Xlili-lyraterx - Oneirataxia

Crimson Stained Petals (Ch. 3)

Summary: Set in the 1880s, rumors and mysteries swirled around a quaint town, mostly about a lord tucked far into the woods. Arriving in town, you could not deny your curiosities, but you were not here to stay. Or so you thought. Low on funds, and a job for a live-in servant advertised in the paper, you now found yourself in the home of Lord Morpheus - the source of all rumors. Passions and tensions will grow. Questions will be answered, but may come at a hefty price. And a promise may be broken. But, is Lord Morpheus, and those few residents, truly as scary as they seem?

Words Count: ~4.7k

Reader: Neutral (unspecified now, however fem leaning)

Warnings: Minor angst (nightmare/hints of trouble past), mutual pinning, fluff

Chapter 2 and future chapters to come!

Strangely, time slipped by so easily. You were astounded when a week passed, then another. You never grew bored, you never glanced at the clock praying for Father Time to move faster. No, never. You truly found joy in your job, and with every day your curiosity for the manor grew.

You supposed your curiosity devoured away at your boredom. Questions and speculations ran rampant. Question you will have your answers to. You did not stay because the job was fairly easy and the pay was good. No, you stayed because something in your gut said to - and it only intensified when you first met Lord Morpheus.

For now, you pushed down such hunger.

Today, you only wished to relax.

Outside, on one of your days off, you lounged on the wooden bench under the willow tree on the backside of the property. Looking ahead, the rose maze stood and beyond that the dense, somewhat eerie forest. To the left was the greenhouse with an abundance of vegetables, and peering through the stained windows was a small cabin nestled into the woods - Mervyn’s cabin. But, as you stared at the greenhouse, movement caught your attention. A wide brimmed straw hat bounced around inside. It was Mervyn. At this distance, you couldn’t see his face, only the hat. You had yet to introduce yourself, and you wanted to do so. However, given Morpheus’s warning you didn’t wish to bother the poor man. You watched as the man watered and tended to the plants, but soon you turned your attention away letting the man work in peace.

A book laid in your lap, untouched. You had taken one out of the library - with permission of course - but suddenly had no interest in reading. Instead, you lost yourself in the outside world: the rustling of leaves, the excited chirps of birds and scampering squirrels, the breeze blowing across your cheeks, the faint aroma of roses which always hovered over the estate, and the flapping of wings from a crow - or a raven, you weren’t sure - over head.

You closed your eyes, inhaling deeply.

“Enjoying yourself?”

Your eyes shot open and whipped your head around. Morpheus pushed through the willow’s thick curtain of branches, stepping into this oasis. He walked towards you with elegance: arms behind his back with the usual perfection and prestige. The sunlight streamed in through the branches and brushed over his cheekbones. His ruby - always pinned to his tie, no matter the outfit - glittered and glowed brightly like a treasure of old.

“May I?” He pointed to the empty space beside you.

“Oh, yes, please do.”

“Thank you.” He sat down next to you. His eyes flickered over, taking you in. You were such radiating warmth. No matter the time or day you were a light - a beacon in this dreary place. His breath was stolen time and time again. “Have you been enjoying your stay so far?”

You smiled, one that could melt any heart. “I have.”

“Hopefully, it hasn’t been too messy for you.”

You chuckled. “No, it’s only been dust.”

“That’s good to hear.” He nodded, pleased you were happy. His eyes soon fell to the book in your lap. “Did you not like it?”

“What? Oh, uh, no - I mean, I haven’t started it. I actually forgot I had it.”

“Did you?” His tone was one of amusement.

You glanced away, somewhat embarrassed. “It’s just so beautiful out here. I got a little distracted.”

“Distracted?” He glanced out to all the lush greenery. “No, not distracted, but admiring.”

You smiled to yourself. The manor was truly a dream, a wondrous dream filled with mystery and vibrancy. “I suppose I am,” you whispered. Your eyes slid through the willow’s branches to the rose maze. “Can I ask a question?”

“You may.”

“Why roses?” You turned to him.

“Do you not like roses?” He asked with a slight tease in his voice; a tease to hide the swell of pain.

“No, I do in fact they are the most beautiful roses I have ever seen. I suppose my question comes from the fact they are everywhere on the property. Why is that? Why roses specifically?”

He breathed out, slowly. His eyes locked onto the rose maze. “Someone showed me the beauty of flowers, but most of all the beauty of roses.”

You nodded.

“A home - wherever I go - never feels whole without their petals whether it be white, pink, or yellow. However, I grew particularly fond of red.”

Your eyes instantly dropped down to his ruby pin.

“This -“ he said, touching the gem after feeling your gaze - “was a gift from a different friend, and before the roses. I guess he saw my ruby and knew red roses would be a perfect match for me.”

He?

The mystery somehow unfolded, but tangled more intricately. Morpheus was a complicated person who held his emotions close to his chest. In over a month, you had not seen many emotions from him other than content on his stoic features. But, now, a flicker of something deeply profound flashed in his eyes.

You wanted to unravel the secrets. “Can I -“

Morpheus abruptly stood up, stepping a few feet from you. All you saw now was his backside. “If you ever have an interest I suggest you take a stroll into the maze. The roses in there are otherworldly.”

His tone was absolute and the message was clear: no more discussing the flowers.

“One day,” you replied. “But, I cannot lie and say I’m not a little afraid of getting lost in the hedges, sir.”

