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artinvain · 6 months ago

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vampire!sevika x witch!reader who runs into you at the library when she’s returning books. (no smut … yet!??!) men and minors dni

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:✧･ﾟ:

Vampire!sevika who smells you, sickly sweet smell of a bakery, cigarettes and coffee. whose mouth starts to taste metallic. standing there and scenting the air, her eyes scrunched shut so no one sees the whites have turned crimson and her pupils are blown and black.

who tries to smile at you but feels her fangs extending a pain of hunger growing in her so she has to feed before she even comes near you.

vampire!Sevika who ignores all your advances with a smile and flippancy because she’s afraid she’ll hurt you if she gets too close.

vampire!Sevika whose hunting and spots you on a picnic, and has to claim she was hiking because she was caught staring.

vampire!Sevika who has to join you — seeing you alone in the woods too worrisome for her to leave you.

vampire!Sevika who then warms up to the idea of being around tou, not because she was dangerous but because she could protect you from things much worse than her

vampire!Sevika who starts leaving flowers at your work.

vampire!Sevika who is so used to providing she nearly cries when you send her your favourite book you “think you’ll really enjoy. It seems to match your old soul” with a plate of baked cookies on top.

vampire!Sevika who has her team watch out for you (as in stalk you 24 hours and report your movements back to her)

she thinks it’s the way you get to know someone — watch you , learn what you like so that she can anticipate your needs and be a good partner.

vampire!Sevika who thinks she’s ready to have dinner at your place when you offer.

and is stunned to see the sigils and candles, books and herbs inside, crystals lining the walls and refracting light into your living room.

When you stand silently at the door until she asks to be invited in, she’s immediately suspicious.

vampire!Sevika who’s been around long enough to realise you have a cloaking spell rune above your fireplace and knows she fucked.

because she doesn’t know anything about you — all her intel was messed with by your spell.

vampire!sevika who is now an entirely new level of nervous because not only are you intelligent and interesting and funny — you’re also more gorgeous than any face she’s seen in decades. eyes so unwarded and honest, skin soft and dewy. and your hands on hers — god it’s so soft—

and then she realises you’re asking about her daylight ring, you’re very fascinated you know about the type of rock that was used, it’s more popular century, the tiny runes inscribed de dismissed as aging.

vampire!Sevika who doesn’t stay for dinner when she smells your tea, the scent like burning razors in her nostrils. Vervain. A plant near deadly to vampires.

vampire!Sevika who excuses herself saying she has a cold and then receives a care package for her, which makes her realise the cookies you baked didn’t have any vervain in them. So she tries the food and it’s fine. more than fine it’s incredible. It makes her so hungry she has to feed.

vampire!sevika who only feeds on what she declared “scum of the earth,” she didn’t do it often at the risk of being caught but some nights, (like where she sees two men pulling a knife on a woman walking home from work — well with a knife it’s easy to make the deaths look … natural) she’s lucky.

vampire!Sevika who invites you over to her loft, it’s actually more dated than you’d expect. gold-yellow and red lilac and columbine flower wallpaper in the living room’s feature wall. With more modern pops in the furniture and essentials.

“A lot of your stuff is… antique,” you say smiling politely, a furrow in your brow. and Sevika laughs at the way you sit very very carefully on an old chesterfield sofa.

“I’ve reinforced them,” Sevika explains “they are old but, I can’t seem to let them go,”

“Family heirloom?” You guess, a lot of the stuff in here was too fancy to be sold at regular antiques in your area, which meant Sevika was rich, according to her furniture you guessed old money rich.

“that’s insane to have a family tree you can trace so far back you could have your own heirloom”

it was her brothers. they sat on it every night together in his first and only home, and talked in depth about nothing at all.

“My family is close, I am grateful,” Sevika says

the look in your eye. a twinkle of playful curiosity,

“and the ring is an heirloom also?” You ask, standing up to take another look around.

“this stuff if very english — your accent —“

”we moved when I was very little,” she interrupted quickly, that wasn’t entirely false. “I’ve lived here all my life,” that was lie.

you smile at her and quirk your head. she was so… guarded.

