried, his grip had lost some of its tightness and the ache in my chest had shrunk into a small emptiness.

Straightening a bit, just far enough that I could look at him, I felt Azriel's arms slide down until they rested on my waist as he dropped his head back a little, leaning it against the wall as he stared at me. He looked tired and exhausted and a little lost, and I felt my heart clench.

Reaching up without even really thinking about it, I brushed the still slightly damp strands of hair away that curled over his forehead, and something rose in my chest when Azriel's eyes fluttered a little, his head tipping into my touch.

My heart lurched, and breathing in softly, I leaned in, gently pressing my forehead against Azriel's. My eyes fluttered shut, and something closed around my chest when I felt Azriel brush his nose slowly over mine before tilting his head to repeat the motion. His hand came up to brush some hair out of my face, carefully tucking it behind my ear as his other arm gently pulled me closer until our chests were pressed together again. Gently pressing his palm against the side of my jaw, Azriel breathed out, his thumb slowly stroking over my cheek, and without really thinking, I turned my head and pressed my lips against his palm.

Azriel stilled.

Slowly, softly, I pressed another kiss onto his warm, scarred skin. My nose brushed over his fingers when they curled against my cheek and I pressed my lips against his knuckles, ghosting them over his skin as I peppered soft kisses over his hand. Then I raised my head, and my heart tipped over and tumbled.

Azriel was staring at me, his throat working as he swallowed harshly. His iris was swimming with something I couldn't discern, rising quietly as the gold in his eyes melted into a soft shimmer and his gaze dragged over my face. Then he slid his hand into my hair, and my heart rose in my chest when he pulled me forward and firmly pressed his forehead against mine, closing his eyes. The soft ache in my chest grew when I felt the slight unsteadiness of his breath hitting my skin and saw the crunch of his brows.

"They're never gonna hurt you again."

My voice was barely above a whisper, and soft, and unsteady, but it made Azriel go still.

"Promise,", I mumbled, sniffling softly and crunching my nose a little. "Cass won't let them, and Rhys won't let them." I swallowed, and something tightened in my chest. "And I won't let them."

Breathing out, I pulled my head back a little and opened my eyes to stare at him, my voice raspy when I whispered: "No one's ever gonna hurt you like that again." My lips quivered a little when I sent him a small, crooked smile and mumbled thickly: "Don't care who I have to fight. I'll fight those dreams if I have to." I felt my lips curve as I added a soft: "Promise." My eyes tracked over his face, and my voice became even more quiet when I added in a whisper: "You'll never have to do this alone again."

Azriel stared at me. Throat working like he was holding back the urge to swallow, brows drawn together, shimmering eyes darting over my face. Then he blinked; his hands slipped up to cradle my jaw, and leaning forward, he kissed me, deep and warm, feverish and desperate.

My heart rose in my chest as the ache in my chest thrummed, and I dug my fingers into his sides and kissed back just as desperately.

When he slowly pulled back, Azriel breathed out, and his nose nudged against mine. His fingers gently brushed away hair that had gotten caught on my lips, and I could feel his thumb tracing the line of my cheekbone when he dropped his forehead against mine. Then he mumbled, his deep voice quiet and soft and so, so hoarse: "Thank you."

I nodded quickly, feeling my throat close up, and Azriel's jaw shifted, brows crunching as he swallowed, his thumb slowly brushing over my cheek.

My eyes slowly began to feel heavy, and a yawn built in my throat. Pulling back my head a little, I found Azriel's eyes on my face, deep and dark and tired, freckles dusting his nose and a strand of dark hair curving over his forehead.

"Pinky promise,", I whispered, and Azriel's lips curved. Then he mumbled back, soft and deep and hoarse: "Pinky promise."

I stared at him, counted the golden flecks in his eyes as they dragged over mine, exhausted but almost hungrily, like he was trying to commit it to memory.

Azriel blinked, then he moved, and I slowly slid off his lap and curled up under the blankets. I could feel the mattress dip under his weight, then his warm body pressed against mine, and his arm wound around my waist as mine slid over his shoulder. Tugging me closer, Azriel tangled our legs together until there wasn't a place I wasn't pressed tightly against him, couldn't feel the warmth radiating from him as he dropped his forehead against mine and closed his eyes. Then he crunched his brows a little.

"Is Cass snoring?"

I started to giggle, and Azriel huffed softly, but I could feel his lips curve.

"You're gonna get any sleep?", I whispered, feeling something dip a little in my chest, and Azriel breathed out, his hand sliding under my sweatshirt and pressing against my skin.

"Yes." His voice was soft, but steady, and sent a soft tingle down my spine when he added hoarsely: "You're here."

My heart rose, rose until I couldn't breathe, and I wrapped my leg over his waist and tugged him forward until his tall, solid body was draped over mine, warm and there and burying me under his weight as he nuzzled his face into the crook of my neck.

"Pinky promise,", I whispered into his hair, and Azriel's lips curved against my skin.

"Pinky promise,", he mumbled softly.

@azrielshadows1nger @waytoomanyteenagefeels @secret-ly-here @knmendiola @luvmoo @azriels-mate123 @bookishbroadwaybish @maybe-a-winchester @stayinglow-exploringworlds @harrystylesfan2686

[stararch4ngelqueen]

High-Rise Melancholy

—

Time Written-11:23 a.m. (Pt.1 )

Jason Todd/fem!reader angst

—

A sharp clash of painted porcelain smashes against the doorway you almost crossed, shattering the thick plastic light switch frame.

An involuntary yelp left your lips from the sharp sound of impact, watching the fragments of what was once your indigo blue, gold star and moon coffee mug, once full of sleepy time tea, scatter the ground in seconds.

Wide eyes meet yours, the culprit of throwing the mug peering back at you with eyes much wider than yours behind his mask.

The bedroom was laced in silence, the tension elevated into high alarm. Static laced his tongue once he realized what he’d done, the idea of harming you bringing his knees to nearly buckle.

He swore you weren’t standing there a second ago, what was he thinking? He nearly hit you, he almost—

“GET OUT!!” He shouts, screaming into the flames of the chaos he caused. Your eyes grew wider, your feet nearly stumbling back as you retreated. Enraged, milky eyes grew close as he stomped forward, trembling hands grasping hold onto the edges of the door.

“GO! GET THE— GET THE FUCK OUT!!” His raised voice cuts short once he slams the door in your face, preventing you from seeing him crumble any further.

Out of the eighty six to ninety percent change you had to seeing him in this manner, it never got any easier. He’d shut down, he’d throw things, he’d shout so loud it would concern the neighbors.

However, as Batman abides by his unique, golden rules of logic, Jason’s was much more simple:

He’d never, ever raise a hand to you. Ever.

You wait in the kitchen for nearly ten minutes, lit up by the warm glow of the stove light. A fresh cup of tea waited for you, alongside a mug of strong coffee. Your boyfriend locked himself into your shared bedroom, your inaccessible phone laying abandoned on its charger on your bedside table.

You couldn’t check up on him like this, no matter how much you wanted to. He needed space, needing a minute to calm down, however long that minute would end up taking.

You were in the kitchen when he came home, dressed in plaid sweatpants and his red hoodie with a box of pancake mix in your hand, moments away from preparing an early breakfast before he’d sleep in until late in the afternoon.

Maybe it was your mistake. You heard the difference in his heavy footsteps when he returned this morning. Heavy, dirty soles scraping against hard wood floor in frustrating stomps, rather than exhausted drags.

You probably shouldn’t have treaded behind him with strong concern, wanting to make sure he was alright, preparing to dote on him if needed. You would say you’ve gotten better at it, but after this, you felt thrown back towards square one.

He’s tired, he’s angry. He just needs a minute.

You force yourself to think this, trying to keep your composure as your eyes peer down at Jason’s coffee, your fingertips settled on the warmth of the mug contrasting against the cold countertop.

Eventually, the faint click of your bedroom door was heard down the short hallway before comes to you. The softest creaks of the wood gave way once his socked feet transfer towards cold tile before warm arms encasing you in a deep embrace.

The faint smell of wet dirt, rain water and petrichor flood your senses, his sweat damp hair tickling behind your ear as he tucks his head against the valley of your neck in silent shame.

“M’sorry,” His tired, weak voice ripples against your skin, the voice of a weak, little boy coming forth inside the body of a grown man. “Didn’t mean to. Didn’t mean to hurt you—“

“You didn’t,” your wavering voice cuts him off, to his dismay at what he assumed was your denial. “Jason, don’t say that, you didn’t hurt me-“

“I almost did!” He insists, hot trembling breath fanning along your neck whilst his broad, jacket shrouded arms squeezed you tighter. “I swear! I-I wasn’t thinking, I.. I wasn’t—“

He cuts himself off, his chest heaving with his increased breathing. You try to take the opportunity to turn yourself, feeling his arms hesitate in their tight grasp once he realized what you were trying to do.

His shoulders tremble as he contemplates you seeming him like this. No, he didn’t want you to even look at him, but you were just as stubborn as he was with persistence.

Jason’s head rose off your shoulder, keeping himself turned towards the side as you finally face him. You didn’t need to look into his eyes to see how frustrated with himself he was, the angry, shameful tears leaving thick tracks down his chiseled cheeks.

Dark bags outlined his sockets, tired wrinkles crowning the corners of his pink, flushed eyes.

“Jason,” his name softly rolled off your tongue, making the man sniffle after he lowers his avoided gaze.

Your arms snugly wrap around his neck, your hand cradling his head towards your shoulder. His muscles remained stiff three seconds longer before melting, fat tears seeping into the shoulder of your hoodie.

“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry, baby.” His weak voice trembles, scattered breath steaming against the damp fabric. Please, don’t be angry with me.

You’d never be angry with him. You trust him to never hurt you.

“I forgive you,” came your gentle reply, but it would take a while for the shame to slip off his nerves. For now, you held the tall, large man against your frame, quietly comparing him to a ridiculously large teddy bear you’d win at a boardwalk carnival.

“I’ll get you another mug,” he murmurs against your neck, making you huff out an amused breath.

“We have a hundred more in the cabinets,” you mused, referring to your thrift store of a stock that took up two shelf spaces.

“I-“ he tried to speak again, thinking of some other way he could possibly apologize for his outburst, but you weren’t gonna have it.

“Jason, enough,” You cradle his face, wanting to kiss all his tears away straight from the source. “It’s okay. I’m okay, you’re okay. Okay?”

A small part of you wants to smile at how many times that word has been repeated, but it was a chisel on a block of ice when it came to Jason. A warmed chisel, hoping to strike an impact on his troubled mind faster than anything else.

He’d let you break him harder than he broke your possessions, even when it was never intentional. He’d let you harm him worse than he ever did towards the criminals, the ‘so-called victims’ from his Lazarus youth.

He’d watch your hand raise, yet it never struck, it soothed. When he believed everything in his new life grew more hateful and cruel, the graze of your fingertips remained subtly sweet. Pure autumn honey and warm milk for his battered soul.

“Okay.”

“Okay,” you settle, running your fingers through his sweat curled locks nearly flattened down along the top of his head. The consequences of wearing a helmet for many hours at a time.

“Go take a shower. I’ll make you those cinnamon roll pancakes you like, then you can get some sleep. Okay?”

A tinge of a smile formed on the corner of his lip, albeit temporary, it was still visible.

“Okay.”

[lendeah]

The currents of destiny

Chapter 1: The present.

Requested by @tinystarfishgalaxy! Thank you very much🤍🫶🏻

Summary: "I would say good luck out there, but honestly? I hope you die screaming." Astarion's life takes a dark turn following his encounter with Cazador, as his lover Tav refuses to help him ascend. Left to face the aftermath of his choices, Astarion seeks understanding in his new reality. In his search for answers, he meets a seer named G'axir, who offers him glimpses into three different paths his life could take: his future as an Ascended Vampire, his future alone, and a future next to Tav. Now, Astarion must decide which path to follow before it's too late. Pairing: Astarion x Fem!Reader. Word Count: 2.9k Tags: Heavy Angst, Psychological Trauma, Blood and Violence, Character Death, Psychological Torture (kind of), Emotional Manipulation, Verbal Abuse, but just chapter 2, Angst with a Happy Ending, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Happy Ending.

Next chapter ->

[AO3 Link]

The air reeks of death and blood, the stench heavy and suffocating. Cazador's lifeless body lies in a pool of his own blood, a gruesome sight that only fuels Astarion's anger. His entire body trembles with rage, years of pent-up frustration boiling over.

He had lost everything - the chance to turn the ritual and become the most powerful Vampire, the chance to get back all he lost, the chance to be completely free.

And it was all because of her.

"Astarion?" Her voice quivers with fear as she approaches him cautiously. Turning to face her, his once handsome features contort into a twisted mask of fury.

"You," he growls, his voice dripping with venom. "You betrayed me."

Her body recoils at his accusation, but he pays no mind. The only thing he can see is red, consumed by a blazing fire of betrayal and pain.

"I only wanted what was best for you," she pleads, tears welling in her eyes.

"You had no right!" he bellows, making her flinch again. "This was my last chance!"

"Do you think I wanted to do this?" she cries, her voice breaking. "I did it for you, Astarion. It would have turned you into the very thing you despise."

His lips curl into a sneer and his fangs glint in the dim light. "Oh, spare me your platitudes," he scoffs. "You always did have a way with words, didn't you? You professed your love for me, claiming that my happiness was all you desired and that you would do anything to ensure it. Well, congratulations, now you've sealed my fate with disgrace."

The pain in her eyes fuels Astarion's anger even more.

"Please Astarion. I didn't mean..." she pleads desperately.

"But you did it," he seethes, baring his sharp fangs in anger. "You've taken everything from me."

"Please, let's go home," she begs, tears streaming down her face. "We can figure out a way together."

"Home?" Astarion laughs bitterly. "I have no home anymore."

She flinches at his words and takes a step back, fear evident in her eyes. The pain cut deep in his heart, leaving behind an irreparable wound. How could he have been so naive? To blindly put his trust in someone who would turn their back on him in his darkest hour? The realization hits him like a ton of bricks, shattering the remains of his shattered heart into dust.

"I would say good luck out there, but honestly? I hope you die screaming," he spits before walking away, leaving her behind in a pool of regrets and broken promises. He could hear her heart-wrenching cries as he left, but the anger and pain inside of him only led him further away from her.

-

The moon cast a faint glow over the dark streets of the city as Astarion walked, his mind consumed with seething anger. The sound of his own footsteps echoed through the empty alleyways, mingling with the distant chatter of late-night revelers. People turned to look at him, their gazes lingering on the blood stains that still marred his body. He couldn't bring himself to care, his thoughts completely fixated on the scene that had played out in front of him. He didn't even know how long he had been wandering for, only that the night was growing darker and colder. He had no destination in mind, his feet taking him wherever they pleased as he tried to make sense of what had happened.

Over and over again it replayed in his mind; the knife plunging into Cazador's chest, the man's pained cries echoing in the stone walls of the basement, and the remaining silence after his lifeless body hit the floor. With each repetition, Astarion's anger only grew. How dare he make him feel 200 years of torture, only to feel a mere minute of pain before dying? It wasn't fair. He deserved to feel the pain tenfold, to suffer for eternity just as Astarion had.

As he made his way down the street, his mind couldn't help but drift to Tav. The mere thought of her brought a mix of emotions - anger, hurt, and longing. She had betrayed him, yet her words still echoed in his head, pleading for him to understand. He couldn't deny the love he had once felt for her, but he also couldn't shake the pain she had caused him. Was it all truly for his sake?

Finally reaching a secluded spot on the beach, he sank down onto the sand. It hit him suddenly - he was truly alone once more. There was no one to lean on, no one who could truly understand and accept him for who he was. But he didn't want anyone either. People were fickle creatures; they could betray you in an instant without a second thought.

The waves crashed against the shore, a soothing rhythm that did little to calm Astarion's racing thoughts. He let out a scream of frustration as he punched the sand beneath him. His knuckles burned with pain, but it was nothing compared to the searing rage consuming him. With a groan of agony, Astarion let himself fall back onto the sand. The cold grains offered no comfort as he lay there staring up at the dark sky above. The stars seemed to taunt him with their twinkling, a reminder that he was completely and utterly alone in this vast, uncaring universe.

And then, as if on queue, a figure appeared in his peripheral vision. Astarion's head snapped to the side, his eyes locking onto the man who had suddenly appeared beside him. The moonlight revealed the wrinkles on his face, adding depth and shadow to his features. His long white hair flowed from underneath a robe that reached down to his feet, and in his hand, he held a staff. He exuded an aura of wisdom and age.

Astarion sat up, his hand instinctively reaching for a dagger that wasn't there. Of course he had left his weapons behind. He eyed the stranger warily, his anger still simmering beneath the surface.

"Who are you?" Astarion asked.

"I am recognized by myriad titles... yet for you... 'G'axir' will suffice," the old man replied with a gentle smile. "I have observed your journey... for quite a while"

He narrowed his eyes, wondering if this was some kind of trap. He had learned the hard way to trust no one, especially not strangers who appeared out of nowhere in the dead of night.

"Watching me?"

G'axir nodded. "Your destiny is ensnared in shadows... since you first rose from your grave."

Astarion felt a chill run down his spine. How could this stranger possibly know anything about his past?

"I'm afraid I have little patience for riddles tonight," Astarion said as he stood up and brushed off the sand from his clothes. "I'll be on my way now."

But as he turned to leave, G'axir quickly reached out to grab Astarion's arm. What in the sweet hells?

"You... are a light entering darkness. You... are a seeker of truths. You... are more than you realize," G'axir replied cryptically. "The Seer has spoken it because the Seer knows the fear you harbor."

Astarion's mind raced as he tried to make sense of the old man's words. How could he have secrets buried within himself? He thought he knew himself well enough, especially after living for 200 years.

Astarion couldn't help but roll his eyes in disbelief. "Oh, stop with the theatrics, I don't have any spare money, if that's what you are seeking."

G'axir shook his head. "Your life... is in the balance. Act wisely, act judiciously..."

Astarion yanked his arm away from the old man's grasp. "Must we continue with this tiresome charade? State your purpose and leave me be," he demanded, his voice shaking with fury.

G'axir's expression remained calm and serene, unfazed by Astarion's outburst. "I stand as your guide... offering wisdom to illuminate your path and aid you on your journey..."

Astarion scoffed, his usual sarcastic wit dripping from every word. "Please, I'm perfectly capable of navigating this world on my own. No need for any pesky guidance or assistance," he declared with a sour grin. "I've already had my fill of unwanted help today, thank you very much."

"The path ahead of you... is treacherous and filled with darkness," G'axir said solemnly.

Astarion scoffed. "Well, I've been living in the darkness for 200 years. I can handle it."

"But... can you handle the light... that could await you?" G'axir asked.

Astarion raised an eyebrow at the old man's question. Handle the light? What did that even mean?

"What light?" Astarion asked skeptically.

"The light... of truth and understanding," G'axir replied enigmatically. Astarion felt a twinge of curiosity stir within him despite his reluctance to believe anything this old man said.

"Why should I trust you? You could be deceiving me in an attempt to abduct me, or something," Astarion said suspiciously.

G'axir nodded in understanding. "In the dance of shadows where deceit finds solace, one who has waltzed through its embrace grows cautious of fellow wanderers. Yet, heed my words — I harbor no malevolent intentions directed toward you."

Astarion warily watched G'axir, but as the old man's gentle gaze met his own, he felt himself start to relax. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but there was something about G'axir that made him feel safe and at ease. It was almost like an aura surrounding him that emitted a sense of calmness.

A moment of silence passed between them before Astarion finally spoke up again.

"So what now? Are we having a psychic reading? Should I start handing over my palm and tea leaves for you to predict my future?"

"I do not need a crystal ball to see your future... for it is already written in the stars."

Astarion raised an eyebrow. "The stars?"

G'axir's smile widened. "All things, including yourself... are interwoven within the fabric of the celestial bodies... that have perennially molded the contours of our destinies."

Astarion rolled his eyes, not wanting to entertain the idea that his fate was predetermined by some cosmic forces. "You're telling me that my entire life has been planned out for me?" he scoffed.

G'axir shook his head gently. "Your will remains untethered, and the ability to sculpt your own fate lies within your grasp... The stars merely cast their luminous gaze, imparting guidance... and revealing glimpses of the myriad possibilities that unfold before you."

Astarion mulled over G'axir's words, unsure of whether he believed in them or not. However, he couldn't deny the feeling of intrigue and curiosity that continued to grow within him.

"Let's say I entertain this absurd idea for a moment," Astarion said skeptically. "What do the stars have to say about my bright, shining future?"

"Lay down... Let the whispers of the universe... respond to the questions lingering... in the silence of the night."

Astarion hesitated for a moment before laying down on the ground, looking up at the sky above, where the stars seemed to be laughing at him.

"Shut your eyes and... attune your senses... to the rhythmic cadence of your breath," G'axir instructed, his voice calm and soothing.