“Then perhaps one day I can show you.” He peered back over his shoulders to you. “If you so wish.”

Your eyes locked with his. Neutrality and ease was his mask, but his mask did not cover his eyes. The slight shine, the glaze of tears, were so clearly evident to you. He was hiding something, keeping something close to his chest. It pained him greatly, and you understood such pains.

“I would,” you answered softly.

He nodded once, “Then seek me out when you wish to do so.”

“Thank you.” You sighed as the sense of familiar pain - heartache - reminded you of something. “I need to ask you something, sir. Something unrelated to the conversation.”

He turned, finally able to face you directly again. He silently gestured for you to continue.

“I know it may be late to ask for this, but can I request the day off this coming Friday?”

Morpheus raised an eyebrow. Not out of malice, but out of genuine curiosity. “Can I inquire why?”

“To go into town for the day. I have a few things I need to do.”

You could ask Lucienne of what you needed, you both know of this. However, solitude was not for everyone. Morpheus understood this. “You may.”

“Thank you.”

“And please if you need to take off, ask. I will do anything to accommodate you.”

“Thank you.” Smiling, you stood up with the book in your hands. You approached him and lifted up the unread book. “I hope you don’t mind if I hold onto this a little longer.”

Morpheus smiled - small and almost unnoticed. “Please, take all the time you need.”

“And do give Mervyn my praise, he is doing a marvelous job.”

His smile grew as his eyes softened. “I will do so, I assure you he will be pleased to hear it.”

“Good, I’m glad to hear that.” Staring at him, in the streaming sunlight as he smiled, he appeared so young and innocent for a brief moment. As if you peeled back the torments of life to see his true self. He was beautiful. Beautiful in a way the moons and stars are beautiful: ethereal and impossible to have. You smiled, “Good day, sir.”

“Good day to you.”

You walked away with the feeling of his eyes on you. A feeling that sent your heart into a tizzy.

Once you were out of sight - and the click of the back door confirmed it - Morpheus sighed, dropping his shoulders. Oh, he wanted you. The line, however, between wanting to taste the wine in your veins and to hold you dearly was getting blurred.

But, it was always like that. To feed was intimate and desires clashed.

When was the last time he fed from a mortal? Or taken a lover -

Oh.

Morpheus’s eyes darted to the rose maze.

He shook his head. Mortals wither and die, why tangle himself with another? Even if his heart walked first before his mind. He buried such thoughts and feelings, for now there was work to be done. Work always distracted his mind.

“Matthew?” Morpheus called out. The raven - which had been flying in dizzying circles above - swooped down into the willow tree. Morpheus had spotted the raven earlier, and knew Matthew’s curiosity would keep him close by.

Matthew settled onto a branch above Morpheus with a sheepish look. “Yes, boss?”

“Can you inform Mervyn that he has a new admirer of his work?” Morpheus peered up at the bird.

Matthew had not expected this. “Oh, uh, okay, boss.”

Before Matthew flew away, Morpheus spoke up, “And do keep in mind I do not need you always watching over me.”

Matthew laughed nervously. “Uh, yeah, got it.”

Matthew flapped his wings and soared the short distance to Mervyn’s cabin. Morpheus watched for a moment, but soon turned away to head back inside. His fingers reached up, and gently caressed the oddly warm ruby. Even with the charm, sunlight still caused some minor discomfort.

The week came and went, Friday was here in a blink. But, the day did not start as hopeful as you wanted. You stirred awake, a muffled pained whimper rumbled in the back of your throat. You inhaled sharply as a cold wave of fear washed over you. Instantly, you rolled over in bed now wide awake as whatever dream plagued you vanished in the morning sun. You couldn’t remember what you experienced, but it’s effect lingered behind.

You swung your legs, letting them dangle off the bed. You pressed a hand to your chest, feeling your racing heart. We’re safe. We will survive this. Exhaling slowly, you hopped out of bed to start the busy day you had planned.

You got dressed, and grabbed a bag for possibly any goods you intended on buying. You also made sure to slip your letter into your bag. Soon, you called for a carriage, one to take you to town and back.

As you waited, a voice called out. “Have fun today.”

You peered up the stairs to Morpheus at the top of them. “Thank you.”

Morpheus nodded, and walked away probably to his study.

The carriage arrived minutes after that, and took you into town. The town was quaint and had all the essentials with an addition of a few extra businesses. Carriages with horses trotted down the worn down street, people roamed about with to-do lists in mind. The bakery with its sweets and fresh bread wafted in the air, produce stands poked out on the sidewalk showing off all the delicious fruits and vegetables, and signs of all sorts advertised shops and their wares.

You finally spotted the post office by its flag waving in the wind by the front door. You immediately veered in, and thankfully no one else was here. There was a single worker behind the counter. The young gentleman glanced over and greeted you, “Morning.”

“Morning,” you replied and approached the counter.

He leaned forward on the counter. He squinted faintly at you, almost as if recognition, but he couldn’t decipher where he saw you before. “What can I do for you?”

You pulled out a letter from your bag. “I just need this letter sent, please.”

He nodded, taking the letter. You were about to leave when the worker spoke up, now having remembered you. “You live at that manor up on the hill, don’t you?”

You were the newcomer who found themself in the - unfortunate in the eyes of some - care of the lord on the outskirts of town.

You calmly replied, “I do.”

The worker shuffled around, digging into baskets before producing a letter. “For the lord, your boss. It’ll save me a trip.”

And trouble.