“what about your family?” Sevika asks, stepping toward you and guiding you with her hand on your lower back to the sofa. she opens a bottle of wine and pours it for you when she hears you say “salem” and nearly spills. you pretend not to notice and take the glass, thanking her.

“yeah, we fled during the salem trials, there was a much bigger pool of people then, than what’s documented,” you say and Sevika turns to you

”witches then,” Sevika says and lets a giggle slip when you say “of course, have you seen the way I dress?” so wooed by your boldness because yes, she has noticed the way you dress and she thinks you’re some kind of deity, the way your dresses and skirts fall over your thighs, and the way your jean overalls highlights your arms. she’s always mesmerised.

“you are a little whimsical, you sent me the metamorphosis by Franz kafka!” She rolls are eyes at the memory, she was kind of offended when she got it because really? but then when she read it with your note at the end she knew you were referencing yourself, explaining the way your mind works without really having to tell her. So Sevika is gentle with her words around you, makes sure your needs get catered to and makes sure that you always feel secure and loved. 🏷️ @archangeldyke-all @sexysapphicshopowner @iamaboringrattat @sapphicsgirl @sevsbaby @bimboprincezz @opropheticsoul

#sevika vampire fic #vampire!sevika #lesbian #nsft lesbian #sevika arcane smut #sevika arcane

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teejaystumbles · 8 months ago

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Against all odds (part 4)

Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3

Hob is woken by his alarm and instead of snoozing the damn thing like he usually does, he is sitting up in bed and looking over at the desk in barely a second.

His journal is not there.

He feels a weird mixture of elation and disappointment - elation because last night was not just a dream! His stranger was really here! And disappointment because there seems to be no answering journal entry yet, or the book would be there.

Hob wipes both hands over his face with a groan and finally stops his annoying alarm.

“Right. Might as well get up and make a cuppa.”

While he putters around his kitchen, Hob recaps the last night.

After writing his reply to his stranger Hob had gone to bed, feeling restless and tossing and turning for at least an hour before finally falling asleep. He had dreamed something unsettling about riding his Porsche down a lane that got narrower and narrower, and being unable to stop the car while the sides were being pressed in against him as the car was being squeezed between invisible walls. Hob had seen a mushroom cloud in the rearview mirror and suddenly a crackle like thunder in the distance had sounded - then he had woken up. And found his stranger leaning over his desk.

Despite having his back to Hob, he would have known him instantly even if there hadn't been a sliver of light from a street lamp illuminating the marvel cheek of his friend. (To be fair, there weren’t many black-clad figures Hob expected-slash-hoped to appear in his bedroom at night.)

Apparently his stranger had come to read Hob’s reply to his own entry, and Hob had surprised him when he woke up. Getting him to stay had instantly been Hob’s primary objective, because his friend had been ready to flee, that had been glaringly obvious.

Hob pours water over his tea and sighs, recalling the almost timid voice of his stranger.

“It is not you, Hob.”

“Your rooms are not uncomfortable to me.”

It’s not him. Hob is so fucking glad it’s not him. He believes his friend, he doesn’t think he’d lie about something like this. No, after 1889 it’s clear that his stranger wouldn’t have stayed if he felt any sort of discomfort or anger in Hob’s presence. It had cost him to say the words, to tell Hob the truth, but Hob is sure his stranger wouldn’t lie to him outright. Obviously the “I don’t need your companionship”-line had been a lie, but one his stranger had been telling himself as well, so Hob can forgive it. It can be hard to accept certain truths about oneself, he knows, and not being human might make his stranger even more liable to not accept any sort of weakness he might have. A hundred years ago he considered Hob, and their friendship, a weakness. What has changed since then, Hob wonders.

He picks up his tea and moves to his small living room, flopping down on the old Chesterfield sofa that he has lovingly kept in shape since the beginning of the 20th century.

The 80s have been wild and Hob is happy that his tendency to accumulate stuff from his past, like antique furniture and loads of tidbits, is part of the current interior design trend. All the posh flats in London look like his right now, jumbled messes of times long past. People are looking for warmth and comfort, for colour and modern form mixed with a certain nostalgia. He thinks it's going to turn around soon, though. It always does. Trends come and go and then are revived a few decades later.