Astarion did as he was told, taking deep breaths and attempting to clear his mind. He could hear G'axir's soft chanting in the background, lulling him into a state of relaxation.

As he focused on his breathing, he could feel his body levitating, as if he were leaving this reality. When Astarion opened his eyes again, he found himself floating in the vast expanse of darkness and stars. Panic gripped his chest as he struggled to understand what was happening.

"What is this? Where am I?" Astarion yelled, his voice echoing into the void.

"You are in the realm between consciousness and the stars," G'axir's voice answered calmly.

Astarion turned around and saw G'axir floating next to him. He was still chanting softly, his eyes closed in concentration.

"This is impossible!" Astarion exclaimed, feeling a mix of fear and awe.

Astarion looked around, taking in the breathtaking sight of millions of stars twinkling in the void. He couldn't believe that he was actually flying among them.

"Is this real or just an illusion?" he asked, still not fully trusting G'axir's words.

"It is as real as you want it to be," G'axir replied cryptically.

G'axir's chanting grew louder as he reached out and took Astarion's hand. "There are cities below cities, dreams beneath dreams, the present laying buried beneath the crushing weight of the future... let me show you..."

As their surroundings blurred and twisted, the sky seemed to distort itself and reveal...the Elfsong tavern?

The image of the place had a hazy quality, as if they were viewing it through a smudged window.

"What are we doing here?" Astarion asked, but when he turned to see G'axir, the man was gone.

He was in the middle of the place, so familiar after the many days and nights spent here with his companions. The sound of merry chatter and clinking glasses filled the air, along with the tantalizing aroma of hearty meals being cooked. Astarion stood in the middle of the bar, his heart pounding with confusion and fear.

G'axir's words echoed in his mind... "the present lying buried beneath the crushing weight of the future." Was this a glimpse of the future? Of the present? Or maybe just an illusion?

If this was a glimpse into the present, then his companions had to be... Astarion's heart raced as he quickly climbed the stairs to the grand bedroom where they had been living for the past few weeks. When he reached the top, he burst into the room.Astarion could see his companions huddled together in a corner, but they showed no signs of seeing or hearing him. As he observed them, an overwhelming sense of dread filled his stomach. Familiar faces surrounded him: Halsin, Gale, Wyll, Yaheira, and Lae'zel. They stood in a circle, their expressions serious as they whispered amongst themselves. But one person was missing - Tav. He tried to call out to them, but his voice was nonexistent. It slowly dawned on him that he wasn't actually present in this moment, at least not physically. His spirit had been transported to this place, a mere observer in a realm beyond the physical world.

Suddenly, he spotted a figure huddled separately from the group. His heart rattled in his ribcage as he realized. "Tav?"

Her hair fell like a curtain around her face, obscuring what he could see of her expression. But it was unmistakable - the once fiery and headstrong leader was now slumped onto the cold ground, whimpering into her hands. Underneath a velvet curtain in a darkened corner of the room, she sat, knees drawn up to her chest, tears streaming down her face. Next to her Shadowheart was attempting to offer consolation through soft words.

Even though Astarion couldn't hear what she whispered to Tav, he saw her hand reach out to comfort the devastated woman. But Tav recoiled from her touch like it was a burning ember.

"Maybe if I had done it he wouldn't have left," Tav was whispering between sobs.

"You know that would have killed him on the long run! We did what had to be done to protect him and you know it."

"No, no..." he muttered, "this can't be..."

Astarion felt his own heart shatter at the sight. He took a step towards them but stopped himself, remembering the impossibility of the situation. He couldn't touch her, couldn't comfort her.

"Do you think he meant it?" Tav said, suddenly.

"What do you mean?"

"That he hopes I die screaming." Tav's voice cracked as tears threatened to spill from her eyes once again.

Shadowheart's surprised eyes met hers. "He didn't mean it, Tav... You know how Astarion gets when he's upset."

But Tav shook her head, her face drained of color and desperation evident in her tone. "He meant every word," she whispered, barely audible. "I could see it in his eyes." After a shaky breath, she added with a hint of resignation, "And part of me wishes I would too."

Each word she spoke felt like a physical blow, causing Astarion's chest to tighten and his heart to ache. He watched helplessly as her voice cracked with resignation, her head dropping onto his shirt in defeat. His shirt. Shit.

"No, please..." he pleaded. But it was too late, the damage had been done.

Astarion's heart ached at her words, but he couldn't deny the truth in them. He had said some unforgivable things to Tav in the heat of the moment, fueled by anger and hurt. Deep down, a part of him had wished for her to suffer just as he was suffering. But seeing her like this, broken and in pain, made him realize the gravity of his actions. He never wanted for her to actually die. Hells, he was so deeply in love with her that the mere thought of anything happening to her was unbearable.

He took a step closer, wanting to comfort her somehow. But he was trapped in this surreal vision, unable to reach out and mend the shattered pieces of their relationship.

Slowly, the vision began to fade, the colors blurring into the darkness. Astarion felt himself growing lighter, pulled back from the vision.

"No, wait! Tav!"

The Elfsong tavern phased out and he was back in the expanse of starry darkness. His heart pounded in his chest as he processed what he had just witnessed. He wanted to go back, to somehow fix the damage he had caused.

Suddenly, a figure appeared before him in a flash of light. It was G'axir.

"You," Astarion growled as he stepped forward aggressively, "What have you done? Bring me back!"

G'axir held up a hand placatingly. "You have glimpsed... into the unfolding tapestry of the now" G'axir stated cryptically "Behold... now your vision shall traverse the myriad paths of potential futures."

Next chapter ->

[enkvyu]

5:22pm — gojo satoru ;

there's a kind of urgency in your steps that parts the crowd of onlooking guests, and they split in half to avoid the trailing hot path you leave in your wake. cold, hard shock twists your stomach and wrings it out, heaving about the wine and finger foods you had consumed when you were still ignorant.

the clicking of your heels echos in the silent ballroom, the bottom of your gown sweeping up the marble floors and the frantic clacks only enhances your horror. if only someone could talk and shatter the silence so you no longer had to be suffocated in your own traitorous thoughts, if only someone could laugh away the situation, though you're sure you'll forever see this scene illuminated on the back of your eyelids for weeks to come.

"let the celebrations resume," a voice answers your prayers, but it is the person who says it that causes you to clamp a hand over your mouth.

even now, you can hear the beginning whispers of small talk and chatter, gossip spreading through the lavish room. it trails after you like a pungent smell, and you're certain the morning news tomorrow will have your name lined in big, bold letters on its front page.

footsteps chase after you, and you curse your gown for slowing your pace. it's inevitable that he catches up to you, just as you exit the grand hall into the balcony, and his hand closes around your arm, pulling you back.

loose strands of your hair whips across your face as you're forced to turn to your pursuer. "gojo." you swallow hard as the foreign syllables leave your mouth. "what do you want?"

the crown prince has grown over the last few years, you think. there's an aura of arrogance he lacked when he was younger, a certainty that straightens his back and the kind of confidence that allows him to chase an older lover out into the night.

gojo's eyes are haunted when he looks at you, really looks at the person you've become in his absence. the hand holding your arm trembles and falls. "why aren't you happy to see me?"

you bark out a cruel laugh. out of all the things he could ever say to you, after the raw anguish that you've never been able to express, after all the silent midnights, interlocked hands pressed tight together praying to the moon that his death was all a big, cruel joke, that was all he could say?

"do you seriously believe i would feel happy seeing you, after all this time?" it's hilarious, and you don't hesitate to let your laugh show it.

"all i could think about was you." he confesses but it's too late, years far too late.

"why didn't you tell me?" you ask instead. "did you think i could see you again and forgive you? on the spot, after leaving me in the dark for so long?"

gojo is still frowning, and you hate that he can't ever see the errors of his ways. perhaps that was the single thing that remained the same. "i couldn't put you in that kind of danger."

"gojo, i thought you were dead!" you finally explode, and the relief it feels to finally tell someone overwhelms you. you choke on the raw emotion, balling your hands by your side. "you still are to me. what did you think i would feel? i finally, finally, got over you, i finally accepted that you were gone and now you're back? now, of all times? i was going to get married, gojo! i was going to have a family, and kids, and finally live my life again. why did you have to show up?"

"your husband is a gambling addict." he says drily. "i wasn't going to let you marry some bastard like him."

"well, thanks." you say, voice flat. typical of him to only hear what he wants to hear, what he can find a response to. "thanks, gojo, is that what you want me to say?"

gojo clenches his jaw and when he grabs a hold of you again, it hurts a whole lot more. "listen to me, i didn't have a choice."

and again, you shake it off. "fuck you, gojo."

"i came back as soon as i could. i prepared all of this for you!" his voice raises and raises, and it's such a contrast to the sweet nothings he'd whisper in your ear when you were only two secret lovers hiding in the stables. “you were the only thing that kept me going and this is what you have to say now that i’m back?”

"and i would throw it all away if it would mean you had told me you were still alive."

"i didn't have a choice." he says again. "if i did you know i would have come back for you."

"do i know that?" the wind picks up and you shiver. "i waited for you. for months i thought this was just another scheme. you would find your way back to me again, because you always did. you always survived, no matter what."

"i did survive."

"but i didn't know, gojo, don't you see?" was it really so hard to understand? had it ever been so hard to convey your feelings to him like it was now, two strangers seeing a different image before them?

there's a creeping sense of foreboding that starts in your stomach and overcomes your mind, a sense that things will never be the same again. even if you were to meticulously piece back a broken faith, even if you were to abandon all sense and throw yourself into a deceitful love, the memories you crave will never be re-experienced, you will never know the pure love of gojo again.

too much has changed.

you shiver and it isn't the cold that shakes you.

gojo takes off his coat at the sight, throwing it over your shoulders and holding it tight in front of your throat. once, your heart might have leapt out at the warm gesture, but now it feels like a noose around your neck.

"i don't need your coat." you say, past all the memories. "what would your wife think?"

gojo groans, brushing back his hair as the wind rustles it in front of his eyes. "is that what it is? me being married?"

you flare up and the cold no longer seems an issue. "of course not! god, gojo, you would be the only one who would think as shallowly as that. you were dead! i saw your corpse tonight at the ball and you have me to believe that all my tears, all those sleepless nights, was because i was jealous?"

gojo breaks away, exhaling deeply. he shoves his hand into his pant pocket and shakes his head. "sorry. i just, you didn't seem happy to see me."

"you sound like a broken record." you remark. with his hands away from the coat, the sleeves flap away in the wind and it's less suffocating, but also less warm.

“i came back for you tonight.”

you were already shaking your head before the last of his words leaves his mouth. “it’s too late.”

“you don’t get to tell me that.” he growls and it’s the second time in one night that he has shown you this feral, aggressive side. “i won’t let you let me go.”

you want to cry. how long had you wanted, needed even, to hear those words? words you were sure would heal the wounds of your heart, words that would fix the world as you know it and lunge you back into the joy of past memories.

those memories are dead now, a part of you whispers, mockingly. you can’t seriously trust him again. can’t you see how he’s aged into a person you no longer know?

you curl your fingers into your dress and pierce your thigh through the fabric. “why did you chase after me?”

maybe gojo senses his chance because he answers the question without another thought. “i needed to talk to you. i needed to see you again and have you see me back.”

“well, we’re both here now. don’t miss your chance.”

gojo takes a step forward. "i'm here to tell you i'm alive. that i've been alive for the past ten years."

"i know."

"and that i'm the crown prince now."

"i know."

"i'm also married now."

"god, you're really bad at apologies." you sniffle, taking a hold of the coat and pulling it tighter. it's because the wind was getting to you, you reason. "but, i know."

"do you, do you have someone you like?" gojo coughs out, feigning indifference. your jaw drops at the topic of conversation.

"gojo, i haven't even forgiven you yet."

"i just wanted to know! the man you were meant to marry tonight, do you...?"

"no."

"okay." gojo says, and exhales. "okay."

"is that everything?" you ask, and you painfully wish that it isn't. you want him to chase after you, to hold onto your hand and keep you there by his side, to want you again. because god knows all you've ever wanted was him.

gojo raises his head at your words, searching your eyes for permission. there's a hard tint to his face you don't recognise and the blue you've once called your sanctuary is duller, lacking light. an aged scar runs across his neck, and a shoot of bitterness surges through you as you realise it had healed in the time that he was without you.

still, you let him take a step closer. closer, you can see everything that has changed at the hand of time. it makes his unfamiliar, different, your old lover wearing a stranger's skin, but it's still the gojo you know.

you have to believe that.

so when he reaches up to caress your cheek, running a thumb over a falling tear, you subdue the shiver that runs its course through you.

you bite your lip and it draws blood. gojo sees it, tracks it with his eyes and even when your tongue has swiped across and licked it away, his gaze still lingers.

"i really did miss you." he whispers and you feel his breath against your wet lips. "you were all i could think about."

"me too." you confess and his eyes flicker up to yours.

"does that mean you forgive me?" and though he smiles, there's a nervous quirk to it that you're sure only you would recognise. this was a side of him that only you saw, only you were allowed to bask in.

"what about your wife?"

"i'll divorce her. i was already planning to, we never married out of love. you know you're the only one for me."

“i know.” you lie. what did you even know about him?

“i love you.” he says and you nod, not trusting your voice to answer. “god, i love you so much.”

when he dips to capture your lips in a sweet kiss, you fight the urge to push him away when he no longer taste like how you remember.

i know you guys want that part two of the gojo imagine but listen to me, 2.5k is a lot to edit when there are tears in your eyes from chem 😮‍💨 i promise i'm not ignoring you guys i js have a lot of studying to do so !! i wrote this quick thing as a filler

[ekuudarlin]

♥︎ 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭: 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐲/𝐧 𝐬𝐚𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠: “𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐬𝐨 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐦𝐞. 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐡𝐮𝐫𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐝 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞. 𝐀𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐥𝐥, 𝐦𝐲 𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮.”

♥︎ 𝐓𝐲𝐩𝐞: reaction

♥︎ 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬, 𝐨𝐛𝐯𝐢 𝐨𝐛𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐥𝐮𝐬𝐭, 𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐚𝐜𝐲 𝐢𝐧𝐯𝐚𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬, 𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐤 𝐨𝐟 𝐩𝐡𝐲𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐦

♥︎ 𝐒𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐫: 𝐈’𝐦 𝐡𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐫𝐲—𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭’𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐥

You uttering those words from your pretty lips give him pause. “A-Angel?” he stammers, pulling away from your neck where he had been pressing open mouth kisses prior. He’s staring at you in disbelief, eyes wide like a dear caught in headlights. An all too familiar heat crawls up his chest and setting on cheeks.

Did he hear that right? God, let him have heard you right. Let it not be another daydream playing tricks on him. The words flow too sweetly to only be his imagination. Would he be so cruel to himself to imagine you saying those very words? Yes, he would. He already went so far as to imagine a whole life with you, not much difference in that.

“C-Can you repeat that?” He’s seeking confirmation. His arctic eyes hold a growing intensity that rivals the heat of the blush splashed over his fair cheeks. When you repeat yourself, it’s not at all as confident as the first time—the embarrassment was settling in.

Ren didn’t really feel the same. He was swooning inside despite it not showing on shocked expression yet. His heart felt like it was going to combust in his chest with how over the moon he felt. One blink, his facial expression changes to one you haven’t really seen on him. He’s squinting down at you, a impish twinkle in his eyes and a grin slowly etches onto his face.

You really are an angel—you had to have heard his prayers. You’re giving him what he always wanted—with no restraints. Ren’s trembling as he’s still attempting to hold himself back; it’s too soon for him to drop all his future plans on you right now. So many plans—

“You make me so happy, baby,” he coos, lowering himself to your face. Being this close, you swear you can see hearts in his eyes, “But don’t you worry! I’ll make you feel so much, promise!”

For a fleeting moment—your words fail to capture his attention. Lost in the enchanting image of you, partially naked beneath him, he only snaps back to the conversation when your demeanor shifts to shyness, making him realize he missed a part of what was said.

"Are you okay, rosebud?" he murmurs sweetly, gently tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, placing your well-being above his own needs for the moment. In response, you repeat yourself hastily, your voice resembling a squeak, akin to a mouse caught in a trap.

Truly, there wasn’t a more accurate description. You’re trapped in Damon’s arms, and he gazes at you as if you’re the most exquisite meal he’s ever encountered. Your words shatter the composure he usually maintains for your safety—a concern he takes seriously.

Dealing with this unhealthy, secret obsession for you is difficult on its own—something he constantly has to control, particularly in moments like these to not scare you away. Now, you're indicating that he doesn't need to hold back, but you're unaware of just how misguided that suggestion is for him.

It would be a lie if he claimed not to have dreamed of you uttering similar words, and on those occasions, he seizes the opportunity. In dreams, you're less fragile and more aware of who he truly is. Oh, his poor rosebud.

A desire-filled growl rumbles deep in his chest, and he accompanies it with one of his signature toothy grins. "Careful with your words, love... you're sparking all sorts of ideas in me."

John felt as though he wasn't truly present with you; instead, he felt himself drifting above, observing the interaction unfold like a scene from a romcom he had grown fond of watching. It was during those moments that you were at your most physical.

Though this time isn't much different, your words struck a chord as they flowed from your lips like sweet nectar. He couldn't recall a time when you had ever spoken so provocatively, and he remembers every detail about you...

Things you couldn't bring yourself to confess even to God, that often weighed heavily on your conscience, shrouded in shame. Yet, your web history left a trail of breadcrumbs that John consumed with an unhealthy fervor, imitating them solely for your sake. He was willing to do anything for you.

He's come a long way, enduring every bad end repeatedly so that you could ultimately end up like this, nestled comfortably in his arms, exchanging sweet nothings that meant the world to him and more.

Weakness overcomes him as his focus returns, his eyes filled with adoration fixed on you. There's nothing he can do but express it. "Me too!" he exclaims, his smile resembling a chester's cat, strands of hair cascading across his face. "You can be rough, I'm yours!"

John leans in, planting kisses on your face repeatedly, murmuring, "Forever and ever and ever," before trailing to your neck.

Alan is in the process of burying his face into your clothed stomach when you speak those magic words. A shiver, filled with anticipation and excitement, dances down his spine—naughty and sinful. He pauses, stuck in a trance as he replays the words in his head.

Do you have any idea what you do to him—truly? As if his heightened senses of smell, touch, and even taste weren't sufficient, you further bless him with your teasing words. He silently thanks whoever is out there that he's currently spooning you, or else he would collapse from weakened knees.

He remains silent for a moment longer than expected, leading you to believe he didn't hear you. But he did—he's simply grappling with the shock and contemplating how to translate those words into action. He's thought about it before, of course he has.

Perhaps not to cause physical harm, but to assert his control, guiding you into every imaginable position within minutes, leaving you placid and breathless, entirely for his pleasure.

Alan looks up at you, a feral intensity gleaming in his eyes. You can almost envision him casting heart eyes your way, his gaze a perfect blend of adoration and want. “Mine to do what I want.” He says it more as a promise—a statement more than anything else.

Any ordinary person might raise an eyebrow at your preference for pain, but Jack smiles, perhaps even blushes. He feels honored, particularly by your declaration of love. He belongs to you as well—he's uncertain how many times he needs to affirm it, but he will, without hesitation.

Under no circumstances will he physically harm you—he doesn’t even enjoy choking you, despite your preference for it. The most he'll do is leave painful and long-lasting hickeys on your body or handle you into position a bit roughly. Anything beyond that is off the table. He's a big guy, and hurting you is the furthest thing from his mind.

He’s too preoccupied with making you happy. His little ray of sunshine, the reason he doesn’t linger on the past is because the present with you is so fulfilling. Waking up beside you gives him a sense of happiness and purpose.

Even if that purpose is to consume you whole—sinfully.

He chuckles softly, his eyelids drooping to a dangerously seductive degree, sending a jolt through your core. "I could never harm you," he murmurs, practically purring as he draws you in closer. "You're my sunshine," he says, as though it’s the most obvious truth. And indeed, to him, it is.

"But I'm more than willing to make you cry out in pleasure."

It was difficult for you to even utter the words with his tongue shoved down your throat. You could say he really ate it up—both literally and figuratively. When he finally pulled away to allow you to catch your breath, he was grinning so wide, your cheeks ached just from looking at him.

Peter is thrilled. He knows deep down he's a bit of a freak—the only person unaware of this between the two of you is you. Maybe later after he folds you like a pretzel you'll realize mentioning something like this wasn't the best idea, but for now, he's thrilled. Your confession, or rather demand, came much sooner than he anticipated though. Shocked him just a little.

Originally, he planned to discuss introducing new elements into the bedroom, but this turn of events suits him perfectly. However, he knows he needs to take things slow, even though his mind is already racing ahead, imagining how he wants you to end up—preferably begging. But he's a very patient man.

“You’re so fucking cute… You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for those words.” He murmurs low, slowly trailing kisses down your body with a steady grip on both your thighs.

[diejager]

I love your writings so much, I just can't get enough of it!

