#Where the FIre Lilies Grow

[brokenmenswhore]

can we get a part 2 to proposition? 🥺😩

i have NEVER gotten so many comments or inbox requests for something IN MY LIFE. here you go you horny fuckers i love you lots

a proposition: accepted | poly!marauders

#2

pairing: poly!marauders x fem!reader (james, remus, and sirius, featuring alecto, dorcas, evan, lily, and mary)

warnings: exhibitionism/voyeurism (MDNI 18+), smut, virginity loss

a/n: there will be a part 3 IF y’all want it :)

a proposition: masterlist

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“How exactly does this work?” you asked, looking around the table in search of an answer from anyone present. You were excited, and you accepted the offer immediately, but now craved more detail.

“The only people we have sex with are the people at this table,” James began to explain, “so it’s relationship-y in that sense, but none of us are coupled off or anything.”

“You guys don’t get worried about favorites?”

Dorcas and Lily smiled and let out a small ‘aweh’ at your innocence.

“Everyone brings something different to the table,” Dorcas began to explain, “for instance, I’m not getting the same head from Mary that I’m getting from James.”

Your cheeks reddened and your eyes widened at her crude statement. If you were going to do this, sex had to be something you were comfortable talking about, so you pushed your nerves down with a swallow, but the whole table could already sense your innocence.

“Do we, like, all do it, like, at the same time? Or-“

Sirius smiled. You were fucking perfect for this if that’s the idea you had in your head.

“We can,” Sirius took over, “or sometimes it’s just two of us, three of us, or whatever. As long as you’re only sexually active with the people at this table.”

“Are you sexually active with anyone else?” Alecto asked.

You swallowed hard. “N-no.”

“Ok, and what are your limits?”

You looked at Remus in confusion.

“We gotta ask a couple questions to know what you’re comfortable with,” he explained, but your confusion maintained.

“My limits?”

“Well, when you’ve had sex before, was there anything you didn’t like? Anything you would want any of us doing with you?”

You stared at Remus, hoping someone would ask another question and change the subject. Your silence was more telling than a verbal answer would have been.

“You have had sex, yeah?”

You dropped your head, your eyesight on your thighs where Sirius’s hand rested. You began to fidget with your fingers in nervousness.

Sirius shifted in his chair to adjust the uncomfortability of his growing hardness. He knew you were innocent, but he didn’t know you were that innocent.

“Is it really a good idea for us to bring a virgin into this?” Lily asked, immediately turning to you, “not that we don’t want you, love, but are you okay with this? Like really okay with it?”

“Yeah,” you responded, “but if you guys aren’t okay with-“

A chorus of “no no no we are!” and “it’s okay!” erupted from nearly everyone trying to assure you they were not having doubts of their own, but concerns for you.

“We’ll take it easy at first, and you just tell whoever you’re with if you aren’t comfortable with something, how about that?” James proposed, “we’ll work our way up to other things. No rush.”

You nodded your head, smiling at his understanding. “Yeah, yeah I like that.”

“Good,” Sirius said, “so you just stop me if you want to.”

You furrowed your brows in confusion as you looked at Sirius, who looked back at you as if he was doing nothing, but the hand on your thigh began to move.

You gasped lightly as Sirius moved higher and higher up your thigh, the only thing between his hand and your core being your underwear. He ran a finger over the cloth, a wet spot forming quickly as he rubbed between your folds.

Your cheeks were on fire as you looked around the table, and everyone was looking at you.

You suddenly became very self conscious, and leaned into the crook of Sirius’s neck, whispering, “they’re all just gonna watch?”

“Mhm,” Sirius hummed in your hair, tracing the band of your underwear, “that okay?”

He then dipped a finger beneath your underwear, finding your clit and slowly circling around the bud. No one but you had ever done this before, and it was exhilarating and embarrassing all at once.

“Can’t people see?” you whispered.

Sirius chuckled. He was so amused and having so much fun with you, as was everyone. “We gotcha covered, doll.”

The pet name drove you crazy, and you could feel yourself getting wetter and wetter as Sirius began to feel you.

You hid your face in the crook of his neck, but he advised you against it. “Let ‘em see your pretty face,” he said, “you’re here because we all wanna see this.”

Your heart was pounding, and barely anything had started, but you could feel everyone’s eyes on you.

You adjusted so that you were resting your head against Sirius’s shoulder, but could still see everyone, and they could still see you.

Sirius took the opportunity of your movement to move his fingers lower and insert one into you, causing your hips to jolt and you to moan in surprise.

“Sh,” Sirius warned, placing a kiss on top of your head, “we’re still in a restaurant, remember?”

You did not remember. Your thoughts were clouded by the pleasure and embarrassment you were experiencing.

Remus looked around the vicinity of the table to ensure no one else was in earshot, and he leaned over the wood, lowly saying, “you wanna show us all how you come?”

You had never experienced dirty talk, and didn’t comprehend that it was rhetorical.

Your voice was strained and low as you did your best to say, “sure.”

Both Evan and Lily giggled to each other. “You didn’t have to answer, honey, just relax. Sirius is a master at this stuff.”

Sirius pumped his finger in and out of you, your spongy walls convulsing around the digit as his thumb rubbed your clit, intensifying the pleasure.