Not that Hob has many visitors these days who would care about his flat’s interior. When he hooks up with someone he takes them to a hotel when he’s feeling generous and enamoured, to the back alley or toilets when all they both care about is getting off quickly. Hob hasn’t been in a long-term relationship in two years. He’s telling himself he’s taking a break, moving on quickly to spare himself and others the loss, after so many years of losing so many friends and lovers. Deep down he knows it’s because he knew which year was coming up, and he couldn’t help but want to be free and available for- anything, really, if his stranger decided to show up.

Now that he has, Hob has no idea what to make of his friend. It’s clear he has been through something traumatic, or he wouldn’t have mentioned claustrophobia as a new condition he’s dealing with. Hob hopes he’ll tell him, or write to him, rather. It’s fine, he thinks. If his stranger wants to continue writing to each other for a few hundred years then Hob will accept that. He’ll be happy to have an immortal pen pal. It would be more contact than he ever had with his stranger. He’s sure - he nods to himself and takes a drink of his tea - yes, he’s sure, his friend will one day want to meet him again face to face. Hob can wait. He’s got practice.

The journal shows up a week later.

Hob has surreptitiously checked his bedroom desk every hour when he’s at home and every time he comes back from work. Now, when he steps into his flat, glances into the open bedroom and finds the journal returned he immediately drops his jacket and bag carelessly to the floor. He rushes over to the desk and takes the book in his hands, flipping through it with his heart beating faster in excitement.

Two pages have been ripped out in between Hob’s last entry and the new one. Curious, Hob thinks and bites his lip, sitting down to read the new words his stranger has left him.

My friend,

I have struggled with deciding what to put down on these pages and I ask your forgiveness for vandalising your book. Nothing I wrote seemed to encompass what I wanted to tell you. I could not put into words the relief I felt at reading your words, at hearing you speak to me so gently the last time I visited. If you knew who I am this would seem laughable to you, as it does to me - to not find the words! It is unheard of for one such as I, and for me in particular. I have to put it as bluntly as I can then: I was afraid you would not forgive my rudeness, would not understand my need for distance and lack of enthusiasm to stay and talk with you face to face. I did you a disservice, dear Hob, believing you would hold a grudge like I would. I thank you most sincerely, for your patience, your understanding. It has lifted a big concern from my chest and I find myself looking forward to seeing you again. Still, these matters I have to tell you, they are not easy for me to talk about. I would rather write them down for you so you can digest them quietly and think about them for a bit before we see each other again.

In 1916, a man named Roderick Burgess tried to summon my sister, Death. His attempt failed, but he was still not wholly unsuccessful - he summoned me instead.

With the help of one of my own subjects who betrayed me he managed to imprison me. He and his son held me for 75 years. I was trapped, naked, robbed of my insignia and therefore powerless, inside a sphere of glass, barely large enough for me to stand in.

There is a smudge in the ink at this point, as if his friend had been pressing the pen he wrote with too tightly to the paper so that the ink had left a blot.

There is so much in these few lines Hob needs to think about, he can’t start right now or he’ll spiral before he has even read half of his friend’s entry. Hob puts a hand over his mouth and reads on, the pages in his hand shaking as he trembles with horror.

Roderick Burgess thought he could force me to give him back his dead son, and when he realised I held no power over such things he asked for immortality, riches, power.

I did not give him anything, of course. I did not acknowledge my captor, did not want to give him the satisfaction. In the beginning, Burgess’ youngest son Alex seemed amenable to help me, but he ultimately could not disobey his father and betrayed that fragile piece of hope I had put in him most viciously. I lost a dear friend, my raven Jessamy, to Alex’ cowardice. I can never forgive him for that, or for holding me even after his father had died, and I have punished him adequately - although nothing I or anyone can do will ever make the memory of the senseless death of my dear raven bearable.

A pale stain on the paper makes Hob wonder if his friend had been crying when he was writing these words. He would not be surprised, his stranger had sometimes seemed so close to shedding tears, him crying over a terrible memory like this is far too easy to imagine. Hob feels his own eyes water at his stranger’s tale. Imprisoned for so long, under such horrible conditions! Betrayed by one of his own! And losing a close friend!