In Fantasy, where reader was transported into Simon's world, and left pregnant, what if their child got into the same accident as reader and fell into a broken portal that sent the kid to Simon's world, and discovered the truth, placing piece by piece together and found out how they were made. The kid having a hard time choosing between his mom or dad, your choice on what happens when he chooses one of them, or the both of them.

I just can't get enough! You write stuff that's better than any I've ever read before!

I… I’ve been meaning to post Fantasy pt2, but I’m not super proud of it so I’ve been stalling a lot..

Cw: DARKFIC, DUB-CON/NON-CON, past rape, forced pregnancy, kidnapping, locked away, isolation, tell me if I missed any.

They thought it was only a rumour, a little tale spun by people to explain their birth. You - their caring and loving mother - had always sang about them being a miracle, a gift that the universe had given you. It made them feel better, made them feel loved and graced, but there was always a growing curiosity, a nagging feeling that grew by every passing year. You always called them “my little miracle” and they never grew out of it, loving the soft lull of your voice and the affectionate tone you used. 

You named them Gwyneth, Tracer had given you the idea, but they often went with Gwyn, a shorter and easier name to say. Gwyn knew you loved them, adored them to the moon despite your busy schedule and life while fighting against Talon and Null Sector, but they’d seen the melancholic stare you gave them when you thought they weren’t looking at you, a sad and despondent gaze. It served to fuel Gwyn’s curiosity, driving them further and further down a hole of mystery and unanswered questions that they just knew you wouldn’t answer. Your pained grimace and slight tremble told them much, the strong and dependable mother that loved them shrinking into themselves and shuddering. It hurt them to see you like that.

That gear malfunction seemed to have sent them elsewhere, away from home and away from you, thrusted into a strange world and lost in the unknown. They were somewhere in England, some place in Manchester from what the maps they found told them, sharing the same street names and landmarks as the Manchester they visited in their world. Yet somehow, somehow, they found a man so familiar with them - suspiciously so - who had frantically asked hundreds of questions about you. 

There was a certain familiarity in the man, but they were apprehensive about how desperate he was, spewing information about himself and your time with him. He’d convinced them enough to make a trip to a military base to have his DNA taken, tested and matched, and Gwyn was… was shocked, they didn’t know if they were simply surprised or terrified. 

If this man - their father - who presented himself as Simon Riley, a dead man, said the truth about how he loved you and cared for you. The stories he shared about your relationship, from the days where he met you at the cafe you worked, your bright and bubbly smile lighting his days, to the lovesick gleam when he continued on to the nights at the bar, drinking and laughing. It sounded all so embellished, prettily drawn to stifle any suspicion from Gwyn, but if Simon was telling the truth, why were you so afraid of telling them who their father was, the way you met him or the time spent by his side?

Perhaps the truth was better left unsaid, left to collect dust and forget, but they had never been one to give up on something, Gwyn was a being of perseverance and curiosity, much like a cat. Maybe it would have saved them the heartache and trauma to uncover something as dark as the locked basement in Simon’s house. Gwyn couldn’t have known, they couldn’t, they simply followed their intuition and everything that Simon had strung up cracked, shattered and fell apart.

It was an… easy decision to make, to leave a broken man who had nearly broken their mother out of desperation and obsessive love, a deep-seated corruption of his being that scared them. Gwyn wanted to return home and embrace you, wrap their arms around your shoulder and sob out their horrible discovery, to apologise for something they hadn’t done but had been the result of. If only Gwyn could find a way back.

[hyperactively-me]

Joooo got a new angst request for king!Simon 🤭🤭

Could you write a story where he has a nightmare about losing the reader with smut and an happy ending 🧎🏽‍♀️

sorry, there’s no smut in this one, i got carried away with the emotions and just felt like smut felt out of place here, forgive me warnings: nightmares, descriptions of death/mild gore

The moon cast a silvery glow over the kingdom as you both lay in bed, still recovering from the wound inflicted upon you by an enemy spy. It has been a few weeks since the attack, and you were recovering quite well, as the doctor’s had been saying. Yes, you were still weakened, but you were coming back stronger than expected. Your strength and resilience had not wavered over the past couple weeks Simon stood by your side through the long nights, his concern etched deep into his eyes.

One particular night, as the castle slept under the watchful eyes of the guards, Simon’s restless mind dragged him into a bloodcurdling nightmare. 

He watched helplessly as the spy plunged their blade straight through your heart, a fatal blow, the blade piercing through your skin like paper. The spy, face shrouded in darkness, withdrew the blood-stained blade, and Simon's heart shattered. He tried to scream, yell, do anything, but he was stuck in place. Your eyes met Simon’s, a silent plea for help pouring from your irises. Yet, he remained paralyzed, unable to shield you, unable to reach for you, unable to save you. He watched helplessly as you crumbled to the ground, streams of your scarlet blood seeping out from under you. 

“Simon,” you croak, hands shaking. “Simon.”

Simon tries to move again, limbs stuck in place, forcing him to watch the tragedy unfolding before him. He strains against the invisible chains that held him, a silent scream building within his throat. The realization that he was unable to save you, to respond to your pleas, shattered his very soul.

“Simon,” you called again, the sound hauntingly familiar and heartbreakingly distant.

With a final surge of power, he screams your name. 

“Simon!” 

He awakes with a gasp, eyes wrenching open as he flings himself off the bed in one fluid motion. 

You shriek as he launches himself out of bed, the room suddenly filled with disorienting shadows. Simon’s chest heaves with the remnants of fear, and he stumbles for a moment, still caught between the nightmare and reality. The echo of your shriek, a terrified response to his sudden movement, rings throughout the room.

Breathing heavily, Simon frantically scans the chamber, desperately seeking reassurance that you are safe. His eyes find you, sitting up in bed, wide-eyed and startled. The soft moonlight paints a silver sheen over your features, illuminating the fear and concern in your eyes. 

“Simon, what happened?” you ask, voice cracking slightly. “You were screaming, and I was trying to wake you up, but you…” 

Simon blinks rapidly, the last remnants of the nightmare slowly dissipating as he takes in your shared bedroom. He notes the way the windows are securely locked, how he can see the shadows of the guards standing outside under the door, and how his sword and knife lay adjacent to his bedside table. The echo of your voice pierces through his lingering fear, and he turns towards you, relief and remorse etched on his face.

"I... I had a nightmare," Simon manages to say, his voice raw with the remnants of fear. He moves towards you, needing to physically confirm that you are unharmed. His hands tremble, and the urgency in his touch betrays the lingering fear in his mind.

You allow his fingers to interlock with yours, providing a grounding presence. The moonlight illuminates the concern in your eyes as you study Simon’s face, automatically understanding the cause of the nightmare. “It’s alright, Simon. You’re here with me, and I’m fine,” you say soothingly, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze.

Simon exhales a shaky breath, his shoulders slumping slightly as the adrenaline wears off. “I saw... I saw you die, and I couldn’t do anything. It felt so real,” he confesses, vulnerability pooling in his eyes.

You, understanding the weight of his distress, wrap your arms around him, beckoning him to come back into the bed. “It was just a dream. I’m here, I’m safe. You keep me safe, the guards keep me safe,” you reassure him, the warmth of your touch gradually grounding him. “We’re both safe.” 

Simon allows himself to be guided back to the bed, sinking into your embrace. Your arms envelop him in a reassuring hug, and he leans into your warmth, pressing his face into your neck. Simon clings to you, biceps squeezing you in a crushing hug. 

“I know it was just a dream, but it felt so real… I couldn’t protect you,” Simon admits, his voice still carrying the pain of the nightmare.

You stroke his hair gently, soothingly. “Simon, you’ve been my protector through thick and thin. This nightmare can’t change that.”

He nods, finding comfort in your words. “I just hate the thought of losing you. It terrifies the fuckin’ life out of me.”

You don’t say anything, tracing reassuring circles on his back.

Simon takes a deep breath, inhaling the scent of you. “I can’t lose you,” he whispers, weakness and love intermingling in his eyes.

“I'm not going anywhere, Simon. We have each other, and that's something no nightmare can take away,” you assure him, scratching his bare back with the tips of your fingernails. He shudders under your touch, snuggling deeper into you. 

Simon’s breaths begin to steady, and he releases a sigh that seems to carry the weight of his fears. 

“‘M sorry I scared you, didn’t mean to,” he grunts into your shoulder, fingers pressing into your plush skin. “Just was startled when I woke up.” 

“It’s okay,” you say, holding him tighter. 

Simon nods, his grip on you gradually relaxing. He lifts his head from your shoulder, looking into your eyes, his expression one of gratitude and lingering unease.

“I love you,” he whispers, his voice a soft murmur. You cup his face in your hands, stroking a scar on his cheek with your thumb. 

“I love you too, Simon. More than anything,” you reply, a gentle smile gracing your lips. 

He leans forward and kisses you softly, gently nipping your bottom lip. As you break the kiss, Simon rests his forehead against yours. “I’m lucky to have you,” he whispers, sincerity threading through his words.

“And I’m lucky to have you,” you respond, your fingers tracing the contours of his face.

You both settle back into the bed, finding a comfortable position amongst the pillows and covers. Simon wraps his arm around you, drawing you close into him, making sure to not disturb your wounded side. You both find a comfortable position, limbs entwined and hearts beating in sync. He doesn’t let go of you the whole night. 

- - - - -

(masterlist)

[musicforastylesrestaurant]

A Love Beyond Time.

fictober masterlist || ask me anything <3

authors note - this one is my personal favourite hence why i saved it for last, this is heavily tvd inspired so enjoy!

word count - 19.5k (core blimey…🫣)

in which, in 1864, a serene town was the canvas for your budding love story, as you joyfully prepared for a life together with your beloved husband. However, the tranquility shattered in one heart-wrenching moment during an unexpected town assault. Witnessing your husbands lifeless body crumple to the ground, your world came crashing down, forever altering the course of your existence. You were left haunted by that fateful day, struggling to piece together a life in the aftermath of the tragedy, while whispers of a supernatural twist and the possibility of a reunion with your once-lost love lingered on the edges of your consciousness, marking the passage of years and bringing an enigmatic undercurrent to your existence.

trigger warnings: vampires, mentions of death, blood, and panic attacks, and lots of flashbacks.

trope: vampire!harry

The year was 1864.

You were running through a dense forest, heart pounding with fear and determination. The moon casts an eerie glow, illuminating the path ahead as you desperately seek your husband.

The events that led you here began when your peaceful town of Holmes Chapel came under attack during the night. A sudden intrusion into your shared bedroom left you in shock as masked assailants dragged your husband away to defend the town.

With your lantern held tightly, you forge ahead, leaves crunching beneath your boots. The forest whispers with the secrets of the night, but your thoughts are solely on your husband's safety. The echoes of distant gunshots pierce the air, driving you to move faster.

Time blurs as you push deeper into the woods, clutching the locket he gave you on your wedding day. It's a beacon of hope in the darkness, a reminder of the love that propels you forward. Branches claw at your dress as if trying to halt your progress, but you press on.

The forest seems to come alive with eerie sounds, but you remain undeterred. Your mind races with memories of your life together. You recall the way he looked when he first kissed you, promising to always protect you. Now it's your turn to protect him.

The adrenaline was coursing through your veins is your only guiding light. The eerie shadows cast by moonlight make it difficult to see, and your heart is pounding with the urgency of finding your husband. With each step, you feel your breath quicken and the weight of worry pressing upon you.

Amidst the chaos of your pursuit, your foot suddenly catches on a hidden rock. Time slows for an instant as you stumble forward, unable to maintain your balance. You crash to the ground with a sharp gasp, and the pain in your knee shoots through your body like a lightning bolt.

The forest floor is unforgiving, and you scramble to your knees, wincing in pain. A searing sensation courses through your leg as you assess the damage. Moonlight reveals the crimson stain of your blood on your torn dress, a stark reminder of your fall. Your trembling fingers press against the wounded knee, and you hiss in pain.

Seated on the forest floor, the pain in your injured knee sends sharp jolts of agony through your body. The wound on your leg continues to bleed, a painful reminder of your fall. Breathing heavily, you clench your teeth to stifle the pain, still fixated on the task at hand—finding your husband.

In the oppressive silence of the night, a gunshot shatters the stillness, echoing through the trees.

Your head snaps in the direction of the sound, dread seizing your heart.

The forest seems to hold its breath, and in the pale moonlight, you catch a nightmarish glimpse of your husband's body falling to the ground in the distance.

Time itself seems to freeze as you watch in disbelief. Your heart, already heavy with fear and worry, now carries the unbearable weight of witnessing his lifeless form crumple to the forest floor.

A haunting numbness washes over you, and you can't believe what your eyes have just witnessed.

Your husband's stillness in the moonlight is a stark contrast to the vibrant and caring man you know.

He lies motionless, and you can't tear your eyes away from him. The forest, which once felt full of life, now feels like a desolate and eerie place, bearing witness to a tragedy.

Shock paralyzes you, keeping you rooted to the ground where you sit, knees trembling. The wound on your leg goes unnoticed as your mind grapples with the devastating reality that has unfolded before you.

Every moment feels like an eternity as you struggle to accept what you've seen, unable to comprehend the loss that has befallen you.

Tears well up in your eyes, but you can't bring yourself to move. Your mind races, emotions tangled in a web of grief and disbelief. The forest becomes a haunting backdrop to the pain that now consumes you, as you continue to stare in anguished shock at the lifeless body of the man you love.

As if jolted awake by a cruel nightmare, you suddenly snap out of your daze. The image of your husband's lifeless body lingers in your mind, but there's an urgency now, an unrelenting force pushing you to your feet. Ignoring the searing pain in your wounded knee, you rise unsteadily and turn away from the devastating scene.

Determination courses through you, propelling you forward into the heart of the forest. Every step, though painful, is infused with purpose. The leaves underfoot crunch with a mournful sound, like the breaking of your heart, while twigs snap like the fragile threads of your resolve.

Moonlight filters through the dense canopy, casting ghostly, dancing shadows that accompany you on your desperate journey. The night is filled with the symphony of the forest - the hushed whispers of the wind, the distant calls of nocturnal creatures, and your own labored breaths.

You press on, driven by the need to understand what happened and to seek justice for your husband. The forest, once a place of serene beauty, has transformed into an ominous labyrinth of uncertainty. Each rustle in the underbrush keeps you on edge, as the sounds of the night seem to conspire against you.

Branches reach out to snatch at your dress, as if attempting to hold you back, but your determination allows no interference. The path you follow is shrouded in darkness, with only the faintest hint of the trail your husband might have taken. Your heart beats like a drum, echoing the urgency of your quest.

The forest around you is now a battleground, the cacophony of gunshots and cries of conflict growing louder as you approach your husband's lifeless form.

You cast aside the fear and pain, crouching down beside him, your hands trembling as they reach out to touch his still-warm cheek.

"H, it's me," you whisper, tears streaming down your face.

"I'm here, love. Everything's going to be okay. Help is coming. You'll be fine." Your voice wavers, but you try to sound strong for him, to provide him with the reassurance he needs.

His breaths are shallow, his eyes half-lidded, but they flicker open as he hears your voice. He manages a faint smile, bloodstained lips trembling as he reaches for your hand. His wedding band rubs against your fingers, a testament to the love you share, and it's a stark reminder of what's at stake.

"I love ‘ye," he rasps, the words barely audible over the chaos that surrounds you. His grip on your hand tightens, and you feel the fleeting warmth of his touch.

Your heart aches with love and grief as you squeeze his hand in response, your voice choked with emotion.

Tears blur your vision, but you lean in closer, desperate to make the most of the precious moments you have left together.

"I love you too, baby. More than anything in this world. We'll get through this together. Just hold on a little longer." Your voice trembles as you speak, your forehead touching his, a gesture of love and connection in this dire moment.

Around you, the battle rages on, but in this fragile bubble of time, it's just you and him. You whisper soothing words, your fingers tracing his cheek, brushing away blood-soaked hair from his forehead.

The forest, once a place of tranquillity, is now the setting of your heart-wrenching farewell.

Harry's breathing becomes more laboured, and his eyes lose focus, but he clings to your hand as if it were his lifeline. He musters a smile, his love and strength shining through even in the face of death.

You can see it in his eyes, in the way he gazes at you, that he's saying goodbye.

With trembling lips, you press a gentle kiss to his forehead.

"You're my everything, Harry. I'll carry you with me always." Your words are tender, a declaration of love and a promise to cherish his memory.

His last breath escapes him, and his hand slowly falls from yours. Your world crumbles in that moment, and you're left alone with the lifeless body of the man you love, in a forest transformed by tragedy.

The forest, once echoing with the sounds of battle, falls silent as you let out a heart-wrenching scream of heartbreak. It's a primal, agonising sound that pierces the night, a cry of loss and despair. Your voice carries your pain to the heavens, but it's met with a cold, uncaring silence.

Tears flow uncontrollably as you lay your head on your husband's motionless torso. His body is still warm, but there's no life left in it. You can feel the rise and fall of his chest no more, and the reality of his absence bears down on you like a crushing weight.

Sobs wrack your body as you clutch his lifeless form, fingers tangled in his blood-stained shirt. The forest watches in mournful silence, the moonlight casting eerie shadows upon your anguished figure.

You sit alone in your dimly lit bedroom, the only source of light being the faint glow of the moon seeping through the curtains. Your eyes are fixed on the calendar hanging on the wall, its pages marked with the passage of time. It’s getting closer and closer to what would have been your husband's birthday, a day that used to be filled with joy and celebration, but now it's a painful reminder of what was lost.

As you trace your fingers over the date, your mind drifts back to that fateful day, fourteen months after your wedding.

Tears well up in your eyes as you remember his warm smile and the touch of his hand. He was your rock, your confidant, and your soulmate. The love you shared was profound and unbreakable, and his loss left a void that no one could fill.

But there's something different about you, something that sets you apart from the rest of humanity. It's the reason you sit here tonight, 159 years later, in a world that has long moved on without you. You hadn't died with your husband because of a twist of fate. It was a vampire's bite that had saved you from death's grasp that day, turning you into a creature of the night.

In the stillness of the night, you can feel the ancient power coursing through your veins. The thirst for blood is a constant reminder of your new existence, and the conflict between your longing for humanity and the supernatural urges that consume you is a torment that never fades. The isolation you've felt for over a century is crushing, but it's nothing compared to the loneliness of losing your beloved husband.

You reach for your left hand, where a delicate silver band still rests on your finger. It's your wedding ring, and you've worn it every day since that fateful day in 1864. The memories of your wedding day flood back—the vows you exchanged, the laughter, and the love that was so pure and genuine.

As you sit in the darkness, the anguish of your existence as an immortal being intensifies. The passing years have done nothing to ease the pain of your husband's absence. You've watched the world change, evolve, and progress, all while you remain locked in the past, bound by your unending love and grief.

The calendar on the wall stands as a cruel reminder of the passage of time, and each passing day only deepens the chasm in your heart. You know that you can never truly move on, but you continue to exist, trapped between two worlds, clinging to the memories of a life that was taken from you too soon.

you carefully pull out a small, weathered box from under the bed. It's where you've kept the cherished notes you and your husband used to exchange, fragile pieces of the past that still hold the warmth of his words.

The first note you pick up is a simple, heartfelt one.

It reads,

𝑀𝓎 𝒟𝑒𝒶𝓇𝑒𝓈𝓉 (𝒴/𝒩),

𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝓃𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝒾𝓈 𝓈𝓉𝒾𝓁𝓁, 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝐼'𝓂 𝒶𝓁𝑜𝓃𝑒, 𝓊𝓃𝒶𝒷𝓁𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝒻𝒾𝓃𝒹 𝓈𝓁𝑒𝑒𝓅 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒾𝓃 𝓂𝓎 𝒶𝓇𝓂𝓈. 𝒜𝓁𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓊𝑔𝒽 𝓎𝑜𝓊'𝓇𝑒 𝒿𝓊𝓈𝓉 𝓃𝑒𝓍𝓉 𝒹𝑜𝑜𝓇, 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝓌𝒾𝓃𝒹𝑜𝓌 𝓈𝑒𝓅𝒶𝓇𝒶𝓉𝑒𝓈 𝓊𝓈 𝓁𝒾𝓀𝑒 𝒶 𝒸𝒽𝒶𝓈𝓂. 𝐼 𝓂𝒾𝓈𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒶𝒻𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓃𝑜𝑜𝓃𝓈 𝓌𝑒 𝓈𝓅𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝒾𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒻𝑜𝓇𝑒𝓈𝓉, 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒽𝑒𝒶𝒹 𝑜𝓃 𝓂𝓎 𝒸𝒽𝑒𝓈𝓉, 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓌𝑜𝓇𝓁𝒹 𝒻𝒶𝒹𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒶𝓌𝒶𝓎.

𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝒹𝒶𝓎𝓈 𝒶𝓇𝑒 𝑔𝓇𝑜𝓌𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒸𝑜𝓁𝒹𝑒𝓇, 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓂𝓉𝒽, 𝐼 𝒻𝑒𝑒𝓁 𝒶𝓃 𝒾𝒸𝓎 𝓋𝑜𝒾𝒹. 𝐼 𝓁𝑜𝓃𝑔 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓁𝒶𝓊𝑔𝒽𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓉𝑜𝓊𝒸𝒽. 𝒯𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝓁𝑒𝓉𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝒷𝓇𝒾𝒹𝑔𝑒𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝑔𝒶𝓅 𝒷𝑒𝓉𝓌𝑒𝑒𝓃 𝓊𝓈, 𝒸𝒶𝓇𝓇𝓎𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓂𝓎 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝓊𝓃𝓉𝒾𝓁 𝓌𝑒 𝒸𝒶𝓃 𝒷𝑒 𝓇𝑒𝓊𝓃𝒾𝓉𝑒𝒹. 𝐼 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓃𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓂𝑜𝓂𝑒𝓃𝓉𝓈 𝓊𝓃𝓉𝒾𝓁 𝓌𝑒 𝒸𝒶𝓃 𝒶𝑔𝒶𝒾𝓃 𝒻𝒾𝓃𝒹 𝓈𝑜𝓁𝒶𝒸𝑒 𝒷𝑒𝓃𝑒𝒶𝓉𝒽 𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓈𝑒 𝓉𝓇𝑒𝑒𝓈.

𝒰𝓃𝓉𝒾𝓁 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝒹𝒶𝓎, 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒶𝓇𝑒 𝓂𝓎 𝑔𝓊𝒾𝒹𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓇 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝓊𝓃 𝒾𝓃 𝓂𝓎 𝓈𝓀𝓎.

𝒴𝑜𝓊𝓇𝓈 𝒶𝓁𝓌𝒶𝓎𝓈,

𝐻.

A bittersweet smile tugs at your lips as you remember the nights you spent wrapped in each other's embrace.

The next note brings back memories of a time when your husband fell ill. In his distinctive handwriting,

It reads,

𝑀𝓎 𝒟𝑒𝒶𝓇𝑒𝓈𝓉 (𝒴/𝒩),

𝐼 𝒽𝑜𝓅𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝓁𝑒𝓉𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝒻𝒾𝓃𝒹𝓈 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒾𝓃 𝑔𝑜𝑜𝒹 𝒽𝑒𝒶𝓁𝓉𝒽 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒽𝒾𝑔𝒽 𝓈𝓅𝒾𝓇𝒾𝓉𝓈, 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝐼 𝓂𝓊𝓈𝓉 𝓇𝑒𝑔𝓇𝑒𝓉𝒻𝓊𝓁𝓁𝓎 𝒾𝓃𝒻𝑜𝓇𝓂 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝐼 𝒶𝓂 𝒻𝑒𝑒𝓁𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓊𝓃𝒹𝑒𝓇 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓌𝑒𝒶𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇 𝓉𝑜𝒹𝒶𝓎. 𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝓉𝑒𝓁𝓁𝓉𝒶𝓁𝑒 𝓈𝒾𝑔𝓃𝓈 𝑜𝒻 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒻𝓁𝓊 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝒹𝑒𝓈𝒸𝑒𝓃𝒹𝑒𝒹 𝓊𝓅𝑜𝓃 𝓂𝑒, 𝓁𝑒𝒶𝓋𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓂𝑒 𝒾𝓃 𝒶 𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓉𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝒹𝒾𝓈𝒸𝑜𝓂𝒻𝑜𝓇𝓉 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒻𝒶𝓉𝒾𝑔𝓊𝑒.

𝐼 𝓌𝓇𝒾𝓉𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝒶 𝒽𝑒𝒶𝓋𝓎 𝒽𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓉, 𝒷𝓊𝓉 𝒾𝓉 𝒾𝓈 𝓂𝓎 𝓈𝒾𝓃𝒸𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝓌𝒾𝓈𝒽 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒹𝑜 𝓃𝑜𝓉 𝒸𝑜𝓂𝑒 𝑜𝓋𝑒𝓇 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝒶𝒻𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓃𝑜𝑜𝓃 𝒶𝓈 𝓌𝑒 𝒽𝒶𝒹 𝓅𝓁𝒶𝓃𝓃𝑒𝒹. 𝐼 𝒻𝑒𝒶𝓇 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓂𝓎 𝒶𝒾𝓁𝓂𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝒾𝓈 𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝒶𝑔𝒾𝑜𝓊𝓈, 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓁𝒶𝓈𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝐼 𝓌𝒶𝓃𝓉 𝒾𝓈 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓉𝑜 𝒻𝒶𝓁𝓁 𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝒶𝓈 𝓌𝑒𝓁𝓁. 𝐼 𝒸𝒶𝓃𝓃𝑜𝓉 𝒷𝑒𝒶𝓇 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓊𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝑜𝒻 𝒷𝑒𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒸𝒶𝓊𝓈𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓈𝓊𝒻𝒻𝑒𝓇𝒾𝓃𝑔.

𝒫𝓁𝑒𝒶𝓈𝑒 𝓊𝓃𝒹𝑒𝓇𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓂𝓎 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓇𝑒𝓂𝒶𝒾𝓃𝓈 𝒶𝓈 𝓈𝓉𝓇𝑜𝓃𝑔 𝒶𝓈 𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇, 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒾𝓉 𝒾𝓈 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓊𝓉𝓂𝑜𝓈𝓉 𝒸𝒶𝓇𝑒 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒸𝑜𝓃𝒸𝑒𝓇𝓃 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓌𝑒𝓁𝓁-𝒷𝑒𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝐼 𝓂𝒶𝓀𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝓇𝑒𝓆𝓊𝑒𝓈𝓉. 𝑅𝑒𝓈𝓉 𝒶𝓈𝓈𝓊𝓇𝑒𝒹, 𝐼 𝓌𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝒹𝑜 𝓂𝓎 𝒷𝑒𝓈𝓉 𝓉𝑜 𝓇𝑒𝒸𝑜𝓋𝑒𝓇 𝓈𝓌𝒾𝒻𝓉𝓁𝓎, 𝓈𝑜 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓌𝑒 𝓂𝒶𝓎 𝓈𝑜𝑜𝓃 𝒷𝑒 𝓇𝑒𝓊𝓃𝒾𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝒶𝓃𝓎 𝓇𝒾𝓈𝓀 𝓉𝑜 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒽𝑒𝒶𝓁𝓉𝒽.

𝒰𝓃𝓉𝒾𝓁 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓃, 𝓂𝓎 𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓊𝑔𝒽𝓉𝓈 𝒶𝓇𝑒 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝓎𝑜𝓊, 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝐼 𝓁𝑜𝓃𝑔 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒹𝒶𝓎 𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝓌𝑒 𝒸𝒶𝓃 𝑜𝓃𝒸𝑒 𝒶𝑔𝒶𝒾𝓃 𝓈𝒽𝒶𝓇𝑒 𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓉𝒾𝓂𝑒 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒶𝒻𝒻𝑒𝒸𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃𝓈 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝒽𝒶𝒹𝑜𝓌 𝑜𝒻 𝒾𝓁𝓁𝓃𝑒𝓈𝓈 𝒽𝒶𝓃𝑔𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝑜𝓋𝑒𝓇 𝓊𝓈.

𝒲𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝒶𝓁𝓁 𝓂𝓎 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒,

𝐻.

With a delicate touch, you unfold the last note, which is filled with affectionate words.

𝑀𝓎 𝒟𝑒𝒶𝓇𝑒𝓈𝓉 (𝒴/𝒩),

𝒜𝓈 𝐼 𝓈𝒾𝓉 𝒹𝑜𝓌𝓃 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝓅𝑒𝓃 𝒾𝓃 𝒽𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓂𝓎 𝒽𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓉 𝑜𝓋𝑒𝓇𝒻𝓁𝑜𝓌𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝒶𝒻𝒻𝑒𝒸𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃, 𝐼 𝓂𝓊𝓈𝓉 𝑜𝓃𝒸𝑒 𝒶𝑔𝒶𝒾𝓃 𝑒𝓍𝓅𝓇𝑒𝓈𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒷𝑜𝓊𝓃𝒹𝓁𝑒𝓈𝓈 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝐼 𝒻𝑒𝑒𝓁 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝓎𝑜𝓊. 𝒲𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇𝓎 𝓅𝒶𝓈𝓈𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒹𝒶𝓎, 𝓂𝓎 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒹𝑒𝑒𝓅𝑒𝓃𝓈, 𝓁𝒾𝓀𝑒 𝒶 𝓇𝒾𝓋𝑒𝓇 𝒸𝒶𝓇𝓋𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒾𝓉𝓈 𝓅𝒶𝓉𝒽 𝓉𝒽𝓇𝑜𝓊𝑔𝒽 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓁𝒶𝓃𝒹𝓈𝒸𝒶𝓅𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝓂𝓎 𝓈𝑜𝓊𝓁.

𝒴𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓅𝓇𝑒𝓈𝑒𝓃𝒸𝑒 𝒾𝓃 𝓂𝓎 𝓁𝒾𝒻𝑒 𝒾𝓈 𝒶 𝒷𝑒𝒶𝒸𝑜𝓃 𝑜𝒻 𝓁𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝒾𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒹𝒶𝓇𝓀𝑒𝓈𝓉 𝑜𝒻 𝓉𝒾𝓂𝑒𝓈, 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓈𝓂𝒾𝓁𝑒 𝒽𝒶𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓅𝑜𝓌𝑒𝓇 𝓉𝑜 𝒸𝒽𝒶𝓈𝑒 𝒶𝓌𝒶𝓎 𝒶𝓁𝓁 𝓂𝓎 𝓌𝑜𝓇𝓇𝒾𝑒𝓈. 𝒲𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝐼 𝑔𝒶𝓏𝑒 𝒾𝓃𝓉𝑜 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝑒𝓎𝑒𝓈, 𝐼 𝓈𝑒𝑒 𝒶 𝓊���𝒾𝓋𝑒𝓇𝓈𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝒷𝑒𝒶𝓊𝓉𝓎 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓀𝒾𝓃𝒹𝓃𝑒𝓈𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓉𝒶𝓀𝑒𝓈 𝓂𝓎 𝒷𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓉𝒽 𝒶𝓌𝒶𝓎.

𝐼 𝒶𝓂 𝓈𝑜 𝒾𝓃𝒸𝓇𝑒𝒹𝒾𝒷𝓁𝓎 𝒻𝑜𝓇𝓉𝓊𝓃𝒶𝓉𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒷𝓎 𝓂𝓎 𝓈𝒾𝒹𝑒, 𝓉𝑜 𝒸𝒶𝓁𝓁 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓂𝒾𝓃𝑒. 𝒴𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓁𝒶𝓊𝑔𝒽𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝒾𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝓌𝑒𝑒𝓉𝑒𝓈𝓉 𝓂𝓊𝓈𝒾𝒸, 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓉𝑜𝓊𝒸𝒽 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓂𝑒𝓈𝓉 𝑒𝓂𝒷𝓇𝒶𝒸𝑒, 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒, 𝓂𝓎 𝒹𝑒𝒶𝓇𝑒𝓈𝓉, 𝒾𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝑔𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓉𝑒𝓈𝓉 𝑔𝒾𝒻𝓉 𝐼 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇 𝓇𝑒𝒸𝑒𝒾𝓋𝑒𝒹.

𝐼 𝒸𝒽𝑒𝓇𝒾𝓈𝒽 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓂𝑜𝓂𝑒𝓃𝓉𝓈 𝓌𝑒 𝓈𝒽𝒶𝓇𝑒, 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓆𝓊𝒾𝑒𝓉 𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓋𝑒𝓇𝓈𝒶𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃𝓈, 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝓉𝑜𝓁𝑒𝓃 𝑔𝓁𝒶𝓃𝒸𝑒𝓈, 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓂 𝑒𝓂𝒷𝓇𝒶𝒸𝑒𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓈𝓅𝑒𝒶𝓀 𝑜𝒻 𝒶 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝓈𝑜 𝒹𝑒𝑒𝓅 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓌𝑜𝓇𝒹𝓈 𝑜𝒻𝓉𝑒𝓃 𝒻𝒶𝓁𝓁 𝓈𝒽𝑜𝓇𝓉. 𝒴𝑜𝓊 𝒶𝓇𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒽𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓉 𝑜𝒻 𝓂𝓎 𝓌𝑜𝓇𝓁𝒹, 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓂𝒾𝓈𝓈𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓅𝒾𝑒𝒸𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝒽𝒶𝓈 𝓂𝒶𝒹𝑒 𝓂𝓎 𝓁𝒾𝒻𝑒 𝒸𝑜𝓂𝓅𝓁𝑒𝓉𝑒.

𝐼 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓂𝑜𝓇𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓃 𝓌𝑜𝓇𝒹𝓈 𝒸𝒶𝓃 𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓋𝑒𝓎, 𝓂𝑜𝓇𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓃 𝒶𝒸𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃𝓈 𝒸𝒶𝓃 𝑒𝓍𝓅𝓇𝑒𝓈𝓈. 𝑀𝓎 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒾𝓈 𝒶 𝒻𝓁𝒶𝓂𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝒷𝓊𝓇𝓃𝓈 𝑒𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓃𝒶𝓁𝓁𝓎, 𝒶 𝒻𝑜𝓇𝒸𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓃𝑜𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒸𝒶𝓃 𝑒𝓍𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓊𝒾𝓈𝒽. 𝒴𝑜𝓊 𝒶𝓇𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝓂𝓎 𝓁𝒾𝒻𝑒, 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝐼 𝒶𝓂 𝒻𝑜𝓇𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇 𝑔𝓇𝒶𝓉𝑒𝒻𝓊𝓁 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓅𝓇𝑒𝓈𝑒𝓃𝒸𝑒 𝒾𝓃 𝓂𝓎 𝒽𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓉.

𝒲𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝒶𝓁𝓁 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝒾𝓃 𝓂𝓎 𝓈𝑜𝓊𝓁,

𝐻.

The room is filled with a mixture of emotions as you read through these notes. You can almost hear his voice in your mind, feel his presence in the room, as though he's still with you. The memories of your time together, both the joyful and the challenging, flood your mind.

As you continue to flip through the notes, a sense of nostalgia washes over you. Each piece of paper tells a story of your love, a love that transcends time and space. These tangible remnants of your past are a lifeline to the happiness and connection you shared.

You can't help but hold the notes to your chest, as if doing so will bring him back, if only for a moment. The handwritten words become a connection to a love that remains eternally alive in your heart.

he room is filled with a mixture of emotions as you read through these notes. You can almost hear his voice in your mind, feel his presence in the room, as though he's still with you. The memories of your time together, both the joyful and the challenging, flood your mind.

As you continue to flip through the notes, a sense of nostalgia washes over you. Each piece of paper tells a story of your love, a love that transcends time and space. These tangible remnants of your past are a lifeline to the happiness and connection you shared.

You can't help but hold the notes to your chest, as if doing so will bring him back, if only for a moment. The handwritten words become a connection to a love that remains eternally alive in your heart.

As you are in your trance, the door to your bedroom creaks open. Your best friend, Zayn, your steadfast companion in this new world of immortality, enters the room.

His vampire senses allow him to sense your emotional state even before he takes in the scene.

Zayn's eyes meet yours, and he can see the raw emotions that you've been holding back. He knows that this time of year is always difficult for you, a reminder of the love and loss that defines your existence. Without a word, he moves closer and takes a seat beside you on the bed.

Gently, Zayn wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. His touch, cold yet reassuring, provides a sense of comfort that only someone who shares your immortal life can offer.

He doesn't need to speak, for he understands the depth of your pain and the heaviness of your heart.

Time seems to stand still as you both sit there, the only sound in the room being the soft rustle of the notes you're clutching. Zayn's presence is a soothing balm to your aching soul, a reminder that you're not alone in this eternity.

You lean into his embrace, finding solace in the silent companionship that has defined your centuries together.

The room is bathed in the soft, silvery glow of the moon, casting a gentle light upon the two of you. Zayn's immortal eyes reflect a profound empathy as he gazes at you.

He may not share your specific pain, but he comprehends the depth of your sorrow, and his unwavering support is a testament to the strength of your friendship.

You feel a sense of unity in this quiet moment, connected by the unspoken understanding of your shared existence. Zayn's presence, like the memories in those letters, is a constant in your life, a source of reassurance that you cling to when the weight of your solitude becomes unbearable.

Zayn's fingers brush gently against the back of your hand, an unspoken gesture of sympathy and empathy.

As the night unfolds around you, you find comfort in the silence, in the shared understanding between two immortals whose lives are forever marked by the passage of time and the enduring power of love.

The minutes tick by, but in the arms of your friend, time loses its urgency. You don't need words to communicate your pain, for Zayn's presence is a reminder that, in this unending night, you have someone who stands by your side, even when the memories of your husband's birthday bring waves of sorrow.

Zayn eventually breaks the stillness.

He clears his throat softly, turning his gaze to you, his vampire eyes expressing concern.

"Are you ready to get going soon?" he asks, his voice a gentle yet encouraging nudge.

You release a soft sigh, nodding your head slowly, and your voice trembles slightly as you reply, "Just a few more things to pack, and then I'll be ready."

Zayn senses the fragility of your emotions and offers his support, asking, "Can I help you with anything?"

He watches you idly fiddling with the bracelet around your wrist.

Noticing your restlessness, he reaches out to softly hold your hands, halting your nervous actions. Concern etched on his face, he asks, "What's wrong?"

Your eyes meet his, and you hesitate for a moment before finally voicing your uncertainty.

"Do we really have to go there today?" you inquire, your tone tinged with a hint of vulnerability.

Zayn's grip on your hand tightens, not in a romantic manner, but to convey his steadfast support.

In a comforting tone, he begins to explain, "You know we go every year. It's a tradition. It helps you remember and honour the past, and it always seems to make you feel better."

His words are laced with a sense of understanding, a reminder that he has been with you through many of these anniversaries.

You contemplate his words, the weight of your annual pilgrimage tugging at your heart. The place you're about to visit holds bittersweet memories, a reminder of the life you once shared with your husband.

Each year, you return there to pay your respects and keep his memory alive.

Zayn's grip on your hand offers reassurance, a silent pledge that he'll be there with you, providing the strength and support you need. The drive ahead is long, but it's a journey you make together, year after year, as a testament to your enduring bond.

As you begin to pack your belongings, you can't help but wonder about the emotional rollercoaster that lies ahead. The memories that await at your destination are a mix of joy, love, and sorrow, and you find solace in the fact that Zayn is there to accompany you on this annual journey.

The room slowly fills with the soft rustling of your belongings, a tangible representation of the steps you take to prepare for this day. Zayn doesn't need to say much more; his presence and unwavering support are all the encouragement you require.

In the year 1865, the world outside was marred by the horrors of war, but your own battle was one fought against a relentless adversary: cholera. It was a wretched disease that had laid its icy grip upon you, and the diagnosis had been grim.

You had been confined to your bed, frail and weak, under strict orders not to venture out. The days had blurred into one another, marked by the agonising pain that twisted your body.

As night descended upon your small, dimly lit room, you found yourself unable to bear the separation any longer.

Weak limbs, trembling with fever, carried you out of the house, driven by an insatiable yearning to be close to your husband's resting place.

He had been taken from you too soon, a victim of the brutality, and the thought of joining him beyond the mortal coil was a solace that beckoned you.

The moon's pale glow guided your unsteady steps as you stumbled through the darkness, clutching at the fragile shreds of your existence.

Tears rolled down your cheeks, mingling with the dirt on your face as you reached your husband's grave.

The earth beneath you was cold and unforgiving, much like your fate, and you could hardly breathe as your vision blurred.

In the silence of the night, you lay there, your life slipping away like grains of sand through your fingertips.

It was then that Zayn, a lone vampire with a heart that had not yet been completely hardened by the centuries, stumbled across your frail form. His immortal eyes, adapted to the darkness, were drawn to your prone figure, wracked with pain and suffering.

Zayn had seen countless lives extinguished by cholera, innocent humans who met a cruel fate. He couldn't stand the thought of witnessing yet another life claimed by the merciless disease.

The decision was made in an instant; he would not allow you to die alone in the dirt.

Biting into his wrist, he let his own blood flow freely, a crimson elixir that held the power to grant life beyond the brink of death. Gently, he brought his wrist to your lips, the metallic taste of his blood mixing with the dirt on your tongue.

As the tears continued to roll down your cheeks, you accepted the gift, and as your world faded to black, you knew that you would wake once more.

When you did awaken, it was with a newfound strength, but also with the realisation that you were no longer the same. You had been turned into a creature of the night, a vampire like Zayn.

You could feel the ancient power coursing through your veins, and you knew that you had been given a second chance at life.

Zayn, ever the silent guardian, watched over you as you adjusted to your new existence. He had saved you from the clutches of cholera and given you a gift that had bound you together for eternity.

The pain of your past remained, but it was now mingled with the promise of a future, one that would be marked by a different kind of immortality.

The moon that had witnessed your despair now bore witness to your rebirth, casting a silvery light upon the world. Your husband's grave, the place where you had once sought solace in death, became a reminder of the choices that had brought you back to life. In the embrace of the night, you and Zayn forged a bond that would endure through the ages, a bond forged in the crucible of darkness and the unyielding desire to protect a fragile, mortal soul.

The day of your husband's funeral is shrouded in a thick blanket of gray clouds, a reflection of the somber mood that hangs in the air.

