#canopy jumper

[kas-e]

Phidippus Otiosus

Penultimate female (first) Adult female (second shot) same spider.

[sunnami]

❝like the grass wants to grow, i want to run anywhere that you go.❞

summary. 'a tiny butterfly flapping its wings today may lead to a devastating hurricane weeks from now.' or alternatively, it takes six lifetimes for you to find each other.

pairings. poly!marauders+lily x reader.

word count. 8.9k (i tried to keep it short. i really did T-T)

tags. hurt/comfort, fluff, angst, happy ending. reincarnated/regressor!reader. no specific gender described. not proofread, we die like lucerys velaryon.

cws. brief depictions of death and war, themes of mental health and trauma.

note: lmaoao, as per the poll, here is the time-traveler!reader fic! i didn't cry during the angsty parts so it's probably not that bad.

YOU WAKE UP to a familiar weathered stone ceiling, owls softly hooting beyond the curtained windows, sunken in the mattress of a canopy bed with low snoring on either side of you. There’s a wilting candle on your nightstand, alongside an unfastened leather journal—a whiff of spilt ink under your nose. In your limp embrace, is a plush capybara with a turtle attached to its head. The quilt blanket is entangled between your thighs, the early morning breeze flurrying past the exposed stretch of your belly where your oversized granny-square jumper has ridden up.

It’s only then, when you try curling your fingers and wiggling your toes, that you realize that your body feels as though it had been hit by a shrinking charm. 

You sit upright instantly, heart skipping a beat from fright.

No.

You can’t have.

You reach for your brass handheld mirror, tucked away in the bedside drawers. 

There is no way you are this unlucky.

Yet staring back at you, is your eleven-year-old self.

Naturally, you end up screaming in frustration—startling the robins idle on the windowsills and all but waking the entirety of the Gryffindor castle. Prefects burst inside the dormitory, wand at the ready and crust in their eyes, in search of a threat only to find you on the verge of hyperventilating.

Bloody hell. 

Not again! 

Merlin, Morgana and Arthur—you are not going through puberty a sixth time.

“Oh, fuck me,” you mumble defeatedly as you fall back onto the patchwork pillows. Your roommates are gawping at you in horror, the sound of heavy footfalls echoing in the halls outside. 

Months ago, you had heard about the gruesome passing of Dorcas Meadowes—you weren’t necessarily close friends with the girl, despite being sorted in the same House, but you would grieve where grief is due. 

YOUR FIRST LIFE came to an abrupt end at the age of nineteen, in a quaint coffeehouse where the owner knew your name and the baristas wore a sunlit grin everyday. That day, no one had expected for Death Eaters to wreak havoc in Diagon Alley—it could have been anticipated, if only the Ministry was competent during the onset of the war. But with the extensive list of Muggleborn and half-blood casualties after that incident,  Ministry officials had no choice but to restrict certain areas and propose the ‘lesser-breeds’ go into hiding for their safety. This alluded to many families; most condemned to be blood-traitors. 

(There had been fleeting whispers of her dying at the wand of Voldemort himself.) 

Then, you’d woken up in the four walls of your dormitory. The sensation of being ever-so cruelly struck by the killing curse burning in your chest—a scorching fire, yet bitterly cold all the same. You had sobbed wretchedly, curled up in a shuddering ball of tears until your roommates had called for the prefects. It got worse when they tried to console you—you felt everything still. The panicked cries and screams of the wounded ceaselessly echoing in your head.  You remembered the shards of glass sinking into your skin as you dove for cover, Unforgivables apathetically hurled in every direction. 

It was not until Madam Pomfrey administered a Calming Draught and an elixir for dreamless sleep that you finally went out like a light extinguished.

Your second life was relatively longer—you had spent it under the supervision of mind healers at St. Mungo’s, after all. For the next thirty years, you’d been confined to a ward on the fourth floor. (Later, you would share this space with a couple who went by the names of Alice and Frank Longbottom.) Regardless of the bleak walls, it was not so bad. The quilts were warm and the assigned matron, Madam Strout, was kind and fussed over you regularly. While the healers had done everything they could, you continued to struggle with discerning what appeared to be your ‘first life.’ (Which one was your true reality? The first? Or the second?) Eventually, all the poking and prodding wore you down. Your fingertips had bruised and brittled. You could not look over your shoulder in fear of finding a Death Eater staring back at you. Night terrors plagued your dreams. 

(Your parents who had always embraced you with loving arms—they could not look you in the eyes now.) 

Memories bled into newer memories as the days went by. You haunted the corridors with a plagued stare, quickly becoming a woeful canard amongst the residents of the hospital. ‘The hysteric fortune teller,’ they called you. You who spoke of wars and rebellion at the age of twelve—but whose words nobody cared for when Voldemort began rising to power. You who’d gone mad and overwrought. In the end, you believed everyone else. 

(See? It must have been all in your head—a wayward spell that unfortunately damaged your memories.)

You’re unsure of how you died, but perhaps, you were never even alive in the first place. There was only so much Draught of Peace you could take before you inevitably became a soulless, sleep-walking husk of a person.

You woke up in the Gryffindor tower once more—this time, you’re careful enough to smother your cries.   

If you flinched every time Marlene McKinnon coarsely bellowed Dorcas’s name in the middle of the school hallways, or if you averted your gaze at the sight of Alice Fortescue and Frank Longbottom’s intertwined hands—it was nobody’s business but your own. In this life, you kept your head down, breezing through your homework and exams—although you had seen no purpose in it, at this point. Each morning that you woke up, you wondered if this was a favor from the Gods, or a relentless hell so meticulously-crafted for you.  

(But what sins had you committed for them to spit on you as they had done? Surely, you would be granted peace after two deaths.)

You could not tell your family, nor could you ask anyone else in Hogwarts if they remembered fragments of their past lives—for the last time you had done that, you were met with vindictive laughter and cruel gazes. 

(At that moment, you had understood Xenophilius Lovegood a little bit more. You never knew how many sought to trample on the wallflowers of the castle.) 

And so, you’d kept your head down until the end of your time in the castle. You stayed away from Diagon Alley and surrounding areas, and you willed yourself to perfect the art of apparating—a skill you wished that you had learned earlier. 

On the first of November 1981, witches and wizards had come to celebrate the fall of Lord Voldemort—which ultimately meant the death of James and Lily Potter. (You could not come to their funeral the first time around, seeing as you were chained to your hospital mattress that day, inebriated on the third dreamless sleep potion administered to you.) 

Under the eyes of St. Jerome, you laid bouquets of white roses and dahlias on their tombstones. 

“Wherever your souls are now, I hope you find each other and unearth peace,” you whispered to the two names engraved on the slate, hands clasped together as you rested on the grass. The winds had been cold and biting, a testament to the looming winter that would sweep away the tears on their graves. Like Dorcas Meadows, you did not interact much with James and Lily—but more than anyone, you knew how death was no easy enemy to conquer.

(You hoped their orphaned son would live a life that would not take him too early.)

A few months later, you met your demise to a werewolf named Fenrir Greyback. 

As you bled out on the grassfields, you wished for Death to come and take you faster.

When you awakened, it was in the same bed and the same dusty ceiling. 

There was nothing you could do but go back to sleep this time around.

After dying pathetically for a third time, a stubborn part of you wanted to fight back—so you did. 

Unlike your previous lives, you joined the Dueling Club, supervised by Professor Flitwick himself. Your wand work was clumsy and you stumbled on your incantations. You could not lift your wand without remembering a coffee shop laid to ruin and wreckage or the hardened gaze of Greyback as he sank his teeth into your neck. The times were merciless, your dance with Death even more—but you would not die helplessly again. 

As you lay in your bed, muscles aching from dueling practice, you had realized one thing. 

You did not want to stain your hands with the blood of another—having grown tired of the Reaper and his antics. If the Gods would not let you rest, then you would not let them take anyone else. 

After all, you had the stubbornness of a Gryffindor lion. 

For the next six years or so, you devoured your textbooks on charms and healing spells, refining your spellwork until your tongue grew numb and your wrists became sore. When the time came, you followed James Potter, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, Lily Evans, and many more, in joining the Order of the Phoenix. (Perhaps you should have realized earlier that you all were just wide-eyed children on both sides, forced to partake in a war that should have never been yours to fight.) 

The First Wizarding War transfigured the years into a blur of mourning, surviving, and fighting in alleys now-bloodied. Even the sun hid behind the clouds, for brothers began turning on one another. You could only find solace in the fact you had kept Dorcas away from Voldemort’s clutches, volunteering to go in her stead during incursions, and Marlene McKinnon alive for another day to see her family.

But for how long could you cheat fate? 

Hours before your death, you found yourself in a forest clearing. The campsite was filled with witches and wizards afflicted with severe hexes and curses—a few of Dumbledore’s best fighters screaming in agony from the Cruciatus. 

There you found Remus Lupin, bruised and worse for wear, attempting to wrap a bandage around his shoulders in an empty tent. 

“You look like you’ve seen better days,” you said in a soft greeting, stepping inside the tent with a forced smile, your collection of potions and jars of herbal pastes jostling in your leather satchel. 

Remus chuckled tiredly. “Haven’t we all?” 

You gently pried the bandage from his trembling hands and maneuvering yourself at his back. You stifled the urge to cry at the sight of his scars—so violently red against his pallid skin. Compared to your previous lives, you had developed a friendship with Remus and his group of bold marauders—a camaraderie as true as it could be in dire times. (And if providence had been kinder, you could have dared to want more than just friendship.) You poured drops of Dittany onto his shallower wounds, murmuring empty words of comfort as he flinched and hissed.

“It’s Peter,” he rasped, abruptly holding onto your wrist as you turned to leave. “He’s been missing for hours. Please. I don’t know what I’d. . . what I’d do if. . . if. . .”

You squeezed his hand. “I’ll find him, Remus. Don’t worry.”

True to your word, you had found Peter at sundown deep within the forest. There was an unsettling quietude that hung in the air as you trudged to his side. He was kneeling on the muddy ground, head hanging low. It’s only then that you noticed the body laying still in his arms. Violent chills slithered down your spine as you recognized the woman in his embrace. 

“Mary!” you cried out, hurrying to them as fast as you could. 

“What happened?” you asked frantically, hands in a desperate search for a pulse. When you were met with no answer, you pressed again more heatedly. “Peter! Look at me!” You gripped his chin, heart hammering in your chest. “You have to tell me what happened! I can’t. . . I can’t help her if I don’t know what hit her.” Droplets of tears fell from your eyes down to Mary’s pale cheeks. “I can’t. . . I need—please. . .”

Bloodshot eyes stared back at you. “I. . . I didn’t want to do it.”

“What?”

“I’m sorry,” he croaked, burying his head into the crook of Mary’s neck. “I was so, so scared.”

“Peter, what are you talking about?” You grimaced impatiently when Peter lifted his gaze—but he was not looking at you, rather behind you.

The answer to your question was a killing curse to the back.

An unseen rustle in the bushes that you should have paid attention to, a cloaked figure darker than any shadow; a Death Eater that’d come to ensnare you in a perfectly-laid trap. 

(Damn it!)

(Damn it all to Hell!)

You awoke to the sound of your screaming and your limbs thrashing in the bed you’ve grown to despise. There was nary a remorse in your body as your roommates wailed at the sight of your nails drawing blood from your arms. Later that morning, the common room would be filled with talks of your faraway gaze and your scratched-up flesh. 

You could not take it anymore.

In your fifth life, you had sought peace—or rather, the most beautiful mockery of it. 

You decided to give up your magic to chase a semblance of normalcy. No more wands, no more moving portraits, no more jinxes and pranks, no more owls and wizard robes. Most of all, no more war. (‘But it did not work like that’, Death laughed.) In this life, you wanted what was denied of you in the previous ones.

A family.

A happy ending.

Bitterly enough, the Gods saw fit to give you only one of the two. 

You married a Muggle, to your parents’ dismay. He was nice and compassionate—a distant contrast to the ongoing turmoil of the wizarding world. But you could not bring yourself to feel guilt. You had been stripped of everything, which included the privilege to die and lay your soul to rest in perpetuity. 

(Who were you, if not a dead man walking?)

Over the years, you would have three children with your husband—three beautiful children born from love, in a world that would not actively seek to take them from you. You raised them all to adulthood, hoping they would not fault you for finding relief at the lack of magic in their veins. Their names were Kinsley, Piper, and Avery—and you had adored every inch of them, from their striking eyes to the tips of their stubby fingers. 

On your deathbed, you were surrounded by your grandchildren and your great-grandchildren. An image you held close to your heart as your vision began to deteriorate. 

Just this once, you prayed to all that would hear. 

Let me die surrounded by my family.

At the age of ninety-one, you drew your final breath.

And when you opened your eyes, you were back in Hogwarts for the sixth time.

TO SIRIUS BLACK, you are a curious little wallflower, albeit a withering one—you who blend among the crowd, with a sad gaze in your eyes and the fretful twisting of your fingers. He doesn’t know why he’s particularly drawn to you—but perhaps he understands, more than anyone, the hesitance of taking up space in fear of punishment for one wrong move. But you look so lost, meandering along the corridors like the ghosts of the castle—but even the spirits seem more alive and colorful than you. 

“What is it that they have taken from you?” Sirius wants to ask. 

(What judgment has fate placed upon you so—for you to cry each morning?) 

There is a raging urge in his veins to reach over and wipe your tears away, but what can he do as a stranger, if not watch powerlessly as you fade into the background? 

His fingers feel like they might fall off if they do not entwine with yours. He wants to offer up his shoulders to carry the burdens that weigh down on a creature as lovely as you. 

There are times when he and the other Gryffindors catch you crying at the long tables of the Great Hall. 

“O-Oh, was I?” Your reply is quiet. Resigned. Sirius has never felt his heart break more than in that moment. You move to weakly swipe at your tears. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to. . .” 

“It’s alright, really,” Lily says, her voice strained, the words lodged in her throat. Under the table, she seeks James’s hand for comfort. (How can someone appear to be so lonely and defeated?) “We all have those days.”

“Yes.” You blink away the fresh tears pricking at your eyes, mindlessly pulling at the threads of your woven bandages, a weary chuckle falling from the cracked skin of your lips. “Except, it seems the days never end for me.”  

Lily stays silent. 

Sirius shares a look with Remus from across the table, an unspoken question hanging between the animagus and the werewolf.

How do their voices call out to the one who so faithfully believes that the world has abandoned them?

But Sirius Black is determined and unyielding—what good of a prankster would he be if he could not bring a smile upon your beautiful face? 

He gets his chance during Transfiguration class, when McGonagall instructs the class to pair-up for an activity in turning miniature statues into birds. Predictably, you don’t move a muscle, staring ever-so intently at the sights beyond the classroom windows that you don’t notice the professor observing you worriedly—her lips tightly pressed and her eyes wrinkled with concern. Sirius slams his buttocks onto the wooden chair next to you; the sound of chair legs screeching bounces off the cobblestone walls.

“Hullo, partner.” Sirius grins as he offers you an enthusiastic wave, his dark curls floundering with his energy. He feels the gazes of his best mates boring into his back, but decides to ignore it for now—Remus can live without him for one class. In his mind—a perfectly-reasonable logic for an eleven-year-old, mind you—he figures that you would find class more entertaining if you had the right company. And, Sirius is wonderful company. 