Hob is actually glad that his friend chose to write this down for him instead of telling it to him in person. He isn’t sure what he would have done in the face of his friend’s misery and trauma. He isn’t sure he would have been strong enough to hold back from touching his stranger, from hugging him close and pulling his head onto his shoulder, isn’t sure he wouldn’t have taken liberties where it is clear now that doing so would be disastrous.His friend must be severely traumatised, having been stuck in an enclosed, far too small space for almost 80 years! Hob has been in prison before, back in the 17th century, and a few times after. The tower, a madhouse or war prison camps, none of these detentions had lasted nearly as long as what his friend had to endure, and still Hob had felt close to going truly mad every time, especially when he got stuck in solitary confinement. Even if his stranger is not human he seems not immune to such strains on the psyche, if his mention of claustrophobia is anything to go on. Hob will have to invite him to meet somewhere outdoors, at the park or the river. Maybe his friend will agree to that.

Part 5

#there's more that will continue straight after this but it's too long and not finished yet #dreamling #the sandman fanfiction #1989 au #teejay writes

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jomiddlemarch · 8 months ago

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The shapes a bright container can contain!

IV. “This is a carriage house?” Hermione asked after first standing silent for a good two minutes, a length of time that seemed far longer when a witch was known to hurl herself into a squid-infested loch in early winter.

“You speak as if you have an extensive experience of real estate,” Draco retorted.

“It’s quite a bit more house than I’d imagined,” she said. To exceed Hermione Granger’s imagination was a feat and Draco decided he’d follow the Muggle adage and begin as he meant to go on.

“Did you expect it to still contain carriages? Or horses? Tack?” Draco said. “Did you want a pony? That could be arranged, though I think an Arabian or an Abraxan hybrid—"

“No. Of course not,” she said. “But this is quite lovely. So thoughtfully appointed.”

“Thank you,” he said.

“Your wife had exquisite taste,” Hermione said.

“Yes, she did,” Draco replied. “You can see it in the main house. This was my project.”

“Oh, I see. I didn’t mean to imply,” she broke off. Somehow, this was what flustered her, this bit of gauche maladroitness, though she was staying in the home of a former Death Eater, a man who still bore the brand of a genocidal maniac on his forearm. She didn’t blush however; her eyes only widened and she seemed to lose what color she had. Draco decided he’d look after her well enough blushing became an option again.

“It’s all right. Why don’t I give you a tour of the place, get you settled,” he said. He wanted to offer her his arm, to feel her hand on him and keep her steady, but he suspected she would actually be as offended as she’d imagined he might just have been. He walked closer to her than would ordinarily be considered polite and kept the pace slow.

“This is the sitting room,” he said, gesturing around them. Two large chesterfields upholstered in dark green velvet sat on either side of a coffee-table strewn with periodicals and some art books, a bowl hewn from the base of a cypress at the center, filled with green apples. Squashy silk pillows in an array of jewel tones were tucked at either end of the sofas, a cashmere throw draped in a corner. A pair of club chairs bracketed the large fireplace, and an ancient Persian rug was underfoot. Long windows were surrounded by bookshelves, the bookshelves full of neatly arranged books that appeared much-handled.

“It’s lovely. Looks very comfortable,” Hermione said. He beckoned her to follow him as he walked across the space and miraculously, she followed, her wand-hand empty.

“This is the kitchen. The table seats six, though it’s easy enough to enlarge it if you wanted to have more people over. You should have as many people over as you like,” Draco said. The table was a generously sized oval made of beautifully patinaed mahogany and he thought she would have preferred something sturdy and practical, a scrubbed oak. She’d want to set it with mismatched plates, a potluck with dishes randomly assembled or better yet, Indian takeaway with plenty of samosas.

“Is there a Transfiguration spell that preserves the wood better?” Hermione asked.

“There’s a leaf. Though any standard Transfiguration you’d cast would be fine. It’s not a priceless antique,” Draco said.

“It looks like a Sheraton,” Hermione remarked. “I suppose that’s not priceless to you. It’s just Muggle.”