You felt a drop in the pit of your stomach, and you knew what it meant. You tapped Mary’s shoulder next to you. It was the nearest thing, and you hoped she would catch on.

“What’s up?” she asked, playing dumb.

You only tapped her more fervently.

“Gotta use your words, angel,” James chimes in, “we all wanna hear you say it.”

You took a deep breath, nearly whispering, “I think I’m gonna come, Sirius, I-“

Sirius moved his hand faster and faster, and he was nearly growling as you leaned your body against his, finding comfort in him as you came around his fingers, your legs shaking from the intensity.

Everyone at the table began to cheer as a tease. Sirius removed his hand from you, looking you directly in the eyes as he licked your juices off of his fingers.

You gazed up at him through hooded eyes, attempting to catch your breath as your body adjusted to the absence of pleasure again.

“Is it okay if I stay here for a while?” you asked, referring to your head resting on Sirius’s shoulder.

“Of course,” he answered, looking to everyone else, “good pick on my part, I’d say.”

────── ☾ ──────

“What’s up?” you asked James the next day as he sat across from you at your usual table in the library.

“They sent me to ask you because they think I’m the nicest,” James said.

“Ask me what?” you asked.

“Well,” James started, “you know, you’re a part of this thing now, and they just- we just- oh my god. Do you have a preference on who you lose your virginity to?”

Your eyes widened. “Do I have a preference?”

“This is all consent based, we aren’t just gonna decide something like that for you.”

“Are you asking me to pick one of you to give it up to?”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

“Doesn’t it make me an asshole if I don’t say you?”

“Why would it?” James questioned.

“Because you’re the one asking me.”

“I have Lily and Dorcas’s, I’m set,” James said, “taking Lily’s was a win.”

“You’re such a guy,” you joked.

“You’re avoiding the question,” James retorted. “Sirius is the one who wanted to bring you into this in the first place, you know.”

You began to blush. “I’m scared of Sirius.”

“Scared? What do you mean?”

“Yesterday was fun, but for my first time, I’m scared he’d be too rough.”

“Sirius is a big ol’ softie,” James said, leaning back in his chair, “but fair enough. No pressure, angel, just let me know whenever you’re ready.”

You assumed that meant you had time, but James didn’t move.

“You really want an answer now, huh?”

“I kinda really do,” James smiled.

You contemplated your options, sifting through all the members of the group that you could choose from. You would be okay with a few of them, but one felt especially right.

“Remus,” you said.

James nodded. “Remus it is.”

“This feels weird.”

“You could just tell him yourself,” James said, standing up, leaving you with the idea to do so.

After classes has ended, you stood outside the Gryffindor common room, waiting for anyone you knew to walk by and let you in.

“Fuckin’ hell, you guys take forever,” you said as Lily approached, “can you let me in? I need to talk to Remus.”

Lily smiled. “Yeah you do,” she giggled.

She let you into the common room and directed you to the boys dormitories. You crept up the staircase, unsure of who would be there and not wanting to intrude or see something you shouldn’t.

Up the stairs, you found Remus, James, and Evan.

“Hey,” you said.

“Hey,” Evan responded, “you need something?”

“Would you guys mind if I spoke to Remus real quick?”

James and Evan didn’t answer, but instead just stood up and began to leave. When James was next to you, he leaned in and whispered, “hope it’s not real quick,” before departing.

You blushed and turned to Remus, who was kind enough to act like he didn’t know why you were there.

“What’s up?” Remus asked, sitting on the edge of his bed.

“I know James told everyone about our conversation, you don’t have to play dumb, though I do appreciate it.”

“Not playin’ dumb, baby, just wanna hear you ask for what you came here for.”

You took a deep breath and sat down next to Remus, the mattress sinking beneath you. “As you know, I’m a virgin.”

Remus chuckled. “I know.”

“I’d kinda like to not be.”

Remus smiled. “So ask me.”

“What?”

“Ask me,” he repeated, “can’t give you what you want if you don’t explicitly ask for it.”

You sighed. “I want you to please take my virginity, Remus.”

“Atta girl,” Remus said, leaning over and placing a soft kiss on your lips.

You reciprocated instantly, shifting your body closer to his as you deepened the kiss. You were not entirely confident in what you were doing, but you listened to your body, which had never been needier.

Remus guided your body down against the mattress, and pulled away when you were laying down.

“You can move back,” he said, and you used your arms to push yourself backward, allowing your entire body to rest against the bed.

“I’m gonna take it easy on you, just tell me if anything is too much, okay?”

“Okay.”

Remus kissed you again, and simultaneously pulled your skirt and underwear off of your legs in one action.

“You want this off?” he said, tugging at the bottom of your top.

“Can we maybe just leave it on? Baby steps, right?”

Remus gave you a sweet smile. “Whatever you’re comfortable with, baby.”

“Are you allowed to call me that?”

Remus was slightly taken aback. “What, baby? Yeah, why not?”

“It sounds relationship-y.”

“Sex is relationship-y.”

“But I thought we weren’t supposed to be relationship-y.”

“You’re about to lose your virginity, and you’re worried about if it’s ethically alright for me to call you baby?”

You blushed.

“I can call you whatever I want, and right now, you’re my baby, okay?”

“Okay,” you responded.