You stare at him with furrowed brows and Sirius wishes nothing more than to bring fire to your eyes. “Partner?” you repeat, a tinge of confusion in your voice—a deafening cadence to his ears, as for once, it is not desolation that laces your words. 

“Partner,” Sirius affirms with a nod of his head, barely paying heed to McGonagall’s directions at the front of the room—but noting the mention of a prize for the pair who would successfully cast the spell for longer than ten minutes. He takes your silence for uncertainty, and replies with a light-hearted scoff—finding the pout on your lips adorable. “I’ll have you know I’m a bloody master at Transfiguration. Not even James could match me in this class—okay, maybe he could, but that’s not important, is it? Point is, with me at your side, Minnie will have no choice but to give us a hundred points!” 

From the frown on your lips, Sirius gathers that you’re unimpressed by him—a first, but not a total setback. 

He seizes the small box of porcelain figurines before you can blink, a wry smile on his face as he wrangles a boastful laugh from his throat. “Ready to have your mind blown? I’ve been practicing this spell since last night. There’s no way I’m getting this wrong.” 

“Oh, I’m Sirius Black, by the way—at your service.” He holds out his hand for you to shake, wondering what your palm would feel like in his. Cold? Warm to touch? Or, perhaps, a perfect fit—just as Lily’s hand feels laced with his?

He doesn’t find the answer to his question. Instead, you draw your wand from your robe pocket, and point the tip of the wood at the earthenware at Sirius’s grasp. 

“Avifors,” you recite delicately—such a flawless incantation that Sirius hears Merlin himself weeping in the depths of his grave. 

The figurine grows feathers and a beak—Sirius and the rest of the students can only watch as the weebill flutters its wings and soars through the roof. 

He’s stupefied. Breathless, one might say. But not because of your little trick—rather, the growing smile on your lips as you watch the bird fly across the room. Your eyes flicker with mischief, and like a man on the edge of a cliff—what is Sirius Black to do, but fall? 

THE END OF YOUR first-year at Hogwarts draws near, and so does the springtime—a coveted season for lily flowers to bloom. The April winds find you out by the lake edge, swinging your legs idly on a marble stone bench where the cypress vines grow along the cracks. Songbirds fly overhead as the daylight glistens on the surface of the Black Lake, a beech tree in the near distance, butterflies dancing past the gnarled trunk. Pollen floats like dust in a cupboard under a staircase. Ducklings waddle after their mother as riverine rabbits scurry on into the tall, purple nettles. On days like this, you find it easier to settle into your new life—but, perhaps, you have your friends to thank for that. 

Yet, as you find yourself wanting to reach out to their outstretched hands, flashes of children with your hair, your eyes, cheekbones whittled to resemble your own, haunt you. Their pure and gentle temperaments, painfully akin to their father’s. You mourn them every day. Their names are forever inscribed in the locket of your soul. (You did not find it fair—you who live again, and they who disappear forever. An existence that would cease to be—all because you fear what awaits you in this life. Why must it be you who should walk this land with a body scarred by wounds no one else can see? Why must it be you who mourns the loss of your family, your friends, and all your loved ones—everyone murdered by the Gods who spit on the five graves with your name written on it? Why? Why?)

Do you dare to live a life without them? Is it fair to deprive them of a chance of being a family while you waste away on the Isles? You may have lived multiple lifetimes, but not once have you been given the answers you seek. 

You will not find happiness without them; it is as you deserve. 

(For why else would Death torment you so if you are seen as innocent in their eyes?)

“How did I know I’d find you here?” A sing-song voice emerges from the trees, and you’ve no need to turn your head—the sound of Lily’s bright cadence is one you’re familiar with. But, somehow, you’ve grown fond of her voice, more acquainted with her smile and laugh than you’ve ever been in the last five lives. (You have to wonder if this friendship is one you’re permitted to enjoy.) Her grin is blinding, more so than the afternoon sun behind her. Lily’s wavy hair falls over her shoulder as she plops down on the empty space beside you. “We didn’t see you at lunch today,” she says, looking ahead, the warmth of her hand inching closer to your own. “I figured you didn’t want a bunch of whiffy boys around.”

Then, she looks around, searching for any prying ears, a stream of giggles falling from her lips. “Although, I must warn you—their pockets are loaded with food stolen from the hall, saying they’d give it to you when you returned to the tower. But I think Minnie caught onto them.” She chortles, a fond gaze in her eyes. 

You hum in thought, a smile unknowingly pulling at your lips. “Thank you, Lily. It’s sweet of you to come and find me.” 

She harrumphs light-heartedly, snootily lifting up her nose. “Don’t get too used to it. We’re only just best friends, after all.”

A silence encompasses the two of you, sitting under the shade, pink fingers shyly intertwined. Lily allows the minutes to flow by like a breeze on the waters, until she stares at you with thick emotions flickering in her emerald eyes. She nibbles on her bottom lip, long lashes kissing her eyelids. “Are. . . Are you alright? Is it one of those days again?”

You grin at her question, impishly nudging her legs with yours. It’s a gesture you deeply appreciate—befriending you and growing closer to you in ways you imagine are never in your cards. But Lily is only eleven, and you will not act upon your selfishness. (But, maybe—just maybe—you are allowed to relish in their company until you are called once again to your deathbed. In the next life, they might not know your name as they do now, and the revelation frightens you immensely.)

“I’m okay,” you say, a gnawing lie that sounds unconvincing to even your own ears. You stare at the flock of swans diving in the lake. “I was just missing a few friends back home.” You remember the toddlers that you used to call your own—their spittled possessiveness toward anyone who dared to snatch your attention away from them. “I don’t know if they would be happy with me going off on my own adventure,” you say, sparing Lily a knowing look. “They are—erm—Muggles.” 

“Oh.” Lily nods, mulling over your words. “Tuney. . . my sister. She sort of resents me ever since I left for Hogwarts. We live a world apart, and it barely helps that she ignores me during the holidays.” She sighs, averting her gaze elsewhere, a grimace pulling at her mouth. “Sometimes I wonder if all of this was never meant for me. That I was just a fluke. Why do I have magic and not her? Any day now, I expect for McGonagall to come and ask me to pack my bags and head straight home.” 

“But,” says Lily, her eyes resolute and her fire unwavering, “until that day comes, I will enjoy every bit of this world as I can. Tuney will just have to deal with that.” She offers you a mellow smile—a likeness to a kind husband that you had once in a past lifetime. “Besides, I think those who truly love us will understand the paths we must take. Even if it means parting ways for a long time. Your friends will not blame you; they’ll want you to live truly and freely.” 

Her words sink deep into your bones, and you can’t help but let out a hearty laugh. You simper at the confused tilt of her head. “Wise words, Lily Marie Evans. Are you sure you’re only twelve?” 

Lily beams. “Mum likes to tune into the Sunday motivational-talk channels.”

(“The ones we love never really leave us, do they?” Sirius Black will tell you one day, when you’ve bared to him the truth of your lives, and he looks at you no differently than he has before—with all the adoration and fondness of his heart.)

Later, before you and Lily make your way back to the castle, you pick three flowers among the chicory weeds. She stays behind as you kneel by the riverside. For the children you have loved, and will continue to love for eternity. Droplets of tears fall onto the water, joining the floating blue petals. “I’m sorry that I cannot find you as you are,” you whisper, a heavy weight lifting from your shoulders. “But I hope that we meet again in this life, whichever names you may take.” 

(After all, what love is stronger than one that perseveres across endless lifetimes?)

You carry them in your heart—letting cherished memories remain as such. Otherwise, you’ll be chasing what can never be again. It would be an injustice to their names to try and replicate a shallow imitation of them. They deserve more than that—to be treated like a pawn in Death’s game. They were alive and you will honor them befittingly.

You bid them goodbye and allow the tethers of their soul to untangle from your grasp. 

It is the most difficult farewell—and yet, the easiest act of mercy you have ever carried out.

‘THE FLAP OF a butterfly’s wings can evoke a hurricane in the next world over.’ 

This is a phrase you’ve come to be familiar with over the span of your numerous lives. It has never been truer than the moment you step outside the infirmary to find a group of mismatched Gryffindors waiting for you in the halls. Their heads snap in attention at the sound of your footfalls. In an instant, you’re crowded with their questions and worries—but you find it endearing, the way your friends fuss over you. It’s certainly a welcome change from a past spent by your lonesome in the castle. (You only wonder what makes this life so different from the rest? Why is everything changing without you noticing? What will be taken from you for this deviation in time?) 

“How did it go?” James asks, now seventeen and captain of the Quidditch team, wavy tendrils of brown hair swooping over his round glasses. The broad of his chest fills out his red and yellow jumper, crocheted by Lily over the yule break—the five of you, including Peter, Marlene, Mary, and Dorcas, have matching sweaters as well. 

Except, you like to tease them with a jest that Lily made yours with the most love—as no one else had the pattern of a capybara with an apple on its head. 

“Well enough,” you answer, patting his shoulder with a tired smile that reaches your eyes—for how could one not cheer up in the face of James Fleamont Potter? That would be saying the skies do not brighten in the company of the sun. 

By incontestable decree of Poppy Pomfrey, the headstrong matron of the castle, you are required to meet with a mediwitch from St. Mungo’s twice a week, since the start of your fifth-year. Healer Robbins floos to Hogwarts on Wednesdays and Saturdays to check up on your health, physically and mentally. Of course, you don’t divulge anything about your time-traveling dilemmas, lest you end up confined to a hospital ward again for the rest of your years. But you do end up addressing—albeit, begrudgingly—the dried tear stains on your pillowcase every morning, your wayward habit of purposefully missing meals, or your tendency to withdraw yourself from your peers on certain days—which coincidentally happen to be the anniversary dates of your deaths. (If no one would grieve for you, then you’d do it alone.) 

Who’d have thought that healing would be much more tortuous than hurting in the quietude of your room?

But one thing is for certain—this is a suffering you will endure with greed and hunger. 

For today’s session, Healer Robbins suggests you proactively live in the present more—which is easier said than done. 

“Although, she did tell me to stop slouching all the time,” you inform James, scrunching your nose in feigned offense, to which he replies with a hearty chuckle, pulling you into his embrace for a side hug. You burrow your nose in his scent of oakmoss and orris root, a lingering touch of broom polish as well—you feel the warmth of his hand splayed out on your back, and hide your grin into his chest. 

“Well, someone had to tell you,” says Regulus Black with a scoff, arms crossed over his chest, yet no genuine heat in his trenchant eyes. He looks pleased that you return unharmed from your meeting with Healer Robbins. Funnily enough, you’ve no doubt that the famed Black temper would emerge should you utter so much as a single word against the mediwitch. (You like her, though. Some days, Robbins lovingly spiels about her clumsy-footed wife—and in return, you talk about your sad feelings. Eurgh. Talk about a fair exchange.)

Among the many divergences in this life, one of them is the unforeseen friendship you have forged with Regulus Arcturus Black. But that story begins with Xenophilius Lovegood, when you stumble upon him in the Forbidden Forest chasing after a family of bowtruckles with a fervid expression and a journal in one hand. You protect him from foul-mouthed Ravenclaws, and he allows you to tag along in his woodland escapades—including a lifelong access to the kitchens beyond curfew. His lack of regard for personal safety is both endearing and maddening, you realize early on. One stormy night, you chase Xenophilius into the forest—he is barefoot, following the Mooncalf hoofprints, as you spit out strings of expletives and mouthfuls of rain. That is where you find Regulus, groaning in pain and carrying a burden that is much too heavy for a fifteen-year-old. 

Then, a year later, they decide to give you a heart-attack when you discover that Pandora and Xenophilius have taken Regulus under their wing—figuratively and literally. And, most of all, romantically.

You’re more speechless than Sirius had been when you catch him one fateful evening.

(“Don’t do it, Sirius Black,” you greet, startling the ebony-haired boy as you step out from the shadows. The common room is silent, save for the crackling embers in the fireplace. You stare at the sixteen-year-old with a vehement resolve, your hands curled into fists. If there is one fixed event you had to live through over and over again, it is the news of Severus Snape being nearly mauled to death by a creature so feared and gruesome. You will not let it happen in this life. His eyes flicker with shame amongst a sea of gray, and he knows that you know about his abhorrent idea of a ‘prank.’ 

You sigh, taking another step forward, hand coming to rest on his tense shoulder. “Let it go, Sirius. It’s not worth it. Bringing someone to harm is never worth it. If he dies, his blood will be on your hands—and you don’t want that, trust me. Be kind to him, Sirius—and even kinder to your brother. The two of you are all each other has.”

“Not true,” Sirius whispers back, almost afraid, his fingers tracing the curve of your cheeks. “I have you, Prongs, Lily, and Rem.”

“And Remus is exactly who we should be with right now,” you reply with a harsh glare. “Not in the common rooms trying to one-up Snape because of some childish rivalry.” With a long sigh and a shake of your head, you push back the dark curls from his face. “The times are cruel, Sirius. We must hold onto what we can.”

His forehead will fall onto your shoulder, and your shirt will be soaked with his tears, but you realize that you will hold him, and all those who’ve captured your heart, until Death himself pries you away from their embrace.) 

But, it all pales in comparison to the horror in Sirius’s eyes when you point at Regulus and Peter, as you utter with absolute conviction, “They are my dearest friends.”

While Peter may have been a traitor in another life, a murderer with blood and guilt staining his hands—he is only a skittish boy in this one. A timid student who hides behind the shadows of his friends. You will not let him go down that path again. The Peter Pettigrew you currently know is a mousy little thing, pun intended, who sneaks in a pouch of sugared jelly worms in the library for you and him to enjoy whilst copying off each other’s Arithmancy homework—you two automatically get perfect marks, seeing as you’ve went through school multiple lifetimes already. Truthfully, when you see him tongue-tied before Mary Macdonald, you can’t envision anything else than a lifeless body and a man apologizing for his sins. But it is hardly fair to condemn Peter for the sins of a life he has not lived—and will never live through, if you have anything to say about. 

A lion protects their pride, and that is what you shall do. Even if it tears you apart in the process. (Healer Robbins won’t be so pleased about that, though.) 

But, perhaps, the most unexpected surprise you’ve received this year is—shockingly—not the news of Dorcas and Marlene dating, and neither is Alice and Frank’s relationship as you have already known that since your first life. It is James, Remus, Lily, and Sirius announcing to the world, with a poorly-written poem for a gnome to recite on Valentine’s Day—courtesy of James Potter himself—that the four of them are in love. In all five lives, that has never happened. Not even Lucius Malfoy can call into question the genuineness of their devotion to one another—and he will not dare to do so in your presence, otherwise he’d find himself at the mercy of you and Narcissa Black.

The four of them are happy as one, and you would die to ensure they stay together until the end of their time. Dark lords be damned. 

An even bigger shock comes when their affection for each other unspokenly extends to you. Not in a manner that equals their rambunctious gestures—because the Marauders don’t do anything half-arsed. (And if they fall in love, they fall without fear.) But in a way that is quiet yet intense, ever-so mindful of your walls—with an intention to break them down slowly and only with your utmost permission. They leave you confused with each day that passes. (You fear that they think you pitiful for having not found a significant other.)

(For months now, your heart is set aflutter just by the sound of their voices—if they look at you as a token charity case, it would tear you apart.) 

