harryhawthorne
indefinitely wild.
harry hawthorne. aka the god pan. 33. owner of the golden lyre. They told me once that Pan was dead, and so, in sooth, I thought him; for vainly where the streamlets led through flowery meads I sought him--nor in his dewy pasture bed, nor in the grove I caught him.
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@ofedenslove:
Eden’s nearly made it home when a book seems to fall from the sky, landing at his feet just in time for him to avoid stepping on the cover. Until the sound of Harry’s voice floats down from the heavens, he’s convinced himself it’s a miracle of some sorts, a sign from the universe that he needs to read more — he’s relieved that it’s only his roommate (he’d never been much of a reader). Squinting into the sun, Eden laughs as Harry comes into view, swinging from tree branches like some modern day Tarzan. They bend to pick up the book gingerly, shaking a leaf and some dirt from the pages. “If you give me a hand, I’ll come join you up there.” They offer the counteroffer with a hopeful grin. Harry calls to Eden’s inner child, the one who’d spent days lounging in trees and amidst the flowers and the fields ; he reminds them of the joy there is to be found outdoors, the simple things that fill his heart with a love for life. They tuck the book into the waistband of their jeans and do their best to find footing on the rough trunk, feet finding purchase on a low branch so that they’re near enough to stretch a hand out to Harry.
Harry’s grin shifts the moment he recognizes Eden through the branches, from the easy grin he offers to strangers to something warm and bright and familiar. He’s already shifting, getting ready to come down, but when Eden offers an alternative, Harry stops and braces his feet against a sturdy branch instead. As soon as Eden’s hand emerges through the branches, Harry is grabbing it, hauling them up into the tree with him. He’s grinning when he pulls his roommate up so that they’re face to face, darts in to kiss the tip of their nose.
“Hi!” he says brightly, swinging his long legs from one branch to another to free up a sturdy spot for Eden. “Welcome to my tree-crib. I’m glad it was you passing by and I didn’t scare anyone. Hey, if we ordered pizza, do you think the delivery guy could hand it up here?”
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i’m always so flattered when bees buzz around me. sorry miss, i’m not a flower, but it’s very sweet that you thought i was
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miriam-murphy:
If she was being honest, Miri really isn’t listening to what he was actually saying. No, she can’t get past the fact it feels like she’s stepped straight into a goddamn One Direction fanfiction. “Right,” she nods as if she’s never heard anything more interesting in the world, though she’s more focused on taking everything in. The hair, the accent, the name.
“Of course you are,” she murmurs, not meaning to say it out loud, though it snaps her from her momentary daze. “I mean, of course it’s okay, no harm done. It’s really nice to meet you, Harry.” Her fourteen-year-old self would probably wet herself if she could see this.
She can’t help the way her stomach flips when they shake hands and she can feel just how calloused and rough is larger hands are. She has to stop herself from giggling like a preteen school girl. “I think you should do it—the bees I mean. It looks like you’re good with your hands—I meant, it looks like you work… with your hands… and that would be good for beekeeping, yeah?” her eyes widen as she finally bites her tongue, giving him an smile and feeling all too much like she’s starting to have her whole foot in her mouth. “Sorry, I’m Miri, and I just moved here not long ago, and I’m pretty sure I’ve still got jet lag and don’t even know what I’m saying half the time. Just ignore me.” she says, attempting to save some face.
His smile turns crooked as she speaks, eyebrows raising slightly in amusement. She’s stumbling over her words and it’s--sweet, he thinks. Flattering, almost, not quite a reaction he’s used to, or at least, not like this, not when he’s not even tried to be charming yet. He looks at his own hands at her observation, rubs his thumb over a callous on his forefinger with a chuckle. “I play guitar,” he explains--and garden, and climb trees, and rocks, and tend goats, all hobbies that do not exactly lend themselves to soft hands.
“I don’t know if good fingering really translates to the bees, but maybe I can soothe them with a song,” he continues, his smile a little bit teasing, and then, “It’s nice to meet you, Miri, but I’m afraid I make a point of never ignoring anyone, if I can help it. I hope you’ll let me welcome you to the island with something better than dropped books, though. A cup of tea, maybe? My place isn’t far, might help with jet lag.”