“Unless you don’t like it.”

“No, no, I do.”

Remus laughed. “Okay then, baby.”

You smiled as you pulled his lips back to yours. You were already soaking wet, but Remus still took the time for foreplay to ensure you were wet enough for it to be comfortable.

He softly rubbed circles on your clit, and you instinctively threw your head back against the mattress, sighing in pleasure.

He only stayed for a few moments before moving his hand lower and inserting one, then two, fingers into you. You didn’t really need the foreplay, but he felt bad fucking you without it. He needed to make sure you were ready, especially if you didn’t know how to tell yourself.

He pumped his fingers in and out a few times before removing them completely and unbuttoning his trousers, pushing them down, and crawling back on top of you.

“Are you ready?” he checked in.

“Yes,” you said, deciding explicit verbal consent was important.

Remus pumped his cock a few times before lining it up with your entrance. He pushed the very tip of his head in, getting his bearings before he drifted his gaze to your face, desperate to watch your reaction to feeling him for the first time.

He pushed in slowly, pausing for brief moments anytime your face contorted a little more than usual, and he took his time. He was in no rush, and he was focused on your comfort, which you appreciated.

When he finally bottomed out inside of you, he stilled, waiting for you to adjust to his size.

“You alright?” he checked in when you hadn’t opened your eyes or made a noise for a solid 30 seconds.

“I’m alright,” you assured him, “you can move.”

“You sure?”

“Mhm.”

Remus slowly pulled partially out of you before pushing back in. He was moving excruciatingly slow, and was fighting with all his strength not to ruthlessly fuck you into oblivion.

He began to pull out a little more with each thrust, studying your face to gage your comfort levels. By the time he was pulling almost all the way out he could physically see your muscles relax.

“How ya doin’?”

“I’m okay,” you whined, “hurts a little, but it’s going away now.”

“You wanna stop?”

“No, please keep moving,” you moaned.

Remus growled lowly and began to fuck into you again, moving slightly faster, but it wasn’t enough for you.

The burning pain had dissipated, and now all you wanted was more.

“Remus, please, faster,” you whimpered, and Remus’s body instantly responded.

He began to move faster and faster, setting a steady, relatively fast pace as he fucked in and out of you.

You ran your fingers through the hair on the back of his head and pulled him into a kiss as he fucked you, allowing him to swallow your moans and whines.

“Shit, you feel so good,” Remus praised, “I forgot how tight virgins are.”

His words added to your arousal, and you began to squeeze Remus’s cock, adding to his pleasure.

“Fuck,” he moaned, “I won’t last if you do that.”

“Can’t help it,” you moaned out.

Remus began to fuck you even faster, and your back arched up off of the bed at the new intensity. Remus took the opportunity to wrap an arm around your waist and hold you closer to him.

You were squirmy and whiny. “Relax, baby,” Remus cooed, “just let it feel good.”

You took a deep breath and tried to relax, relishing in the feeling of Remus’s cock pumping in and out of you.

“Feel good?” he asked.

“Mhm,” you hummed in response, “can’t- gonna-“

“You wanna come?” Remus taunted, “you wanna come on my cock?”

You nodded your head frantically, grabbing at the arms propped up directly next to your head for any support you could find.

“Wanna feel you, baby,” Remus whispered in your ear, and his words did you in.

You squeezed Remus tight as you came. Your back would have arched more if Remus wasn’t holding it in place. Your thighs were shaking violently as you continued to squeeze around him.

He forced himself to slow down as you came down from your high. When your breathing had reset, he pulled out of you, giving his cock a few pumps with his hand before he released onto the sheets next to your waist.

You wiped sweat-soaked hair from your forehead. “You could have done that on me.”

Remus grinned, “I could have, huh?” He leaned in and kissed you before standing up to retrieve you a towel.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, thank you, Rem.”

Remus’s heart swelled at the small nickname. “Fuckin wait until I tell everyone about this.”

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taglist: @alixmarauders @riddlemenottsluttyslytherin @twilightlover2007 @hcqwxrtss123 @queerndepressed @prongs-wolfstar-marauders @flowersarcute

[yeyinde]

preacher's daughter (Ethel Cain inspired) and biker Ghost would go so hard. all that corruption, religious trauma/catholic guilt, and small town gothic misery, you know?

sheltered daughter meets violence personified. the devil and the sacrificial lamb. you meet him when you wander up to the motorcycle club on the outskirts of town with a pamphlet about salvation clutched in your trembling hands. he leans his big, intimidating frame against the door jamb, and with his arms crossed over his broad chest, says must be good on your knees, aren't you, birdie?

(you answer with an earnest yes, sir, i worship on my knees everyday and pretend the heat that flares in your belly when he groans is from the too-hot sun; the first of many sins.)

later that evening, your daddy tells you that he's an honest and good man, but sometimes he prays that God strikes that vile place right down. you bite your tongue and nod, but sneak out at night and meet him there where you slip into silk lingerie and dance on stage just for him. he tells every man there that if he catches them staring at you, he'll stab them in the eyes, and you think it's the most romantic thing you'd ever heard.

it's love letters carved into the sunbleached bones of a half-submerged deer left to rot in the stagnant bog just outside of the abandoned white chapel. something watches you from the dark stained glass windows as he runs his tattooed fingers over your skin, leaving smears of gunpowder and soot.