Forehead kisses, hand-holding in the corridors, late nights in the kitchen—tipsy on gillywater and the scathe of each other’s touch. Picnics by the lake, bodies intertwined where no one knows where they begin or end. Ventures in the library where not a soul is paying attention to the passages of their textbooks—hushed giggles turning into unrestrained laughter until Madam Pince rounds the corner and has you all thrown out. (How long has it been since you felt so free?) It’s the little things, like your fingers brushing against theirs as you walk side-by-side, or the soft glint in their eyes as they stare at you from across the room—as though you are a jewel to behold. 

It is one thing to know that you are living a life after life—but it is another thing entirely to feel alive when they are nearby. 

You are alive when Remus relaxes on the carpeted floor of the Gryffindor tower, and as you lay on the velvet couch, he draws protection runes on your palm with his finger. When he thinks you’re asleep, he presses a kiss to the back of your hand. When the nights are unbearably long and you find a safe haven in his embrace, and he in yours.

You are alive when James cages you in a bear hug after an intense Quidditch match against Slytherin, limp tendrils of hair clinging to his sweat-soaked skin, pressing a series of fervent kisses to the side of your head until his voice is louder than the cries of victory coming from the cheering stands. 

(“Lay back down, James Fleamont Potter,” you command tersely as you push him onto the infirmary bed. You narrow your eyes at the bandages wrapped around his arms and neck, as though it’d personally wronged you. “Don’t even think about getting up,” you quickly add when you notice his droopy eyes staring at the doors—where Sirius, Remus, and Peter have gone off for a night of mischief. With an exaggerated sigh, James will roll his eyes before pulling you into the bed with him.) 

You are alive when Lily scours the Great Hall in the mornings, hair fussed from sleep and her face bare, and when her eyes finally land on you—none misses the way she lights up blindingly, as if she were a poppy flower emerging from the forest floors and all her petals are curling towards the sun. She bounds over to you with a smile that draws everyone in the room to her. And your heart will have no choice but to swell three times its size when Lily falls asleep mid-meal, snoring with her neck bent and a spoon dangling from her mouth. 

You are alive when Sirius dashes across the room to claim you as his Potions partner. He’ll spend the rest of the class with a triumphant grin on his face—sitting on a rickety chair as he lazily admires the view of your backside. And may the Gods help the poor soul who dares to question your work. 

(“See that lovely creature over there?” Sirius will say with a dangerous lilt to his voice, pointing to you who’s quite busy squabbling with Severus and Barty Jr. over frog legs. “They will be the greatest apothecary to ever walk the wizarding world—so watch your tongue, mate.”) 

They are your limbs, the blood in your veins—the ache in your heart. The fires of your soul. And when they are near, you are finally whole. (Healer Robbins certainly won’t like that, either—but this is a thought you shall selfishly keep for yourself.) 

That is why you had come to a decision at the beginning of the year.

“I need to tell you all something,” you say, breaking out of your stupor and finally meeting everyone’s eyes. You meet Sirius’s gaze from where he leans against the wall, his attention on you—and only you. You reckon he notices the way you’re fidgeting nervously with your fingers, gnawing on your lip as you suck in a deep breath. It’s similar to the way he acted when he first told the group about his intentions to run away from his mother. Healer Robbins told you earlier to not dwell on the past—it’s only a thing that time-travelers do, she had said. You suppose there’s no better way to exercise honesty than to tell your loved ones about the secret you have been keeping for the last five lifetimes. You just hope they won’t look at you differently when all is said and done. 

Marlene’s gaze worriedly flickers from you and to the infirmary doors. “Has the mediwitch said something?” 

You shake your head. “There’s something you should know about me.”

Like a badly-written joke, a pack of lions, a snake, and a badger follows you into an empty classroom. They watch with furrowed brows as you cast a silencing charm over the room. You feel the weight of their curiosity as you take a seat in the center, drumming your nails on your lap as everyone moves to do the same. Remus wordlessly takes the seat next to you, as though being by your side is a natural phenomenon—like the shores never straying from the sand. He gives your hand a gentle squeeze and you return his kindness with a weary smile. You look at the protective circle that’s somehow formed around you. Marlene, Dorcas, Mary, Xenophilius, Regulus, Lily and the Marauders. (Since when did you gain a family like this in such a short time?) 

“Where do I even begin?” you ask with a shuddery breath. “It might get a bit intense. . . and sad, and I wouldn’t want to overwhelm you. So it’s okay if you aren’t prepared to take this all in yet. I’d understand.” 

“What one of us goes through, we all go through together,” Dorcas vows with her head high. “It’s not the first time we’ve done this, love,” she says, looking at everyone else in the room. “We’re here for you. Always have been. It’s what friends are for, aren’t they? You taught us that. Let us return the favor now.” 

You laugh wetly, eyes crinkling with gratitude. “I suppose you’re right.” 

There is no time like the present.

And if all goes awry, you probably might just jump out of a window and reset everything. (You wouldn’t, really. This life is precious to you more than anything in the world.)

You close your eyes and draw air into your lungs.

No time like the present.

“When I first died, I was only nineteen.” Despite the pinched expressions and soft gasps, you force the words out. You have to. Otherwise, the tale of your lives will be buried with you forever. This is the first time you have ever said the words aloud. It’s both exhilarating and terrifying. “Death Eaters came to Diagon Alley. It all happened so fast, next thing I knew the killing curse was cast straight at me.” 

Regulus flinches, and you offer him an apologetic grimace. 

“But that wasn’t the end,” you continue amidst their horrified wide-eyes—feeling Remus tighten his hold on your hand. You chuckle bitterly. “If it had been, maybe it all would’ve hurt less. When I woke up, I was back in the Gryffindor tower.” 

“What?” Lily frowns as a shadow is cast over her eyes. “But how?” 

“I wish I knew,” you reply with a lodge in your throat, eyes thick with incoming tears. “I really wish I knew. But I woke up back in Hogwarts. I was alive again. Somehow, someway, I was alive. But I was dying.” You shut your eyes, head craning to the ceilings as you swallow back a sob. “Have you felt what it’s like to be burnt alive? That’s what the killing curse is like. And I feel it everyday. When I told the nurses this, I was sent straight to St. Mungo’s. They could not heal what was not found in my body. They called me mad. And there was nothing I could do but believe them. It was like that until I died on an infirmary bed, leather straps around my wrists and legs, forbidden to leave the ward and feel even the sunlight on my face. I was deemed a threat to the others and myself.” 

Lily beats you to the punch and cries into her hands—the harrowing sound torn from her throat. Mary, with her own stream of tears, pulls Lily into a hug. 

“I-I told you it was ugly,” you say timidly, averting your gaze out of remorse. “We can stop here if you’d like.”

“We’re staying,” says Lily with a guttural edge to her words, eyes quickly growing red. 

“Then, in my third life, I died by a. . . Greyback—it was Greyback who killed me.” You intertwine your fingers with Remus’s, who’s gone ashen from the reveal. “It’s alright.”

“The bloody hell do you mean it’s alright?” James bellows, running a hand through his hair as he tears himself from his seat, chest heaving up and down. “None of this is alright! How could you say that? We. . .We should tell Dumbledore or something—or anyone! This shouldn’t have happened to you—it’s just too cruel. . .” 

“I know,” you acquiesce with a low hang of your head. “I know.”

Sirius exhales jaggedly. “Was that the last of it? Of your. . . your deaths?”

“No.” You stare at him with regret. “In my fourth life, I died in a Death Eater ambush.” 

Xenophilius looks like he might faint any second. 

“But in my fifth life, I met some people in the Muggle world,” you explain, remembering kind eyes and wide smiles, a family made in a home far away from magic and wars. “I loved them dearly. When I thought I was being punished by Gods, they gave me peace. They taught me unconditional love and I. . .” You let the tears drip onto your skirt. “I might never find them again, but I’ll never forget them for as long as I live. It was the only death given to me without pain.”

You watch as Lily’s doe-eyes flicker with realization. Three flowers in a watery grave. 

“And here I am now. The end,” you say, forcing a crooked grin as you brush the dust off your school robes. 

No one moves a muscle for the next few minutes. 

You freeze in fear. 

(Have you upset them? Do they see only a talking corpse now?)

The room is suffocatingly quiet and you can’t bear to see the pity or judgment in their eyes—so you run out of the room as though Death himself was hot on your heels. 

They are right behind you—of course, they are. (Where a part of their soul goes, they will follow.)

“Are you angry?” You quietly ask, wrapping your arms around your waist—afraid to turn around and face them. “I would not blame you if you are.” 

“No, not mad. Never.” Lily falls into place by your side, hovering but never stepping past your erected borders. “Maybe at the circumstances. It’s all so unfair. I’m. . . We’re just upset that you had to live through that all alone. To die over and over. I can’t imagine how much it must have hurt each time.” 

You nod, swallowing the urge to crumble on the floor. “Then you’ll understand why. . . why you and I—all of us—I can’t be with you.”

Remus frowns, stepping forward to reach out to you. “What?” 

“Don’t make this any harder than this has to be, please,” you beg, voice hoarse and hands trembling. 

“What the hell are you talking about?” Sirius presses further, a bitter acid to his words. He looks frightened, almost—guilt instantly pools in your stomach.  

“Don’t you see? Everything is changing!” You exclaim, grateful that you’ve chosen the abandoned corridors of the castle where no one dares to venture on a sunny day. “I can’t protect you if I don’t know what’s to happen next! I’d rather die again than let any of you get hurt.”

“Then don’t!” shouts James, veins straining against his neck, tears of his own glistening within his hazel eyes. “I would rather die than pretend none of what I feel—what we feel—for you isn’t real.” 

“You don’t know what you’re saying, James,” you retort with a sharp scoff. “I’ve no need for a relationship that’s borne from pity or charity.” 

“Pity?” Lily echoes incredulously. “You think I’ve confused love for pity? Is that how low you think of us? After all that we’ve been through?”

“Are you stupid?” Sirius bites back. 

“Excuse me?” you shriek. “Must I spell it out for you? I’m trying to protect you! I am cursed!”

“Not anymore than I am!” Remus bellows with his fists tightly clenched, his canines laid bare and his cheeks lit ablaze. “If you’re cursed, I must be damned. Why can’t you allow yourself the same grace that you’ve given us?” 

You wilt. “I can’t do it, Remus. I just can’t. If I die again, and everything resets—don’t you know how much it will kill me if we start as strangers again?” 

Remus encases you in his warmth, an embrace that promises to keep you safe from all harm. (What good of a monster would he be if he can’t rip apart your fears for you?) “Then we will find you in that life. And every life after that. We’ll use a pensieve, or anything at all—just so we don’t forget.”

You melt in his arms, bathing in his scent of caraway and bergamot. You feel Remus placing a kiss on the crown of your head. “All these things I know. All these lives I’ve lived through. What if I ruin everything in this life?” 

“Then do it,” Lily provokes stubbornly. 

“Ruin me,” James pleads raspingly—a falter in his steps as though he’d get on his knees and beg in an instant just for you to stay with them. “Ruin me as much as you’d like. You would be the most beautiful devastation of my life.” 

And so, you choose them. 

For there was never any other option from the start.

YOU WAKE UP in the dead of the night, sunken in a mattress that is one too small for five people to fit in, leafy vines and fairy lights wrapped around the posters of the bed. Sometime during the night, Lily had thieved the wool blanket for herself. You rest in between her and Sirius, their snores echoing into your ears as the grasshoppers chirp outside. The potted plants will swing from the ceiling as the evening breeze passes by. (You’ll scold James in the morning for leaving the windows open again.) By your feet, is a fat Tabby cat with one eye named Tuna. (Full name: Tuna Belly.) There are moving pictures on the flower-plastered wall, a testament to the life you share—and the life you have fought hard for. Ruffled pillows are strewn across the carpeted floor. Parchments and notes lay askew on the desk table across the room—Remus’s jittery preparation for his first day next week as Hogwarts’s newest professor. 

Remus will catch you wide awake and tuck you into his chest, murmuring, “Rest now. We’ve got an early morning tomorrow for Wormy’s wedding.” 

You’ll hum and relinquish your thoughts for the night, holding onto James hand over Remus’s belly. “I love you,” you’ll whisper. 

Remus will say it back without hesitation—and you know the others feel exactly the same. 

Minutes later, the door will creak open and a tiny shadow will come crawling into the bed, knocking into everyone’s knees and stomach. It’s a little Harry who’s three years old now. He curls under your neck and you will hold him with all the love that six lifetimes can offer and more. 

When you close your eyes, it is a comforting darkness that envelopes you.

(Somewhere in a castle beyond valleys and lakes, locked away in the dusty shelves of Dumbledore’s cupboards, sits a broken Time-Turner that finally stops ticking.)

a/n: i wrote the last 2k words like a woman posessed! LMAO. i have to be at training in 2 hours and i haven't prepared yet. tell me what you thought aaaaa!!!! and yes, your sixth life is your last life so u die happily and in peace mwah mwah. might continue this universe with drabbles, idk. if u spot any mistakes.. ignore it for a bit LMAO, i'll proofread this soon.

[ralkana]

Fluffbruary Day 1

February 1: downy | clinic | nuance

Rated G

-----

In the Dreaming, in a chamber vast and austere, there is a bed fit for a monarch. Grand and dark, tall and canopied, the linens sleek and rich, finer than any cloth Hob has ever known. He has seen his love reclined on it like the king he is, wreathed in shadows, his skin pale and glowing like the purest moonlight, eyes shining with the birth of galaxies. Sharp hunger on his face as he reaches for Hob, demands the worship Hob so freely gives.

It's a good look. One of Hob's favorites.

It pales in comparison to the vision that greets him now.

His bed is small. Really too small for two, but any bigger wouldn't fit in his cozy little flat. The sheets are flannel, so faded that the pattern on them is indistinguishable, but they are warm. His pillows are mismatched: one stripey, one a cheery yellow.

In the middle of his bed, there is a lump of blankets, its occupant curled tightly and hidden from view. The only sign of life is a riot of dark hair, ink spilled over the sunshine of Hob's ancient pillowcase.

The lump shifts, and Hob grins from the doorway where he stands, watching.

"Hob," the heap of blankets says. "Come, beloved."

The words are muffled by the thick down of Hob's duvet and the softness of Hob's pillow, but it is unmistakably an order.

"You just want me for my body heat," Hob says, but he starts forward, toeing off his slippers.

There's a sound from the bed that is not exactly a denial, and Hob laughs even as he pulls his jumper over his head and tosses it toward the foot of the bed.

He climbs into bed, scooting under the blankets and grinning at the unhappy hiss Dream makes as a rush of cooler air sneaks in with Hob.

"Royal bedwarmer reporting for duty, my king," Hob says, gathering Dream into his arms, and it ends on a yelp as Dream's cool nose finds Hob's neck.

Dream smiles against Hob's skin and he presses a kiss to Dream's unruly locks and begins to plot his revenge.

"That strategy will not succeed," Dream says after a moment, and Hob sighs.

"That's cheating," he complains, resolving to think about it later. Right now, he has a king to warm up, and a proven strategy for that.

END

-----

This is the first thing I've written since Dec 2021. I did not realize it had been so long!

Thanks to @fluffbruary for giving me the inspiration to try again and to @ladytian and @lunaris1013 for being so enthusiastic about Dreamling that I couldn't help but jump in!

[the-kr8tor]

Mudwood Manor

Pairing: Fae! Hobie Brown x fem! Reader

Word count: 3.1k

Tags: no use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader, CW food mention, TW Blood, CW injury.