You plucked the letter from the man’s grasp. It was addressed to Lord Morpheus, and sent from Sir Robert Gadling. You safely tucked the letter into your bag. “Thank you, and have a good day.”

“Good day to you.”

The worker watched you leave. A few thoughts crossed his mind: why did you go work at the manor, why did the supposed lord lock himself away, and why was the town scared of a recluse anyway? He brushed all those thoughts away, why dwell on an old man anyway?

The next on your to-do list was to visit the bookshop. It was easy to spot, and it surprised you to see a few people - with books in hand - walking out despite being this early in the day. Stepping inside, the bell chimed, altering the now empty space.

“Give me a minute, and I will assist you shortly!” A voice shouted from the back.

You smiled at the familiar voice. “Take your time.”

The bookshop was long and narrow with a checkout counter upfront by the door. Bookshelves lined the walls up to the ceiling and each wall had a ladder on a tram. In the middle, there was another shelf with an abundance of books. You walked forward, being dragged in.

All the books were neatly aligned with not a speck of dust, and the spines were all in perfect condition. Your fingers gently traced over the spines as you strolled back. The only sunlight came from the frosted glass by the front entrance, both sides were hugged tightly by other buildings and shops. Yet, a warmth radiated. It reminded you of the library at the manor: cozy and filled with endless possibilities.

When you reached the end of the store, a door was cracked leading to a backroom. Before you could possibly take a peak, Lucienne came out and shut the door behind her. Her eyes swiveled around and landed on you. Surprise crossed her features.

“Oh, (Y/N), I wasn’t expecting you,” she said.

“I know, but I had a few things I wanted to do in town and I wanted to stop by the shop to see what it was like.”

She smiled. “And what do you think?”

“Wonderful and cozy.” You glanced over, taking it all in again. “And perfectly clean.”

She chuckled, “Thank you.”

You roamed around the bookshop. “Maybe I should visit more often.”

“It would be nice to see a kind familiar face.”

“And if you want I could see if I can lend a hand here. I have no doubt you are doing a tremendous job, but if you want I’ll be happy to help.”

Lucienne smiled. “Thank you, I might do that.”

“Please do.” You leaned towards her and joked, “I can only dust the same spot over and over before getting rather bored.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “Is that so?”

“Just don’t tell Lord Morpheus,” you winked.

“Never.”

You laughed. You spoke with Lucienne somewhat frequently since your stay, but not as often as you wished. She was always stuck here, while you were in the manor. And when the weekend came she was by Morpheus’s side discussing business or in her room. If you did cross paths, you chatted as if you were long childhood friends. Lucienne was easy to get along with and you adored her. She was a friend everyone should have.

“Please, if there are other things you wish to do in town, you may go,” she said. “I do not want to hold you up.”

You smiled teasingly, “I do believe you are kicking me out.”

She matched your smile and jokingly replied, “Maybe. I may have my own list I need to complete before the end of the day.”

You laughed, “Then I will leave you to it, I will see you later.”

“Good day, and have fun.”

“I will, thank you.”

After leaving the bookshop, you wandered town for a while. You popped into a few shops, bought a few things, but mainly took your time out to stretch your legs. But, as the sun began to dip again, you decided it was best to return back.

After the short carriage ride, you finally stepped back inside the manor after almost all day away. You breathed it in, and oddly felt at home. You nearly went straight to bed, but the letter for Morpheus weighed in your bag. It would be best to give it to him now. Changing trajectory, you walked up the stairs, and knocked on the study room.

Yet, no reply came.

“Sir? Lord Morpheus?” You called out.

“(Y/N)?”

You spun around to the other side of the hall. Morpheus stood in the doorway of his bedroom - a room you had only entered once before.

With a bucket of cleaning supplies in hand, you hesitantly opened the bedroom door. It was only your first week, but you decided to finally tackle his room first this morning. Stepping inside, you were immediately taken back.

It was extravagant.

To the left, there was a large king sized bed with an ornate canopy and curtains tied to posts. It was draped in a velvet black with embroidered silver patterns as well as tassels. The sheets appeared to be silk and dozens of pillows filled the bed. Stepping in further, another door was to the left which was for the bathroom. To the right, you opened yet another door. It was a massive closet filled with the finest, up to fashion clothes.

You swiftly shut the door and scanned the room.

Two large floor to ceiling windows shone with the morning light. A fireplace - wide mouth with a pile of ash left behind - was placed perfectly between the two windows. Two couches and a table surrounded the fireplace along with a gorgeous soft rug. Art and tapestry hung on the walls and any free space, but you noted oddly no bookshelves or a desk.

A man who clearly separated his work, or a man who hardly rested.

It was a room for royalty. A room made in Morpheus’s image. His style permeated throughout. Inhaling, it smelled of him: paper and ink with hints of roses.

It was him.

Morpheus, standing in his bedroom doorway, was wrapped in a black robe. He tugged on the belt, tightening it. “You called for me?”

“Right, yes, I did.” You shook yourself out of your thoughts. You walked forward, and realized his hair was slicked back and wet. Water droplets still clung to his face. He had just gotten out of the bath. A heat rose to your cheeks. “I’m so sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to -“

“Please, you called and I wanted to answer. If you need something, please ask,” he stated calmly.

You looked away from him to your bag. Fishing around, you produced the letter. “While in town, I stopped by the post office and there was a letter for you.”

“A letter? From who?”

“From Sir Robert Gadling.”