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@ofharvests:
The tree is near his farm and some meters away from his own house. It stands proud and tall on this patch of land that he calls his home, looming over with its shade like a benevolent protector. It doesn’t bear fruit, unlike most of the trees he grows, but it’s always held a special place in his heart. After all, underneath this tree is the final resting place for his beloved pet.
Making his way towards his house, he passes by the tree only to hear a loud, hollered apology from the branches. Someone...is up there?
His eyes land on the book lying haphazardly on the dirt, then back up at the man as he speaks. He offers a small smile, and heads over to the book to pick it up, dust it off, and hold it as he obediently waits for the other to come down.
“Harry,” he calls out, tone pleasant. “Why didn’t you tell me you’d be hanging out here?”
“I didn’t know if you were teaching,” he offers as an answer as he swings himself down from the last branch, and gives the tree an affectionate pat, as if to thank it for sheltering him. Attention turning fully to Aryan, Harry grins and continues, “Besides, I love a surprise visit. I would have dropped in to see if you were home before too long. I brought something.”
A pause, calloused hands rummaging in his satchel, and then he produces a reusable bag full of freshly picked berries and several carefully wrapped tree cuttings. The berries are held out as an offering, “Here, I’ll trade you,” as he reaches for his book, before holding the cuttings up excitedly.
“They’re from a finger lime tree! I was out foraging, and I met a woman selling cuttings, and anyway--can you help me get them to root? I have rotten luck with fruit trees.” Which was to say, average luck, but it certainly seemed rotten when compared to the way some plants felt so very easy to care for.
#( aryan & harry. )#( thread | aryan: visit. )#moved to a new thread for tracking!#let me know if anything needs changing
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@secstorms:
THOUGH ALI’S ATTENTION HAD BEEN squarely on her phone and the video she had playing, she had still subconsciously swerved out of the way of the falling object, some sort of innate having already told her that there was someone or something nearby. it had been happening so often as of late that she didn’t even try to figure out why anymore, chalking it up to some sort of reflexes that seemed to kick in whenever she wasn’t paying attention. it was the words that followed the thud that had her blinking, attention switching up to the trees. “ what the fuck . . . ” the face that popped out of the limbs still startled her, her brain still working to process what the hell had just happened. “ do you . . . always throw books at people ? is it a new way to say hello ? ” ali was bewildered, putting her phone into her pocket as she crossed the couple of steps to pick up the book from off of the ground.
“Almost never, actually,” he promises as he swings his way down from the tree, movements somehow both carefree and cautious, careful not to do harm to any of the smaller branches. When his feet are firmly on the ground again, he adds, “Only if the people are behaving exceedingly badly, but then, well, it’s quite rude to the books, isn’t it, and there are much better projectiles.” Smile turning just a little apologetic, he holds out a hand for his fallen book and explains, “My foot fell asleep, and I was trying to get into a better position, and--” making a vague gesture of one hand and a whoosh sound to indicate the book falling, he shrugs. “I’m sorry if I frightened you, or like, made you lose your round of Temple Run, or something. Is that still a thing people play? Temple Run? I don’t actually know.”
#( aaliyah & harry. )#( thread | aaliyah: new greetings. )#moved to a new thread so i can track it :)
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@ofalex:
he lets out an embarrassing yelp and jumps at the sound of the book making a thud near him – for a second, alex’s mind was going: they’re going to kill me. but really... who the fuck is they ? his panicked mind had a lot of odd theories sometimes. but then he notices the book, and before he could even look up, he knew who it was. the sight of harry in that tree branch used to surprise him, but not so much anymore. “ first of all, you could have killed me – ” ever the dramatic, “ second of all... feeling kinda left out here. you went to climb trees and scare people without me ? ” he pouts up at him, knowing that harry’s intention was to never scare anyone... the thing is, alex would definitely do shit like that on purpose. so maybe putting him up in a tree was a bad idea for everyone involved. “ come down here before i throw a tantrum. ” he teases.