The Fall Masterlist

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Part I >>> Part II

You lay awake alone on the plush mattress that's not your own. Morning light filtering through the curtains, shining warmth right on your cheek. Your hand roaming around the soft fur of the blanket as the clock ticks slowly to eight. Eyes above the detailed swirling patterns on the bed's canopy, mind drifting back to the home you've left just a few days ago.

Tick.

Taking the ad for this house-sitting gig went better than you thought it would be. Thinking the house you would be watching over will just be a regular house in an urban subdivision. Not an estate full of ancient history situated in the middle of nowhere with only an elderly dog as a companion.

Tock.

At least it's better than your dead end job that makes you feel your soul is getting sucked with every hour you stay on the eighties musky carpeted floors, tapping away your entire life on the grainy screen of the corporate issued computer. The pay's good, better than what you were getting before anyway, even though it's only five months of house sitting it's way above your salary grade. You thank whatever entity out there that blew over the newspaper that literally landed on your lap while waiting for the bus stop, the 'help wanted' page open and glaring right at you. You only wish the job's longer though.

Tick.

The house being nice is an understatement, all oak and narra floors, fixtures and furniture made of the same wood. No sign of modernity in the entire estate. Even the kitchen is in an old style, well except for the coffee maker and microwave. Every hall and wall is covered in oil paintings, portraits of people dressed in old garb keep watch of your every move. The house creaks and shrieks during the late hours of the cold autumn night, always prompting you to keep your eyes tightly closed in an attempt to tamp down your curiosity.

Tock.

It's secluded enough that the air here feels crisp and cleaner than in the city. Trees whisper in the wind, moss clinging to its trunks. You suspect the house is as old as the woods that surround it. With vines curled and looped around the house's exterior and curved stained glass windows decorate its walls. Mudwood Manor they call it for every time it rains, mud gathers around the estate, threatening to swallow you like quick sand.

Chime!

The old grandfather clock's hand reaches eight, the sound echoes around the large room you've settled in. With an exhale, you reluctantly sit up, feet cold from the icy floor. Yawning, you wipe the sleep off your face, bones crying out in protest.

Lumbering your way through the usual morning routine, you change out of your pajamas even though no one else would see you in it, you still wear your usual day clothes, always feeling like you have to dress appropriately in this opulent house. If jeans and a jumper is considered appropriate in the massive estate.

The bathroom is no different than the rest of the house. With the large stark white bathtub in the middle of its tiled floors, twin sinks covered in dark marble, golden faucets squeak open as you turn the knob to brush your teeth. The entire bathroom is as big as your flat back in the city, you scoff at the extravagance of it all.

You like to think the owner of the place fits well with the manor, as eccentric and elegant as their home– all pearls and gold rings, silk and cashmere on their body. But alas you've never met him or them personally, only talking details on the telephone, his gruff voice vibrating against the receiver. They leave the key under the large mat after you've driven three hours to get there. The only clue you have of them actually existing is the instructions they've left you. The note now pinned on the fridge stocked full of food that could last you the entire five months, not to mention the large pantry that could feed an entire village.

You've got everything you'll ever need to survive five months alone. The thought scares you for a bit, but with the silence, fresh air and an entire library of books that you've never thought you could read in your lifetime, the loneliness isn't all bad, the place calms you down; if not for the bouts of sadness, you could see this place as your home for the time being.

The old border collie waits for you in the kitchen, mismatched eyes staring at your form, her tongue lolling on the side, greeting you with what you see as a smile.

"Morning, old Nellie" you greet back with a quick pet on her fluffy head, taking the time to scratch behind her ears. She wags her tail happily, while her eyes are closed in content. You've decided to talk from time to time so that you don't lose your voice, which Nellie appreciates the chatter.

You feed Nellie her breakfast first before fixing one yourself. She eats it in glee. The instructions written in neat cursive jumps at you every morning before opening the fridge.

You can't help but read it again.

1. Do not let anyone in.

You thought that was reasonable enough, it's not your place to invite people in here anyway.

2. Do not wipe the salt line on the doors and windows.

Now that's weird, you've always thought, but to each their own. The salt probably helps with keeping out the smell or rodents. Right?

3. The house is old, the sounds at night are from the metal pipes and scaffolding. Nothing to worry about.

Creepy, it's not like the place needs an extra creep factor added in it.

4. Feed Nellie three times a day without fail. Take her on walks around the estate every morning and before the sun sets.

That's alright, taking care of pets was part of the deal anyway. And it doesn't hurt that Nellie's a good dog to hang around with.

5. Do not in any circumstance go to the woods.

6. Wear the necklace at all times.

Your eyes drift over to the simple circular metal necklace sitting on the counter top, scoffing, you chose not to wear it just because an eccentric millionaire tells you to.

7. Only eat and drink the food I have provided.

You don't think you want to meet the owners now with how creepy they are just based on his instructions. Possessive much?

8. Be wary.

A shiver runs down your spine by just reading those two words.

You shake it off, opening the fridge, nothing piques

your interest this morning. Huffing, you have a hankering for fresh bread, alas you've eaten the last loaf yesterday. The strawberry jam inside the fridge mocks you. You recall on your drive to the manor you've passed by a small village, you're sure the place has a bakery or even a café in it. You crave a different scenery, and to use your voice other than for talking to Nellie.

Turning around, you put your hands on your hips, smiling at your companion who licks at the last bit of food in her bowl.

"What do you say for a stroll, Nellie?" She tilts her head in question, ears perking up, tail wagging excitedly.

—

You've never felt more isolated from civilization while walking towards the village, no houses run along the bumpy road, just miles and miles of trees with its aging wood, wild violets swaying around its trunks. The tall grass makes it hard to see the path. Mist blanketing and moistening the soil.

The walk was a lot longer than you thought it would be, now you're absolutely starving after walking for almost an hour. Nellie wasn't complaining though, for an older dog she seems to have so much energy in her. The village has clearly seen history, with its cobblestone streets, iron lampposts and ancient bricks. The fog thickens, blanketing the roofs of the village like marshmallow fluff.

You tie her leash around a lamp post, petting her fluffy head, you instruct her to sit and stay. She obliges, staring happily at you through her blue and brown eyes.

"Good girl, I'll be back in a flash" you make a mental note of buying her a treat for being such a good sport while you drag her from the manor.

Entering the shop, the bells chime signaling your arrival. Freshly baked bread wafts your senses as various meat is on display over at the counter, waiting for your perusal. You smell the soup of the day, judging by the aroma, you deduce it being butter squash soup, your stomach rumbles at the thought.

The modest shop has quite a few people in it. They chatter amongst their friends whilst eating breakfast and drinking their morning tea. Another patron enters behind you, she greets everyone by name, while the others immediately greet her the same. Well, except for a group of strangers sitting at the far end, they pay her no mind at all. It's a small village, you never doubted for a second that everyone would know every person that lives here. You've anticipated it actually, so used to being alienated from the crowd, you haven't noticed the old woman beckoning you over with a smile.

"Bonnie?" She calls for the third time.

"Oh! Sorry, I was thinking what to order" you move closer to the counter, the chill from the cold cuts display seeps through your jumper.

"You're the new caretaker at the old manor I presume?" She grins sweetly, showing her smile lines around her lips.

"House-sitter, I'm only here for five months" you're wary about telling her vital information, but she's an old woman. What's the harm in telling her that?

"Oh, I see he's going for a quick business trip this time. He would usually take an entire year away, y'know" her thick accent makes it hard for you to understand some of her words. Nonetheless, you don't miss the vital information about your mysterious employer. "But I don't gossip" she chuckles, "what will it be, deary?"

"You know Mr. O'hara, the owner?"

"Aye, known him since he was a lad. Good kid he was." She shakes her head. "There I go gossiping again, what are you havin'?"

You want more answers to feed your curiosity, but you don't want to pester the poor woman. "A BLT with cheese if you have them, lightly toasted and some of the soup, please." she nods, heading over to her station to prepare your sandwich when an older man chides in your conversation.

"Oh please, Orla y'know stopping yourself from gossiping just hurts you more" he laughs from his belly, white beard bouncing as he guffaws with his friends sitting him with.

"This" Orla, gestures from you to her. "Was a private conversation, where's your manners?"

"Don't know where I last put it!" He laughs again, shaking the wooden table in front of him. "Miss, let me guess, O'hara gave you those crazy rules?"

You perk up at the mention of the list. "Yeah, he did. How'd you know?"

He shrugs while the other patrons listen in, "he does the same thing to his other caretakers, there's a 'be wary' one, right?"

"Yes, it's really creepy"

The old woman pipes up, talking over her shoulder as she slices your sandwich. "It's a necessary evil after what happened to his daughter"

"What happened to his daughter?" You ask with trepidation.

"Don't tell me you actually believe that, old woman?" The older man argues back.

"Believe what?" You feel like there's an inside joke you keep missing.

"She was taken by them." Orla, turns around with your soup packed in a tupperware. You look at her questioningly.

"Bullshit if you ask me" the old man mumbles behind his mug. He sees your confused look, "she's talking about the fae" you thank him with a nod.

"It's true!" She wraps your sandwich inside foil, carefully putting it inside the paper bag. "There's no logical answer on where she is! Now it's just O'Hara in that massive estate."

"Kid just ran away, that's all!" Another older man argues back.

"Pssh," Orla swats him away with her hand, he turns away with a scoff. She turns back towards you, ringing your order up in the cashier. "Just do what his list says and you'll be fine" she says it like a warning to never stray far from the rules.

"Why do you think it's the fae?" You give her the payment she needs.

Humming, she clicks her tongue. "Just know it's them."

"Okay, um thank you" drifting away, she holds your arm back, taking your attention again.

Orla looks at you with wide eyes. "You know about them, yes?"

"Yes, like don't eat their food or you'll get stuck or don't give them your name or say thank you. I've heard the folk stories"

"Not just a story. The wood sings and they crave an audience." she lets go of your arm, your breath hitching, goosebumps appear on your skin.

You shake the thought, or try to at least.

The door chimes as you leave. Nellie lays on the pavement, tail wagging as she sees you come back to her side.

"Hi, got you something" she stands up, barking at you in excitement. "Okay, okay, here" Chuckling, you take a slice of bacon from your sandwich, giving it to her.

Nellie carefully takes it from your hand without biting your fingers, she chews happily.

"Good?" You scratch behind her fluffy ear. "Let's go back" untying her leash, you juggle the sandwich and her lead with your hands. The horror stories you've been told in your youth echoes in your mind, as your soft footfalls on the moist pavement. Wind rushes past you, pushing you back towards the manor.

—

Arriving inside the gates of Mudwood Manor, you gaze at the large brick building. It casts a shadow over you, its stature imposing. Fading bricks and trellises crawling with overgrown vines that's starting to wither and turn dark with bits of oranges and red still clinging to its last life. The large red door of the main entrance adds to your uneasiness. You attribute the fear from what the deli owner told you, the woods don't look much better. Tall trees with leaves so thick it blocks sunlight from hitting the undergrowth. From where you're standing, darkness seems to prevail inside. The thick fog added to the eeriness of the scene. It drapes over the treeline like curtains, swirling smoke falling down to the tips of your shoes, hiding something behind you can't quite see.

Just staring from the woodland edge gives you a sense of belonging with every second you stand idle. You have no idea why this feeling encapsulates you. The wind tries to push you towards the dark, flashes of autumn colored leaves swirl past. Eyelashes fluttering in the wind, your lips part as you listen to the flora dancing in the wind, as if it beckons you over. Daring you to cross the edge.

You wake up from the trance as Nellie growls at a squirrel taunting her from the ground. She pulls at her leash, the rope taut, your hand aches at the burn. You let go of the paper bag, half eaten soup spills over the grass, now holding the leash with both hands, you struggle to control the border collie.

"Nellie, calm down!" You yelp in pain when Nellie lunges, escaping your hold. The rope leaves angry marks on your palms, skin aching from the piercing pain. Nellie runs, following the grey squirrel into the woods. You can hear her barks fading in the distance. "Nellie! Come back!" You yell but it's futile as the old dog disappears from view.

"Fuck!" Without thinking, you run after her, legs carrying you further into the thick trees. The fog parts, opening the way. Eyes roaming the moss covered soil for her footprints. "Nellie!"

You're gonna lose your job, the thought makes you run faster. Tripping on a rock, you land on your already injured hand, dirt and grime sticking to the angry gashes, blood mixing with soil. Ignoring the pain, you push through the thicket.

Running, muscles aching, there's a stitch on your side as you stop to catch your breath. Hands on your thighs, you inhale and exhale. Nellie's footprints are barely visible under all the green and orange. Standing to your full height, your heart thumping like a drum under your ribcage. Eyes widening at the darkness that envelopes you, whirling around, fear overtakes your entire being.

You're lost.

Everywhere you look, identical trees fill your vision, cold seeping into your bones, smoke escapes your parted lips. Fingers turning stiff, you turn around when you hear Nellie's familiar bark.

"Nellie! Come here, girl!" You clap your hands to get her attention. "Nellie!"

Another bark echoes out in the dark, with only bits of sunlight filtering through the thicket, you let your other senses guide you to the sound. Speed walking, dry leaves crunch under your shoes, you call out to Nellie again. Narrowly avoiding a tree root protruding from the ground, you step over it so you don't land face first into the moist soil.

You stop when silence permeates the woods again. Standing still, a ring of mushrooms at your feet, you breathe heavily. "Nellie!" Frustrated, you yell again.

Instinctively stepping past a mushroom, you move your neck around, eyes roaming, looking for her white and black fur. Your palms land to your clammy forehead, wincing when you graze your injury.

"Fuck!" You stop circling around when the woods seem to expand right in front of your eyes, moving, flinging away, adding to the acres of wooded land. Vision focusing and unfocusing as the expanse extends further away. Fear once again blankets your nerves. Your mind claws at you to keep running.

"Lost?" A deep voice asks behind you. Alluring, tempting you to answer back.

Your blood suddenly runs cold. Primal fear makes your heart leap out of your chest.

Light suddenly appears behind you, your shadow gets taller and taller until it finally leaves you. Alone, you don't dare look behind you. The hair on the back of your neck stands up despite the warmth radiating from behind. Trepidation howls inside you.

Blood rushes in your ears, knuckles tighten, nails digging into skin as crimson drips on the tall grass below.

Swallowing the lump in your throat, curiosity wins over you.

You dare look behind.

[adiraargent]

Stargazing - Regulus Black

wc: 1.1k warnings: fluff, established relationship Summary: Regulus takes your stargazing, showing off his knowledge

The night sky stretched above you like a vast canvas, speckled with an array of twinkling stars. It was Saturday night and Regulus told you he wanted some alone time with just the two of you and had suggested stargazing. So you both found yourselves nestled in a secluded corner of the Hogwarts grounds, away from the castle's hustle and bustle.

As you lay on a soft blanket spread across the grass, wrapped up in both Regulus' jumper and his right arm, Regulus pointed out the constellations one by one, his voice carrying a gentle cadence that seemed to match the serene stillness of the night.

You were so focused on where he was pointing that you didn't even notice the small, love-filled glances that he kept shooting in your direction. He couldn't help it, you just looked so beautiful, your slightly tired face, the reflection of the stars in your eyes, and your own constellation of freckles that kissed your cheeks.