That stirred a reaction from him. He perked up. “May I see the letter?”

“Of course.” You passed it over.

Morpheus swiftly opened the envelope, and read the contents within it. You stayed put during all of this. Internally, you said you stayed because your lord did not dismiss you, but curiosity was far more powerful.

He scoffed, a light hearted laugh.

“Can I ask what it is about?” You tentatively stepped forward.

Formalities were forgotten.

Morpheus rolled his eyes at the letter, shaking his head. Droplets of water rained out of his hair. “My dear old friend has invited me to a party.”

You cocked your head.

“And he included I should bring a date or and I quote ‘someone besides your wonderful assistant and friend, Lucienne’.”

You snickered under your breath.

A smile twitched on his lips at the sound of your laughter. Shaking away the stirring of emotions, he tucked the letter back into the envelope.

“So will you go?” You asked, genuinely curious.

“Perhaps, if my schedule allows it.”

“Or if you feel you are up to such dull gatherings.” Morpheus enjoyed his work, but you knew when work was an excuse for something else. You told yourself those same lies, and still do.

Morpheus looked at you. A spark, akin to respect and awe, twinkled in his eyes. He admired your honesty and forthrightness. Most, besides Lucienne, never dared to speak so plainly to him. He loved it, loved your courage. You always seemed to surprise him, and the longer you stayed the more your true self shone.

“I suppose that too,” he hummed with a smirk ghosting his lips.

You chuckled. “I’m sorry if I was overstepping -“

“No, no, I told you to be honest with me.”

You smiled softly. “I will let you go, sir. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

You walked away with a giddy childlike smile, even as you crawled into bed the smile stayed.

For the next few days, you lived in joyous serenity. You worked, and frequently chatted with Morpheus and Lucienne. You were happy in your new role.

However, happiness and peace was always short-lived.

You were hiddened.

They couldn’t - shouldn’t - find you, right? Oh, but maybe they could hear you?

Yes, they could.

You couldn’t seem to catch your breath as you constantly gasped your air. With each chaotic pump of your heart, air became less and less as your lungs squeezed it all out. A whimper escaped your lips. You tucked yourself into the corner of the claustrophobic space. Your hands covered your ears as you desperately tried to focus on calming your breathing, and not on their screams and pleas.

It was all so loud.

Make it stop, you begged. Please, make it stop. Make it stop, make it stop -

A footstep - a thunderous stomp - thudded.

Your breath hitched, the last of your precious air taken.

The footsteps echoed and shook the foundation with every slow crawl towards you.

Go away. Please, I want -

You gasped, lurching up in bed. You clutched the front of your nightshirt, feeling your heavy pounding heartbeat. You gulped for air and tried to calm your screaming nerves.

It was just a dream.

You closed your eyes, letting out a shaky sigh. Your whole body buzzed with adrenaline. It was taut like a coiled snake. A gust of wind blew over the manor, causing a chorus of groans and high pitched creaks. You jolted. You cursed under your breath. A walk and a drink may help. Throwing off the sheets, you stepped out of your room to the kitchen on the other side of the manor.

Morpheus quietly shut the door to the basement behind him and locked it. He sighed, exhaustion was evident in his slouched stance. However, before he could turn to head to you, you shuffled by. Your footsteps were eerily silent as you glided by. The only noise he heard was your erratic heartbeat, the only presence he sensed was how your blood rushed violently through your veins.

He was instantly overwhelmed by you, by your fear.

It prickled across his skin like needles. His throat constricted. He nearly clamped his hand over his mouth and plugged his nose to block out the scent of you.

As you shuffled by the double doors, moving through the dining room to get to the kitchen, you paused - frozen like a caught deer. You whipped your head, looking directly at Morpheus hidden in the darkness. “Lord Morpheus?” You asked, your voice barely above a whisper. “What are you doing up?”

He cleared his throat, pushing down such carnal and painful hunger. “I was about to ask you the same.”

“Oh, right.” You sighed, heavily. “I need a drink.”

“And so do I.”

Why was he lying? Well, not entirely. He didn’t need a drink, but given the chance he would happily drink from you.

A forced lopsided smile crossed your lips, “Care to join me?”

“Lead the way.”

You laughed once, short and strained, and followed the hall to the massive kitchen. Without being asked, you prepared yourself and Morpheus a drink - a cup of cold water. You passed it over to him, and leaned against the large cutting table in the center of the room. Sipping on the water, the bitter coldness sent a reset to your overalert system.

Morpheus watched you, entranced by something, something you were not sure of. His eyes always seemed to break you down to your barest components. Yet, you did not look away. You met his eyes in a silent challenge.

A small smile twitched on his lips. He hid it by sipping his water. “So, can I ask why you are up so late?”

“To get a drink as I told you.”

“I don’t quite believe that.”

Your heart leapt in your throat, and your muscles were still unbelievably tense. Was it so obvious? You glanced away. In an instance, you regressed. You were a child again, a frightened child.

Say something, don’t say anything.

Your face momentarily scrunched up in frustration then sighed loudly and admitted, “I … I had a nightmare.”

Morpheus frowned. He set the cup down and approached you. “There is no shame in having a nightmare.”

You tightened your grip on your cup. It did. You had gotten over these pesky nightmares, they hadn’t plagued you in a few years. But, you are here in a new and strange place. “I know.”