(someone set the old man's car on fire—the who leered at you while you stood in the choir, wearing your lily white dress and sang glory be while you tried to forget what those tattooed hands felt like when they slipped under your skirt and between your thighs.

the old man was still inside—)

they call him a ghost. a demon. you call him Simon and daydream during bible study that you'll run away together. hop on the back of his old Harley and forget this place ever existed.

a daydream that quickly turns into a nightmare when your sordid relationship comes to light, and your daddy threatens to have him locked away for good. there's a gun in the safe upstairs. you think about the time Simon dragged you into the woods to shoot at cans and lose your faith under the sweltering sun when you pull the trigger.

"for us," you tell him, breathing in the dank church air ripe with sin and the stench of blood. "i did it for us."

it's leaning on the back of his Harley with your fingers threaded around his thick waist as the town grows smaller and smaller in the distance. staring up at the endless blue sky and grinning wide because you finally got your monster of a man wrapped around your finger.

(and all it took was a little deal made with the thing that lives in the abandoned church.)

[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.

[iamgonnagetyouback]

voice ⋆˚࿔

synopsis ⭑.ᐟ remus lupin x reader who thinks she's too loud

warnings: insecurities, self-doubt, feeling unwanted, crying, overthinking, self-criticism

word count: 1,519 words

author's note: this one’s a little heavy, but i hope it’s comforting too

navigation┆remus lupin masterlist┆request here 𝜗𝜚

Your heart pounded in your chest, a slow-building pressure crawling up your throat, making it hard to breathe. The warmth of the common room suddenly felt suffocating, the air too thick, the crackling of the fire too loud. You curled in on yourself instinctively, shoulders stiffening as if trying to shrink, to make yourself smaller, to erase the space you had taken up.

Why did you always do this?

Why couldn’t you just talk normally?

Your voice had always been too much—too sharp, too fast, too eager. You had spent years trying to soften it, to reign it in, but old habits died hard. And now, just like always, you had gone on too long, laughed too loudly, and made yourself impossible to ignore.

Your parents had told you to use an 'inside voice' even when you weren’t yelling. Your friends growing up had teased you for it—Do you ever shut up? You’re so loud, it gives me a headache. Merlin, let someone else talk for once. Your ex had sighed when you got excited, rubbed his temples when you raised your voice, flinched when you laughed.

You could still hear him. You don’t need to be so loud all the time.

And yet, you’d done it again. You'd let your guard slip, let yourself be too much, let your annoying voice fill the room until there was nothing left for anyone else.

Stupid.

Your hands clenched in your lap, nails digging into your palms. Your mind spiraled, replaying every single word you’d just said, every exaggerated gesture, every second you had commanded attention. It wasn’t even that funny. You weren’t even that funny.

A lump lodged itself in your throat. You needed to say something—to cover it up, to deflect, to fix it.

You forced out a stiff laugh, the sound brittle and wrong. "Er—anyway, it wasn’t that funny," you muttered, waving a dismissive hand. Your voice felt unnatural, forcibly even, like you were trying to fold it in half and shove it into a smaller space.

They were still looking at you.

Sirius, brows furrowed. Lily, tilting her head. Marlene, frowning slightly. James, lips parted as if he wanted to say something but didn’t know how. Peter, shifting uncomfortably.

And Remus—

His gaze was the worst of all.

Soft, steady, thoughtful. Like he could see right through you. Like he could hear every cruel whisper in your head.

Your stomach twisted.

You scrambled for another excuse, something easy, something that would make them move on, because you couldn’t do this right now. "I just—sorry, I lost my train of thought," you blurted, rubbing the back of your neck. Your fingers felt ice-cold. "I—it wasn’t important anyway."

The silence stretched too long. The moment felt too raw, too exposed.

You wanted to disappear.

Remus shifted beside you, and before you could react, his hand was on yours. Warm, grounding, solid.

You blinked.

"You do that a lot," he murmured, voice gentle but firm. "Cut yourself off like that."

You swallowed hard, staring down at where his fingers curled over yours. "No, I don’t," you lied instinctively, pulse skittering in your ears.

Remus huffed, not unkindly. "Yeah, you do."

A warmth pressed against your other side—Lily, leaning into you, tucking her arm through yours. "Yeah," she echoed softly. "You do."

Your throat ached.

Sirius stretched his arms dramatically over the back of the couch, tipping his head toward you. "Thought it was funny," he said simply.

James scoffed. "Mate, you were laughing so hard you nearly choked on your own spit."

Sirius lifted a lazy hand. "Irrelevant."

You exhaled shakily. "It’s just—" You forced out a laugh, but it sounded wrong. "My voice is annoying, isn’t it?"

Silence.

Your stomach dropped. You knew it.

"Who told you that?" Remus asked again, but his voice had changed. Lower, tighter, the kind of quiet that crackled like a storm on the verge of breaking.

You had been ready for laughter. For teasing, for disbelief, for maybe even a joking, "Well, you do talk a lot!" because that’s what people did, wasn’t it? They softened it, wrapped it up in humor to make it easier to swallow.

But no one laughed. No one even smiled.

You swallowed, forcing a shrug. "Everyone."