“It’s a fake. A fake Sheraton,” Draco said, shrugging, trying not to feel flustered and failing. “I like the look of Georgian furniture, but I didn’t want anything that would feel like a museum piece. I had enough of that, growing up. Except that that furniture was also cursed half the time.”

“Half, huh?”

“Closer to three-quarters in the North Wing. Dreadful place and you can’t even burn it to the ground,” he said.

“A pity. I guess. This is the kitchen proper?” she said, moving past him into the room with its soapstone worktops, slate floors, sage green painted cupboards fitted as neatly as a ship’s galley, though there was plenty of space. A marble slab for pastry, a great hulking Aga prepared to cook a roast and warm the whole house, and tucked behind—

“That’s a butler’s pantry,” Draco said, as she poked her head around to peer in the narrow space.

“You thought this place needed a butler’s pantry? Is there a butler?” she asked, then paused, a look of bemused horror on her face. “Good Lord, is there a butler?”

“There’s no butler and no House-elves either, before you get yourself worked into a tizzy,” Draco said. He’d have liked to have Tizzy herself serving, earning the ample wage they’d negotiated, but he’d known that no matter how comprehensive the benefits, Hermione would be distressed to be waited upon by a creature in a toweling jumpsuit, unable to convince herself she wasn’t taking advantage. “I thought butler’s pantry sounded better than glorified closet. I will now pause to allow you to make some comment along the lines of me being a posh git.”

“You’ve made that unnecessary now,” Hermione said, horror passed, smiling again.

“There’s a butler’s pantry because I needed a defined space I could configure for electricity to work. Neville said you have very strong opinions about the Panis tosti charm—”

“It’s shite,” she interrupted. “Utter bollocks. It’s a travesty to call what it does toast and everyone knows it and won’t admit it. Molly Weasley has five different toasting forks because the charm is such shite—”

“As I said, Very Strong Opinions, duly noted. Also, he said you have slightly less Strong Opinions on toasting forks, I believe they hearken too much to the Edwardian period for your taste, and so I had to make sure there was some part of the house where you could make a proper piece of toast in a toaster,” Draco explained. He opened the little hatch that concealed the toaster. “There’s also a charging station for any devices that need it.”

“Oh my goodness,” she said.

“You probably won’t short it all out if you cast a spell, but I’d try to keep it to a minimum and no wandless. When you channel magic through your hands directly, it warps the wards I put up,” he said.

“You did a lot of work,” she said. “Went to a lot of trouble.”

“What part of looking after properly was obscure to a witch of your erudition and exactitude?” Draco said. She’d think he was teasing and he was but he also meant it, especially the praise, which he’d been told to expect her to shrug off.

She shrugged.

“You didn’t have to,” she said.

“I only did what I thought I must. What I thought you would do, without a second thought, if you were the one taking care of someone,” Draco said.

“I’ve never gotten Harry a toaster,” she said.

“But he doesn’t ever seem to miss all the Mugglish equipment he grew up with. He was happy to leave it all behind,” Draco said.

“He does love everything Wizarding,” Hermione said. “Even Celestina Warbeck.”

Draco could not help his grimace then, but Hermione gave him a look of the purest camaraderie and appreciation, suggesting his expression had not put her off in the slightest.

“I shan’t say a word. About his taste in music at least,” he said. “There’s a water closet just at the back, before the conservatory. We might explore there a bit or would you rather see the sleeping quarters upstairs?”

He spent a considerable amount of time mulling over how he’d mention where she would sleep to minimize any awkwardness, knowing he didn’t want to utter the word bed but that she’d immediately pick up on any verbal contortions to avoid it.

“Did you have Neville to see to the conservatory?” she asked, prescient. Longbottom had spent a week and the entire budget Draco had given him, but the results were lovely and marvelously fragrant.

“Yes,” Draco answered.

“Then I’ll have an idea of what it’s like already and I’ll enjoy finding out how I’m wrong later,” she said. “Take me upstairs.”