You stand at the front of the gathering, holding the hands of your husband's sister, Gemma, and his mother, Anne. You are positioned in the center, a symbol of the family's strength, while the world grieves around you.

Harry, your husband, remains hidden in the shadows of a nearby bush, concealed by the dense foliage.

His heart aches as he watches the mourners, his loved ones, weeping for him. The weight of his decision to become a vampire bears down on him heavily, and guilt gnaws at his conscience.

He longs to step out from the darkness, to hold you in his arms and console his grieving family, but he knows the consequences would be dire.

The insatiable bloodlust that courses through him is a risk he can't take.

Liam, the one who turned Harry into a vampire, stands beside him, aware of Harry's internal turmoil. As the mourners begin to weep more openly, and your tears flow, Harry's eyes glisten with unshed tears.

He is desperate to be by your side, to share in your pain, to say his final goodbyes. But Liam knows that he's not ready to control his primal instincts, and he grabs Harry's arm, holding him back.

Harry's eyes lock with Liam's, and there's a silent understanding between them. Liam's grip tightens, and he speaks softly, a voice only Harry can hear.

"You can't go over there, Harry," Liam insists. "Your thirst will be uncontrollable. You need training, discipline. You're not ready to face them without putting them in danger."

Harry's heart aches with the truth of Liam's words. He knows he's not in control of his newfound vampiric instincts, and the potential harm he could cause to those he loves weighs heavily on his conscience. A tear escapes his eye, rolling down his cheek as he gazes at you and his family from the shadows.

In the distance, Gemma sobs quietly, her shoulders trembling. Anne clings to you, her grief profound and palpable. Harry's anguish deepens as he realizes he can't comfort them, can't wipe away their tears. He wants nothing more than to hold you all, to whisper words of love and reassurance, but the consequences of his presence are too dire.

Harry clenches his jaw and nods slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. He understands that he must control the beast within him, no matter how much it pains him to stay away. He watches as the mourners continue to grieve, knowing that he must focus on his training to become a responsible vampire, even if it means sacrificing his desire to be with you one last time.

Harry's memories of those early days with you were etched into his heart, timeless and evergreen. The two of you had been young, so young that it felt like you both had the world at your feet.

It was the norm back then to marry young, and so you had, vowing to spend a lifetime together.

At the tender age of seventeen, the two of you had become husband and wife, and Harry had been just eighteen when he was taken from you.

The day you said your vows had been a blur of emotions, a whirlwind of love and promises.

The sun had shone brightly, casting a golden hue on the small chapel where you had gathered with their families and friends.

Harry couldn't have been more proud or more in love as he watched you walk down the aisle, a vision of grace and beauty.

The year that followed had been filled with joy, adventure, and love. You had faced the world hand in hand, growing together as you navigated the challenges and joys that life presented.

Harry's love for you had only deepened with time, and he couldn't imagine a life without you by his side.

The night he was dragged out of bed to defend the town had been a harrowing one.

The chaos of the attack had thrust him into the front lines, where he had fought valiantly to protect his home and loved ones.

In the midst of the battle, he had been taken from you leaving your heart with a void that could never be filled.

Harry found himself back in his hometown in the year 2023. It had been a long and winding journey that had brought him here, to the place where he and you had once shared a life together. The memories of your youth had been a bittersweet comfort, and he couldn't resist the pull of returning to the town you had both had once called home.

A year had passed since his return, and Harry had settled into the rhythm of everyday life in the town.

His immortality was a secret he guarded closely, and only told a certain group of people, but to fit in with the world around him, he had made the decision to attend the local high school.

His appearance, frozen in time, allowed him to blend in as an eighteen-year-old, a senior in high school.

The hallways of the school were bustling with youthful energy, and Harry navigated them with a sense of nostalgia. The students around him were so different from the world he had once known, but their dreams and aspirations remained the same. It was a peculiar feeling to be an immortal amidst those who still had their entire lives ahead of them.

Harry stood by his locker, surrounded by the familiar sights and sounds of the high school. He was in the process of organizing his books for his next lesson when he felt a presence approach.

Turning around, he was greeted by the smiling faces of his two closest friends, Sarah and Mitch, who were dating.

They had been his unwavering support since his return to this town, and they were among the few who knew his secret.

Sarah and Mitch shared an unbreakable bond, one that had grown even stronger with the knowledge of Harry's true nature. They had embraced him with open arms, offering friendship and a sense of belonging that he had desperately missed.

"Hey, Haz," Sarah chimed, her warm smile lighting up the hallway. "You coming to the Grove later?"

The Chapel Grove.

A local hangout spot for the families of Holmes Chapel, they sold food such as greasy burgers, loaded fries and even served drinks such as Milkshakes and of the alcoholic kind.

Mitch nodded in agreement, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. "Yeah, It was Ricky’s idea."

Harry, still playing with his books, shrugged his shoulders. He let out a sigh, his voice tinged with a hint of regret. "M’not sure, v’ got a ton of homework t’do. Y’know how it is."

His two friends exchanged knowing glances. They understood that Harry's commitment to his studies was both genuine and a cover for the reality of his existence. They respected his choices, knowing that the weight of his immortality was a burden he carried alone.

Sarah reached out and gently placed a hand on Harry's shoulder.

He watched as Sarah and Mitch walked away, their laughter fading into the distance.

It was a bittersweet moment, a reminder of the normal life he had once shared with you and the sacrifices he now made to honour her memory.

Harry turned his attention back to his locker. As he opened the door, he was met with the image of a photograph hanging on the inside.

It was a picture of you, a snapshot taken in the year 1864, the year you had become his beloved wife.

The sepia-toned photograph had faded with time, but the memories it held were as vivid as ever.

Harry's fingers traced a delicate path along the edges of the photograph, a gesture born out of love and longing.

He couldn't help but marvel at your image, at the way your eyes sparkled with joy and your smile radiates warmth. It was a portrait of a life that had once been filled with hope, dreams, and love.

He was transported back in time, to the days when the two of you had been inseparable. The image before him held the essence of the happiness you had shared, a happiness that had been taken from him too soon.

As he gazed at your face, he fought to hold back the tears that threatened to escape.

The wedding ring he still wore on his finger served as a constant reminder of the love that had transcended time and space. He had never taken it off, a symbol of his eternal devotion to you.

As he looked at the photograph, his heart ached with the weight of your absence, a pain that had not diminished over the years.

In the hushed stillness of the hallway, Harry found himself caught in a silent moment of reflection.

He knew that you were gone, that he could never hold you again in the same way, but the photograph served as a lifeline to the love and memories that continued to endure.

With great care, he closed the locker door, leaving the photograph of you hanging there. It was a bittersweet reminder of the life he had once known, the life that had been stolen from him.

You're seated in Zayn's car, the soothing hum of the engine merging with the rhythmic patterns of the road.

It's been four long hours of cruising from London to Manchester, a journey you've made year after year, a pilgrimage to Holmes Chapel.

The miles seem to stretch on endlessly, and your thoughts are a chaotic whirlwind, just as they always are on this annual trip. Memories, emotions, and longings intermingle, creating a storm within your mind.

Traffic comes and goes, a constant ebb and flow of vehicles on the motorway. The occasional slowdowns test your patience, but you find solace in the companionship of Zayn and the knowledge that the destination is worth the journey.

Zayn pulls the car to the side of the road, when the two of you are driving through the last bit of the journey, through a nice little down adjacent to Holmes Chapel, the two of you hadn’t fed before leaving.

Rookie mistake on your part.

And now, your mouth was dry and you desperately needed something to refresh it.

The oblivious passerby, a stranger to you, continues on their path, unknowingly approaching the enigmatic pair standing by the roadside.

In a carefully orchestrated dance, you and Zayn approach the passerby, a swift and silent exchange between predator and prey, and walk with him to a secluded alleyway.

The "snack" begins, a feeding that is essential for your survival. Your senses sharpen as you draw from your chosen source, the warmth of their life pulsing beneath their skin.

The passerby remains blissfully unaware, their consciousness undisturbed as you and Zayn fulfil your needs.

You both take only what you require, leaving no lasting harm, and then compel them to forget the encounter.

And so, you continue your journey.

The landscape outside the car window changes gradually as you travel. The urban sprawl of London gives way to the open countryside.

Fields stretch to the horizon, painted in shades of green and gold. It's a serene contrast to the chaotic thoughts that whirl within your mind.

The journey continues, and the passing scenery carries with it a sense of nostalgia. The familiar landmarks along the way bring back memories of years gone by, each one tinged with the bittersweet remembrance of the life you once shared with your beloved.

As you approach Holmes Chapel, your heart quickens, and the sense of longing intensifies. The town's quaint streets and charming houses feel like a trip back in time, a reminder of the life you once knew.

The car glides into Holmes Chapel, and you can almost hear the echoes of your past. The weight of your annual pilgrimage rests heavily upon your shoulders, a testament to the enduring love that has never dimmed.

Zayn expertly guided the car into the driveway of the house that had once belonged to your parents back in 1864.

It was a place steeped in history, a relic of a time long past, and it had become yours after your parents' passing in 1895, after sneaking back into the town and compelling your way to be the owner.

For nearly 130 years, this house had been a silent witness to your existence, a sanctuary where you and Zayn retreated to every year.

The exterior of the house retained the charm of another era. It was a grand Victorian home, adorned with intricate wooden details and gabled roofs. The red brick façade bore the marks of time, and the lush ivy that crept up the walls had woven its own stories.

The front garden was a riot of colour , with flowers in full bloom. The fragrant scent of roses, lilacs, and lavender filled the air, a testament to the diligent care you had taken to preserve the beauty of the landscape.

The path leading to the front door was lined with cobblestones, their edges softened by the passage of countless seasons.

As the car came to a stop, the familiar sight of the house, with its large bay windows and wrought-iron balconies, stirred a sense of nostalgia within you.

The years had passed, but the house remained a time capsule, preserving the memories of a bygone era.

You and Zayn stepped out of the car, and the front porch welcomed you with open arms. The old oak door, with its ornate brass knocker, felt like an old friend.

You had kept everything inside the house unchanged, maintaining the decor of another centuryc and wanting to keep your parents' memories alive. The rooms were filled with antique furniture, tapestries, and framed photographs of family members long gone.

The fireplace in the living room, where you and Zayn had shared countless conversations, was a focal point. The mantel held a collection of aged books and trinkets, each with its own story to tell. The ticking of an antique clock on the wall served as a reminder that time had, in some ways, stood still here.

The past clung to the house's very walls, an unspoken testament to the enduring love and memories that you had carried throughout the ages. As you stepped inside, the echoes of your footsteps were met with a quiet sense of reverence, a recognition of the bond you shared with this place.

Within the house, amidst the antique furnishings and treasured memories, there was a room that held a special place in your heart. It was a room where time seemed to stand still, a room that honoured both the past and the present.

On one wall, there hung a meticulously painted portrait of you and Harry on your wedding day in 1864. The image captured a moment of pure happiness, the two of you standing side by side, radiating love and promise.

The colours were vivid, as if the artist had painstakingly tried to preserve the very essence of that day.

Beside it, you had placed a modern touch, a photograph of you and Zayn. It was a selfie taken during a visit to the Colosseum in Rome, a few years ago.

The picture was a snapshot of friendship, of laughter and shared experiences, and it served as a tribute to the bond you and Zayn had forged over the centuries.

The juxtaposition of the two images on the same wall was a reflection of the passage of time, a reminder that love and connection endured even as life moved forward.

The painted portrait of your wedding day was a testament to the love that had once defined your existence, while the photograph of you and Zayn symbolised the friendship that had evolved to fill the void left by Harry's untimely departure.

It was the very same house where Harry had asked you on your first date, a memory etched into the very walls of the building.

The familiarity of the place had been the perfect backdrop for that special moment. It was here, within the walls of this house, that Harry had shown the first signs of his affections for you.

The room, adorned with vintage decor and an antique chandelier, had been bathed in the warm glow of candlelight, creating an atmosphere of intimacy and romance.

You stood in the modest kitchen of your family home, the warm and comforting heart of the house. The scent of freshly baked bread lingered in the air, mingling with the earthy aroma of the stew that simmered on the stove.

It was a simple yet fulfilling meal that you were preparing, a meal that would soon be shared by your mother, your father, and you.

The kitchen was a cosy space, with worn wooden counters and shelves lined with jars of preserved fruits and vegetables.

Sunlight streamed through the small, lace-curtained window, casting a soft, golden glow on the room. The sounds of your mother's apron softly brushing against her dress and the rhythmic chopping of vegetables filled the room.

You worked alongside your mother, your hands expertly kneading the dough for the bread. The flour dusted your fingers, creating a playful mess that made you both smile.

The warmth of the hearth, with its crackling fire, chased away the chill of the approaching winter.

The two of you shared a quiet understanding as you moved in synchrony, the bond between mother and child woven into the very fabric of the kitchen.

The wooden table, which had seen countless meals and conversations, stood as a witness to the love and care that went into each dish.

As you stirred the stew, the rich aroma filled your senses, a comforting reassurance that the family would soon be gathered around the table, sharing not only a meal but also the love and connection that made your home a sanctuary.

The rhythmic sound of chopping vegetables continued, the sharp knife slicing through them with precision.

The knock that sounded throughout the house was unexpected, and you glanced towards your mother as she wiped her flour-covered hands against the countertop, her footsteps echoing in the kitchen as she went to answer it.

You continued your culinary task, focused on the rhythmic motion of the knife, when your mother returned to the kitchen, a look of curiosity in her eyes.

"It's for you," she said, her voice carrying a hint of mystery.

She gestured towards the visitor waiting by the door, and you turned around to see Harry standing there.

Wiping your hands against your apron, you approached him, a smile spreading across your face. It was a pleasant surprise to see him, and you greeted him warmly. "Harry, what brings you here?"

He returned your smile, his eyes reflecting a mixture of excitement and sincerity. "I was wondering if I could talk to you, if possible.”

You nodded and led Harry into the living room, explaining to your mother that you'd be back soon.

With you leading Harry into the living room, you both found a quiet corner, away from the bustling sounds of the kitchen. He looked at you with a hint of anticipation, and after a brief pause, he spoke, his words soft and filled with sincerity.

“So what did you want to talk about?” You question, head tilted to the side as you toyed with the strings on your apron.

There was a pregnant pause before he began speaking.

Harry's voice trembled as he gathered the courage to speak.

"S’wondering if, um... would y’possibly like t’go on a date one day this week?" His words were hesitant, and his hands shook with nervousness.

You met his gaze, your heart warmed by his vulnerability.

A soft smile formed on your lips, and you replied, "Yes, Harry, I'd love to."

His eyes widened in pleasant surprise, but his hands still trembled from the jitters.

"Really?" he asked, seeking confirmation.

You could see the genuine nervousness in his eyes, and you decided to ease his worries.

With a gentle touch, you reached out, taking his hands into yours, your fingers gently entwining with his. His hands stilled under your reassuring touch.

You leaned in and pressed a tender kiss to his cheek.

"Definitely," you whispered, your words carrying a promise.

After a long day at school, Harry's footsteps carried him up the driveway of the house he had called home for so many years.

It was a place where memories of you still lingered, the house that you had lived in during your one year of marriage, an old Victorian house with an enduring charm.

The memories within those walls were a bittersweet comfort.

He had invited Niall over after school, a friend who had practically been a brother to him since they had met in the early 1900s.

Their friendship had grown strong over the years, and they shared a bond that transcended time.

As he approached the front of the house, he couldn't help but notice a car parked in the driveway of what had once been your parents' house.

It was a sight he had expected, knowing that someone would eventually move in.

He sighed and shook his head, the changes around him a reminder of the passage of time.

His fingers instinctively brushed against the wedding ring on his finger, His friends, Niall included, didn't question his marital status, as they were all privy to his secret.

They had secrets of their own, secrets that bound them together.

Penny, Logan, Daniel, Toby, Ricky – they were all werewolves, their fates intertwined with the lunar cycles.

And Brooke was a witch, her magic a well-guarded treasure.

Their supernatural natures were shared with an unspoken understanding, a bond that went beyond the boundaries of the ordinary.

As he entered the house, with Niall by his side, the memories of the past and the secrets of the present coexisted in the space around them

You sit alone in the garden, the air tinged with the scents of flowers and the distant echoes of life in the town.

Your journal rests open on your lap, and the inked words spill onto the pages as you reflect on the passing of time and the season that has come around once more.

It's that time of year again, the time when you return to the town that has brought you so much misery and yet holds a powerful grip on your heart.

The memories of days long past and the ache of what was lost permeate your thoughts.

The garden, once vibrant and filled with life, now stands as a silent testament to the years that have passed.

The flowers you once tended with care bloom without your touch, a reminder that life continues, even in the face of heartache.

The journal in your hands is a chronicle of your existence, the pages filled with the hopes, dreams, and heartaches that have defined your immortal life.

It is a mirror to your soul, a place where you pour out the emotions that you can never truly share with anyone else.

As the pen moves across the pages, the memories of the town come rushing back. The streets, the houses, and the people who once filled your life with joy and sorrow, they are all here, etched in the recesses of your mind.

As you sit in the garden, tears silently cascade down your cheeks. The memories and emotions of this time of year have caught up to you, and you're trying your best to keep your crying from alerting Zayn inside the house.

You wipe away the tears, but more continue to fall, a relentless stream of anguish.

You know that if Zayn hears you sniffling, he'll be out in an instant, concerned for your well-being. And while you appreciate his care, you're not ready to discuss the depth of your sorrow.

Just when it feels like your heart can't bear any more, you notice a presence at the fence of the house next door.

A boy with vibrant blue eyes and blonde hair is leaning over, peering at you with a curious expression. It's someone you've never seen before, and the sight of a stranger surprises you.

He tilts his head to the side and gently drums his fingers against the fence, a gesture of concern.

"Are you alright?" he asks, his voice soft and filled with empathy.

You hastily wipe away the evidence of your tears and give him a small, trembling smile.

"Yeah, just feeling a bit emotional today," you admit, not wanting to go into too much detail with someone you've just met.

Niall nods his head in understanding, his eyes reflecting kindness.

"I'm live opposite, I’m not breaking into someone’s house, promise, this is me mates house, if you ever want to talk," he offers, his sincerity evident in his words. "I'm a good listener, and sometimes sharing with a stranger can help."

You appreciate his gesture and nod in response, feeling a strange sense of comfort in the presence of this kind-hearted stranger.

As Niall walks away, you find yourself leaning against the tree once more, your heart a little lighter with the knowledge that there's someone nearby who is willing to lend an understanding ear.

You and Harry found yourselves in the shade of the very same tree you now sat under, the same oak tree that had watched over the passage of time.

The leaves rustled in the gentle breeze, and the sunlight filtered through, casting dappled patterns on the grass below.

You were nestled comfortably in the crook of Harry's arm, your head resting in his lap.

He held a book in one hand, the pages filled with words that transported you to far-off places and into the world of imagination.

Harry's voice was a soft, melodic cadence as he read aloud, each word falling from his lips like a soothing lullaby.

His free hand played with a strand of your hair, his touch gentle and affectionate. The strands of your hair slipped through his fingers like silk, and he couldn't help but smile as he continued to read.

As you lay there, the world around you faded into the background.

The characters from the book came to life in your mind, and the only reality that mattered was the bond you shared with Harry.

His voice, the rhythm of his breathing, and the touch of his hand were the only things that existed in that moment.

The two of you had shared many quiet afternoons like this, escaping into the world of literature and into each other's presence.

It was a sanctuary, a place where time seemed to stand still, and the troubles of the world could not reach you.

February 1, 2023.

The next day, as the sun broke through the morning clouds and painted the world outside in hues of gold, Harry entered his classroom.

The usually vibrant features that adorned his face had now transformed into a pale, tired countenance.

His exhaustion was palpable, and the faint shadows beneath his eyes bespoke of a restless night.

For Harry, the morning had not begun like that of his fellow classmates. He hadn't woken up to the smell of breakfast, nor had he enjoyed a hearty meal with his family.

Instead, he had reluctantly skipped his morning feed, a vital part of his daily routine. The reason was simple: he had to make an early visit to the hospital to replenish his supply of blood bags, a ritual he had kept hidden from the people around him, only his close friends knew.

As he stepped into the classroom, he hoped to remain unnoticed, to blend into the sea of students and escape their inquisitive glances.

They were unaware of the struggles he faced each day to maintain his facade of normalcy. They didn't know the secret he carried, the very essence of his existence as a creature of the night.

Mr. Addams, the teacher, was a kind and observant man who had developed a certain fondness for Harry.

As Harry entered, Mr. Addams couldn't help but notice the stark contrast between the bright morning sunlight and the dull pallor of Harry's skin.

Concern etched his features, and he couldn't ignore the evident weariness that clung to his student.

"Is everything okay, Harry?" Mr. Addams inquired, his voice laced with genuine worry.

His intuition was often a strength, and he couldn't ignore the visible signs of distress.

Harry's throat constricted, and he struggled to uphold the facade that he had carefully constructed.