He’s laughing as soon as he recognizes Alex’s voice, clearly unfazed by the dramatics--they match his own, after all. “Oh, please, not a tantrum,” he says, swinging down from a branch and playfully kicking a foot in Alex’s direction before he lands on the ground with a flourish. “All the kicking, and the screaming, you’ll frighten the birds,” he teases with a grin. Calloused fingers brush dirt from his pants as he continues, “Besides, I didn’t come to frighten people, I came to read. Quietly. I didn’t think you’d be interested.” His tone is still teasing, but now he widens his eyes, bats his lashes at Alex. “Will you forgive me my transgressions if we go do something fun? Where are you headed?”
#( alex & harry. )#( thread | alex: tantrum. )#i'm laughing i know EXACTLY the audio you mean and i love it#bless him#also moved to a new thread so i can track
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@pcgvsvs
a copse of trees should not be hazardous but suddenly an object falls from one she is walking near, a shortcut on her way down to the beach, just missing her head as she startles. “did you hurl it or did it fall?” she asks suddenly as they seem to hop like a bird through the branches, not an easy feat she thinks but shakes her head as if to clear it. “because chucking it would be quite rude, but if it simply fell ---- that’s a different story.” she waited for him to reach the ground, dusting the book off and holding onto it a moment. “is it any good, then?” she asks as she stretches to hand it over.
He’s halfway out of the tree at the question and it gives him pause. For a second, he dangles from a tree branch, worn sneakers nearly-but-not-quite touching the ground. “It fell,” he assures with a crooked smile before letting go, landing on his feet and dusting off his palms. “I only throw things at people who are littering and--” A dramatic pause wherein he cranes his neck to look around her, checking for trash, and then, “Nope. You’re good.” He’s still smiling as he takes the book back, smoothes a hand over its cover, which reads Losing Eden. “I’m enjoying it, sure,” is the answer to her question. “It’s all about why we as humans have an intuitive need to connect to the wild--like, the further we go from it, the more we lose ourselves, you know?”
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miriam-murphy:
Miri isn’t sure if she should be amused or annoyed as she shields her eyes from the midday sun to watch the lanky man make his way out of the tree. She’d been deep in thought when the book landed with a hard thud beside her, causing her to yelp at an embarrassingly high decibel. But the racing of her heart softens to a flutter as she watches him move with such ease and grace–it’s hard for her not to be entranced. He’s odd looking, in that sort of eccentric artist sort of way, Miri thinks to herself and her eyes even flicker to his fingers, almost expecting to find flecks of paint there. His fingers are long and calloused, from what she can tell as he jumped out of the tree, but no paint–she really needed to stop imposing her own imagination on others like they were characters from her books. Shaking a her head to break out of her thoughts, Miri’s momentary annoyance is long forgotten and she quickly picks up the fallen book and scans the title: A Complete Guide to Beekeeping. Interesting.
“Picking up a new hobby?” She asks curiously, extending the book out to him.
He’s still grinning as he swings himself down out of the tree, the movements surprisingly fluid--he is not this graceful all the time, but here amongst the trees Harry is at ease in his body, long limbs no longer too long. “Thinking about it,” he answers easily, shrugging one shoulder as he reaches out to take the book back. “I mean, we’re kind of fucked without them, you know? And a while back there was a business on the island, had a hive in their storage room, and I heard they called pest control, but a beekeeper could have just moved them. I just kinda think they’re neat, too, really--everybody’s always afraid of them, but it’s not like they sting just for fun.” Bees had never stung him at all, in fact, seemed more content to swarm gently around him, landing on his hands or in his hair--but that, he knew, was one of those things that did not happen to other people, and he’s learned not to say it out loud.
Speaking of other people, he finally looks over the young woman he’d startled properly, his smile turning a little sheepish, both for having startled her and all of the rambling after. “Sorry about that,” he offers, and wipes his hand on his worn t-shirt before offering it to her to shake. “I’m Harry. I didn’t mean to startle you, love.”
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incorrect dair quotes
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location → outside, anywhere with trees
The tree isn’t that tall. Well--not by Harry’s standards, at least. He likes the really old ones best, the sort of trees that have kept watch over hundreds of generations, their branches stretching and stretching, always reaching for more sun, offering more shade. This particular tree is young, as trees go, but it has the kind of sturdy branches that make it ideal for climbing, and climb it Harry has. He likes to read up in its branches, or climb up with his guitar or banjo on his back and sing to the birds that have made their nest a few branches above. It’s peaceful there, and the dappled light that comes through the leaves at lunchtime is just right for reading. Unless, that is, he drops his book. Which he has. And just in time to startle a passerby. “Sorry!” is hollered from up in the branches before he swings himself down from one branch to the next, sure-footed and confident, trusting in the strength of the tree and his own long limbs. He leans over a branch, grinning face visible now to the person beneath him. “Hi! Can you just huck that back up here? Or actually--don’t, there’s a bird’s nest, I’ll come down.”