That was the truth of it, wasn’t it? Not one single voice in your head telling you to be smaller, to be quieter, to be less. It had been a chorus, years and years of looks and sighs and words sharpened just enough to dig beneath your skin and stay there.

"My parents used to tell me to lower my voice," you said, voice unsteady. "My teachers said I should talk less. My exes said I was too loud, that my voice was too sharp. I—I tried to fix it, I really did, but sometimes I just—forget."

The words kept tumbling out, unstoppable now, as though something in you had cracked open.

"And I was talking for so long, and I wasn’t even looking at you all, and I didn’t even realize—"

"Wait, wait, wait," Marlene cut in, her frown deepening. "Back up. You think we don’t want to hear you talk?"

The immediate, instinctive response was to say of course not. Of course, you didn’t think that, not really. That would be ridiculous, wouldn’t it? But your stomach twisted, fingers curling into the fabric of your sweater, and the words wouldn’t come.

"That’s ridiculous," Lily said, firm. "We love when you talk. You always have the best stories."

"Literally," James agreed. "You make everything sound a thousand times funnier."

"And dramatic," Sirius added. "Like, actually. It’s a gift."

His warmth bled into you, but the lump in your throat didn’t go away. "I try not to be too much. But sometimes I forget. And then I get this feeling like everyone just wants me to shut up, and I feel stupid for even—"

"You’re not stupid."

Remus said it so firmly, so unshakably, that it startled you into looking at him.

He was watching you with that steady, unwavering gaze, his brows slightly drawn, his lips pressed into a thin line. His expression wasn’t angry, not exactly, but there was something fierce in his eyes, something that burned.

"Your voice isn’t annoying," he said. "Not to us. And definitely not to me."

Your breath caught.

"You shouldn’t have to shrink yourself just to make other people comfortable," he continued, softer now, but still certain. "You don’t have to filter yourself around us. Around me."

You wanted to believe him. You really, really did. But the doubt had been planted too deep, roots tangled around your ribs.

"But what if I am too much?"

Remus exhaled, slow and deliberate. Then, before you could pull away, he reached for your hand, lacing his fingers through yours with a gentleness that made your chest ache.

"Then I’ll remind you as many times as it takes that you’re not."

Your breath hitched.

You weren’t sure why, but that sentence—those simple words—sent a sharp, aching pain through your ribs, something fragile cracking open inside your chest.

You didn’t realize you were crying until Remus’ thumb brushed a tear from your cheek.

"Love," he murmured, and the word nearly undid you.

You sucked in a shaky breath, willing yourself to laugh it off, to move on, to pretend like nothing had happened. But it was too late. They had all seen.

And none of them were looking at you like you were too much.

Not Remus, whose thumb kept brushing soothingly over the back of your hand. Not Lily, who was resting her head on your shoulder. Not Marlene, who gave you a small, teasing smile. Not James, who was nudging your knee with his own. Not Sirius, who made an exaggerated show of pretending to wipe his own ‘tears.’

"She’s gone all soft on us, Moony," Sirius muttered, nudging Remus with his elbow. "Might want to remind her how loud she was being earlier."

Remus shot him a look but turned back to you. "I like the way you talk," he said, voice quieter, lower, meant for only you to hear. "The way you get excited. The way you ramble. The way your voice fills the room."

Your lower lip wobbled. "I just—I don’t want to be annoying."

Remus frowned. "You’re not annoying." He shifted, leaning in closer, so close that you could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes. "You are the best part of every conversation I’m lucky enough to be in."

Your breath left you all at once, like he had knocked the wind out of you.

You didn’t know what to say.

But you didn’t have to.

Because Remus just squeezed your hand, solid and steady and warm.

Surrounded. Safe.

You swallowed past the lump in your throat. Your voice was quiet when you spoke. "I was at the part where my partner set fire to their notes, right?"

James immediately sat up straighter. "Yes! Keep going."

"Yeah," Sirius grinned. "You can’t leave out the best part."

And so you did.

And this time, you let yourself enjoy it.

© iamgonnagetyouback ⋆.˚ please do not copy, translate, or repost any of my work.

[iris-qt]

𝚒𝚗𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐

🗝️ ᴛʜᴇᴏᴅᴏʀᴇ ɴᴏᴛᴛ x ʜᴜꜰꜰʟᴇᴘᴜꜰꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

🗝️ ʙɢ ᴍᴜꜱɪᴄ: ᴄʟɪᴄᴋ!

🗝️ ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ

🗝️ ᴀ/ɴ: ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇꜱᴜʟᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴍʏ ᴘᴏʟʟ ʜᴇʀᴇ ɪᴛ ɪꜱ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴘᴏᴘᴜʟᴀʀ ᴅᴇᴍᴀɴᴅ. ᴀʟꜱᴏ ʙᴀꜱᴇᴅ ᴏɴ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴘʀᴏᴍᴘᴛ ɪ ᴀʟᴛᴇʀᴇᴅ. ɪ ᴅɪᴅɴ’ᴛ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴏ ᴀ ᴛʏᴘɪᴄᴀʟ ꜱᴏᴜʟᴍᴀᴛᴇ ᴀᴜ ꜱᴏ ɪ ᴛᴡɪꜱᴛᴇᴅ ɪᴛ ᴛᴏ ꜰɪᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ɪɴᴠɪꜱɪʙʟᴇ ꜱᴛʀɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇᴏʀʏ ꜰᴏʀ ᴀ ᴡᴇɪʀᴅʟʏ ᴘʜɪʟᴏꜱᴏᴘʜɪᴄᴀʟ ᴛᴀᴋᴇ