"Jus’didn't get much sleep last night," he replied, his voice trembling as he stuck to his story.

He didn't want to reveal the true reason behind his tiredness, the missed morning feed, and the ensuing visit to the hospital to restock his supply of blood bags.

Mr. Addams, understanding and respecting Harry's privacy, nodded sympathetically.

"I hope you find some rest soon. If you need any help or have any questions, don't hesitate to ask," he offered, his words brimming with warmth and support.

Harry took a seat next to his friend, Daniel, whose knowing glance acknowledged the truth hidden beneath the surface.

Daniel was one of the few people who were privy to Harry's secret, and he leaned over, whispering softly, "You okay, mate? Need anything?"

Harry gave his friend a faint, grateful smile but shook his head, not wanting to involve Daniel further in his complex situation.

"I'll be fine, jus’a rough night," he murmured back.

After Mr. Addams had expressed his concern and Harry had responded with a somewhat convincing explanation, the teacher proceeded with the lesson.

He launched into the day's subject matter, his voice clear and engaging, filling the classroom with knowledge and enthusiasm.

Harry did his best to stay focused, his eyes fixed on the board as he diligently transcribed the notes.

With every stroke of the pen, he tried to divert his mind away from the gnawing hunger that simmered within him.

The lesson was essential, and he couldn't afford to let his cravings distract him from his studies, even though he had done the exact same lesson plenty of times before, he still liked to brush up on his knowledge.

As the minutes passed, the thirst grew more insistent, like a relentless drumbeat in the background.

Harry took frequent sips from his water bottle, the cool liquid helping to quell the ever-present desire. The sensation of quenching his thirst was a brief respite from the yearning for something more potent, for blood.

The classroom was filled with the rustle of paper and the scratch of pens on notebooks, the students engrossed in their work.

Harry, however, struggled to ignore the tantalising aroma of his classmates, the rhythmic beating of their hearts, and the temptation that surrounded him.

The battle within him was a quiet one, an internal struggle he had grown accustomed to over the years.

He knew that his need for blood could not be satisfied during the school day, and he was determined to endure until he could seek solace in the hospital.

In the midst of a history lesson, Mr. Addams posed a question to the class, inquiring if anyone knew the date of a particular historical event. There was a collective silence as the students exchanged glances, their minds drawing a blank.

Amid the hush that enveloped the classroom, Harry raised his hand, offering a tentative, “M’think I know, sir."

Mr. Addams, intrigued, nodded and invited Harry to share his answer.

Harry responded confidently, "The event y’referring t’happened in 1066, sir, the Battle of Hastings."

The teacher was impressed and decided to take it a step further.

"You have quite a knack for history, Harry," he remarked, a hint of amusement in his voice. "How about a quick quiz? Let's see if you can recall the years for a few more events."

With a twinkle of curiosity in his eye, Mr. Addams began to fire off random historical events, challenging Harry's memory and knowledge.

"The signing of the Magna Carta?"

"1215," Harry replied without hesitation.

"The American Declaration of Independence?"

"1776."

The classroom buzzed with admiration for Harry's extensive knowledge, and Mr. Addams continued to test him, event after event.

Harry answered each question with unwavering confidence and accuracy, displaying a remarkable understanding of history that fascinated both his classmates and teacher.

As Harry confidently and accurately answered each historical question, the class sat in collective astonishment.

Their eyes were wide, jaws slightly agape, as they gawked at him in disbelief. The room was filled with a sense of awe and wonder, a profound appreciation for the depth of Harry's knowledge.

Harry's classmates were left both amazed and somewhat envious of his remarkable grasp of history.

He sat there, a slight, knowing smirk gracing his lips, his expression a testament to the satisfaction he derived from outshining their expectations.

You walk into the kitchen, the scent of freshly brewed coffee wafting through the air. Zayn leans against the kitchen island, a cup of coffee in his hand, his morning ritual.

The sun filters through the windows, casting a warm glow over the room, making it the perfect morning to go for a run.

You're dressed in exercise leggings and a cropped sports bra, even though your body shape will never change.

It's a habit that makes you feel better about yourself, a semblance of normalcy in an otherwise extraordinary existence.

Zayn looks up as you enter, his gaze lingering on your attire.

"Morning," he greets, a hint of curiosity in his eyes.

You offer a warm smile and respond, "Hey. I thought I'd go for a run this morning."

He takes a sip of his coffee, nodding in understanding.

Zayn knows today is Harry's birthday, and he can sense that you're trying to distract yourself from the inevitable visit to Harry's grave. But he doesn't press the issue.

"Sounds like a good idea," he comments.

As you pour yourself a cup of coffee, Zayn leans against the island and says, "You know, it's okay to take some time for yourself today. If you want to go visit Harry's grave, I'll understand."

You appreciate his understanding and consider his words. "I know, Z. I just... I need this run right now. It helps clear my head."

He nods in agreement, his support unwavering. "Take all the time you need. I’ll be here when you get back."

You nod your head in response to Zayn's understanding and head toward the fruit bowl, where your AirPods are nestled among the colourful array of fruit.

You pick them up and slip them into your ears, the familiar feeling of music bringing you comfort and distraction.

Walking out of the kitchen and through the front door, you take a deep breath of the fresh morning air.

The sun shines brightly, casting long shadows on the path ahead. As you begin to jog, the rhythm of your steps aligns with the beat of the music, creating a comforting synchrony.

Your run takes you past the old streets you once walked along to get home, streets that have seen a world of change since 1864.

The buildings have evolved, and the town has grown in ways you could never have imagined back then.

Though the surroundings have transformed, the nostalgia lingers. Memories of a bygone era rush back, and you can't help but reminisce as you jog past familiar landmarks.

The echoes of time blend with the music in your ears, and it feels like a journey through the pages of history.

The town that you once knew so well is a blend of the past and present, a testament to the inexorable march of time.

Your run becomes a meditative experience, allowing you to process your emotions and escape from the complexities of the day.

As you continue your jog, the music in your AirPods becomes the soundtrack to your thoughts.

The collision with the girl was unexpected, and even though your enhanced hearing usually keeps you aware of your surroundings, the soothing melodies have drawn you into your own world.

Turning a corner, you suddenly collide with the girl, her ginger hair and freckles prominent features that catch your eye.

The impact is swift, and you quickly come to a halt, the surprise evident on your face.

You offer a quick apology, realising that the music in your ears prevented you from hearing her approach.

The girl, on the other hand, is struck by recognition.

Her gaze locks onto your face, and her freckled cheeks flush with a mix of surprise and nervousness. It's clear she recognizes you, but she remains silent, her words stumbling as she tries to regain her composure.

She stammers, "Oh, s-sorry, I didn't mean to... I mean, it was my fault too."

Her voice quivers with a hint of unease.

You appreciate her acknowledgment, and when you see her favoring one ankle, you instinctively reach out to steady her.

You grab her arm gently, preventing her from toppling over from the sudden collision. In this moment, you connect in a way that goes beyond words.

That's when something extraordinary occurs. As you hold onto her, your connection seems to transcend the physical realm.

A vision unexpectedly floods your mind, and you're pulled back in time to the year 1864.

Her ancestor was someone you once knew.

Your head tilts back, and you're briefly lost within the vision.

A chilling night had fallen over the quiet town. Your husband had been dragged from your shared bed, called upon to defend the town against an unexpected attack.

As you lay in the dark, the weight of the situation pressing down on you, you couldn't bear to stay inside.

Quietly, you slipped out of your house, the wooden door creaking softly as you closed it behind you.

The dim moonlight illuminated the cobblestone streets, casting eerie shadows as you began your walk.

You needed the solace of the night air, the stars above providing the only comfort in these tumultuous times.

As you strolled through the quiet town, you noticed a familiar face watching from a window of the house opposite yours.

Jane, a neighbour you knew well, had her gaze fixed on you, her expression a mix of curiosity and concern. She leaned out of the window and called out to you, her voice laced with worry.

"What are you doing, dear?" Jane's voice rang out in the still night.

You hesitated for a moment, her question hanging in the air. Then, you replied, "Just getting some fresh air."

Jane raised an eyebrow, scepticism written across her features. "Fresh air? When the town is under attack? You should be seeking shelter, not strolling the streets."

A sigh escaped your lips, your shoulders deflating under the weight of her words. You continued walking, ignoring her pleas for you to return to the safety of your home.

You choose not to reveal the contents of the vision to the girl.

Instead, you offer her a sheepish smile, releasing your grip on her arm, allowing her to regain her balance.

For a brief moment, you both stand there, the connection between you now a complex tapestry of unspoken understanding.

Your thoughts are filled with the vision you've just witnessed, and it lingers in your mind, a fragment of a distant past that somehow intertwines with the present.

With a polite nod and a brief farewell, you resume your jog.

You cast a final glance over your shoulder, curious to find the girl still standing there, her eyes following you.

As the bell for the end of the lesson rang, the classroom filled with the collective sound of chairs scraping against the floor and students shuffling in their seats.

Harry, like the rest of his classmates, gathered up his books and swiftly began to place them into his backpack.

The air in the room was filled with an anticipatory energy as students prepared to leave the classroom.

Harry's movements were efficient, his hands deftly organising his materials. He carefully slid his textbooks into the main compartment of his backpack, the pages neatly aligned. His notebooks followed suit, each fitting perfectly into their designated space.

With a practised ease, Harry zipped up his backpack, ensuring that everything was secure.

He slung the bag over his shoulder, feeling the weight of the books against his back.

As he stood up from his desk, he joined the stream of students heading for the exit, ready to move on to the next part of the day.

As the two friends, Harry and Logan, walked out of the classroom together, they joined the bustling flow of students in the hallway.

All around them, people were coming out of their own classes, talking and laughing as they headed to their lockers to prepare for the next lesson.

The school day was in full swing, and the energy in the hallway was palpable.

Logan, genuinely curious, turned to Harry. "Mate, what's the plan for your birthday tonight?"

Harry's response was a nonchalant shrug. "Not much, Lo. S’just another day, really."

Logan, determined to see his friend enjoy his special day, was relentless. "Come on, Haz, you can't just let it pass by like any other day."

Harry's smile was a mixture of sarcasm and resignation. "Logan, birthdays stopped mattering to me a long time ago."

Unwilling to give up, Logan clasped a hand on Harry's shoulder, his voice earnest. "We want to make it matter, Haz. We want to see you happy."

Harry let out a sigh, his gaze focused on the linoleum floor. "V’not been truly happy since 1864."

With genuine concern, Logan gave Harry's shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

He met his friend's eyes and spoke with conviction. "That's why we're having a small get-together at Chapel Grove later. We really want you to be there."

As they navigated the hallway's hustle and bustle, the invitation hung in the air, a chance for Harry to embrace a moment of joy and connection with his friends.

The vibrant energy of the school seemed to underscore the significance of the celebration, offering a glimmer of hope amid the weight of Harry's long, complex existence.

Harry, although deeply touched by his friend's determination, couldn't help but maintain a sense of reservation. "M’appreciate it, Lo, I really do. But birthdays ‘ave just become another reminder f’how much time ‘as passed."

Logan's expression softened with empathy as they reached the entrance to the boys' bathroom.

He leaned against the tiled wall, still focused on his friend. "We understand, Haz, but that doesn't mean we should stop celebrating your existence. You mean a lot to all of us."

Harry, while genuinely grateful for his friends' loyalty, couldn't help but express the unspoken burdens he bore. "Logan, y’guys mean the world t’me. I just... sometimes s’hard t’feel like I belong."

Logan nodded in understanding, offering a warm smile. "You'll always belong with us, mate. Your past doesn't define who you are now. We're your family."

Harry's eyes met Logan's, a complex blend of emotions within them. "I'll think about it, Lo. Maybe I'll stop by f’a little while."

Logan's face brightened with hope, and he clapped Harry on the shoulder. "That's all we're asking for, mate. It'll be good to see you there."

As they stood by their lockers and went about their business, the weight of the invitation and the potential for a night of camaraderie hung in the air.

Harry and Logan stood side by side at their lockers, an everyday occurrence in their high school lives.

The lockers were nestled close together, their shared space where they stored their books, sports equipment, and the remnants of their shared experiences.

Logan, while absentmindedly organising his books, couldn't help but steal glances at the photo Harry kept inside his locker.

His friend had positioned the photograph with utmost care, the image of you from a time long past.

He stared at the frozen moment in time, where happiness radiated from the smiles on both of your faces.

A sigh escaped Logan's lips as he realised the depth of Harry's love for you. It was a love that had spanned generations, enduring through hardships and transcending the boundaries of life and death.

Logan knew that your absence weighed heavily on Harry's heart, and he understood the profound sense of loss that his friend carried with him.

Harry, unaware of Logan's quiet reflection, continued to look at the photo, lost in his thoughts.

He traced his fingers over the image, his eyes filled with a longing that Logan knew all too well. It was in this moment, by their lockers, that Logan recognized the magnitude of Harry's enduring love for you.

A profound sadness settled over Logan as he realised that, perhaps, his friend might never truly find happiness again.

The love that bound Harry to you was a force of nature, a connection that had persisted through centuries and across lifetimes.

Logan couldn't help but wonder if anyone could truly fill the void left by your absence in Harry's life.

With a heavy heart, Logan closed his locker, the weight of his friend's unending love and the complex emotions it carried lingering in the air.

He was determined to be the support that Harry needed, but he also knew that some wounds were so deep that they might never fully heal.

Two weeks after you and Harry had exchanged your vows and embarked on your journey as a married couple, a photograph was taken that would forever capture the warmth of your love.

The setting was the quaint parlour room of your shared house, a cosy and intimate space where the walls bore witness to your growing bond.

Harry, the ever-doting husband, stood behind a large wooden camera, his steady hands adjusting the focus and angle.

He was a man of few words but abundant actions, and his choice to capture this moment was a testament to his enduring affection for you.

You, the picture of grace and elegance, sat on a plush, tufted sofa, your wedding attire still adorned as a symbol of the promises you'd made to each other.

Your eyes sparkled with the thrill of your new life together, and your radiant smile spoke volumes about the happiness that had taken root in your heart.

The room was bathed in soft, diffused light from the lace-curtained windows, casting a gentle glow upon your features.

The flickering flames in the fireplace added an inviting warmth to the scene, illuminating the tender connection you shared.

As Harry focused the camera and adjusted the settings, the two of you communicated without words, a silent understanding that transcended the need for speech.

The air was filled with love, tenderness, and a profound sense of commitment that emanated from the very core of your beings.

As the camera's shutter clicked and captured the image for posterity, you and Harry tried valiantly to maintain an air of stoicism, a facade of solemnity befitting a formal photograph.

But the sheer absurdity of the situation, sitting so still and holding expressions that were foreign to your otherwise joyful selves, proved too much to bear.

Your eyes met, and the spark of laughter that had been simmering beneath the surface suddenly bubbled up.

A smile tugged at the corners of your lips, and the restrained giggles escaped from both of you.

"Y’doing great, m’sun," Harry said, his voice laced with a hint of mirth.

Your response was a chuckle, the sound bursting forth like a long-held secret. "And you, my love, look positively dashing in your stern photographer pose."

Harry's own laughter joined yours, filling the room with a joyous sound that mirrored the happiness you both felt. The absurdity of the moment, the irony of trying to remain composed when you were anything but, was simply too amusing to resist.

"Alrigh’, one more time," Harry declared, his eyes crinkling with amusement as he prepared to take another shot.

You nodded, still unable to suppress your laughter.

It was a shared, spontaneous moment of pure delight, a testament to the deep connection you shared and the unwavering happiness that had bloomed in your hearts since the day you said "I do."

You walk into The Chapel Grove, your steps reluctant as Zayn had practically pulled you out of the house.

He insisted that you shouldn't be a loner, especially on a day like this. The town had seen so many changes over the years, and you had watched it all from the shadows.

As you step inside the cosy establishment, the familiar scent of aged wood and warm hearth greets you.

The patrons seated around the room, sipping on their drinks and engaging in quiet conversations, all turn their heads to look at the two of you.

Your arrival, so unexpected in a town that rarely saw newcomers, had drawn their attention.

Their stares bore into you, curious and contemplative. They weren't used to strangers in Holmes Chapel, especially those who had an air of mystery about them.

You can feel the weight of their collective gaze as you navigate the room, trying to remain composed despite the discomfort of being the centre of attention.

The ambiance of The Chapel Grove is timeless, much like the town itself. The worn wooden tables and antique décor create an atmosphere steeped in history, a place where stories were told and secrets were shared.

You can't help but feel like an intruder in a world that was so familiar to its regular patrons.

You turn to Zayn and offer a half-hearted smile, your voice low as you speak. "I just need to use the bathroom. I won't be long."

He nods in understanding, sensing your unease. "Take your time. I'll be right here."

As you step into the dimly lit bathroom, you immediately head for a stall, your hands trembling as you lock the door behind you.

The walls seem to close in around you, and the weight of the unfamiliar world outside becomes almost suffocating. In moments like these, you realise just how much you relied on your husband in the past to help you navigate such situations.

You sit on the closed toilet lid, attempting to regulate your emotions. The sound of your own breathing fills the small space, each inhale and exhale a reminder of the isolation you feel. It's not that you don't have Zayn; he's a dear friend and confidant.

But he's not Harry, the one person who could always get into your head and reassure you that everything would be okay.

The pressure of the unfamiliar world outside bears down on you, and your chest tightens with anxiety.

You remember how, in the past, you would lean into Harry's comforting presence, his calm words of reassurance soothing your troubled soul.

Now, you find yourself yearning for that same sense of security and understanding that only he could provide.

Your home was filled with tension. You and Harry had found yourselves entangled in a heated argument, the kind that made your hearts ache and your words sting.

"Harry, I hardly ever see you anymore," you lamented, your voice fraught with loneliness. "You're always cooped up in that office, and it feels like you've forgotten about me."

He shot back, his own voice rising in frustration, "Well, maybe I would ‘ave more time if I didn't ‘ave t’ come home t’constant nagging!"

The argument had been building for days, fueled by your sense of abandonment and his feeling of being trapped by responsibility.

Harry's harsh words were like a dagger through your heart, and he instantly regretted them when he saw your face pale.

His anger was replaced with regret, and he stammered, "I didn't mean that, (Y/N). M’jus’ overwhelmed lately, and I took it out on ye’. M’sorry."

But in that heated moment, you weren't ready to hear apologies. Hurt and vulnerable, you turned away, unable to hold back the tears.

His regret was genuine, but the pain was still raw.

As the argument reached its peak, his temper flared, and he stormed out of the living room, his heavy footsteps thudding up the stairs.

You, lost in the heat of the moment, believed he had gone outside, that he had actually left you, not realising he had gone upstairs.

"Harry!" you cried out, running to the door. But he was nowhere to be found, and the anguish of thinking he had left you alone in the house was almost unbearable.

As the echoes of the argument with Harry still resounded in your mind, you sank down onto the floor, your back against the wall.

Your heart raced, and panic set in, a suffocating sensation that tightened its grip on your chest.

The world around you seemed to blur, and your breaths grew rapid and shallow.

Tears welled up in your eyes, blurring your vision, as the fear of Harry actually leaving overwhelmed you.

The room felt like it was closing in, and the walls seemed to press closer. It was the fear of abandonment, the thought of being left behind, that haunted your thoughts.

Every second felt like an eternity, as you clutched at your chest, trying to slow the pounding of your heart.

Your mind raced with scenarios, none of them comforting. The idea that he might never come back hung heavy in the air.

Your throat constricted, and your sobs grew more pronounced as you battled with the intensity of the panic attack. It was a storm of emotions that had been building over time, now unleashed in a torrent of tears and despair.

But deep down, a part of you still held on to hope, a hope that Harry's anger and frustration would pass, and he would come back to you. You clung to that hope, a flicker of light in the overwhelming darkness of your panic.

As you sat on the floor, vulnerable and scared, you whispered to yourself,

"He'll come back, he has to."

It was the lifeline you desperately needed in that moment of despair, the belief that your love was stronger than any argument.

In the throes of your panic attack, your trembling hands reached out, inadvertently knocking a small vase from a nearby table. The sound of shattering glass echoed in the room, intensifying your fear and confusion.

Upstairs, Harry had heard the crash, and his heart sank. He assumed you had escalated your anger to smashing things in frustration. He rushed downstairs, fear and worry gnawing at him.

Instead, the sight that met him was you, huddled on the floor, overwhelmed by your panic.

"God, S’happened?" Harry exclaimed, his initial worry turning into a desperate concern. He approached you cautiously, uncertain about the best way to help.

You, lost in your panic, barely noticed his arrival. Your voice trembled as you repeated, "Don't leave me, Harry. Please, don't leave me."

His heart ached at your words, and he knelt beside you, his voice gentle and reassuring. "M’right ‘ere, m’sun. M’not going anywhere. I promise. Y’safe."

But in the grip of your panic, it was hard to believe those words. You stared at him with wide, tear-filled eyes, as if questioning his presence.