Hands reached out, tender and soft. He carefully removed the cup from your hands, and placed it on the table behind you. He took your hands in his with your palms up. His thumbs gently grazed over your lifelines. In a few strokes, your body fell under his calming hypnotic touch. The tension immediately melted away.

“Nightmares make us face our truest fears in order to grow and make changes.” Morpheus’s voice was so soothing and spellbinding. His eyes flickered up, connecting with yours. “And sometimes the fear can be too overwhelming that it will cause more damage. But, others - family, friends, loved ones - can lend a hand to help. Is there anyone who you can call on?”

“No,” you breathed out. His thumbs continued to rub your palm, sending sparks of electricity over your skin. “Well, my uncle but we only communicate by letter and he lives far away, at least a few days' journey.”

Morpheus nodded. Oh my, having you in his grasp was dizzying. All of his senses were filled with you. You were so close. He could taste you, kiss you, devour you. However, right now, he would settle on calming your heart and for you to sleep peacefully tonight.

“What can I do for you?” He asked genuinely.

Your eyes widened. “Oh, uh, nothing sir - I … I -“ What were you trying to say? What were you feeling?

“If you need anything, do not be afraid to ask.”

You struggled to answer, struggled to understand. “I’m sorry.” You yanked your hands away from him. “I think I just need to go to bed. Thank you for your help, but I have taken enough time from you already.”

You slipped away.

Morpheus opened his mouth to call out, but a name was lodged in his throat. It wasn’t your name. Stunned, he silently watched as you darted out of the kitchen leaving him alone.

Him, the fading remnants of you, and the ever looming ghost.

He sighed, clenching his hands. He knew better, and yet it was as if he forgot, as if he didn’t already deal with such devastating heartbreak, as if he didn’t care about the pain and let himself be drawn into you.

You rushed into your room just as breathless as you left. Your skin still held his memory. You can’t be doing this, you cannot be doing this. You paced your room, confused and conflicted. You knew better, yet lines were getting warped and pushed. Lines you never dared to cross, but the world decidedly had other plans.

No.

I cannot do this.

You darted over to your dresser and pulled out the small bag. Reaching inside and pushing aside other items, you pulled out a small folded picture. You unfolded it seeing a picture of a couple with a child - your parents and yourself. You pressed the worn photo, with its yellowed edges, to your chest. A wave of reassurance and ease washed over you, like an actual hug from them.

You promised them.

And you wouldn’t forget.

There's a huge difference between redemption and humanization. I feel like a lot of "redemption arcs" aren't actually redemption at all, they're just attempts to humanize the villain so that they seem multi-faceted, but people read them as "redemption arcs" and think that that is meant to justify all the evil they've done before and negate whatever made them a villain in the first place. I think true "redemption arcs" are actually kind of rare because true redemption would take making the villain acknowledge their crimes, reevaluate their actions, actively choose to do better, and then proceed to make amends and become a better person, and that would this take more time than most stories are allowed to give their characters.

I've also seen people argue that a character has to be poised for redemption from the jump for it to work because once a character does something "too bad", they can't be redeemed. I completely disagree because redemption isn't justification or forgiveness, so no matter how horrible a character's actions, they could choose to become better, but because a lot of people (including writers) think redemption means "erasing the character's flaws and making it so they did nothing wrong ever", a lot of attempted "redemption arcs" just end up erasing a character's entire history or justifying every evil thing they've ever done. And yeah, in these cases, the only way to make a character go from a villain to a perfect cinnamon roll with no flaws *is* to have been planning it from the beginning and make sure they never do anything that can't be explained away later.

TLDR: real redemption arcs require a lot of self-awareness, patience, and growth, which are things that are rarely actually allocated to villains, and that's why real redemption arcs almost never get executed. The reason people think redemption arcs are overdone is because there are so many attempts to either humanize a villain that get misconstrued as redemption or attempts to blatantly erase who a character was in the name of "redemption", which is really just poor character development.

What Is Showing vs. Telling Anyway?

When I decided to get serious about writing, I wrote short stories that meant something to me. Then I let people read them, but not just anyone. I picked people who knew a thing or two about craft. English teachers, the adults in my life who recommended books to me, and a lady who became a beloved writing tutor.

Those people challenged things like my sentence structure and word choices, but my writing tutor told me to show my stories, not to tell them.

I bristled. I was already showing them! That’s creative writing! If I wanted to tell my stories, I’d just say them out loud.

She clarified—in words that flew right over my head. My brain fuzzed out and I couldn’t grasp what she was saying, but I was embarrassed, so I nodded like I understood. It took me a while longer to get the hang of things by writing more (some terrible, some good) stories where I played around with my descriptions, narration, word choices, and themes.

Finally, years later, I understood.

Showing is describing the sensory details of your story. It’s diving into the emotional depth of your characters. It’s making the reader feel like they’re watching a movie while they’re reading your work.

Telling is more like narration. There’s no flowery language or sensory descriptions. It’s straightforward, clean, and nearly professional in nature.

Why Is “Telling” Normally a Bad Thing?

Clean-cut narration isn’t always terrible. Sometimes it works well for stories told by a narrator with dry humor or books about an intensely serious subject.

Most of the time though, “telling” keeps readers at arms-length. Picture yourself reading a history book. Each page gives you the facts. It might also describe a historical figure or the gory details of a war, but making those people or moments come to life in your mind isn’t the point of the text. It’s to convey information.

That’s what makes stories that rely on “telling” so different from stories that “show” everything.