"That cluster of stars over there," he began, his finger tracing the shape in the sky, his eyes shooting back up to the sky, "that's Orion's Belt. According to ancient myths, Orion was a great hunter, and those three stars mark his belt."

You listened intently, captivated by Regulus's passion for the stars and the tales woven within them. His explanations were accompanied by an endearing enthusiasm, his eyes sparkling in the moonlight as he shared the stories passed down through generations.

He continued, pointing out Cassiopeia, Draco, and Ursa Major, his voice laced with knowledge and fascination. Each constellation held a story, and Regulus narrated them with such vividness that it felt as if the stars had come alive in the sky above you.

As the night deepened, you found yourself lost in the beauty of the celestial display, but it wasn't just the stars that enchanted you; it was Regulus's gentle presence and the way he spoke with such reverence for the night sky.

He looked at you, a small smile playing on his lips, his eyes reflecting the starlight. "See that constellation there? That's Lyra, the harp. It's said to represent the lyre played by the legendary musician Orpheus."

You marveled at how Regulus's eyes lit up as he spoke, his passion for astronomy making the night feel more magical. His words painted a vivid picture of the ancient tales behind each star cluster, and you couldn't help but be drawn deeper into his explanations.

The conversation shifted from constellations to more personal topics. Regulus spoke about his dreams, his aspirations, and his deepest thoughts, and you reciprocated, sharing your own hopes and fears under the vast canopy of stars.

Neither of you were 100% sure what you wanted to do when you graduated, but you both knew you wanted to move out from home as soon as possible... the two of you spoke of running off together and then maybe starting a career in Quidditch. Regulus smiled softly as he watched you go on a mini rant about how when you get your shared house, the two of you could get a bunch of pets.

Occasionally, the conversation would quiet down, and you both would just lie there, side by side, enveloped in the tranquility of the night. The peace was punctuated by soft whispers, the occasional laughter, and shared glances that spoke volumes.

Regulus turned on his side, now wrapping both his arms around you and pulling you into his chest, "Reg?"

You were confused by his sudden movement, he had went from looking at the stars to now having his face buried into your neck, his warm breathes tickling your skin.

"Jus' don' want ya to get co'" he mumbled into your neck, his voice muffled

"Mhmm," you grinned sarcastically, yet you still brought your hand up to his head, burying your fingers into his dark locks and massaging his scalp softly.

Time seemed to stand still in that moment, as if the stars themselves had aligned to create this perfect harmony between you and Regulus. It was as if the night had paused just for the two of you to exist within its tranquil embrace.

The two of you wished that it could be like this forever, both in your own little world wrapped in the arms of your love. A world where there was no war, no death eaters, no school and no parents who couldn't care less about you.

As the night deepened, the air grew cooler, and the soft touch of Regulus's lips on your forehead brought a warmth that transcended the night's chill. His tender gesture was a silent reassurance, a whisper of care that made your heart flutter.

With the stars as witnesses, you shifted closer to Regulus, the blanket now cocooning you both in a shared haven. His arm around you tightened ever so slightly, pulling you snug against his chest, a silent invitation to seek solace in his embrace.

In the midst of the cosmic spectacle above, your gazes locked in an unspoken understanding. The night's silence was interrupted only by the hushed exchanges between you both, the soft murmurs and shared confidences blending seamlessly with the gentle rustle of leaves.

In a moment of daring, your fingers found their way to Regulus's, intertwining with his in a tender clasp. It was a subtle gesture, but the electric current that surged between your intertwined hands spoke volumes, bridging the gap between you in a language that words couldn't convey.

Regulus's touch was a comfort, a magnetic pull that drew you closer with an unspoken promise of safety and belonging. His fingers traced delicate patterns on your skin, a gesture that sent tingles down your spine and stirred emotions you couldn't quite articulate.

Under the starlit sky, Regulus leaned in, his lips brushing against your temple in a tender kiss, his silent declaration of affection warming your entire being. It was a gentle caress, a whisper of adoration that resonated deeper than any spoken words.

Regulus turned to you, a soft smile gracing his features. "Thank you for tonight," he said, his voice carrying a warmth that mirrored the celestial glow above. "I haven't felt this at peace in a long time."

You met his gaze, feeling a connection that transcended words, a sense of kinship and understanding that lingered in the silent spaces between your shared gazes.

"I could stay here forever," you whispered, a sentiment that echoed the unspoken bond between you and Regulus, forged under the infinite expanse of the night sky.

As the hours waned, Regulus shifted closer, his arm encircling you in a gentle hold. His lips found yours in a tender yet passionate kiss, a silent promise of unwavering devotion that lingered in the fleeting moments shared beneath the star-studded sky.

The night eventually bid its farewell, but the memories etched in the fabric of that evening remained—an intimate constellation of shared gazes, gentle touches, and stolen kisses that made the night an unforgettable testament to the love you both shared.

Written by adiraargent

Do not steal, copy or repost on another platform

Requests are open

[soumarhea]

Piston Peak Air Attack base, concept arts from The Art of Planes. Excerpts added where relevant.

[Residential circle]

Dusty’s ultimate destination on his journey to Piston Peak National Park is the Air Attack Base, where he will train to be a firefighter under the guidance of Mayday’s associate, Blade Ranger. The base stands west of Canopy Dome, on the outskirts of the park. The location of the base was intentionally separated from the park proper so that the firefighters could never be mistaken for stepping into the fire and risking their lives because they themselves are already in danger. “It needed to be clear that they are making the distinct decision that there are people who need their help and they are putting themselves in danger to help them,” explains Planes: Fire & Rescue director Bobs Gannaway.

Piston Peak National Park official map;

Main hangar;

Don't mind Dusty. He's watching CHoPs.

I didn't find any excerpts talking about the main hanger specifically, but the main hangar is BIG big. It has to be, to shelter two of the base's large aircraft simultaneously.

Smokejumpers hangar; (If you're standing at the main hangar entrance looking out, it's to the right.)

Again, no excerpts directly talking about the jumpers' hangar. But in the film proper, iirc, you can see that it can actually house ~six jumpers (there's about six lockers in the hangar iirc).

Maru's workspace and Patch's tower; (standing at the main hangar looking out, it's to the left, across the jumpers' hangar. Main entrance to the base is between the main hangar and Maru's workspace, I think.)

Maru’s workspace is an airfoil shaped hangar with an open door garage to make the constant wheeling in and out of aircraft more efficient. By the looks of his space, Maru is a pack rat, and “all of the shelving is pallet-based, since that’s the way forklifts manage storage,” adds Planes: Fire & Rescue art director Toby Wilson. From his garage, Maru can oversee the whole base in his perchlike location, and he also maintains the Wall of Heroes, a tribute to the fallen members of the team.

This has nothing to do with the tower itself, but I found it interesting;

Patch is an aircraft tug who serves as the dispatcher at the base. She never leaves her tower, from which she mans the radio and scans the skies, ready and waiting to sound the Klaxon to call the team to action. In her downtime, she’s a bit obsessive about keeping her tower windows clean, and she uses the PA to broadcast her favorite vinyl albums across the base. Graphic designer Marty Baumann quite enjoyed the task of brainstorming and designing the albums in her collection, with a bent toward 1970s heavy metal and soft rock.

[onenicebugperday]

@mortimermcmirestinks submitted: Found in [removed] (please remove location) in late March, right around the start of the warm rainy spring season. It was big for a jumping spider… I wanna say maybe over a centimeter leg-span?

I looked it up and I think maybe canopy jumping spider?

What a ding dang cutie pie! And those blue-green chelicerae are beautiful. Definitely a canopy jumper!

[tekia]

I commissioned the always awesome @batwynn for chapter two!

Sun Blind, Chapter Two: The Bull Jumpers

The first time Zilan took Najma to the games, they had only been in the city a few months.

Zilan had only just gained himself a room over a stable belonging to an official. Normally, stables weren’t allowed in the city, but the official was the relative of royalty or some such, that allowed him to break the rules and laws unimpeded. Zilan had murmured that the man was rich enough to do what he wanted, and city folk were willing to turn blind eyes when they were offered enough money.

Zilan had quickly taken up with the nearby textiles guild. His training at their parents’ knees having made him a perfect apprentice despite his dire straits. As long as he hid Najma, his new masters had no qualm about taking him on.

Months into their new lives, Zilan began to earn enough money to rent a room, drab as it was, and to keep them both fed, and to escort his little sister to the games on festival day.

It was said that the games had started out, long ago, as worship for the gods. Well before Najma’s birth all that changed but people needed distraction and entertainment from the hard toils of life, thus the games continued, secular and merely to keep the populace at ease with the harsh taxes, nearing drought, and rumors of war.

Najma held tight to Zilan’s skirts as he pushed his way through the crowd to find a space to watch the games from. There were more people in the city center than Najma had known existed, and it filled her with both awe and terror, her knuckles turned white where they folded around the fabric at her brother’s waist.

Finally, he found a spot and reached around and pulled Najma before him. There was a wooden bar separating viewers from the track. Two fools danced in the distance, the chime of their bells lost to the noise of the crowd, but the gleam off the metal still blinded the eye. Najma wrapped her arms around the bar and looked around.

People were everywhere, laughing, cheering, and celebrating. Banners hung from the tall stalls that housed people of higher ranks, their velvet and jewels shining even in the shade offered by brightly colored canopies. City guards, in the vibrant yellow and blue uniforms, stood between the common folk and the elite. More guards slunk among the crowd, keeping an eye out for thieves and troublemakers.

Zilan wrapped his arms around her and pointed toward one end. “Do you see those men, all lined up?”

Peering over the bar, following his pointing finger, Najma nodded as the sight of five young men, dressed down to their pants, hair tied up, covered in chalk. “Who are they?”

“They are runners. The one with the blue ribbon is the most famous of them all. He’s won several races before this one, and everybody is sure he will win this one as well.”

She looked up at her brother, finding him staring at the runners. “This is a race?”

He smiled down at her. “Do you remember our cousin? He was a runner, too. He ran to warn the farmers of the flood.” Before he finished, his smile had slipped away, that eternal sadness returned once more. Sadness also settled in her chest as she longed for her mother, father, even their cousin that she hadn’t known well, but could recall that he had red hair, big teeth, and an infectious laugh.

They hadn’t seen him since that night. She guessed that he couldn’t outrun the rising waters that had drowned their small village.

There was a swell of noise that drew her attention back to the field. One of the fools had come closer, but what drew the eye was the five youths that had begun their race, moving like the wind, kicking up the dust of the track. The cheers grew and dimmed as the racers passed them by, and Najma climbed up on the dividing bar to better watch them reach the end of the track.

They were too far away from her to see who had won, but the cheers down at that end of the track were ecstatic. She turned back to Zilan.

“Who won?”

Zilan shrugged. “Who knows? Does it matter? Look, the fool is juggling.”

They watched the fool juggle four balls for a moment longer before the crowd dispersed enough for them to make their way to the stalls that lined the market street. Usually, the stalls sold practical items, fabrics, foods, tools, and what have you, but today they had been replaced by fair ware, sweets that filled the air with their fragrant scent, street food better seen on working streets, and cheap wares that were not meant to last longer than the night, lanterns, dolls, trinkets, favors. Things that Zilan could not afford to purchase for his little sister least they starve at a later date.

Instead, he drew her to another arena where another sport was to take place.

Inside this wooden stand, a square had been cut into the dirt, the spectators pushed away by guards that carefully kept people away from the men milling about dressed in padded armor and helms. Wicked swords, blunted for this entertainment, hung at their hips as they drank freely, spilling red wine down their tunics so much like blood. Najma crowded close to Zilan as the sight, and he held her close.

“It’s all for show,” he said as they found a place to watch. “Nobody will get hurt at this event. See how their swords are dull and they wear armor to protect themselves?”

She was to turn eight next season, which meant that Zilan was to turn fifteen even before that. Had they been home, he would have been joining these young men in their play fighting, but now he had to earn money to support their new lives in the city. He didn’t have much time to train with a sword, even a dull one. She rested her head on his shoulder when he crouched next to her.

She didn’t watch the fight straight on, but kept her eyes on Zilan’s face as he watched the sport, casting glances at the dueling men when his expression changed following the clashing of blades.

It was good he found things he liked, even if they distressed her.

After a victor was declared, he led her back to Market Street and toward the towering stone arena at the heart of this block of the city.

The old woman that lived next to the stables who often watched over her while Zilan worked had told her that this block of the city had been built to support the arena. First Market Street had been built to supply the arena-goers with food and trinkets. Then Labor street quickly followed as the city planners realized that they needed a way to bring supplies for the workers inside the arena, including the animals and settings for mock battles. After that, the rest of the block filled in with the workers and merchants that made their trade off the popularity of the arena. Temple Street had been raised to the ground, and nobody said anything more than that and that the street was now overrun with vagrants and criminals.

Najma had never seen a stone arena before coming to the city, having lived all her seven years in the small village near the mill. Her family hadn’t been as poor as they were now, but they hadn’t owned box seats with velvet cushions either.

Zilan held a firm hand on her shoulder as they moved into the stone arena, dragging her along when she would have otherwise paused to look up at the high arching stone ceilings. They passed under the arch that cast a dark shadow over them, making her shiver as the air noticeably chilled despite the heat of the day and the press of bodies. Once they emerged from out under the shadow, the sun once more pounded down on them.

Zilan led them to a bench where Najma could see the dirt arena. More fools were entertaining the crowd, waving ribbons and juggling balls and dancing in swirls of colors. She stood on the bench with Zilan’s arm around her thighs to watch the dancer, bouncing in rhythm with the man’s bells.

She clapped when the man ended his dance with a twirl on one foot. She waved when he bowed to the crowd. Then the fools fled the arena, and Najma turned to Zilan. She recounted the dance to him while they waited for the next show that began with a blast of trumpets. Zilan drew her attention back to the area where two men and a woman jumped into the field, flipping, tossing each other into the air, and leading a cheer through the spectators.

Once more people were on their feet than sitting, the gate near the balcony where the governor sat with his entourage opened and an absolutely massive bull raced into the arena. The bull was longer than the ones back home, with wide, thick black and white horns. His back was white, dappled with brown spots, and one whole back leg was white.

Najma wrapped her arm around Zilan’s shoulders. “Why is he in there with them? Momma says to stay out of the bulls’ fields.”

“Look, they are trained for this.”

The woman was flipping in place, her body a smooth arch as she did back flip after back flip. The bull eyed her while the two men both cartwheeled down either side of the arena, diverting the bull’s attention.

Finally, the woman stopped and twirled and had a bright red banner in her hands, the length of the fabric fluttering in the breeze. The bull lowered his head and charged.

Najma gasped in fear, shoving her body into Zilan’s.

He chuckled softly and held her steady as she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the scene before her. The crowd had silenced itself as the bull approached the woman, then cheered as the woman jumped. She leaped into the air, her body twisting about as she placed her hands on the bull’s shoulders and flipped. Najma gasped with delight as the woman landed as light as a feather in the dirt, her arms over her head, spinning in place.

The bull returned and one of the men ran up to it, leaping over the bull’s back from the side. It was enough for the bull to break off his charge and he turned to follow that man.

The woman ran and flipped into the arms of the second man, who tossed her over the bull’s head. She caught the bull’s horns and let him pass under her. She landed easily once more and urged the crowd to cheer for her.

Najma cheered.

She was amazing! She was beautiful and elegant. She was tall and lithe and perfect in Najma’s eyes. Najma watched her dance around the arena, missing how the second man jumped over the bull before they led the bull back to its pen.