"Look at me, (Y/N)," Harry implored, his voice unwavering. "M’not leaving ye’. We'll get through this together, okay? Just focus on y’breathing."

His hands gently touched your face, urging you to make eye contact with him. The warmth of his touch and the sincerity in his eyes began to break through the layers of your panic.

As you slowly locked eyes with him, his face came into focus, and the realisation that he was indeed there with you started to sink in.

"Harry?" you whispered, your voice still shaky.

He nodded, offering a small, reassuring smile. "S’right. M’right ‘ere."

With his comforting presence, the grip of panic began to loosen. Your breathing gradually steadied, and your sobs turned into quiet sniffles.

Harry continued to speak softly, "Y’doing great, (Y/N) Jus’keep taking deep breaths. M’not going anywhere, I promise."

As the minutes passed, the chaos in your mind began to subside. The shattered vase remained on the floor, forgotten for the moment, as your focus shifted to the security of Harry's embrace and the reassurance that he wasn't leaving you, not now, not ever.

Through whispered words and steady embraces, the panic attack slowly lost its grip, and the room filled with a sense of calm. You clung to Harry, grateful for his unwavering support during your darkest moments.

In the present moment, you snapped out of your daze, realising that you were still inside the bathroom.

You flushed the toilet, an attempt to cover the time you'd spent in silent reflection. The sound of rushing water filled the room momentarily.

Moving to the sink, you stared at your reflection in the dimly lit bathroom mirror. The exhaustion in your eyes was evident, a testament to the emotional turmoil you had experienced earlier.

It was a stark reminder of the weight of your past, a past that felt both distant and eternally present.

You turned on the tap, allowing the water to flow over your hands. The cool liquid was refreshing, and you splashed some onto your face, hoping it would wash away the lingering traces of anxiety and sadness.

It was a brief respite, a moment of self-care in a life that often felt too long.

As you dried your face, you couldn't ignore the gnawing hunger that had been growing within you. It was a reminder of your unending need for sustenance.

The reality of your existence as a creature of the night was undeniable, and your hunt for sustenance was a constant, ever-present part of your life.

You walked out of the dimly lit bathroom and made your way back to the bar where Zayn was still seated.

With a subtle nod, you leaned in close to him and muttered,

"I'm going outside for a smoke."

It was your secret code, a discreet way to convey that you were heading out to satisfy your unique appetite.

Zayn, who understood the hidden meaning behind your words, simply nodded in acknowledgment, concern etched in his expression.

He knew that this part of your existence was both a necessity and a burden, and he respected your privacy.

As you turned to leave, he called after you,

"What drink do you want?" His voice was gentle, and it carried an underlying understanding of your needs.

You paused, glancing back at him, a hint of gratitude in your eyes.

"Malibu and Coke," you replied, a hint of a smile tugging at your lips.

Zayn signalled to the bartender, ordering the drink you'd requested, before turning his attention back to the bar.

You stepped out of Chapel Grove, the warm afternoon sun casting long shadows on the street. Leaning against a nearby wall, you scanned the area, looking for the perfect taste tester.

The hunger gnawed at you, urging you to satisfy your insatiable appetite.

As you observed the passing crowd, your eyes fell on a perky girl with obviously dyed green hair. She seemed carefree and lost in her own world, the daylight concealing your supernatural nature. It was the perfect opportunity.

With quiet determination, you approached her, your eyes locking onto hers.

Compelling her to follow your commands, you exerted your supernatural influence, making her believe that following you was the most natural thing in the world.

Her gaze glazed over, and she nodded obediently as you led her away from the bustling street, into a secluded corner where no one would witness the act that was about to unfold.

In a soft, persuasive tone, you said, "Come with me. You trust me completely."

The girl replied in a trance, "I trust you completely."

In that quiet corner, you could feel your fangs elongate, your senses sharpening as the anticipation grew.

With a quick, fluid motion, you bit into her neck, and she murmured, "I trust you."

As you fed, your eyes closed in ecstasy, the taste of her blood unlike anything else. It was a mixture of fear and excitement, vulnerability and surrender.

It was a dark pleasure, a forbidden indulgence that coursed through your veins.

The girl in your grasp remained lost in a trance, her voice murmuring softly, "I trust you."

But even as you indulged in this dark act, a sense of guilt gnawed at the edges of your consciousness.

You were a creature of the night, bound by your need for blood, but it came at the cost of another's innocence.

Finally, you pulled away, your lips stained with crimson.

The girl remained in a trance, her memory clouded. She gazed at you, her voice still murmuring, "I trust you."

As you watched her stumble away, you felt the weight of your existence, the eternal struggle between your nature and your humanity.

The hunger had been momentarily sated, but the guilt and the darkness that came with it lingered, a constant reminder of the price you paid for immortality in the afternoon sun.

You headed back inside Chapel Grove and spotted Zayn seated at a table next to a group of high schoolers.

With a nod of acknowledgment, you walked over and took the seat opposite him. The dim lighting of the place masked the remnants of your recent escapade.

Zayn glanced at you, a knowing look in his eyes.

"How was your smoke?" he asked with a hint of amusement.

You let out a small laugh and picked up your drink.

"Oh, it hit the spot," you replied, taking a sip and savouring the familiar taste of your Malibu and Coke.

As you settled into the conversation, Zayn asked, "What's on your mind, my friend? Anything special you'd like to do when we get back to London?"

You leaned back in your chair, considering the options.

"Well, I've been thinking about that new art exhibition at the Tate Modern," you said thoughtfully. "I've heard it's incredible, and I wouldn't mind spending an afternoon exploring the world of art."

Zayn nodded, intrigued. "That sounds fantastic. Art has a way of stirring the soul. Anything else on your list?"

You tapped your fingers on the table, pondering. "How about a night at that jazz club we used to frequent? The live music there always hits the right notes."

Zayn's eyes sparkled with anticipation, and he smiled. "I'm in. A bit of jazz, good company, and some fine wine. It's a perfect plan."

You paused for a moment and then said, "Actually, I was thinking, what if we took a little holiday? Maybe Spain? It's meant to be really nice this time of year."

Zayn's eyes widened in excitement. "Spain? That sounds incredible! I'm in immediately. A holiday is just what we need."

As the conversation about Spain continued, you both delved into the details of the trip. The destinations, the activities, the relaxation.

Planning a getaway rekindled a sense of adventure that had been somewhat dormant.

"I've always wanted to explore the historic streets of Seville," you mentioned. "And then there's the beauty of Barcelona, the beaches in Costa del Sol, and the vibrant culture of Madrid."

Zayn nodded eagerly. "All of that sounds amazing. Let's make sure to experience it all. It's been too long since we had a proper adventure."

Zayn mentioned, "We should also talk about when you'd like to visit the grave."

You glanced at your watch and replied, "I'll head there right after this. It's his birthday, and I want to pay my respects."

Zayn had been trying his best to be a comforting presence for you, offering distractions and support as you dealt with the emotional weight of the day. He brought you out for a quick drink to help you focus on something other than the memories of your late husband's birthday.

Zayn nodded, understanding the significance of the day. "Of course, I'll be here if you need anything. Just take your time, and when you're ready, you can head over to the grave."

He never came with you, he always wanted you to go by yourself, so the two of you could have a moment together.

You offered a small, grateful smile. "Thank you, Z. Your support means the world to me."

As you continued your conversation, you took comfort in the presence of your friend, appreciating how he had been trying to distract you from the weight of your late husband's birthday. The evening offered a brief respite from the emotions that had been haunting you.

As you engaged in conversation with Zayn about your upcoming plans, you couldn't help but notice the group of high schoolers at the adjacent table.

Their curious glances and hushed whispers did not go unnoticed, thanks to your keen vampire hearing. You exchanged a quick, amused look with Zayn, acknowledging the attention.

The teenagers were clearly intrigued by your presence, and their chatter focused on you, not Zayn. Your enhanced senses allowed you to catch snippets of their conversation.

They speculated about your age, your appearance, and what might have brought you to Chapel Grove.

Zayn, who was well aware of the situation, tried to steer the conversation back to your holiday plans. However, you couldn't help but be amused by the curiosity of the young onlookers.

You exchanged a playful grin with Zayn and decided to let them wonder a bit longer.

As the group of high schoolers continued to whisper and speculate about you, their curious glances and hushed remarks grew increasingly irritating. You were trying to enjoy your evening out and discuss your plans with Zayn, and their relentless scrutiny was getting on your nerves.

Feeling the frustration building, you couldn't help but let out a small, exasperated sigh. You turned your attention toward them and asked with a hint of annoyance, "Is there something you're all looking at?"

For a moment, they remained silent, their expressions frozen in surprise. It was only when you glanced closer that you recognized one of the girls – the same ginger-haired one you had accidentally bumped into during your run earlier in the day.

A hush fell over their group as they realised you had noticed their focus. It didn't take long for you to piece together the reason behind their stares.

They recognized you from the picture of you in Harry's house, the same photo that they had seen when visiting with Harry.

You sighed and rolled your eyes, unimpressed by their attention.

You exchanged a knowing look with Zayn, who had been aware of the situation all along. It was clear that these young locals had discovered your connection to Harry and were now watching you with a mix of curiosity and recognition.

With a final, dismissive glance at the group, you decided it was time to leave. Downing the remainder of your drink, you stood up from the table, Zayn following suit.

You didn't want to engage with strangers who were more interested in your past than the enjoyable evening you had planned.

Together, you and Zayn walked out of Chapel Grove, leaving the high schoolers behind in their hushed discussions.

Walking away from the restaurant, you were deep in conversation about your plans for the future, oblivious to the door on the other side of the establishment.

On the other side of the door, Harry and Niall entered the restaurant, their timing almost perfectly synchronised.

Harry, had been hesitant about going out in, but Niall had convinced him to join for a brief visit.

If he had arrived just a second earlier, your paths would have crossed, and you would have seen each other.

Harry made his way to the table where his friends were gathered, the anticipation of their usual camaraderie evident on his face.

He looked forward to spending his evening with his closest companions, especially on his birthday, he may have been reluctant to come but now that he was here he was in the celebrating spirit.

As he approached the table, however, he immediately sensed that something was amiss. The atmosphere was heavy with tension, and his friends' expressions were not as cheerful as he had expected.

Harry stood next to Toby, a sense of unease gnawing at him.

Normally, on his birthday, they would greet him with cheerful exclamations of "Happy Birthday!" and share a toast in his honour.

But this time, there was a palpable awkwardness in the air, as if they were all tiptoeing around a subject they were hesitant to broach.

Harry couldn't help but feel that there was something unsaid, a looming question that hung in the air.

Harry's growing impatience was evident as he looked around at his friends, who all appeared rather sheepish.

He couldn't understand why their usual camaraderie had taken such an awkward turn on his birthday.

His curiosity and concern had reached a tipping point, and he finally blurted out, "S’the matter, guys? S’everyone acting so strange tonight?"

A silence settled over the table, and Harry's friends exchanged hesitant glances.

Growing increasingly impatient and concerned about his friends' strange behavior, Harry couldn't contain himself any longer.

He leaned forward, looked at each of them, and asked once more, "Seriously, S’wrong, guys? Y’acting like something big s’going on. Y’can't keep m’in the dark like this."

The awkward silence at the table continued, and his friends exchanged nervous glances. Harry was determined to get to the bottom of this sudden change in atmosphere, and he wasn't going to let it ruin what was supposed to be a celebratory evening.

The girl in their group who Harry was closest to, Penny, apart from Niall and Logan, finally broke the silence.

She met Harry's gaze with a mixture of sympathy and apprehension. She took a deep breath and said, "Harry, you might want to sit down for this."

Harry's heart began to race as he listened to her words. His friends had always been open and supportive, and this sudden change in their demeanour had him genuinely worried. He quickly found an empty seat, his mind racing with all the possible scenarios for the unexpected revelation that was about to come.

She chose her words carefully, looking into Harry's eyes, and said, "Harry, something... something has come up, and it's not easy for us to say. It's about... well, it's about her."

Penny continued, her voice trembling with a mix of confusion and concern, "Harry, we were sitting at the table right next to ours, and we're one hundred percent sure it was her. Everyone here recognized her, and there's no mistaking it."

Harry's confusion deepened, and he shook his head in disbelief. He exhaled heavily and said, "S’impossible, Pen. She... she died over a hundred years ago. S’no way it could ‘ave been ‘er sitting there."

The news was so baffling and contradictory to everything he knew that Harry couldn't wrap his mind around it. He looked at his friends, hoping they would provide some clarification or a reasonable explanation for the impossible scenario they were describing.

Penny saw the disbelief in Harry's eyes and realized that her words were hard to digest. She took a deep breath and elaborated further, "Harry, I know it sounds impossible, but we're all certain. She was sitting there, just a few feet away. It was her face, her eyes... Even the way she moved, it was like... like you were seeing a ghost."

The gravity of the situation began to sink in for Harry, and he leaned in, his brow furrowing as he asked, "Y’absolutely sure it was ‘er? S’no way it could ‘ave been someone who jus’ looks remarkably like ‘er?"

Penny nodded, her voice resolute, "Harry, I wish it was that simple, but there's no mistaking it. It was her. The way she looked, her expressions, everything. It was as if she'd walked straight out of the past and into this bar. "

Harry couldn't deny the unease that crept over him. It defied all logic and reason. The love of his life had died over a century ago, and now, he was confronted with the inexplicable notion that she had reappeared in this world.

Brooke let out a heavy sigh and further perplexed Harry by adding, "I even saw her earlier today on my way to school. She was jogging, and I accidentally bumped into her. She probably didn't even notice me, but it was definitely her."

Harry's confusion deepened even more. The last time he had been in your presence was when he had silently entered your bedroom, a week after his "death," to see you one last time before leaving for good.

The circumstances surrounding their separation had been heartbreaking, and the notion of seeing you once more was something he could never have expected.

He ran his fingers through his hair, feeling a mixture of emotions swirling within him. The situation was surreal, and he couldn't fathom how you could possibly be here, in this town, in this century.

With silent steps, he entered your bedroom, and there you were, asleep, lost in dreams that he could never share with you again. Harry approached your bed, his heart heavy, and sat down on the edge. He gazed upon your peaceful face, the face he had once woken up to every morning.

In a hushed voice, he began to speak to your sleeping form, as if you could hear him in your dreams.

"M’wish I could hold y’one more time, m’sun," he whispered, his voice trembling with emotion. "M’wish I could tell y’how much I love ‘ye and how much it pains m’t’leave. But this is the only way, the only way t’protect ‘ye."

He reached out and tenderly brushed a strand of hair from your face, his fingers tracing the contours of your features, memorizing every detail. "Y’the most beautiful thing in m’life, and I'll carry y’with me in m’heart, always. I just hope you can find happiness and peace without me."

He continued to pour out his heart, knowing this would be the last time he could express his love for you. "M’never thought I'd have t’say goodbye like this, m’dearest. But I promise, even though M’not by y’side, I'll always watch over ‘ye, protect y’from the shadows, and love y’with all m’being."

The room was bathed in a soft, warm glow from the moonlight filtering through the curtains.

Harry's voice was barely above a whisper as he confessed, "I wish we could have had more time together, more days f’laughter, and more nights f’love. But fate ‘as different plans, and I must follow s’path."

He traced the outline of your lips with his fingertip, almost expecting a response, a sign that you could hear his words in your dreams. "I'll carry the memory of y’smile with me, and I'll cherish every moment we spent together, every stolen kiss, and every shared secret."

Tears welled up in his eyes, threatening to spill onto your pillow. "I don't know when, or if, we'll ever meet again, but know that I'll be waiting for that day. Until then, m’sun, be happy, be safe, and know that y’were the best part of m’life."

Harry leaned down, his lips brushing against your forehead once more, as he whispered his final goodbye. "Goodbye, m’sun. I'll always love ‘ye, no matter where I am or what time separates us."

With that, he silently left the room, leaving you to your dreams, unaware of his tearful farewell.

Harry couldn't help but feel a surge of agitation. He turned to Brooke, his expression a mix of confusion and frustration, and asked, "Y’were with me at lunch, and y’didn't even mention anything? Y’knew it was her, and y’kept it to yourself?"

Brooke shifted uncomfortably in her seat, realizing the implications of her silence. She stammered, "I... I didn't know what to say. It was just so bizarre. I mean, how could it be her, right?"

Harry ran a hand through his hair, trying to wrap his head around the situation. "Brooke, she's supposed t’be long gone, over a century ago. If S’really ‘er, I need to find out how this is possible. I need to know."

He couldn't hide the urgency in his voice.

Ricky spoke up, "I did see her wearing a wedding ring. Toby's right; there's a high chance that it was her. If you want to find her, you'll likely find her at the cemetery."

Harry's heart raced, his emotions spiralling into chaos. The thought of seeing you, after all these years, overwhelmed him. He knew he needed to find you, but the uncertainty of what to say or how you would react left him paralyzed.

Toby's voice was gentle as he offered his advice. "Harry, if it's really her, just tell her that you love her. She must have so many questions as well, and love is a good place to start."

Harry nodded, his mind a whirlwind of emotions and doubts.

As Niall returned with the drinks, Harry's face was a mix of turmoil and disbelief. Without a word, he abruptly pushed his chair back and bolted from the table.

His friends watched in surprise as he dashed out of The Chapel Grove, leaving them all bewildered.

Niall’s eyes widened and his mouth was agape as he stared at his friends body that had just ran out of the door.

Penny let out a heavy sigh and leaned back in her chair. "It's a long story,"

You walk through the ornate iron gates of the cemetery, your steps slow and measured, as if each one carries the weight of a lifetime.

In your hand, you cradle a bouquet of geraniums, their vivid hues contrasting with the sombre surroundings.

These were Harry's favourite flowers, the ones you picked for him on your very first date all those years ago.

The geraniums are fresh, plucked from your garden this very morning. For 159 years, you've nurtured these vibrant blooms, tending to them year-round.

They've become a symbol of your love, a living reminder of the bond you shared.

And every time you visit this place, they grace his final resting place, an offering of love from a heart that can never forget.

The graveyard is serene, bathed in a soft, golden glow of the setting sun. The world seems to stand still here, as if time itself hesitates to intrude on the sacredness of this space.

Your presence here is a ritual, a pilgrimage to the past that you continue year after year.

The gravestones stand tall and silent, each one a marker of stories untold. As you navigate the narrow paths, you eventually reach the familiar spot, marked by a weathered headstone.

The engraved letters spell out his name and the years he walked this Earth.

𝙸𝙽 𝙼𝙴𝙼𝙾𝚁𝚈

𝙾𝙵

𝙷𝙰𝚁𝚁𝚈 𝙴𝙳𝚆𝙰𝚁𝙳 𝚂𝚃𝚈𝙻𝙴𝚂

𝚆𝙷𝙾 𝙳𝙴𝙿𝙰𝚁𝚃𝙴𝙳 𝚃𝙷𝙸𝚂 𝙻𝙸𝙵𝙴

𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝟸𝟻. 𝚂𝙴𝙿𝚃𝙴𝙼𝙱𝙴𝚁 𝟷𝟾𝟼𝟺.

𝙰𝙶𝙴𝙳 𝟷𝟾 𝚈𝙴𝙰𝚁𝚂.

𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚂𝙾𝙽 𝙾𝙵 𝙳𝙴𝚂𝙼𝙾𝙽𝙳 𝙰𝙽𝙳

𝙰𝙽𝙽𝙴 𝚂𝚃𝚈𝙻𝙴𝚂,

𝙷𝚄𝚂𝙱𝙰𝙽𝙳 𝙾𝙵 (𝚈/𝙽).

Standing before his grave, your emotions surge like a relentless tide.

The floodgates of grief open, and tears well up in your eyes, betraying the ache in your heart. The weight of memories and longing bears down on you, just as it does every year when you come here.

The tombstone before you remains steadfast, an enduring monument to the love you once shared.

The chiselled letters and numbers on the stone serve as a stark reminder of time's passage, a relentless march that has left you on this side of the grave.

The world around you fades into insignificance, and it's just you and the memory of him.

His laughter, his smile, the touch of his hand, they all come flooding back, as vivid and poignant as if they happened yesterday.

The breeze stirs the flowers in your hand, the geraniums swaying gently as if to offer solace. In this sacred space, you're allowed to mourn, to let your grief wash over you like a cleansing rain, purging the pain of his absence.

You stand before his grave, your voice quivering as you whisper, "Happy birthday, Harry."

Although, he wasn’t just Harry to her.

He was her sunshine, her darling boy, her angel sent from heaven, he was her everything and more.

The words hang in the air, heavy with emotion. The bouquet of geraniums trembles in your hands as you continue, the tears welling up in your eyes.

"I miss you more with each passing day," you confess, your voice choked with sorrow. "Every moment, every heartbeat, it's all filled with thoughts of you."

The weight of your grief becomes palpable, pressing down on you as you speak to the headstone before you.