Examples of Telling

If you’re like me, you’re probably thinking that it would be easier to picture the difference between these two concepts if there were examples. Lucky for you, I’ve already thought of that.

Example 1: I’m happy to see my best friend at school.

The narrator conveys their emotion, but not what that emotion makes them feel. There’s nothing to paint a picture of the school or even the friend.

Example 2: Henry didn’t like his dinner.

Cool, the character didn’t enjoy their food. Why? What was the taste or texture like? What did he experience that made him recognize the feeling of not enjoying the meal?

Example 3: Sofia made her bed in a hurry.

Why she was in a hurry might come in the next sentence or paragraph, but what did she feel while making that bed? What was her thought process? What’s her room like?

Examples of Showing

Let’s turn those same examples into sentences that “show.”

Example 1: I walk through the clustered school hallways with the rest of the student body, smelling their pre-exam nervous sweat and too much men’s body spray. This school would be miserable, except for my best friend. When I spot her by my dented locker, the smile on her face makes the cold bus ride to school worth it.

This is obviously more than a sentence, but notice how you get a better experience from it. The school hallways are crowded and smell bad. The protagonist doesn’t enjoy where they attend class. However, their best friend is a source of happiness. She waits by a dented metal locker, possibly with some good news, encouragement or an exciting update to something happening in the protagonist’s life. It makes you want to know what she’s going to say, especially because you can relate to what the main character is feeling.

Example 2: Henry’s nose scrunched up at the taste of his dinner. The chicken was in a desperate need for salt. This never would have happened if he had been allowed to make it.

We’ve all had a similar reaction to eating bad food. Your nose scrunches up, your mouth tightens, your tongue freezes. This example shows that in a way that you can feel yourself going through the same physical motions. It also explains why the food is bad using one of the five senses—it’s not salted enough.

Example 3: Sofia pulled her purple comforter tight against her headboard and threw her pillow at it as she ran out the door, late for the bus again.

More scenery details—the bed has a headboard and the comforter is purple. The protagonist is in a rush so her pillow is likely lopsided on the bed, which means the rest of her room is probably a bit messy too. The visual details make this a vivid scene and introduce the reader to a few of Sofia’s relatable character attributes.

How to Spot the Difference

I began to tell the difference by imagining myself reading a single sentence out loud. If I read any of the examples above before the “showing” edits, you’d have questions for me. See if a sentence, paragraph, or page makes you ask yourself:

What emotions does the protagonist feel right now?

How does the main character look through their body language?

What can the protagonist smell, taste, or feel?

What does the environment look like and is it necessary to describe it at this moment?

Does this scene need dialogue?

Do the characters feel flat?

Where’s the story’s hook?

The last question is tricky. The hook will be at the start of a short story or shortly within it, much like how a hook is within or at the end of the first chapter in a novel. If your writing doesn’t compel you to keep reading, it’s likely lacking the emotional depth that showing provides.

When Showing Goes Overboard

It’s always possible to have too much showing. It leads to the discussion English teachers always have about how Victor Hugo wrote for numerous pages about a single room in a chapter.

You could also fall into the trap of inserting flowery language into your work that you wouldn’t normally use, all for the sake of “painting a picture.” Your writing is your voice! It’s unique to you—how you speak, how you think, how you express yourself through stories. Write what comes naturally to you while keeping scenery, emotional depth, and sensory details in mind. If your words seem boring, that’s what editing is for (after you finish and step back from your work for a bit!).

Lose Yourself in Your Stories

“Showing” gets easier when you can lose yourself in whatever story you’re currently writing. If you’re struggling to do that, you might want to write in a quieter environment or put more details into your story or character outlines.

Have fun practicing this art form and you’ll watch your writing skills grow.

Promises Six: The Patron

Dark!Morpheus x (female)reader, fantasy/medieval AU, 18+

Master List

Chapter warnings: language, violence, (temporary) character death A/N: You're all fucking fabulous. 💖Aiming for another update next week. Wish me luck.

Only two thrones waited in the main tent. The king’s servants rushed to move a third chair to a place of honor beside them, layering it in swaths of silk and velvet designed to hang over the canvas walls, like they could veil the differences in quality and size with a few curtains.

They needn’t have bothered.

Lord Morpheus refused to sit as his sibling lounged on their impromptu throne with the grace of a cat and a shark’s smile. Familial enmity crackled around the two like a storm, and Desire basked in the attention. The King of Meiren hovered, clearly aching to take his seat, but anxious should he disrespect the guest who would not.

Quite a tableau. If only the bard could paint.

She saw her patrons settled before she went to study the drama unfolding around the two Endless and the king who would dare consider himself an equal. Even the most delusional suitors kept their distance now. Alluring as Desire may be, they did not hem in the waves of power as their siblings did. The bard recognized the overwhelming presence of an Endless even when they tried to shutter the worst of the tidal crush when walking among mortals. She’d felt it with Death. She felt it with Dream. But Desire didn’t even pretend to care for the humans’ comfort.

Every scent was sweeter in their presence, every whisper of taste carried on the smoke of the outdoor cooking fires a draw to addiction. The company looked finer. Everyone murmured about the heat and struggled to meet each others’ gaze as they shifted in their tight clothes, fanning away glittering drops of sweat that drew the eye down, and down, and down to the curious places hidden from view by cloth and lace.