#dramione #comfort fic #fluffy #angst #hermione x draco #draco POV #who doesn't love a house tour?#Hermione on Toast #chapter four #draco is very attentive to detail

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michaelangdonsslut · 9 months ago

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𝐓𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐎𝐟 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐬 // 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐎𝐧𝐞

hey pookies! here's the first chapter of tales of the shadows ౨ৎ

please read the introduction post before reading this chapter!

hope u enjoy <3

𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙙 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙩 : 1.5k

no warnings! (yet hehe)

---

- 𝑇𝐻𝐸 𝐻𝑂𝑈𝑆𝐸 .

Riley Bennett felt the wind brushing her face faintly as she opened the window to her dad's car. It was a cloudy Wednesday morning when they finally decided to move all the way across the country.

Riley was a 17 year old troubled teenage girl who often struggled with fitting into her new surroundings.

They were a typical wealthy family from LA and had everything, so why did they decide to move to a small town in Massachusetts? This is what Riley has been wondering all the time ever since her dad talked about moving to Chesterfield. "I don't even know why we have to move here It's so cloudy and looks boring. I already miss LA and my friends.", Riley said nonchalantly looking at the window trying to look for anything interesting about this town. "Come on Riley don't be so grumpy, it can't be that bad!" her dad tried to reassure her but it didn't really work. She was going to miss LA and there was nothing they could say about it.

About 20 minutes later, they finally arrived in front of the house. It was a beautiful Victorian house, a mix of light pink and dark blue, and Riley couldn't help but admire the huge house in front of her. It looked so old and vintage, that house actually reminded her of Coraline, she loved this movie as a child. “ So what do we think ?” Mr Bennett looking smiled at Riley knowing how much she loved old fashioned houses. " This house is beautiful Peter, and look Riley there's a swing!", said Mrs. Bennett eagerly. "I'm not a little girl anymore mom I don't really care about that" , Riley said rolling her eyes as the family parked in the driveway. “And besides, this house looks kinda haunted.” Mrs. Bennett scoffed taking her sunglasses off. After some time, they finally get out of the car and start grabbing their stuff from the car boot when a lady approaches them. "Hello, I'm Dina the real estate agent! I'm here to show you around the house" A huge smile was plastered on her face as if she was happy someone was finally interested in this house.

" Oh hello! I'm Peter Bennett and this is my wife Marie " they both shake Dina's hand, her smile never leaving her face. " It's really nice to meet you. Oh and I suppose this is your beautiful little sweetheart ", she says as she walks over to Riley; " Uh yeah. I'm Riley. " Dina shakes Riley's hand and Riley can't help but find her a bit... eccentric .

“ All right, I’ll show you the inside of the house right now !” Mrs. Bennett smiled eagerly looking at her husband with stars in her eyes.

The family stepped into the foyer, greeted by the grandeur of a bygone era. High ceilings adorned with intricate molding loomed overhead, while a majestic staircase beckoned from the center of the room. Sunlight filtered through stained glass windows, casting a warm, ethereal glow. Dina, with a practiced smile, gestured towards the sprawling rooms adorned with ornate details - antique chandeliers, mahogany wainscoting, and a fireplace steeped in history. A sense of both elegance and mystery enveloped them as they took in the timeless beauty of their potential new home.

"This house is goddamn beautiful. We're taking it!" , said Ms. Bennett eagerly with a huge smile of anticipation.

"Yes, this house sure is beautiful although I must mention, it comes with a bit of a past." Dina seemed unsure and anxious, but she kept going; " full disclosure requires that I tell you about what happened to the previews owners.

“Jesus, don’t tell me they died in this house did they?” Mrs. Bennett turned around to look over at Dina with a concerned look plastered on her face. "Yes actually, both of them died here. Murder-suicide. I sold them the house too. They were the sweetest couple. You never really know what happens behind those walls I guess.

"That explains why this house is half the price of every other house in neighborhood I guess." Mr Bennett sighted, crossing his arms.

“Where did it happen?” Riley asked curiously.

“In the attic.”

Riley pauses for a second, a smirk forming on her face as she decides to speak up; “ We’re taking it.”

After the initial excitement of choosing their new home, the Bennett family embarked on the task of settling into their Victorian mansion. As they unloaded boxes and furniture from the moving truck, Riley couldn't contain her curiosity about the attic. She'd always been drawn to mysteries and the thought of living in a house with a dark past only fueled her intrigue.

