Dnf oneshots💚💙

Our secret garden🎀💔

Yes, this was kinda inspired by the secret garden, so what if it was, leave me alone :(

Also, this is my 100th chapter so, woohoo 🥰❤️❤️❤️🎉🎊🎈🥳🥳🍾

TW: kinda just immense sadness/dread/states of depression, and curses(magic ones, not fuck :I)

    George could feel the same dark presence the house was filled with by say, he could feel the loneliness washing over his core and body. He flipped a page, pressed against a glass window with a yellow tint, allowing the sunlight to shine in. Not much of a sunlight, the clouds here were always so gray and fat, full of water and moist hate. George steadied his breathing, alone in his large room with books strewed across the floor, words he'd read over a hundred times never seeming so boring. His life was empty, he was empty, and so was this house. The exception of a maid or two didn't count, George didn't spare any of those worthless people with even a gaze, not when they contributed to his only ever growing feeling of sadness and gray. They were of a vast land of nothingness, void of anything but flat plains and thick forests, no buildings for the eye to see. So when he heard the racking and rolling of wheels, he allowed himself to glance out his window and eye the newcomers. A carriage, pulled by two rich looking mares, no doubt his father's special volunteered mobile, but why use one for a random? Who was coming into his dark cave of gloom and shadows?

    George blinked twice, and suddenly he was beamed with the light of a thousand suns. His eyes forced shut, but slowly opening to reveal a sun of itself. He couldn't see past it's light, it's overall reek of overwhelming happiness and energy. It was a boy, being helped out the carriage by one of father's assistants. George watched the boy glance around the house, he looked young, quite young, a similar age of George himself. His book long forgotten, he watched the sunflower walk through the front garden, and enter his house from its large prison gates. The brunet waited anxiously, not hearing anything from downstairs, avoiding the temptation to press the side of his head to the floor or wall. He tried to focus his mind on the pages in his lap, but the words faded out into questions, who was that boy? Father only ever let people of great use to him into the house, though ever since that boy arrived, George couldn't feel anything but light.

    Light? He touched his chest, was this real? Was he dreaming? Or was this foreign feeling of happiness real? Happiness, something the dull, gray boy never was able to imagine. Sucking in the feelings of warmth and energy only for it to go into negative space in his body, he'd never had something forced upon him instead of greedily stolen. He needed to know what this was, why his chest felt so light and his head so empty of insecure thoughts and emotions. A knock was sounded on his door, and he looked up quicker than ever, "Sir George, please come now." A female's voice came from the other side, and George's heart skipped a beat. It didn't do that, why was his heart feeling so fluttery? Why was he feeling so fluttery? The prison that had caged him in all his life was now suddenly feeling more colorful, more peaceful and happier, even the locked doors he'd been forbidden to open looked more enticing and daring. What was happening? That was when he was led downstairs to meet a boy quite bright, why he'd never seen such an expression of curiosity and happiness in someone other than a small child.

    He reached his hand out slowly, looking up at this stranger who made George feel like he'd known for years, and the touch of his hand on his sent a wave of warmth up George's arm, "Hi there! My name is Dream, odd name right? I always thought it was, never met many people so no idea if it is- maybe it's more common in England, did you know I've never been in England before? Your house is very nice- if it is your house- you live here right? Well I heard that one call you George so you're probably George, my name's Dream- wait, didn't I say that already? Whatever, it's lovely to meet you!" George felt overwhelmed by everything in front of him, someone that looked so odd when they spoke, someone that spoke a little too much. His voice though, oh his voice, it sounded so good. An accent foreign to George's knowledge, an American no doubt. It wasn't just the way he spoke, it was the tone. A tone sweet and smooth like honey but bashful and bright like fire. He could listen to it like a song.