Plenty of mistakes would be made that evening. More than the usual wild carousing inspired by fantasies of bloodlust in the woods. She’d already advised her friends and supporters to avoid as much of the spectacle as possible. To keep a hair pin in their pocket to prick themselves and their loved ones back to good sense if needed. She pointed out the horse troughs and water buckets, and reasoned the king couldn’t complain if a few members of his court felt poorly and left before dark after such a long day.

She couldn’t follow them back, of course. Her curiosity forbid it, and she wanted to be near if a spark caught that might ignite the entire kingdom.

Desire made no effort to hide their conversation from the fragmented assembly. Most were too busy wrestling with their influence to take notice, but the bard knew Desire’s family, and – what was far more important – she knew herself and her desires too well to be so easily swayed.

“I heard you’d been offered a bride, and I simply couldn’t help myself.” Desire treated the seat more as a kind of low couch, spreading over the arms in a pose to draw the eye to their long limbs and fiery eyes. Their red lips looked bloodstained as they grinned. “And a mortal at that. What could have possessed you?”

The king stuttered to join in the conversation, his eyes so dilated even the bard could see the dark hollows swallowing his mind. “I-I offered, your… grace? A bargain for the King of Dream’s aid some years ago. He has not chosen, but there are still many days…”

“Hmmm.” Desire dismissed him effortlessly, not even bestowing a wave. Their eyes never turned to his face, and the king finally slumped into his seat, unseen and unheard by his betters. The bard had never seen him so cowed, and gods knew she’d put in the work.

“An offer only.” The Dream King’s hands flexed into fists. Although the bard had thought he couldn’t grow any paler, his knuckles looked deathly white against his pallid skin. “I have accepted no one, and no one in this host has so inspired my attention or affection.”

Somehow, Desire’s smile grew wider, and as they let their head fall back over the arm of their throne, they chuckled through their teeth. “I wonder, big brother. Really, I do. Ah, well.” They straightened, spinning with unnatural fluidity to properly face their kin. “At least I didn’t miss the hunt.”

The close air within the tent fostered the unnatural heat. It stuck to the roof of the bard’s mouth, and she licked her teeth to scrape it off her tongue. The warmth ached where it dripped into her chest, clenched and hungry for every good and wicked thing she could not or should not possess. Her dead mother’s hand to hold. A good cup of tea in a quiet place beside a trusted friend. Wind in her hair, songs in her throat, and someone –

She left the tent.

Out of sight, the waves of Desire’s power didn’t strike with such force, and the bard walked with her hands on her hips, taking deep breaths of fresh air to clear the scent of longing.

A breeze cut through the clearing where the king’s court set camp, and she imagined it cleaned the stench of foiled passions as it combed through her hair, that it brushed aside the bitter shards of unshaped dreams from her mind.

Sometimes she forgot how much harder intrigue and politics were to wash off than dust from the road. It worked into crevices and scars, surprising her with old filth every time she thought herself free of it.

Her time with the Endless would stain her, surely.

Her mother’s acquaintance with Death left more than a mere mark. If she wasn’t so proud of her own legacy and legend, she’d say it defined her. If she had any sense, she would’ve stayed with the dragon and sung him pretty songs until the Endless had fucked off back to the realm he governed. When Desire appeared, she should’ve turned her mare around, packed up her things at the castle, and left a note of apology. But she hadn’t. Couldn’t, honestly. She wanted to know. She wanted to see. She wanted to witness history – or add a few lines of her own.

Really, what was the worst that could happen? She had manners and a frustrating inability to die, so the chances of lasting consequences for her recklessness were slim.

Gradually, her hands slipped off her hips, and she felt she could breathe easily again. The world wore familiar shades, and no one’s power but her own threaded through her blood. Half finished stories and snarls of old songs half forgotten filled her head. The air tasted of dirt and smelled of sweat. All good and human things.

Strolling through the camp, she found an old fortune reader laying out her tools on a red blanket. The woman chose her spot well, a patch of shade that would only grow as the sun set, just beside the smaller tents where the noble families rested.

The bard nodded in passing, but a wizened hand seized her wrist, bringing her up short. Stumbling to a halt, she blinked down, bemused, but only a little surprised. The woman didn’t have many other customers passing at this hour, when most were resting or preparing for the hunt, and plenty of folk stopped the bard in the street.

All her cards, bones, and runes sat in tidy piles and dishes, untouched, but the reader glowered at the bard with a fortune on her lips.

“You have already caught your doom’s eye.”

Smiling, twisting her wrist in a vain attempt to thwart the old woman’s grasp, the bard said, “You must be mistaken, mother. I have no doom.”

Ridged nails sank into the bard’s palm as the fortune teller squeezed.

“Just because you are deathless does not make you fateless, girl.”

A presence too much like the ones she’d left in the king’s tent coursed like deep roots through the old woman’s words. They tapped unseen waters and sprouted a gravity beyond the woman’s ken. Her glare cut across realms, and the bard’s hair stood on end.

“You are become an ache that preys on the heart. A yearning made flesh. And your doom will tear you from the world if you continue this way in the Garden of Forking Paths. Heed my warning.”

A shadow cut across the sun, and the bard looked up, expecting a thunderhead. That sort of fortune ought to be followed by forked lightning and rolling thunder. But as the light returned and the shape passed through the sun’s glare, it roared, and the bard cursed, ripping away from the fortune teller even as the old woman released her grip.

“Fucking hells!”

She tore through the camp, running before she thought to move, knocking guards and bemused nobles out of her way as they stared up at the great, winged beast above. A dragon. A dragon had come to the king’s hunt.