Once the show was over, Najma pouted at Zilan. “I want to see her dance again.”

Zilan ran his hand over her hair. “Next year, they’ll dance for us again.”

She gaped at him. “Next year?” That was so far away! Too far away! “Can’t we see her again?”

Zilan screwed his face up in thought. “Hmm, perhaps we can find her and thank her for the show.”

Najma nodded. “I wanna be like her, bira!”

He rubbed his chin in the same manner their father did. “You’ll have to work hard and practice every day.”

“Like you do with your new master?”

He stared at her for a long moment. People moved around them, ignored by the two of them as they stared at each other. Finally, he sighed.

“You are about that age to begin an apprenticeship.”

Excited, she clutched his tunic. He laughed and shook his head. “Very well. We’ll go find the troupe and see if they will accept you as an apprentice.”

Najma remembered that first viewing of bull jumping she had seen, seven years later as she stood under the rich folk’s private viewing balcony.

She knew Zilan was out in the crowd, somewhere, watching with pride as she flipped out from under the shade and into the sunlight. She wasn’t going to leap over any bulls today, but this was her first event where she would be with the bull and in front of a crowd. Her debut, so to speak.

The crowd cheered as she waved, and she spotted a small girl child watching her with the same wonder she had felt when she had first watched the show from those same benches.

She smiled wide and flipped into the air.

[es46]

I am ecstatic to present an improved rendition of prior upload Jansilla, as provided by the superb artist Bishyantir - Diamond Graphics (@Bishyantir) / X (twitter.com) This temnoceran is known to lurk within the dense canopies of forests, waiting patiently for its preferred prey- wingdrakes- to pass by. An incredible jumper, it can leap, scuttle and climb with incredible speed, easily evading its enemies or ambushing targets. If cornered, Jansilla reveals the bioluminescent membranes extended from its hindlimbs and abdomen to confuse the attacker.

[mill3rrrd]

DEAR DIARY b hoover

“these bitch boys come too neeky, lying on a bitch that they can’t even have..” – ceechynaa

cw. reader has diagnosed anger issues (not really talked about too much but implied), slight violence and injury description, bertie has a big fat crush on reiner

wc. 4.1k

synopsis. you and bertholdt get off on the wrong foot, maybe you misinterpreted his gaze. to your friends’ dismay, you made yet another foe.

chapter two. forced proximity

dear diary,

ymir’s been pushing a friendship between me and bertholdt. i finally got introduced to him, but i don’t like him. he has this weird look in his eye. i know i said he likes me, but now i think its deeper than that. like obsession. it’s actually scary, the way he looks at me. i don’t mean to sound snobby, but it’s easy to tell when a guy likes you. they ogle you, they’re always making sure they’re within distance of you at all times.

i got a good look at him like i said i would. i can acknowledge good looks, he’s actually one of the better looking few. a tall glass of water, as one might say. he is, infact, VERY tall. bertholdt clearly works out. but he lacks confidence. that’s why nobody sees him.. or maybe just me, but anyone could tell he’s somewhat insecure. the sadness surrounding him says it all. and he’s a sloucher.

i think ymir wants us to ‘get together’ more than ‘be friends’ because of what she said to me two days ago. ‘i think bertholdt’s taken a liking to you.’ well i haven’t. he’s sort of weird. and again, he’s reiner’s one hand man.

you sighed, checking the time on your phone. 07:48.. historia and ymir would be here soon to pick you up, which explained the shorter-than-usual diary entry. you put your diary back in its usual spot and stood up to collect your bag. you weren’t really hungry for breakfast this particular morning, so you sat in your room until mr reiss pulled up in the front of your mom’s driveway.

you could hear the rain beating down on your window, you weren’t even sure your tights could stay somewhat dry from the time you left your house and got to the car. voices came from beyond your open door which meant your brother and mom were heading downstairs. you decided to follow them, smoothing down your jumper and ignoring the blazer hung up on your desk chair. you prayed that you didn’t run into principal kruger..

a car pulled up and the horn honked, you knew it was your friends, so you shouted to your family that you were leaving and swung your coat onto your arms. grabbing your bag by the small hook at the top, you opened the door and made a beeline for the car.

the interior was warm, seats heated and all. you shivered as you greeted your friends and started up conversation like the usual.

screaming, historia grabbed your’s and ymir’s hands. the three of you ran, people who were stupid enough to stay outside giving you all looks of disapproval. as usual, reiner’s group was on the steps—or under the canopy for cover from the rain—it seemed as though they were watching you three, waiting, even. unfortunately, there was no sign of annie or pieck which meant they were probably inside already or just hadn’t told you that they were staying home.

water splashed up at your ankles, soaking your tights and shoes. that would definitely be something you would all complain about later. you could feel and hear the rain hitting your coat, muffled paps! acting like a surround sound in your hood. ymir laughed, holding historia’s hand closer to her body while your hand left hers.

the three of you got to the steps, historia taking one quick step at a time whereas you and ymir skipped a few at a time. the slab of concrete you stepped on was, clearly, really wet. wet enough for you to slip backwards. a minimal shriek left your lips, eyes widening in shock. from the corner of your eye, you could see your friends lurch forward until they looked up–behind you.

a really, really big hand and pressed itself against the small of your back, preventing your fall. you could feel their hand curl around your waist as they prepped you upright. your hood slipped down, exposing your head to the onslaught of april showers and exposing your identity to the person who saved you.

“easy now..” he murmured, “you really shouldn’t run in such weather.” that sad and bored voice. bertholdt. you turned around, seeing him barely leaning over the railing that split the stairs and his arm extended to where his hand supported you.

“what the hell..” you didn’t intend to have such malice and snob take over the tone of your voice, but it just happened. you didn’t even notice he was there! you didn’t see him at all, just where does he come from.. and his hand was lingering. you were stood up and safe, he could let you go.

you could tell bertholdt caught onto your tone because his hand quickly returned to his side and his eyes examined you. his body straightened, rain droplets littering his blazer far quicker than they hit your coat. where even was his coat? it looked like his head touched the sky.

a twitch began in bertholdt’s upper lip which barely made a scene on his face. but you saw it. you sort of felt bad for the audacity you had to think how rude..

was i really that entitled? worry was seeping into your throat.

but if it really bothered him, bertholdt wouldn’t let you hear it, “a good ‘thank you’ would work too..” a flat, tired tone. you hummed, eyes swirling with distaste, “yeah, some other time..” he was one of reiner’s friends.

ymir and historia watched the scene from their spots on the two steps ahead of you, silently giving each other a know-it-all look: eyebrows raised, eyelids low, and a smirk adorning their lips.

a scoff came the group of boys receiving cover from the rain. everyone’s eyes turned to reiner, who pushed himself to the front, clearly not impressed by the scene he just witnessed.

“i wish you’d let her fall,” reiner frowned, looking bertholdt in the eye. you rolled your own, returning to historia’s side. with a cough, you murmured, “i wish your mom didn’t hoe around..” referring to the fact reiner was an affair baby.

“speak louder, y/n, we all know you have a big mouth so use it!” reiner’s tone almost sent you rigid, almost. with a smile, you turned to his burly figure, “you heard me..”

bertholdt returned to reiner’s side, like a dog, eyes looking through you, “i don’t think you’re one to talk about being a hoe..” boystrous laughter erupted amongst reiner’s friends. one of them even had the nerve to say good one, bertholdt.

“i’m sorry? i don’t even know who you are and according to ymir, i’ve gone to school alongside you since the first grade so maybe you need to learn something from me and get. it. up.” your lips popped, expanding your word’s influence. their laughter ceased and bertholdt’s cheeks warmed.

“and maybe, if you quit dick riding big brother, you’ll feel better about yourself,” you snickered, bringing up reiner’s nickname. ymir and historia giggled as you walked with them to the entrance but as you passed, bertholdt had whispered something he’d wish he hadn’t said.

“shut up, bitch..” bitch? like a dog? reiner had called you that once, he ended up with a bust lip from just a slap. squatting down, you picked up a piece of stray slate and looked at it in your palm.

“did i hear that right?” you whispered, your question directed at your friends. ymir chuckled, though it was clear she was more unsettled and historia frowned, “y/n, don’t do it..”

like a switch, your shocked expression turned into an angry one and you turned around, launching the piece of slate towards bertholdt’s face. a chorus of ‘oo’s sounded amongst the boys aswell as the sound of rock meeting rock. the tallest boy pulled his hand back from his face, staring at the few dots of blood on his hand. a gash went from his left nostril to just under his left eye.

“next time, i’ll shove my house keys in your eye!” your friends guided you inside, ignoring the eyes of any witnesses. with a small chuckle, bertholdt stared at your retreating figure, “have you got issues or something?” at this point, he was trying to protect whatever masculinity he had left.

he was thankful that ymir and historia had convinced you to leave his second comment alone.

bertholdt noticed how you always found the nerve in someone to strike. he, himself, was too angry to even feel the pain of the gash on his face, stop dick riding reiner? did she know? replacing the pain in bertholdt’s face, a sickness swirled in his abdomen. what if he did feel better if he just gave up on pursuing reiner?

she deserved it, she has no manners, i helped her and she couldn’t even thank me..

reiner broke his friend out of his silence, patting him on the shoulder, “thanks, man, always at my defence!” the praise made happiness replace that sickness. reiner was proud and maybe bertholdt could pursue him for just a while longer.

“ah, it’s no worry..” bertholdt rubbed the back of his neck, ignoring how the rain was washing the blood down his face and creating a pool in his philtrum. the blonde removed his hand, gesturing to the cut, “you might wanna get that checked, though, the rock looked dirty..”

with a slow nod, bertholdt’s eyes flickered all over reiner’s face, “yeah, i will.”

after reiner stepped away, his friends crowded him to congratulate him on ‘taking it like a champ’ or to show genuine care about his injury. what was common, however, was that they all prided him in ‘resisting the temptation of the slut.’

you and your girls reunited at your usual table at break. your sour mood shifted when you had all sat down with your food, finally getting a chance to rant about it.

“i actually hate bertholdt,” you grumbled, resting your cheek on your fist, “he’s made it onto the same list as reiner.”

ymir sighed and took a bite of her sandwhich, “here we go..” pieck and annie shared looks of confusion before the black haired girl decided to ask, “what happened?”

“i am so glad you asked!” for the next five minutes, you explained how bertholdt caught you, reiner got pissy about it and suddenly he switched up and started belittling you. you spent an extra amount of time talking about how bertholdt called you a bitch.

with a gasp, pieck set down her drink, “bertholdt hoover? he called you a bitch? like ‘super quiet, minds his business, wouldn’t hurt a fly’ bertholdt hoover?” you nodded, confirming pieck’s questions. annie chuckled, “it’s always the quiet ones who really have a lot to say, even if they don’t say it, y’know?”

“don’t leave out how you said to him ‘what the hell?’ and gave him the most grossed out look ever when he caught you..” historia chided, though humour was evident in her voice. with a sigh, you nodded, “i guess i did do that, but i felt bad about it, i still would if he didn’t call me a bitch..”

“how about we act out the whole scene, hisu?” ymir suggested, cheek evident in her voice. historia agreed. the two stood up, ymir acting as bertholdt and historia acting as you. historia fell backwards and ymir put her hand on her back, “oh y/n, take it easy, what if you fell?” she made a goo-goo voice, pouting at historia who acted faint, a hand over her forehead.

“bertholdt, please let go, if you hold on any longer, i’ll fall in love!” the two broke out of character, laughing, though ymir was significantly louder than historia which caught a few people’s ears.

“har, har,” you dropped sarcastically, “that’s definitely how it went..” the girls sat back down. ymir leaned forward, her right forearm resting on the table, “oh, it is how it went.”

“i think if you had actually acknowledged him instead of not acknowledging him, you two would be cute,” historia shrugged, picking at her chicken salad, “it’s ashame you two got off on the wrong foot, he usually is quite nice.”

“wait.. have you all spoken to him?” everyone on your table said yes.

“i grew up with reiner, of course i’ve spoken to bertholdt,” ymir said matter-of-factly. historia told you that he’d tag along to ymir’s with reiner when he goes to ymir’s for meals and gatherings.

annie’s lip twitched in reminiscence, “we did cubscouts together.” nodding with her mouth full, pieck put her thumbs up. it had been brought up in a past conversation that pieck and annie attended cubscouts together. ymir patted your back, “it’s okay, it’s only because of reiner that people notice him but you and reiner aren’t close so nobody blames you for not being aware of his friends.”

your head sank into your hands, “i just feel so bad, guys.. i threw a slab at him because he called me a bitch and nobody would’ve done that, that’s low even for me..” you pushed your food away, avoiding eye contact with your friends.

“what if you apologised?” historia and pieck suggested, “he was just trying to be nice in the first place, he didn’t have to catch you, y’know.”

with a raised brow and a scowl, you shook your head, “i’d rather not.. we both got back at each other so we’re even. it doesn’t mean i can’t feel bad about how i went about it, but bertholdt had it coming anyway.” annie hummed in agreement, tilting her head slightly, “even if he did help her, he still called her a hoe and a bitch. he’s really defensive over reiner but that’s no excuse.”

with a pat on the table, ymir chimed in, “yeah, in grade school, porco used to pick on reiner until he got bigger than him and bertholdt was always there for him. they’ve got this loyal brotherly bond, so you can’t blame him that much.”

“i guess not..” you agreed, “i’m not apologising though, i was justified.”

bertholdt examined his gash in the boy’s bathroom mirror. it was beginning to scab up but it was surprisingly deep. not that deep, but for a thin piece of rock? it slid into his face like a disk at such a scary force. reiner leaned on the cubicle behind him, “she’s so cute when she’s aggressive, she gets riled up so easily.”

“cute when you aren’t the victim maybe,” bertholdt frowned and turned around to face reiner, “miss magnolia said it’ll probably scar.”

a careless and loud laugh came from reiner, his head tilted back and arms crossed, “hey, atleast you can tell your kids about that battle scar, ‘yeah i survived the school’s witch and got a cool scar to remind me of my victory’.”

with an eyeroll, bertholdt unrolled his blazer’s sleeves, “y’know it feels like you aren’t my friend right now, you’re just some guy obsessed with a girl he calls a slut.” he was really done.

“c’mon, you know i like her, it’s expected by now, surely,” reiner scoffed but bertholdt scowled at him. scowled. his eyes blazed with unsaid sadness, anger, and betrayal. bertholdt had been nothing but loyal to reiner all his life. but it was clear that reiner wouldn’t do the same, he’s already throwing him to the wolves over a girl. the girl that reiner influenced the slut title to. the girl that reiner had picked on since grade school even though he knew what it was like to be picked on.