Once they finished moving the essentials into the house, Riley dashed up the grand staircase, eager to explore every nook and cranny. She pushed open the attic door, the creaking hinges echoing in the vast space. The attic was dimly lit, dust particles dancing in the sunlight that filtered through the small windows. Old trunks and forgotten relics littered the space, each one holding a piece of history.

Riley's eyes widened with excitement as she imagined all the stories hidden within these walls. She spent hours rummaging through the forgotten treasures, uncovering vintage clothing, dusty books, and antique toys. Despite the tragic events that occurred here, Riley felt a strange sense of belonging, as if the house welcomed her with open arms.

As the days passed, the Bennett family settled into their new life in Chesterfield. Riley's room became her sanctuary, a reflection of her eclectic personality. She adorned the walls with vintage posters and fairy lights, transforming the space into a cozy retreat. She spent hours scouring antique shops and thrift stores, searching for unique pieces to add to her collection.

One afternoon, while exploring the local flea market, Riley stumbled upon a mysterious key hidden amongst a pile of trinkets. Intrigued, she purchased it for a few dollars, wondering what secrets it might unlock. When she returned home, Riley headed straight for the attic, her heart pounding with excitement.

She searched every nook and cranny until she found a small locked chest hidden beneath a pile of old newspapers. With trembling hands, she inserted the key into the rusty lock, the mechanism clicking open with a satisfying sound. Inside, she discovered a collection of letters tied with a faded ribbon.

As Riley read through the letters, she uncovered the tragic love story of the previous owners. Their words painted a picture of a forbidden romance torn apart by societal expectations and family obligations. Riley felt a pang of sadness for the couple, their lives cut short by tragedy.

And as she looked out the attic window, watching the sun set over the sleepy town of Chesterfield, Riley saw a shadow lurking behind the trees, It was like someone was staring at her. She rubbed her eyes thinking she probably hallucinated, and just like that, the shadow was gone.

iii

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm glow over the sleepy town of Chesterfield, Riley found herself drawn to the attic once again. She climbed the stairs with a sense of anticipation, eager to lose herself in the stories of the past. But as she reached the top, she was met with an unexpected sight—a boy standing in the dimly lit space, his silhouette illuminated by the fading light.

"Who are you?" Riley asked, her heart racing with a mixture of fear and curiosity.

The boy turned to face her, his features obscured by the shadows. "I'm Andy," he said, his voice soft and haunting. "I live next door."

Riley took a step closer, her eyes adjusting to the darkness. Andy's appearance was striking, with tousled hair and dark brown eyes that seemed to hold a hint of sadness. He reminded her of a character from one of her favorite movies, mysterious and enigmatic.

"What are you doing up here?" Riley asked, her voice tinged with suspicion.

Andy shrugged, a faint smile playing on his lips. "Just exploring," he said. "I like to come up here and think."

Riley nodded, her curiosity piqued. She had always been drawn to people who were different, who didn't fit into the mold of society. And there was something about Andy that intrigued her, something she couldn't quite put her finger on.

"Are you new here?" Andy asked, breaking the silence that had settled between them.

Riley nodded. "Yeah, my family just moved in a few weeks ago. What about you?"

Andy smiled wistfully. "I've lived here my whole life," he said. "But I've never really felt like I belong."

Riley understood the feeling all too well. She had spent her entire life searching for a place where she truly felt at home, a place where she could be herself without judgment.

"Well, you're not alone," Riley said, her voice soft but determined. "We can be outsiders together."

Andy's eyes sparkled with gratitude, and for the first time in a long time, Riley felt a sense of connection—a bond forged in the darkness of the attic.

"You should probably leave now tho, before my parents see you here and call the cops thinking you're here to rob us or something", she giggled slightly, looking at the boy right in front of her who's been smiling at her. It was like he was admiring her, feeling safe by her presence.

He got up and left the attic without saying a word to her, leaving the house so quietly It was like he was never there.

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a/n : idrk what to think of this but i truly hope y'all enjoyed this chapter, lmk if you wanna be in the taglist !!