🗝️ ꜱʏɴᴏᴘꜱɪꜱ: ᴛʜᴇᴏᴅᴏʀᴇ ɴᴏᴛᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴇᴇᴍ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴄᴏɴɴᴇᴄᴛᴇᴅ ʙʏ ꜱᴏᴍᴇ ᴜɴɪ��ᴇʀꜱᴀʟ ᴜɴᴋɴᴏᴡɴ ꜰᴏʀᴄᴇ. ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴀᴘᴘᴇɴ ᴛᴏ ʀᴜɴ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏꜱᴛ ᴄᴏɴᴠᴇɴɪᴇɴᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ᴠᴜʟɴᴇʀᴀʙʟᴇ ᴍᴏᴍᴇɴᴛꜱ…

Did you believe in fate? 

No.

That may be silly, I mean, you live in a magical universe where anything is possible. Magic defies the muggle laws of nature; it’s something undetectable yet very much alive. Anything could happen. Anything you can imagine. Anything you can imagine besides being in a relationship with Theodore Nott.

Yet for some wild, unbeknownst reason, the universe seems adept in proving you wrong. 

No, you didn’t believe in fate. Until you became acquainted with him.

It started off slow and undetectable. Yes, you were aware of Theodore Nott, but you tried to stay unaware of your feelings towards him. It all started in the dingy little Potions classroom, when you were seated next to him. At first you were a bit uncomfortable as he was a popular guy and popular boys weirded you out. Always so judgmental. But Theo was quiet and calm. Always so sure of every action; every dice of the ingredients, every stir of the brew. You were a pretty sociable person and so, once you decided Nott was not so off-putting after all, you began to share a few words with each other. You treasured those little conversations in the shrouded back row of the Potions room. 

“How was the DADA test for you, Nott?”

“Hey, Nott, Is it just me, or does Snape’s hair look extra greasy today?”

“HELP THEODORE MY POTIONS ON FIRE!”

That last one was not a very fond memory, but one you could not escape. Truly, you two being the only Slytherin and Hufflepuff sat next to each other, as there was an odd amount of students from both houses in that class, was the real beginning of the universe’s meddling behavior.

With all this in mind, it was painfully obvious Theo was not interested; he never quite talked to you unless you said something first. That is why you would never delude yourself with the thought of being in a relationship with him, He was an unattainable, rare flower, such as the tiburon mariposa lily that only grows in the Ring Mountain region of California. That flower is quite vulnerable to extinction due to natural and man-made disasters. That part didn’t really apply to Nott. He wasn’t the vulnerable type…

Theo, however, fell hard and fast from the moment he first spoke with you. How could someone so passionate and awkward not catch his eye?

“It was honestly a rough test. Actually, I need a tutor for DADA..”  

But you didn’t take the hint.

“Perhaps if I gave Professor Snape my hair care routine…?”

But that didn’t earn him any hair-related compliments.

“AGUAMENTI! HOLY SHIT you’re really on fire today, huh y/l/n?”

That earned him an elbow in the rib.

The series of events that the fed up universe concocted began in none other than a little grass meadow.

As usual, you had woken up at the most ungodly hour of 5 am for the sole purpose of taking your morning stroll to a hidden meadow within the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest, just behind a thicket. You were walking with your sketchpad and graphite in hand, ready to capture those jewels of the earth in the faint morning light. In your opinion, the crack of dawn is when the wildflowers shine the brightest. You sat in the grass, leaning against an old oak, beginning to sketch a particularly beautiful periwinkle flower. You were sure no one else knew about this meadow; it seemed untouched by anyone’s harsh footsteps.

Imagine your surprise when you heard the plants rustle to unveil a sleepy Theodore Nott: brown locks askew and dark circles tinged red against his pale skin, a cigarette dangling from his sleep-swollen pink lips. His light eyes slightly widen at the sight of his talkative ex Potions partner.

The silence was awkward and extended; you weren’t used to engaging in conversation in your quiet haven, but of course it was you who broke the silence anyway.

“Good morning, Nott,” you say quite hoarsely, slightly clearing your throat in embarrassment. Those were the first words you’d uttered that day.

His lip twitches, ghosting a smirk at the sound of your voice.

“Morning, y/l/n. You come here often?”

You nod saying, “It’s my morning ritual at this point.”

You nod in reply, eyes ghosting over his tired appearance as he continues, “Funny. I come here every night.”

He lets out a puff of smoke into the pure air of your precious haven, and you can’t help but subconsciously glare at the wisp of smoke. Of course, he notices and lets out a small chuckle.

“Don’t like my smoking?”

“It ruins the fresh air for the flowers and plants, Nott.”

He nods thoughtfully, finishing his cigarette.

“Don’t tell me you litter your cigarette butts all over the grass,” you frown.