And the bard knew just which idiot dragon it was, too.

She recognized his scaled bulk. His petulant, flaming rumble.

The absolute twat.

What did he think he was doing?

Time rushed against her, precious seconds slipping beneath the soles of her boots as she found her horse, fumbled on the bridle, and swung onto her back. By that time, knights and hunters had stirred themselves. The bard cantered between men-at-arms rushing to their mounts and young archers half-armed and eager.

She flew by the entrance to the king’s tent where the two Endless stood observing the chaos like it was so very far below them. Fair enough. But at the moment, the bard couldn’t care less. Kingdoms and fates be damned. Her patron was going to get himself killed. She barely felt their gazes wash over her, burning like molten gold, sharper than diamond stars. After a life of dragon’s fire and executioners’ blades, they did not make her tremble like a sensible mortal.

Out of the camp, into the woods, galloping along the path in the direction the dragon wheeled. A goodly field stood some distance away, and it was the nearest place her patron might land without risking his wings on the treetops. So she rode, aware the crash of arms and hooves behind her was growing.

She hadn’t stopped for a saddle. Her thighs clenched tight around her mare’s heaving ribs, every bit of energy and intent straining forward, trying to yank the distant break in the trees closer with sheer force of will. The woods pressed too dark and thick, and she couldn’t tell if the crush of noise in her head came from her heart or the dragon ahead.

The ride lasted half an age, but she cleared the tunnel of trees at last, and blinded by sun, she heard rather than saw the huntsfolk who’d gathered from where they kept the caged beasts and dogs. A dragon was much better quarry. As the glare faded, she wheeled her mare between the humans and the fiery beast. They stumbled, clutching weapons and glaring as she swung down, facing the thing they’d planned to capture.

Hands raised, seeking to draw his eye, she marched towards the dark gouges in the earth where her patron landed.

“Glistiven!”

He turned from the lancer he’d been snapping at, flaring his nostrils wide to smell as well as see her. The wind carried her scent across the field, and he lowered his head, creeping low to be on her level.

She hissed at the hunters as she passed, “He’ll burn you all if you scratch him. Your lives aren’t worth the coin the king will forget to pay you.”

A few, convinced, moved back into the trees. The rest at least backed away, cautious, ready to see if the beast would incinerate the bard before they pushed their luck.

Glistiven stood taller than an oak, and his wings could shade a whole village. He looked a fine prize with his glittering scales – and the gold trapped between them – but he’d not grown to such a size for his tame love of humanity.

He’d burned the bard to ash three times before his curiosity won over his bad temper.

A month of stories, songs, and negotiations convinced him that it may be easier to let the local villages sell him their sheep. It was easier than dealing with unwanted visits from every bounty hunter and monster slayer in the kingdom. Every year, she carried his order down from the mountain, and the farmers let the chosen sheep run wild into the dragon’s territory.

He ought to be in the mountain now.

“Why are you here?” she demanded, marching through the tall grass and struggling to look dignified. As if she didn’t have enough to worry over. Two Endless, a fool of a king, and families looking to her for protection she was wholly unqualified to promise. Just because she was old didn’t mean she was powerful. “You great, flaming… Why are you here?”

Though still many yards away, his great sigh sent ripples through her clothes. “You have not finished your story.”

Hells above and heavens below. The petulance in his voice. She noted the remaining huntsfolk shift even further away from the corner of her eye, disturbed by the voice like a landslide in a wildfire. Crackling, and rumbling, and doubtless inhuman. A voice they all felt rattle in their bones. It reminded them that though they be hunters, they might yet be hunted. Many of their kind fell to dragons’ appetites. This one may yet have them.

The bard dropped her hands, forcing her way through the swaying weeds. She’d give her patron a piece of her mind and sort out this mess. He ought to fly home, but if he didn’t, she could tell him where to hide, where to sleep away from the hunter’s hooks and the castle’s ballistas.

A sharp twang cut the words she went to speak from the air.

Pain struck. It pierced through and out, scattering thought and breaking breath. A strange weight sat in her flesh, and as her mouth fell open, desperate for air that would not come, her hands rose to find the wound, the hurt, and the thing that made it. An arrow tip sliced her fingers. A bolt from some great weapon meant to take down boar and the scaled wyverns that sometimes came this far north.

It had taken her heart out of her body. She could feel it with her bleeding fingertips, fluttering around the wooden shaft, half-pinned by broken ribs.

She fell. To her knees. To the grass. To the waiting arms of Death. Her blood pooled ruby over her hands, her body shuddering and jolting with the determination of a broken clock still trying to tick.

The ground shook with Glistiven’s rage, and the heat of his fire curled over her like a blanket as the last heat of waning life bubbled onto the grass.

Here you are again.

A gentle touch settled over the crown of her head. Cold, but soft. A familiar companion she hated to bother. The bard relaxed into the entity’s hold as she lost all sense and feeling, swaddled in the dark.

What have you gone and done to yourself this time?

Top-Tier Villain Motivations

They will be safe. It doesn't matter who else or what else burns as long as They will be safe.

I will be safe. The hunger and the cold will never touch me again.

Fuck any bitch who's prettier(/cooler/better-liked/better at making dumplings) than me.

Yes, Master

Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. LOVE ME!

I know the terrible things these so-called "heroes" will do if I don't stop them (<- is absolutely wrong)

I don't want a better future, I want a better past!

No other way to get performance art funded these days

What’s writing, you know? What does writing actually mean?