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@summersburn:
WHERE outside any place / anywhere that works
“ PIECE OF SHIT – ” the sound can be heard by anyone around her, as she yells at her really, really old car... breaking down on her once again. it probably doesn’t help that her combat booted foot crashes down on the side of her car, but summer didn’t know how else to direct her rage in situations like this ( she’s working on it, okay ?? ). instead of getting angrier, though, she immediately reaches for her cigarettes and lights one to calm herself down. she leans back against her car, her gaze catching someone else’s. “ you any good with cars by any chance ? ” at this point, her car would need a miracle. but she still refused to give it up.
He’s not trying to eavesdrop--really not, more focused on scribbling notes on the tattoo on his arm, a lively little melody that’s been playing in his head, lest he forget it before he heads home for the day--but when the anger is so very loud, it’s hard not to notice. The cap of his marker held between his teeth, he looks up at the shouting, and of course it’s Summer. A sympathetic wince at the crash of her boot--for the car, not her foot--and he’s about to look away, isn’t trying to get in a fight today, but then her gaze catches his, and the question--well. He can’t help it. He laughs. Hard. A surprised, incredulous laugh that bubbles out of him before he can catch it, and then he’s clearing his throat, cutting it off, trying to look penitent. “Sorry, just--it’s like asking if you know anything about meditation. You’re barking up the wrong tree. Have you considered getting a bike? Is a car that old even road legal?”
#( summer & harry. )#( thread | summer: car. )#// moved to a new thread for thread tracker#harold please
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@ctropus:
from the day she had arrived on magnetic island, she had attempted to swim every day the water was warm enough. it was their only exercise along with walking and the occasional hike. mallory had once been invited to join a spinning class, and unfortunately her former friend took it personally when they could not stop laughing in response while proclaiming they’d rather die and move onto the next life. it was another beautiful day, so mal had gone down to midas beach for her daily swim. as they were swimming back towards the shore after doing their usual round, she saw a french bulldog desperately trying to reach her, but it kept sinking in the water. mallory quickly took a hold of its collar, her feet now reaching the ground below and took the dog into their arms as they emerged from the water. it was by no means a graceful exit as the dog was squirming in her arms and only calmed down when they were safely on the sand, away from the ocean. and there mal stood, dripping with water, in her black bikini with a wet french bulldog under her arm. they were looking after any information on the collar when they felt eyes upon their back, which was decorated with her giant snake and skull tattoo covered that covered most of her back. mallory turned around. “i think i might have accidentally stolen a dog,” they said nonchalantly to the person staring at them. “... is it yours?”
Harry liked the beach. The sun, and the sand, and the salty ocean air--it reminded him of his travels, of learning to surf in Thailand, of shore fishing in Hawaii. But more importantly, Stevie liked the beach, and it was for her that he made a point to visit regularly--what his puppy liked, his puppy got.
Bare feet buried in the sand, he was watching her run gleefully in and out of the water when he spotted another dog having a significantly less fun time. He was on his feet in an instant, but he needn’t have bothered--he was too far away, and by the time he got close, Mallory was already emerging from the water holding the little bulldog. His eyes flicked curiously, admiringly, over the tattoo on her back, lips curving into a lazy grin when they turned around. “I think rescued is the word, not stolen,” he said easily, and held out his towel as an offering, though whether it was meant for human or dog was unclear. He shook his head at the question. “’Fraid not,” he said, and pointed over his shoulder at Stevie, who was trailing a few steps behind him, water dripping from her fur. “That one is.” A melodic whistle, and she was at his side, licking at his fingers. “I’ll help you look, though, if you like.”