“Of course not, I’m not a brute,” he laughs and fishes out a portable ash tray where he neatly tucks his cigarette remains away. After another awkward silence, he walks up to you and sits down next to you, peering at your sketch but quickly shifting his gaze away when he realizes you never gave him permission to gaze upon your works of art. You laugh as you assure him, “You can look, it’s just quick sketches.”

“Looks frame-worthy to me,” he shrugs with absolutely no hint of sarcasm or doubt in his eyes. It makes you feel flustered to the point you had to look the other way.

You decide to move the conversation over to him.

“What do you do here every night? Smoke?”

He shakes his head, saying, “As much as I like to smoke at night, I don’t here.” He pulls out a book. “I read under wand-light.”

You glance over and your eyes widen as you notice its a story you had just recently finished reading.

“The Turn of the Screw? A literary masterpiece, I just finished reading it, like, a week ago.”

He smiles, eyes warm and inviting, “I was just about to say your drawings remind me of Audrey Benjaminsen’s limited edition illustrations for this book. I’ve been trying to get my hands on a copy.”

Your eyes widen even more.

“The limited edition would be a gazillion galleons, but I suppose you’re filthy rich,” you tease.

“I mean, what better thing to spend my money on?” He smirks, pushing back a stray lock of his hair that had escaped.

“Solving world hunger, ending wars, funding cancer cure research…” you smirk.

“Ok, I’m not that rich.”

You both laughed at that and talked all morning up through the first 15 minutes of your guys’ first lessons. Laughing, you both jog to your class, the dandelions in the field spreading its tufts as you both run past. Little did you both know, it was the mutual fascination with a trail of dandelion tufts in the breeze, one in the sunlight and one in the moonlight, that brought you both to discover the meadow years ago.

While this universal push succeeded in temporarily bringing you and Theo closer, the two of you fell apart as you stopped showing up to the meadow as often due to school stress and you no longer were seated with Theo in any classes. The autumn leaves floated down and shriveled up; leaving the trees bare. The cold winds carried snow through the Hogwarts air, swirling around the iced windows. 

It was time for the winter trip to Hogsmeade and you were bundled up and ready to go with 3 jackets, long socks, leg warmers, and snow boots as you braved the cold. Your scarf tucked against your face, you walked down the snowy pathway, laughing and talking with your friends as you strode through the ice.

Theo was also walking down the pathway with his friends; zoned out of their conversation while quietly observing the falling snow. 

Fate had it that you both got distracted by a reflective light in the distance at different times, and so you both left your friends group for a second to observe this flash of light.  

You were the first to separate, and when you looked back, your friends were long gone; enveloped into the icy mist.

You shrugged and began trudging through the snow, wondering where they could’ve gone off to. Suddenly, you stumbled across a little book shop that you’d been wanting to visit, but never got time to. You slowly walked up the creaking steps and into the warm embrace of the cozy shop. It was lit by yellow candlelight, dancing over the spines of rustic books. A Christmas tree in the corner shone brightly. You began getting lost in the page-riddled haze…

Theo, likewise, separated from his group a moment after you left. He bent down to find the source of the reflective light and found nothing. He raised an eyebrow annoyedly and glanced back to find himself abandoned in the snow; not a student to be seen in this blizzard. He decided to just walk in a straight line and suddenly saw a warm glow in the muggy snow. He approached a bookshop he had never noticed before. How could he overlook such a gem? Walking in, he was met with the faint smell of cinnamon and a warm atmosphere.

After a couple minutes, you laid your eyes on a particularly gorgeous spine with engraved flowers. Of course, you’d judge a book by its cover if its cover was an absolute masterpiece. You reached out to pluck it off the shelf when you felt a force pulling it back from the other side. You furrowed your brows as this turned into a game of tug of war. 

Theo had seen that this particular book had artwork painted onto its pages. He was intrigued as to what this book could be about when suddenly he was hindered from grabbing it. Refusing to let up this competition, he pulled the book to his side, but, ultimately, failed. You and Theo’s eyes met through the hole where the book had originally been, his shining eyes crinkling as he grinned at the familiar irises of y/n. 

“Brains and brawn? Could you get any better?” He joked walking to your side of the shelf and smiling.

You laughed as you handed him the book.

“Feel free to take it, Nott”

“Don’t worry, I was just admiring the painted scene on the pages.”

 You both glance at the gorgeous book for a bit when Theo breaks the silence.

“You haven’t been to the flower clearing recently.”

“Yeah, school has me fucked up… I study too late and can’t wake up that early.”

He nods thoughtfully, glancing around at the shop.

“I think this is my new favorite place.”

“I agree..” Your eyes widen as you glance at the shelf behind him. “No way. Theodore look.” You excitedly point at a limited edition copy of The Turn of the Screw with illustrations done by Audrey Benjaminsen.

Theo looks stricken as he freezes at the sight of the copy he’d been chasing for months now. It was right there, before his eyes, tucked between other worn books. He would never have caught it in this dim light.

“Am I dreaming, y/n?” He breathes out, jaw dramatically dropped at the sight.

You playfully pinch him, laughing, “I don’t think so, Nott. Call it an early Christmas miracle.”