"Life moves on, but I can't help but feel stuck in this moment, in this longing for you," you admit, the tears streaming down your cheeks. "There's a void in my heart that will never be filled. It's as if you took a piece of me with you, and it can never be replaced."

As you share your feelings, you feel a connection to him, as if he can hear your words from beyond.

It's a bittersweet solace, knowing that even though he's gone, you can still speak to him, even if only in your heart.

With your birthday wishes and your confessions hanging in the air, you take a deep breath, as if sharing your pain has lightened the burden, if only just a little.

Your voice trembles with emotion as you share your words, tears streaming down your face.

"I miss you more with each passing day," you manage to say before your voice breaks, your sobbing making it impossible to continue.

The weight of your grief bears down on you, and you lean forward to place the geraniums gently on his grave.

With your fingers, you press a loving kiss to his name engraved on the stone.

It's a silent declaration of your undying love and an unspoken promise that, even in death, you will remain connected.

The sobs shake your body, and you find solace in the simple act of being here, in this moment of remembrance.

The cemetery is quiet, and your heartache reverberates through the stillness.

Harry's heart raced as he sprinted through the gates of the cemetery.

His friends had told him you'd be here, and he couldn't bear the thought of missing the chance to see you.

He kept his pace steady, not wanting to draw any unwanted attention.

The graves of countless people passed by him as he ran, their stories and lives unknown to him. The cemetery was a place of quiet reflection, a sanctuary for the departed, but today it held a special significance for him.

His mind raced with a whirlwind of emotions. He didn't know what to expect when he saw you, and the uncertainty gnawed at him.

He had fantasised this moment countless times.

As Harry ran past the silent graves, his mind was filled with thoughts of what he might say to you. He pondered on the possibility that you might be there, that this wasn't a dream or a figment of his imagination.

What if you were really there?

His heart raced with a mixture of hope and trepidation.

After all, he hadn't seen you in over a century, and time had changed them both in many ways.

He wondered if you would recognize him, if you'd even remember the promise he had made to you all those years ago.

The weight of his emotions pressed on him, but he couldn't afford to hesitate. He was determined to reach you and, if it truly was you, to let you know that he was here, that he had come back to the place where it all began.

With each step, his resolve grew stronger, and he whispered to himself the words he had rehearsed for this moment, words of love and longing, words he hoped would reach you if you were indeed there.

Harry came to a stop a few metres behind you, his heart aching as he saw your shoulders shake with the weight of your grief.

He watched in silence, as you stood in front of his grave.

Your tears fell freely as you whispered words of love and longing, words that were meant for him but felt distant and unreachable.

His own emotions swirled within him, an overwhelming mix of joy at seeing you and pain at the knowledge that he couldn't comfort you in the way he wanted to.

“(Y/N)?”

Harry couldn't contain his overwhelming desire to reach out to you any longer. He called out your name, his voice trembling with a mix of love and sorrow.

But when you heard your name on the wind, you froze, your heart pounding in your chest.

A part of you wanted to believe it was real, that Harry was truly here, but another part feared that it might be a cruel trick of your imagination, a manifestation of your grief.

Your feet felt heavy as you dared not turn around, as if doing so might shatter the fragile hope that had ignited within you.

At the sound of his voice calling your name, you snapped your head around, not daring to believe your ears.

And there he was, standing just a few metres away, tears glistening in his eyes as he looked at you with an intensity that reached deep into your soul.

The shock, the joy, the disbelief, all of it hit you like a tidal wave, and your legs could no longer support your quivering body.

You sank to your knees on the dirt-covered ground of the cemetery, your heart pounding as tears flowed freely from your eyes.

It was a moment of pure, unadulterated emotion, as you wept tears of joy and sorrow, the pain of separation, and the sheer happiness of seeing him again.

The second he saw you crumble to your knees, his heart ached in sympathy, and without a second thought, he surged toward you with the swiftness of a vampire.

He wrapped his arms around you as you both sat on the gritty cemetery ground. His arms held you with the same tenderness and longing he'd felt for hundreds of years, as if he was never willing to let you go again.

Both of you were now shedding tears, the emotions too overwhelming to contain.

As you wept, you inhaled the familiar scent of vanilla that had always clung to him, and he, in turn, breathed in your delicate lavender scent, a fragrance etched into his memory.

The world around you faded into obscurity, and the reality of your reunion enveloped you like a protective cocoon. It was a moment of reconnection, an embrace that transcended time itself.

You didn't need words to express the depth of your feelings; the tears streaming from your eyes were eloquent enough.

Harry's hand gently cradled your cheek, his thumb brushing away your tears as if to erase the years of sorrow that had separated you.

You leaned into his touch, absorbing the warmth and reassurance it offered.

You and Harry sat in the very same spot that was now a cemetery. Back then, it had been a lush flower field, vibrant colours stretching as far as the eye could see.

You'd decided to celebrate your first wedding anniversary amid this picturesque beauty. It was the perfect setting for a picnic, and the Geraniums you'd gathered were scattered around you.

Sitting side by side, you were dressed in a white lace dress, your hair crowned with a simple wreath of wildflowers.

Harry, in his best suit, looked at you with the same adoration he held in his eyes now, though both of you were just a year into your marriage.

Amid the colourful blooms, you shared a simple meal, strawberries and a loaf of bread. You fed each other, laughing at the sweetness of the berries, your hands touching with affection.

The bright sun bathed you in a warm, golden glow. You leaned against Harry's shoulder as he read poetry to you. The verses sounded like music as they filled the air, mingling with the scent of the wildflowers that surrounded you.

Harry's hand played with a strand of your hair as he recited lines of love. The gentle touch and the softness of your laughter mingled with the harmonious symphony of your hearts.

You marvelled at your incredible fortune in having found such a deep connection, an everlasting love.

Harry took your hand in his and looked into your eyes with a loving smile.

"Y’know," he began, his voice tender, "M’can't wait f’the day we start a family f’our own."

Your heart skipped a beat at the thought of children, and your eyes sparkled with excitement. "Oh, H, I can't wait either. I imagine our children playing in fields like this, laughing, and picking flowers."

Harry's thumb gently brushed against your hand as he nodded. "And I can see us growing old together, watching them grow and flourish."

You shared a dreamy smile, leaning in closer. "I can't imagine a more beautiful future, Harry. I just want us to always be together, no matter what life throws our way."

He pulled you into a warm, affectionate embrace. "Together, forever. We'll build our family, create our memories, and keep celebrating our love."

Harry's fingers gently toyed with a strand of your hair.

Your tears still fell, the overwhelming emotions of the past colliding with the present.

With a trembling voice, Harry asked, "Are y’real?"

You nodded your head against his, your tears landing on his shoulder as silent sobs racked your body.

Harry dared not let his thoughts drift too far. Instead, he reached for your left hand, his fingers gently brushing over your wedding ring, a small smile tugging at his lips.

The familiar band, a symbol of your love, was still there, as if time had stood still.

You, in turn, took his left hand, your thumb tracing the contours of his wedding ring.

The smooth metal beneath your touch was a testament to the love you shared, a love that had transcended the boundaries of time.

Harry's gaze never wavered from your tear-filled eyes. The years apart had only deepened the connection between you. He gently whispered,

"Can I kiss ‘ye?"

You let out a tender sniffle, the raw emotions still swirling within you.

With a soft smile, you wrapped your arms around his neck, drawing him closer.

He leaned in, and as your lips met, it was as if the world had melted away.

The kiss was a testament to the love that time had only fortified.

Your heart swelled as the moment lingered, filled with warmth and affection. In that simple yet profound gesture, you both found solace and a renewed sense of hope.

Time had played its tricks, but love had prevailed.

The two of you shared a soft, tender kiss, surrounded by the serenity of the cemetery and the golden leaves that fluttered around you.

“M’love you, m’sun.”

That nickname. The only pet name he had ever called you, it was a nickname only you would allow him to call you.

You were his sun, and he was your light.

You played with the peach fuzz at the back of his neck, locking eyes with his green eyes that you had wished to see for 178 years.

And now that has finally come true, the puzzle pieces of your heart had finally been fixed and you felt like you could finally breath again.

“I love you, my light, always and forever.”

Your love really was A Love Beyond Time.

[peachdues]

IN THE NETHERWOOD

PART III TEASER • werewolf!Sanemi x Red Riding Hood Reader

A/N: both Part I and Part II are posted!

Sanemi Shinazugawa was no stranger to fear.

Fear was a rational experience; it was what kept him alive, kept him moving, even when everything within him begged him to give up, to stop.

He’d known fear that day when the monster attacked his family, maiming him and Genya while killing everyone else. He’d known it again the first time he shifted, the moon ominously down upon him as his skin rippled and his joints contorted.

He’d known it again when Kanae had sounded a single warning howl in the night, never to be seen or heard from again.

But this was not mere fear.

This was terror. Pure, unadulterated and boundless terror like he’d never before known.

It was paralyzing; the kind that locked you where you stood and would not let your body move, no matter how much your brain screamed at you otherwise. It broke him out in a cold sweat, his body unable to regulate its own temperature as it trembled.

And yet, the terror was not his own; not there, sitting with his pack mates as they rested during their nightly patrol.

It was precisely because it wasn’t his terror to begin with that ever hair on Sanemi’s body stood straight on end as the sensation rippled through him like the aftershock of some earthen calamity.

There was only one way for him to feel such soul-shattering trepidation when he was otherwise safe and sound; because that meant Y/N — his mate — was anything but.

Sanemi sprung to his feet, not caring at the wide eyed alarm of his closest friends as they voiced their concern. He was far too focused on thundering her name down their shared bond, demanding that she answer, that she give some sort of sign as to her location so he could run to her, help her, protect her —

Another surge of that hot, frantic alarm and then nothing.

The bond went silent.

And Sanemi knew terror — true terror.

[oftidheard]

o my days im on my knees pls do a part two of ur recent coriolanus fic (the one he chose to take the punishment instead of her) 🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️

so happy to hear people enjoyed it enough to want more ♡ this is a part two to burn me twice and the blame walks for you

you thought it'd be nice to hold the ice i can't see coriolanus snow x reader ↳ 2.4k ↳ angst with a happy? ending ↳ feminine

that night — per coriolanus's instruction — you'd pulled yourself together enough to slip through crowds with an inconspicuous politeness, and made your way home.

he hadn't joined you like he usually did, and instead parted from you in that very hallway outside heavensbee hall. he didn't have to utter a word for you to recognise the calculated look in his eyes and clenched jaw; he had a plan.

so you'd said your goodbyes, and felt his gaze follow you until you were out of sight, but onwards still felt that protective aura he'd built up around you — as if on your cold walk home, he was still there to keep you safe.

from the second your hand had been dropped from coriolanus's, to the moment you'd crossed the threshold to your lavish bedroom, it had all been a mist. you'd received congratulations from some classmates, and bitter glares from others, but they'd all blurred together — just as your quick feet hitting the pavement had rushed so quickly, that when your body finally landed atop your neatly set bed, your head still span.

everything had felt light, like the only things stopping you from simply floating away were the roof above your head and your unbreakable anchor to your boyfriend — wherever he was, whatever he was doing now.

when you'd come down from the dissociated thump in your head clouding behind your eyes, you'd found yourself sat at your windowsill.

your gaze then met the ball of soft light rising in the sky, eyes following the moon as she grew brighter, as she welcomed her night-time kingdom — and you, her subject.

you don't remember if it comforted you — staring up at the fixture of the sky, the objectively serene picture something one might guess to be the calmest thing you could ever find — but you remember pretending coriolanus might be watching the moon too, likewise hoping you to be okay just as you did for him; so that was, perhaps, what kept you going.

but at the very least, you don't remember hanging on for dear life and grasping for empty gasps as you'd fallen asleep.

petty theft gets you hung in the districts — the fact played on repeat in your tired head; you didn't want to even think about what sort of noose would await you for disrespecting the capitol's prestigious games — so you tried to trick yourself into dreaming of a picnic with your boyfriend.

the moon — ever kind — had lulled you to slumber, and granted you a dreamless sleep, momentarily letting you forget the ruin your life would face come morning.

now you've awoken, you can feel where the opaque glue has been piped between your shattered pieces; all in a fragile attempt to keep you together. the shards of yesterday's breakage prick at your sore neck and constrict the beating of your heart, flashes of last night's emotions stabbing you relentlessly.

it feels surreal, knowing at the end of it all, you still have to return to the academy today for what would be — if it weren't for dean highbottom and what he shouldn't know — an entirely regular school day; a disconcerting departure from the chaos of recent that had dug itself a burrow in your life and started to feel like your new norm.

but it isn't, and you're a distinguished young woman who needs to gratefully embrace her education, and you cannot return as a role model for future mentors with tear-stained cheeks and yesterday's mussed uniform. so you shakily rise from your curled up position by the still opened window, and clean yourself up as best you can with trembling hands spurred on by unsteady breaths.

the wind whips at you the entire walk to the academy, and you hope it's strong enough to wash away any semblance of the broken girl you'd caught a glimpse of in the mirror just before departing — and you think, if that requires the ice-cold breeze knocking you over with such a force that each and every shard of you falls apart into disrepair; you'd let it happen.

but as your feet drag you to your destination you are not granted the reprieve of irreversibly breaking; you are simply torn, and it hurts so much worse.

your shoes scuff the path, and the rips deep inside you that make the walk laborious are invisible to the outside world. your lips upturn when you pass a neighbour, but your smile is dampened just enough that they would notice just how unconvincing it is if you weren't set in motion, and already gone down the street.

you are in disarray, you are fraying at the edges that have been caressed by fire. your fingertips are singed by the very items that saved you, and the smoke of the flames that bit you back draws your breaths heavy.

you try to breathe through it, and keep your head high enough that no one wonders why you look so miserable, but low enough that eyes lamenting your arrogance after just one win don't follow you.

embers climb up your legs and sting your skin. they leave a path of flickering — slowing fading out — scraps of coal behind you, digging your heavy footsteps deep into the path so everyone knows where you are to mock and gawk at.

the sharp heat grows, reaching higher and higher until your legs wobble from the stress and the heat wraps around you, all to desperately grasp at the tip of your fingers.

a prick, like a needle — on the tip of the same fingers that had passed lucy gray her means to win, and a painful spark grows not too dissimilar to the odd shock followed by heat you'd felt when those same fingertips had brushed against her own.

the spark doesn't light the rest of you on fire, but rather runs through vein and bone, travelling through your body so overwhelmed and ready to crumble you down.

it runs up your spine, it reminds you that your time perhaps even in the capitol itself is running out, and you hope that perhaps if the spark is finally set alight in the centre of your skull that it might shrivel nerve endings and pain receptors, until it won't hurt to soon hear your life is over.

you feel the reprieve running up your neck joined by a tear down your cheek, but just as the fire is about to swallow you whole — for better, you'd hoped, but more than certainly for worse no matter whether you realise that — its force is snuffed.

the tear — your first of the day, salty water only just thawed from the numbness that had frozen in your heart over the cold night — that had just escaped your eye, crystalises.

the sudden change surrounds you, you are doused with a bucket of freezing cold water and shoved into an existence where the warm colours of the word that had just been swallowed by licks of flames and swift heartbeats are stripped away.

now, that all is quelled, and you find yourself — at the foot of the steps to the academy — in a dim world you'd glimpsed in the company of the moon just last night. and yet, this one feels even heavier.

you glance around, and with every figure your eyes glaze over, there is an unfathomable solemness that not even the death of the ring twins had evoked over the entire student body.

you feel a terror — for your life, for coryo's life — but it feels out of place in this collective sadness, in this community where you are left out of the know; it makes you feel like everyone else also knows that you do not fit into whatever this is.

your feet fly up the pristine steps with urgency, as if at the top you might face a place to hide away, and not the inevitable doubled population of unusually unsmiling students.

you gasp when — while the sight of the large imposing doors of the academy come into view — you also catch sight of the one person you've wanted to see more than anything since the moment you were separated; coriolanus.

he stands facing you, presumably in conversation with io jasper — whose back is in turn turned to you — but when his gaze catches yours, he swiftly ends the interaction, and is quick to approach you.

his strides are steady and reach you in the matter of a couple of seconds — a contrast to your trembling steps, which may well serve as a rather accurate representation of your relationship — and his hands don't hesitate to find your shoulders with a secure grip.

your eyes dart side-to-side — as if looking for any onlookers which you are so certain must be watching your every breath — and after your search, you still can't bring them to settle assuredly on coriolanus's own as you anxiously whisper.

"what's going on?"

all you receive is a stony expression, but which precedes one hand dropping to hold your wrist and the other rising to hold the back of your neck; both of which gently tug you closer to him.

"everyone's staring," you sputter in a marginally quieter whisper than before, "i don't—"

he shushes you, a finger on the back of your neck begins to trace calming circles, and his hand on your wrist tightens slightly.

"breathe," he instructs, so you try.

the breath is unreliable and you don't feel any more better than before the air had rushed into your lips, but coriolanus demonstrates himself taking several deep breaths to encourage yourself to continue trying.

slowly, the colours a well-adjusted and perfectly calm girl might observe at her place of education squeeze in on the edges of your vision, and with coriolanus pulling you even closer to him — his every breath now blowing across your cheek — you start to feel calmer.

he raises an eyebrow to ask if you're better, and you — however hesitantly — nod.

with another unconvinced but digressing once-over, one hand leaves your neck and the other slips up to now link your arm with his.

your legs don't feel like they might suddenly fall out from beneath you anymore, and you find yourself falling into step with coriolanus's own headed towards the doors without much struggle.

he easily glides you through the crowds, and you begin to feel uneasy once more at the harrowingly uncharacteristic silence that envelops the foyer.

you lean towards coryo with a stuttered whisper, "what about—" dean highbottom, "won't he—"

you're tugged closer again, with another "breathe" whispered into your ear, just as you join a specific group of your classmates; who all appear to be in different levels of melancholy.

festus creed turns around and makes room — standing to your left — for yourself and coriolanus to join the group, and while he doesn't look particularly distraught, he appears the most emotionally affected of the group.

lysistrata vickers stands directly in front of you with a respectfully plain expression, though she offers you a kind, but oddly still sad smile in greeting. though it serves only to scare you into overthinking — does she know? do they all know?

coriolanus's has unlinked your arms, and now holds your hand. breath.

to lysistrata's right, stands persephone price, with the most seemingly unaffected disposition of the group.

feeling like a fish out of water slowly asphyxiating, you glance to your boyfriend, and note his stony expression has grown to make room for a hint of something similar to the others' sombre looks.

hopelessly, your eyes flicker back to lysistrata — the person who you'd say is next on your list of people you trust here, even if there's still a large blank gap between her name and coriolanus's — and she only gives you a pitiful look that says 'i understand'.

but she can't, and you don't either, and you find yourself in the unlikely situation of being grateful for persephone talking to you unprompted.

"didn't you hear?" she gives a small raise of her eyebrows.

your frown, and your evident confusion is enough of an answer itself.

just as persephone's lips pop open again, coriolanus's hand anticipatorily squeezes yours.

"dean highbottom died."

you're tossed like a ragdoll in an echoing bubble of numbness.

persephone predictably prattles on, "it's no surprise he drank himself to death," but her words continue to grow less and less coherent to you, before she utters, "i mean, that flask he..." and your brain completely silences her to join as just another buzz in the fuzziness that constricts you.

your eyes must glaze, your mouth must be agape, you must have gone slick with sweat and started all but shivering — because the one new feeling you register, is a hand that can't be coryo's holding yours tenderly.

you want to hold it back — if your own weren't so weak that you're sure you can't even pick up a pencil — if only to reach for that anchor.

but as your fingers graze pathetically, coryo's hand that still keeps hold of your other, compresses. the force is overwhelming, and he must be squeezing your hand to limpness; but above the instinctual alarm going off in your head at circulation loss, you know why he's doing this.

he's grounding you, forcing you to concentrate on something physical, something strong.

though he's always gotten mixed results when he attempts this — some days it succesfully draws you back in, some tries it causes you to panic, and sometimes even faint with a light head and racing heart — but you try to slow your breathing, and convince yourself that it's helping.

a thumb rubbing across your pulse-point on your wrist joins coriolanus's death grip, and it's almost like a pinch that wakes you from a nightmare.

as your blurry eyes focus back in on a reality that is not in fact a dark bubble of nothingness, you realise your other hand is held by lysistrata.

once she notices your slow descent from fright, she gives you a sympathetic smile, and lets go.

finally, you look to persephone with a breathless reply to the news.

"that's horrible."

she glances around the room, then shrugs — shoulders weightless with the freedom of not knowing how it felt for dean highbottom to have held your fate atop his, the lightness of having the only thing that haunts her past being a failure, instead of a secret that could kill.

which now, you dare to dream, might not even be a threat to you anymore.

she dismisses, "i suppose so, but he wasn't exactly a model citizen," and casually changes the subject to the upcoming academic year.

coriolanus's thumb still runs over your wrist, and you can't tell if with the dean's threats all but inconsequential now, you may finally take a breath of fresh air — or if this signifies the last time you ever will.