“i dont care wether you like her or not, you should leave her alone, drop it. you make her life miserable, can’t you see that? she hates you. you can’t even appreciate your friends anymore with her in the way. have you suddenly misplaced your loyalty? pick, reiner, the slut or me, your best friend?”

bertholdt was taken aback by the stammer in his friend’s voice. it wasn’t a hard choice. reiner should’ve been able to say you, bertholdt. because they were friends. best friends. bertholdt was selfish. he wanted more. he wanted to have reiner to himself, he needed reiner to just accept your unattainability. gosh, he’d even happily go back to when porco hated him and marcel had to apologise on his behalf. when he’d step in when reiner got kicked down and he’d sometimes get kicked down twice as hard. but they had each other.

bertholdt’s father once told him that companionship didn’t require an intimate relationship. companionship was brotherhood. someone to carry along with you so there was familiarity thoughout the tough and newest stages of life.

but it seemed he left a part out. maybe, just maybe, companionship was also seeing a friend off at the station when they couldn’t venture on that same train anymore to seek out the adventure and difference they craved. however, another person replaced his friend. an unfamiliar person who happened to be getting on the train bertholdt still lingered on because he was the one who couldn’t get off and experience unfamiliarity. so the unfamiliarity came to him instead. that person had gotten off a different train and was curious enough to venture into the unknown. the unknown that bertholdt knew so well.

“i see..” bertholdt’s tongue clicked, “when you can make up your mind, come find me.” as if on queue, the bell rang to signal the end of break. the door to the bathroom swung shut and bertholdt found himself in a crowded hallway.

it was a struggle to get to the stairwell leading to the third floor of the english block, but bertholdt got there in the end. mr berner didn’t appreciate tardiness and expected everyone in their seats by the time the bell rang the second time.

thankfully enough, he made it just before and settled in his seat by the window in the 3rd row back. however, as the second bell rang you and ymir walked through the door. bertholdt knew that you and him were in the same english class, but now he was very aware of it. you sat in the back corner with ymir infront of you. on diagonal sides of the room. but he was suddenly aware of his every move, as if you were watching him.

mr berner rose in his chair, “alright class, settle down.” he took the register before explaining the lesson. it was relatively boring, just him explaining p-e-e paragraphs and how to use each aspect of it into the paragraph. then, he gave everyone ten minutes to write one on why lady macbeth was significant to the plot. which wasn’t necessarily a hard task. if it was macduff, for instance, anyone would’ve struggled.

for the last quarter of the lesson, mr berner announced there would be a partner project set for homework, “you have about a month to complete it. i will hand out a card to half of the students in here and you will partner up.”

ymir turned around in her seat, grinning at you and raising her hand for you to return a high five. you smiled too until your teacher interrupted your happiness, “however, due to complications last time we did something like this, i will be choosing your partners.”

a collective groan sounded out throughout the classroom as mr berner walked down the centre aisle. the classroom was layed out as a four by six meaning there was twenty-four students and twelve would recieve a card. as he returned to the front, mr berner called out, “as some of you can see, the cards are not based on shakespear but greek mythology..”

“that is because we are nearing the end of the semester and at the start of the next one, we will focus on classical languages,” your teacher explained, standing infront of the projector screen, “you have all been given twelve different mythologies to study and create some sort of fact file. it can be physical, like a drama performance or something more factual like a display board. as long as it isn’t basic or boring! you will lose marks if there is too few information.”

a smirk fell onto his face as he examined his students, noticing how the lazier few of his students seemed to deflate, “now, i have already picked your partners based on what side of the room you’re on..” he murmured, bending down to his computer and clicking on the document that contained the partner list. one by one, he called out names.

“marlowe and hannah, mina and ymir, bertholdt and y/n..” it almost flew over your head, almost. ymir turned back around to snicker at you and laugh at your luck, “milieus and thomas..” you didn’t listen to the rest of the names. you were stuck with bertholdt.

“you have five minutes to make arrangements with your partner before i dismiss you!” with a heavy groan, you said goodbye to ymir and headed towards bertholdt’s seat since he had the card. mouth flatlined, bertholdt held his hand up like a dry wave, quickly putting it down. you pulled a chair over from the empty desk infront of him and turned it around, sitting opposite of bertholdt.

“what’s on the card?” you asked, biting your cheek and looking at the healing line on his face. turning the card, it read apollo and daphne. you nodded, smacking you lips and producing an ah.. sound, “i know this one..”

“that’s useful, then,” bertholdt hummed, fingers drumming on the table, “we have a month so should we work on it every saturday until the due date?”

that was a good idea.. so you nodded, “yeah, that works, umm.. does your house work?” it felt really awkward. nonetheless, bertholdt agreed and exchanged numbers with you since you didn’t already have it. without another word, you returned to your seat just in time for ymir to come back too.

“he’s healing fine,” you shrugged, “we decided we’d do the project at his house on saturdays.” ymir whistled, “his house? nothing is getting done,” hinting to something more suggestive.

with a laugh, she picked up her bag just as the bell rang. you rolled your eyes, “everything is getting done, ymir, honestly mr berner is not my favourite right now!”

back into the hall you went, heading towards history. you had parted ways with ymir when you left the building to cut across campus for a shortcut. and she didn’t have history but religious studies instead. you hoped you would meet armin along the way.

he was a nice boy, though he got picked on by reiner like you. you were sort of happy to have someone to rant to about it other than your friends and mr smith. however, armin was starting to come out of his shell and the last time you saw him, he had gotten a haircut. you thought it suited him. he was nowhere near ugly, even with the bob cut he donned since he could grow hair.

“y/n, hey!” just who you were hoping to see, “hi armin, ready for history?” he nodded and walked with you to mr smith’s classroom.

bertholdt dragged a palm down his face as he entered his photography class. he had been mentally cursing himself for the awkward interaction in english, he didn’t even want you at his house bertholdt was just incapable of saying no. he didn’t want you to see the state of his sick father, a feeling deep down telling him you were judgy like that. he could’ve suggested the local library or even your house, but honestly, he wasn’t risking bringing out the bratty attitude that was getting too comfortable with him.

bertholdt didn’t know where all these negative beliefs about you came from. he knew he was jealous of you, he didn’t know you enough to hate you but everything he felt for you was close to it. did he actually hate you? or was it jealousy talking..

sure, you dashed something in his face and scarred it, but he did name call you, but you were clearly ungrateful about him saving you from a potentially broken neck. sitting down in his seat, that familiar sickness pooled. you were really fucking up things for him and reiner. you determined their current friendship and you didn’t like either of them. it had him thinking about the delirious possibility that you could be a witch.

bertholdt had mixed feelings about you, just not in a positive light.

[mistresskayla-blog1]

Queen of the Forest

Characters: Richard Armitage x OC Cara Ambrose

Chapter 1:  Welcome to the Forest  (April 29)

Richard brings Cara tea in his white jumper, as she sits on a lounge chair, on a balcony overlooking the expanse of other elevated tree houses. All the houses are interconnected by bridges and walkways in this glen of gorgeous deciduous trees. The canopy spanned high above them, green and expansive, the sky just peeking through. The birds were chirping, the wind was still and cool, it was morning and everything was waking up. The village they had created was below her, workers busying themselves with morning chores. Cara shivered a bit, pulling the soft blanket up her arms. Richard came and sat behind her, his warmth filling her bones with promise. He kissed her shoulder, and Cara shivered warmly.

“Sorry, love, is this helping?”  Richard purred. Cara looked down at her hot tea, steaming in the cool morning air and went to sip it. “Its fine love, thank you”. He kissed her shoulder again, and his arms wrapped Cara up in his lovely cocoon of safety and love. Cara leaned into him more in the chaise, feeling his heart thump playfully in her presence. Cara looked up under his chin, and nuzzled his neck, her lips brushing his throat delicately. Richard sighed happily, and moved to kiss Cara on the lips, gently.  A loud cry let out from across the glen and Richard sharply looked out. Cara’s heart seized in anxiousness, as he moved from her swiftly to see what the commotion was, gripping the banister of the balcony and pitching his face down towards the ground.

“Look out!” someone shouted again from the forest floor. Some workers were moving a rather large piece of log and it was becoming unruly. Richard smiled, and looked back at me, “Nothing doing love, Joshua is trying to caber toss too early” chuckles.

She smiled and chuckled, back, “That sounds like him,” she says, bringing the tea to her lips again and letting the liquid trail down her throat in satisfaction and reassurance, it was a floral tea, a little sweetened, but not bitter at the end. Cara really hated a bitter after taste.

Richard came back towards Cara, after surveying the rest of the ground for other issues, and sat behind her again on the chaise, pulling her into him. He sighs, “I love mornings like this, why did I fight you so hard to have this reality created?” Cara smiles, and sips tea again, “I don’t know love, I told you once you saw its fully imagined you would love it too”.

His voice husky and velveteen whispered against my cheek, “I do, very much, love it. As I love you”.

Cara’s heart swelled and warmed in her chest as she says, “I love you more” turning her head to kiss him sweetly again.

More commotion came from Joshua and another boy, but everyone was safe. Morning chores came and went, as the progenitors sat in their balcony and surveyed the community they had built together with grit and imagination. The Whirling Deverish Community was in its third year, here in the Tennessee Highlands, amongst great redwood trees and soft lands, near Franklin State Forest preserve. Richard calls it the other “Sherwood”, which isn’t far off from a town of the same name. We go for supplies every few weeks to Chattanooga or Jasper. But basically they live here, out in the trees and want for nothing. Well, Cara does anyways. Richard comes and goes as his schedule requires. Sometimes she goes with him, but most of the time she is here, mother to them all, Queen of the Forest, he calls her, his Queen.

Cara dressed for the day and moved down the plankway towards the formal kitchen building on the grounds. She had to speak with Kendra about the preparations for feast in a few days. Discussion broke down about drinks and desserts mostly. Kendra was busy kneading dough for lunch rolls and Cara came to help her, covering her hands with flour before digging into the sourdough. Kneading happily.

Kendra smiled cheerfully at Cara and they both continued to work the dough and make little balls on the tray before it went into the stout clay oven that Jed had built for Kendra. 

“How are things going with Jed?” Cara asked Kendra, as they washed their hands in the basin sink together. 

Kendra beamed at Cara, “Oh, its progressing, thanks for asking.”

Cara nodded in appreciation, “I know what you mean. But we owe you so much for the work you do here. Thanks for continuing to be here with us,” 

Kendra took the compliment well, quirking a smile, “There is a little issue though,”

Cara looked up some chopping, “Oh, is there anything I can do?” 

Kendra nodded, “Actually, its about some of the new recruits, I think we need another refresher on community. Are you able to do that today?”

Cara, “Of course, but what is happening, that they need it so soon. We just brought them in a few weeks ago” Cara was puzzled, and a bit concerned.

Kendra scrunched up her face a moment, “Its not that, its just that, well (her voice kind of went up as she looked at Cara with a less than pleased face)”.

Cara put her hand on Kendra’s hand, “I know what you mean, let me speak with them, the whole lot, or are there a few you need me to speak to?”

Kendra grinned, “Better to do the whole lot, and not subject anyone out. I have my eye on a few, but let’s see if your inspiration will help them”.  Cara nodded her head against Kendra’s in solidarity.

Cara left the kitchens and headed down through the grounds to meet with Theo. Theo was the man in charge of most of the volunteer staff. He helped Rebecca run the educational portion of the center and he was on the practical side of instructing, as well as training those who had never lived outdoors to get their bearings. Theo was stout, and broad chested, his laugh could make the leaves quake on the trees, and he was a jovial sort of man by nature. Cara always felt warm around him and knew him to be a good man.

“Theo?”  Cara asked approaching him from behind. Theo turned to see her and his eyes warmed instantly.

“Yes, my dear, what can I do for you?” Theo asked.

“Well, Kendra says the new group is a bit, shall we say, low in spirit,” Cara shegrined. Theo looked down a bit, and then back up at her.

“Yes, they are, I am not sure they are totally dedicated yet, but you know that takes time. A few were giving Kendra trouble the last few days and with the festival, you know how she..” Theo trailed off.

“I understand,” Cara said, putting her hand on his arm, and watching a bird fly up to its nest in the adjacent oak tree, “I still think maybe me giving them a lesson would help, do you think we can have them gathered after lunch?” 

Theo looked around to several workers ambling around doing chores, and off further towards Jed’s garden, “I think I can manage to round them up by then, thank you Mistress, we appreciate that. Sometimes they just need to know what their fighting for, right?”

Cara smiled knowingly, “Yes, I guess that’s true. I mean, purpose is not found in one day, it takes time to become aware. Let’s give them some more spirit!” She raised her hand in triumph and walked off a little more warmth in her heart and amble in her stride.

Richard watched Cara from above and met her at the end of the row of cabins, down a ramp. Cara came up short by him, and was startled, “Silly, you scared me,” She pulled him into a kiss by his shirt.

“Did I?” he said smiling in the kiss, “I didn’t mean to”, winks. He kissed her again, gently and sweetly and then let her move from his grasp. “Where are you off to my love?” Richard inquired.

Cara looked back at him a moment, “to gather some things from Jed, care to join me, or do you have some writing to do?” Cara’s eyebrow quirked up, trying to goat Richard into response.

Richard looked out through the forest as if to delay his response, “I have some work to be done, yes, but I want to spend some time with my wife, is that alright?” He took her hand and interlaced their fingers.

Cara warmed and led him towards the gardens, “Of course, my love”.

Taglist:

@sweetestgbye, @lathalea @legolasbadass @riepu10 @amylupotter @richardarmitagefanpage @middleearthpixie @richardarmitageshands

[kas-e]

P. Otiosus Female

Salute Stack & Others, recently cleaned up and adjusted for print and publishing. This is an adult female, having recently had her ultimate molt. Commonly called the Canopy Jumper.

[jaejoongs-nipple-piercing]

A Cozy Autumn Date

@emeraldbabygirl

He had been monitoring the weather forecasts for the last couple weeks to make sure everything was perfect. It had to be. Your date was something very special to him and he wanted you both to be able to look back and cherish it.

So when he finally saw the day in the forecast that would be absolutely perfect, he started getting things set up. Which was a little hard to do in between his daily fights against the other school gangs, but this was something important that just had to be done.

He called up a few places for food catering and dining out, just for price ranges and locations, options-that sort of thing. He called to find a very specific type of flower bouquet and since it was a seasonal kind they always sold out quickly. Upset that nobody had any left over, he decided he would make you one from scratch, hoping that even though it wasn’t store-bought you would at least like it a little.

Finally finding a place that was still open on October 31st proved more difficult then he thought.

“People really like going on Halloween dates? Maybe I’ll keep that in mind.”

After about a week he found one. He gave the owner all the information that was asked for and he asked about the location, directions (since he was never really sure how to get to these places), and time slots. Picking the second-to-last slot, he thanked the owner many times.

“No problem, young man. I hope you enjoy your date.”

Then disaster struck: the week of your date everything was suddenly closed and unavailable. And it was showing rain all week.

“NOOOOOOOOOOO!” Smoky fell to his knees in anguish. Your date was ruined.

“What’s up with you?” Fujio asked, walking into the room.

Smoky just glared at him.

“YOU!!”

Fujio stepped back, startled.

“H-hey bro, I-I-I didn’t do anything. I didn’t hit you, r-right? C-c-calm d-down.”

Fujio backed up so far he hit the wall, now Smoky was right in his face.

“You’re going to help me with my date since the weather ruined my plan. Got it?”

“Okay..?”

“Good! Now here’s what you have to do. Get some people from Oya and Murayama, oh and Rao too, and…”

October 31st, at the break of dawn, everyone was gathered in the gym they fought Senomon in, working out the details of this date.

“Ok, so I know we’d rather be fighting each other, but I really need your help. As you know, it’s soaking wet out which put a damper on my date plans and everything was suddenly closed up. So I need you guys to do some behind-the-scenes magic for me to make this a great date. If everything goes well, I’ll hold off on beating you guys for a month.”

“So what do we do?”