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@lilacwalks:
𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍 𝐓𝐎 𝐀𝐋𝐋 ; 📍 𝐏𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐎𝐑𝐀'𝐒 𝐂𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐓/𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐏𝐏𝐈𝐍𝐆
there's a handful of light coats on the dressing room rack, light shopping for the cooler winds that sometimes do reach even the sunny paradise of magnetic island but none the less... lilac has been drawn to some of the other items, opening the dressing room door with flourish; a cropped f(faux)leather coat, black crop top, black pleated skirt and a pair of heeled black louboutins.
"so — what do you think?"
Fashion has never been Harry’s wheelhouse, and it’s rarely been more obvious than now, standing in a boutique wearing a worn old button down with the breast pocket patched by hand. He doesn’t belong here, and it shows, but a hat in the window display lured him in--a cream colored affair, wide-brimmed and structured. The same hat is in his hands now, turned upside down for him to examine the label, bottom lip caught between his teeth in thought.
His gaze lifts when the nearby dressing room door opens, eyebrows raising slightly when the woman addresses him. She looks like she belongs here, and he can’t for the life of him imagine why she’d want his opinion, but his gaze sweeps over her anyway. “I think you look like you could step on my foot with those heels and I would probably thank you,” he offers after a moment, and then, because she clearly knows what she’s doing, “Can I ask you something?” Nimble fingers flip the hat onto his head, run over the brim. “Do I look stupid in this hat?”
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Anaïs Nin, from “The diary of Anaïs Nin, vol. 3: 1939-1944”
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HARRY HAWTHORNE IS → THE GOD PAN
GOD OF SHEPHERDS AND HUNTERS,
OF MEADOWS AND FORESTS,
MOUNTAIN WILDS AND RUSTIC MUSIC
❋ FULL STATS. BIO. WANTED CONNECTIONS. ❋
❋ basic information
FULL NAME: Harold Oliver Hawthorne III
PREFERRED NAME: Harry, Hazza, Hey Asshole--anything but Harold
AGE + DOB: Thirty-three, November 27, 1988
GENDER + PRONOUNS: Cisgender man, He/Him/His
ORIENTATION: Pansexual, panromantic
HOMETOWN: London, England
CURRENT LOCATION: Magnetic Island
LIVING IN: Rock Rose Park, with roommate Eden Shore
OCCUPATION: Owner of The Golden Lyre
PETS: Stevie (Nicks), 3 year old Australian Shepherd; Dolly (Parton) and Joni (Mitchell), pygmy goats
❋ god of the wild
DEITY: Pan
GOD OF: The wild, shepherds, hunters, meadows, forests, mountain wilds, rustic music, impromptus
POWER TRAIT: An innate talent for picking up musical instruments, particularly woodwinds, and a knack for musical improvisation; a feeling of contentment in the presence of pine trees and a connection to goats and honeybees; slightly enhanced agility in wilderness; the unconscious ability to incite panic when in a strong negative emotional state.
FULL ABILITY: The ability to traverse the most rugged of wilderness landscapes with ease (hardcore parkour, goat boy); commune with and influence woodland & flock animals through music; influence the growth of woodland plants and trees, and induce feelings of panic. As yet unaccessible.
SACRED PLANTS: Pine trees, water reeds, mountain beech
SACRED ANIMALS: Goat, tortoise, honeybees
❋ quick facts
raised in the big city, but it never felt like home
son of an up-and-coming property developer
lost his mother at age nine
theatre kid, professional slacker, all around mischief maker
reluctant graduate of the University of London--just managed to scrape by the grades for a BSc in Business and Management at his father’s insistence, though he spent more time on fun electives
spent the next five years traveling, despite his father’s desire for him to begin working under him
refused to return home even when his father was diagnosed with cancer, because running away from grief is probably a valid life choice, right?
after his father’s death, harry spent the better part of a year dismantling his father’s company, protecting what undeveloped land he could
used his inheritance to move across the world to magnetic island and buy a home and a business
now the owner of The Golden Lyre
simultaneously the life of the party and that guy who keeps asking you if you meditate
plays several instruments
very friendly and open-minded unless you disrespect mother nature and then fuck you, you fucking fuck
always down to share his weed
can be found hiking, rock-climbing, foraging, playing the banjo from the branch of a tree he climbed
largely pescatarian, but will eat meat if he can guarantee it was locally and humanely sourced
#eternal! intro#tw: death#tw: cancer#tw: recreational drug use#(just brief mentions in all three cases)
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