“Ah, Todoroki and Odejima! Ok I need you guys to go get these things for a pretty fall bouquet since everyone ran out.”

“What am I doing here, again?”

“Murayama, you are Mr.Muscle. I need you to drive the tractor. But please go slow- it’s supposed to be a nice date, not a car race.”

Murayama scowled, but nodded his head in acceptance.

Fujio and Rao were already off setting up a cute little corn maze and a pumpkin-lined path for the tractor. Murayama came over to help put a canopy up over the cart the tractor would be pulling. When Odejima and Todoroki finished with the bouquet assembly they helped Smoky put some hay bales into the cart for the two of you to sit on.

“Now we wait. Meet me here in 2 hours.”

~~~~~~

Your boyfriend Smoky hadn’t contacted you in a few days, so when he finally did you asked him what was happening. Did he get hurt real bad in a fight this time?

“No, no I’m fine. Hey do me a favor, will ya? Put on a cute outfit, maybe bring a light jacket or a sweater, and meet me outside. I’m gonna take you somewhere you’ll like.”

You smiled. “Ok, I’ll be right down.”

Hanging up and charging your phone for a little bit, you go to look for an outfit.

Urgh!! I have nothing to wear! You groan, tearing apart your closet. You finally decided on a black corduroy jumper and a fuzzy lavender sweater, paired with some Bearpaw boots. You grab a windbreaker and unplug your phone, putting it into your jacket pocket. You want to look nice for Smoky so you put on a little makeup-mascara and some lip gloss is enough. You practically ran downstairs to the door, yelling your goodbyes to your pets as you left. You locked the door and ran to Smoky, flinging yourself into his arms.

“I missed you! Are you sure you’re ok?”

Smoky just chuckled, “Yeah, I’m great. Here, let’s get going,” he said, opening the passenger door of his 1975 Ford Bronco for you.

It didn’t take as long as either of you thought it would to get to the date place, and when you got to the parking lot Smoky told you to close you eyes.

“It’s a surprise, so you have to keep them closed. I’ll guide you there.”

You were surprised now. “Ok, then. Lead the way.”

You feel the hard ground under your boots, hear the leaves crunching a little through the water on top of them. There’s a faint smell of rain and something else you can’t quite place.

“Hey gimme a hint! Where are we?”

Smoky chuckled. “Not very patient, are we? You’ll see soon.”

He loved this about you, so sweet and always curious about things. And the way you cared so deeply about him.

The two of you stopped after a few more feet, and he warned you first before continuing.

“Ok, I need you to grab my neck. I’m going to lift you to the next part.”

Confused, you wrapped your arms gently around his neck, and the he proceeded to lift you princess-style into the cart. He came up shortly after, helping you to your feet. He walked you over to the hay bales, and gently helped you sit down on one.

“Why is this seat so prickly? Can I open my eyes now please?”

Smoky just about bursted from being so giddy.

“No, not yet. Almost.”

He reached over and flicked the fairy lights that Todoroki and Odejima had put up around the inside of the cart. Then he grabbed a lap blanket for the two of you. He sat down next to you and spread the blanket over your laps.

“Now.”

You opened your eyes and were absolutely amazed. What you saw before you was more than you could have asked for in a date from Smoky. You were in a cart in a pumpkin patch, with a corn maze and a path lined with pumpkins for the tractor to go through.

Smoky handed you the bouquet Todoroki and Odejima made, nervously.

“Do you like it? Is it ok for a late fall date?”

Your eyes were suddenly moist. You were so happy he put this much thought into your date.

“Yes, of course I like it. I love this idea so much!”

Smoky signaled to Murayama to start the tractor, but he didn’t.

“MURAYAMA!”

Still nothing.

“Murayama called in sick, he said he didn wanna see you guys bein all mushy gushy on each other.”

“Oh no.”

Murayama called in sick? Really? That could only mean one thing. He got Binzo to drive.

“Please tell me you know how to drive a tractor?!”

The tractor started, and you were surprised at how smooth it was. Then the driver turned around.

“I put off my date with Todoroki for this, so you owe me.”

“Odejima!! Hi, I’m glad to see you!”

Odejima. Odejima is driving. Ok, now you can relax.

Hours later after you went through the pumpkin patch and path, picked out a couple pumpkins to carve later, and got spooked in the corn maze, it was dark. You got up go jump down off the cart but Smoky was faster.

“Here, I’ll go first.”

Smoky jumped down from the cart and turned around. Spreading his arms like he wanted you to jump into them.

“Now you.”

Smoky stood there smiling, and since he had given you such a nice date and even got a lot of the boys to help, you decided to let him have this.

You jumped down into his arms, scared that you would fall. But he caught you, swinging you around.

“I know this wasn’t the best date, but I hope it was ok.”

“Smoky, I already said it was great. I loved it. I mean, a date in a pumpkin patch and all our friends came to help you out? That’s amazing. And I did catch glimpses of Fujio, Rao and Binzo so that was fun too.”

“BINZO WAS HERE THE WHOLE TIME?!?”

Smoky was shocked.

“It’s fine, he only came in to see how we were doing. He didn’t want me to tell you until after and he said you promised no beatings for a month.”

“Grr, but he’s exempt. He didn’t help. So he gets the punishment.”

“Smoky, don’t ruin the date we had. I don’t think it’s over yet.”

Smoky looked at you, now he was the confused one. The date wasn’t over? Yes it was. This was all he had planned.

You walked toward Smoky, now you were nervous again.

“I want you to close your eyes, please.”

Smoky just looked at you, blinking.

“Smokyy! Please? I have something for you.”

Smoky reluctantly closed his eyes.

“Now put your hands out toward me, face up.”

He did, still confused. You put your hands in his, squeezing them so you had a good grip. Then you got on your toes (since he was a bit taller than you) and kissed him on the cheek. You got so embarrassed and you felt your cheeks heating up.

Smoky opened his eyes and saw you, beet red. He was also blushing-you had never kissed before so it was a first for both of you. He walked toward you and gently took your head in his hands, giving you a light peck on the forehead.

Both of you were still blushing when Smoky turned to you and said it was getting late.

“Yeah, let’s go home.”

[definitionsfading]

tartan

for your consideration; a domestic ficlet I did as a warm-up last night

content warnings: includes some adult humor between married celestial entities and Crowley is pregnant (by choice) ((the babies are Aziraphale’s)) (((ayy)))

+ + + + + +

It’d been something of a strange summer thus far, all things told. London volleyed between pouring rain and spiking heat waves every other week throughout the month of June, then trundled headlong into July with the tepid promise of milder weather. It was a sleight of hand trick meant to beguile and fool every weather forecaster in the country, because after the rains passed one morning the temperature dropped so low that Aziraphale had to pull his wool cardigan back out of the upstairs wardrobe.

But if mother nature was temperamental and unpredictable that summer, well—she had nothing on a pregnant demon. 

“I’m hardly a stone’s throw into the second bloody trimester and already nothing fits,” Crowley moaned from where he’d flopped back onto the bed with the button of his trousers still undone, the garment in question butterflied open at the zip. “Not even a vest top. Meanwhile, it’s sodding July and we’re wearing jumpers, as if my entire existence weren’t already enough of a sick joke.” 

Aziraphale poked his head out of the adjacent water closet, fingers still busy tidying up his cufflinks, and appraised the grim sight on the bed. Crowley was right; every time he tugged down his black cotton vest it would simply roll up over the rounded swell of his middle again. 

“Don’t get yourself in a tip, dear, I’m sure we’ll be able to pop out to the shops and find something suiting,” Aziraphale said, stepping further into the room to wander over to the bedside. “Even if it’s unseasonably cool, I think this weather is a far cry better than the heat for somebody in your condition.”

“My condition, he says,” Crowley snorted, golden eyes flashing just before he draped a dramatic forearm across his face and moaned again. “This is your fault, you know—we only really needed the one baby and here your angelic super sperm had to go and knock me up twice as hard. I’d still be fitting into my trousers if I weren’t busy stuffing my face for three.” 

Aziraphale laughed, warm palms landing on the knobby shapes of Crowley’s knee caps. “Now see here,” he countered, “I wouldn’t have been able to do that if it weren’t for your overindulgent ovaries releasing two eggs during the same cycle. You’re just as much to blame, if not more.” 

Crowley made another wretched sound but let his arm roll away from his face, gazing up at his husband with a pitiful hangdog expression around his eyes. “But m’cold, angel,” he said, pouting out his lower lip. “I can’t very well go out looking like this, and what’s the point in buying anything—? When I must be gaining a fresh inch around the middle overnight at this rate.” 

“Because you’re healthy, darling, and your body is doing a remarkable job of sustaining our growing children,” Aziraphale reminded him, letting his hands slide down to Crowley’s thighs as a telling flush bloomed on the demon’s chest and began crawling toward his throat. “If you weren’t growing accordingly I think we’d have more cause for concern. From my point of view, I don’t think you’ve ever been as gorgeous as you are right now.” 

“Yeah, but I can be butt-arse naked in front of you, you sentimental git,” Crowley groused, wriggling there with Aziraphale leaning between his spread knees. “All that greeting card swill doesn’t solve the problem of me busting all the seams in my clothes if I so much as sneeze.” 

Aziraphale thought about that for a moment, with genuine effort, and then smiled. “I think I may have a temporary solution, if you’re amenable to it.” 

“Which is?” Crowley asked, arching a gingery eyebrow, but Aziraphale was already pushing away from the bedside and whisking back over to the old wardrobe. 

Crowley laid there in resignation for a few beats, gazing up at the velvet canopy of the four-poster until Aziraphale started sliding hangers on the rail and curiosity got the better of him. By the time he could manage to hoist himself back up into a sitting position again, the angel was already standing at the bedside with an assortment of clothing folded over one arm. 

“Oh no, absssolutely not,” Crowley started, eyes widening at the sight of some camel coloured slacks. “I’d rather go out full starkers, angel, than be caught dead—”

“Do hush, you utter fiend, it’s not that bad,” Aziraphale tutted over him with a roll of his eyes, holding up a jumper with a flourish meant to inspire. “This is pure Ladakhi cashmere, I’ll have you know. It’ll feel like French butter against your skin.” 

Crowley pulled a doubtful face. “Dunno about you, but I’ve never been one to slather myself in butter on a real lark,” he muttered, but reached out and took the sweater anyway, a cream and camel-based tartan with a thin blue stripe. He swore as he pulled it on over his head, and then proceeded to sit very still on the edge of the bed as they both looked down at the offending garment. The cashmere accommodated his belly perfectly, neither too snug nor too loose where it draped around his figure as if it’d been made bespoke. 

“That was pure luck,” Crowley said, plucking at the sleeves. “There’s no way in utter creation those trousers will fit me.” 

Aziraphale only held them out with another glowing smile. “Give them a try, love, if only to indulge a doddering old angel.” 

It took some grumbling and a few more choice swears once Crowley was standing, but he stepped one foot at a time into the slacks and then—rather miraculously, all in all—hoisted them up so they fastened without a hitch just under his navel. 

“Ngk,” Crowley said, once Aziraphale had pulled the tartan jumper down and straightened the hem for him. “Uhm.” 

“You look so handsome,” Aziraphale crowed as his hands clasped together, corners of his eyes crinkling up in joy. “Go over and have a peek in the looking glass for yourself.” 

Crowley sauntered over to the mirror and appraised his reflection from the front, and then the very new and ever-changing side profile. He cupped a hand under his growing bump and pulled a frown, but it began to wobble a bit just as soon as he caught Aziraphale’s adoring expression peering at him in the glass. 

“Do I look fat?” he asked in a tremulous sort of laugh, just before Aziraphale’s arms circled around his middle and pressed the tartan cashmere more flush against Crowley’s skin. Damn it all to hell, it was as sodding soft as French butter.

“No, you’re positively radiant,” Aziraphale said, dropping a kiss onto Crowley’s shoulder there in their shared reflection. “Even better, wearing my colours like you are.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Crowley sniffled, feeling something unexpected and hot burning behind his eyes. “And what of it?”

“You look like you belong to me,” Aziraphale said in a velvety voice, bracing both hands underneath Crowley’s belly. “All mine to keep and adore for myself, I’m afraid.” 

Crowley scoffed and reached up to dab at something on one cheek before wrinkling his nose. It was starting to get oddly warm in the bedroom all of a sudden. “Well, I suppose you’re right about that part,” he said. “Just this once.”

Aziraphale nodded, and this time felt the upward quirk of his husband’s dopey smile against his lips when he gently turned his face for a kiss. “Just this once,” he agreed amiably. “Do you think you’ll be warm enough to pop out to the shops, now?”

“If I must,” Crowley diplomatically decided, admiring his transformed reflection for another beat before turning to straighten Aziraphale’s bow tie. He leaned in for another chaste kiss, and then reached around to pinch a small handful of angelic bum. “The sooner we get out, the sooner we can do luncheon and come back to shag for the rest of the afternoon.” 

“Impeccable logic, dear,” Aziraphale said with a breathy little laugh of his own. Crowley gave him a wink before stepping away to fetch his trainers and sunglasses, and only then did Aziraphale glance back to the looking glass and see that the tartan of his bow tie had somehow changed itself to match the colours on a certain demon’s cashmere jumper. 

It was rounding out to be an interesting summer, indeed.

[if you enjoy fics like this one, feel free to check out my ineffable parents ficlet collection or other Good Omens works on AO3]

[echo-echo31]

Can't believe you lost my sfw prompt request smh in cri /lh

Anyway

Perhemps

Murdock/Reader afab/fem pronouns

SOFT LOSERS YOUR HONOR

Mayhemps the losers going for a walk in the woods. Just a little outing/date together walking the trails. Spending time together? With a murder man? More likely than you think.

warnings: none apply :)

The smell of damp bark makes Murdock close his eyes for a second, something he doesn't usually allow himself to do outside his own bedroom.

Now though, he feels a type of serenity wash over him gently. These are his woods, surrounding his cabin, and there's not much that would be able to sneak up on him here. At least, not without him being delightfully prepared for it.

As if anything could surprise him here, let alone you.

He can't help the twitch of a grin curling his upper lip just before you playfully wrap your arms around his waist. Your laugh is light and intoxicating, as if you don't know what a bad idea it is to try and jumpscare a man like him.

"Careful, little fawn. It's dangerous to play games in the woods," He warns, but not without amusement dancing on his lips.

"And what exactly is gonna get me in the woods, huh? The big bad wolf," You put on a mocking scary voice, but he can see your eyes now you've stepped beside him. Your eyes never fail to betray your emotions.

"I told you to wear gloves," Murdock states, eyeing your small, pale hands exposed to the misty air.

"And I told you I don't need them," You respond, despite tucking your fingers further into your jumper even as you speak.

He smiles, your smile, before continuing on your morning walk. As if trying to act casually, you look up at the canopy of evergreen leaves whilst strolling to match his pace.

A few seconds and Murdock brushes his gloved hand against yours and suddenly you're enveloped in the warm, soft leather. He sees you shudder slightly at the change in temperature, your hands looking so very fragile in his.

He doesn't say anything, but there's a fire that's warming in his chest.

[hybrid-royalty]

"What fresh hell is this?" Klaus isn't upset, more... confused? Than anything else. Away on family business for two days and he returned to what appeared to be a canopy bed in his room. Except it was made up of sweaters? And jumpers? The strangest tent he'd ever scene.

//@elenaes