It was as if you and Theo shared the same safe spaces. First the meadow, now this book shop. He couldn’t help but ponder how there was always something leading him to you. Something that connected the both of you. First it was the flower field, and now this book. It was if every good thing in his life was somehow connected to you…

Theo gently holds the book and observes it in the light, but he found his new revelation of you far more fascinating. He always knew he adored you, and it just so happened that fate agreed. They were constantly being pushed together; given every oppurtunity to confess their feelings. Their fear overshadowed them. Maybe it was time to stop being so fearful. 

Theo noticed you gazing at the book in awe, and smiled gently.

“Would you like to look over it with me over some butterbeer?”

Your eyes snap up at him, surprised at his question. This was the first time Theo had shown any interest in going out of his way to spend time with you. Despite the lingering cold, you blushed down to the roots of your hair.  

“I’d love to..”

He grinned, shadows dancing on his carved face. The invisible string was brighter now, wrapping around their very beings, no longer neglected.

“It’s a date.”

[dinarosie]

Re-Reading Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire: Snape’s Moment of Unyielding Bravery

The scene I want to highlight in The Goblet of Fire is one that carries so much weight, and each time I re-read it, the gravity of the moment only increases. Imagine the setting: the hospital wing. It’s packed with people—Cornelius Fudge, Madam Pomfrey, Professor McGonagall, Bill and Molly Weasley, Hermione, Ron, and Harry. All eyes are on Snape as he steps forward, pulls up his sleeve, and reveals the Dark Mark burned into his skin.

“There,” said Snape harshly. “There. The Dark Mark. It is not as clear as it was an hour or so ago, when it burned black, but you can still see it. Every Death Eater had the sign burned into him by the Dark Lord. It was a means of distinguishing one another, and his means of summoning us to him. When he touched the Mark of any Death Eater, we were to Disapparate, and Apparate, instantly, at his side. This Mark has been growing clearer all year. Karkaroff’s too.

Let that sink in. Snape isn’t just showing a Mark; he’s exposing the deepest, darkest secret of his life. He’s standing in front of his students, his colleagues, and—let’s not forget—Cornelius Fudge, the Minister for Magic, and he’s admitting something most people would bury forever.

What makes this even more remarkable is that the choice to do this wasn’t something Dumbledore told him to make. This isn’t part of some grand plan discussed beforehand. Snape makes this decision on his own, in the moment, fully aware of how it will tarnish him in the eyes of others. Why?

Because Snape understands the stakes. Fudge’s denial of Voldemort’s return endangers the entire wizarding world. By exposing the Dark Mark on his arm, Snape hopes to convince Fudge to take Voldemort’s return seriously. His goal is clear: to push the Ministry into taking precautionary measures and preparing the wizarding community for the battle ahead.

And then there’s this haunting line:

“…We both knew he had returned. Karkaroff fears the Dark Lord’s vengeance. He betrayed too many of his fellow Death Eaters to be sure of a welcome back into the fold.”

What Snape doesn’t say, but what we understand, is that he knows he’s facing the exact same fate. When Snape goes back to Voldemort, he knows he’ll be met with pain, torture, and humiliation and even death. Where Karkaroff sees only a way out, Snape sees his duty—a stark contrast that underscores Snape’s resolve.

Here’s what makes this even more powerful: Snape is so determined to convince Fudge that he uses the suffering he knows awaits him as evidence. He stands there, knowing that returning to Voldemort will mean enduring unbearable torture, and he uses that as proof of Voldemort’s return. Snape essentially says, “I know what’s coming for me, and I’m still standing here to tell you the truth.”

Then we reach the next turning point in this scene:

“Severus,” said Dumbledore, turning to Snape, “you know what I must ask you to do. If you are ready . . . if you are prepared . . .”

Look at Dumbledore’s approach here. He’s cautious, almost hesitant. This is a sharp contrast to Half-Blood Prince, where Dumbledore gives Snape direct orders about killing him. Here, Dumbledore knows exactly what he’s asking of Snape: to return to Voldemort, to put himself in unimaginable danger.

And Snape’s response?

“I am.”

That’s it. Two words. No hesitation, no complaint. J.K. Rowling describes him as pale, his cold, dark eyes glittering strangely. Dumbledore, too, is described as watching Snape leave with a trace of apprehension on his face. Both of them know that Snape might not come back. Both of them know he’s walking into the lion’s den. And yet, Snape doesn’t waver.

This moment is a masterclass in bravery, but it also completely dismantles the argument that Snape’s good deeds are purely motivated by guilt over Lily or his promise to Dumbledore.

This scene also shows us that the promise Snape made to Dumbledore after Lily’s death wasn’t just about protecting Harry. It was about choosing a side. Snape made the decision to fight against Voldemort, no matter the cost. From that moment on, he dedicated himself to sabotaging the Dark Lord’s plans, enduring unspeakable pain and danger in the process.

And let’s not overlook this: Snape doesn’t just fight when Harry is in danger. He fights Voldemort at every opportunity because he knows it’s the right thing to do. He does it not because of guilt or obligation, but because his own moral compass demands it.

This scene in The Goblet of Fire encapsulates everything that makes Snape such a complex, fascinating character. It’s raw, vulnerable, and incredibly brave. Snape isn’t perfect—far from it—but this moment proves that he is so much more than the sum of his flaws. He’s a man who chooses to stand and fight, even when it means sacrificing everything.

[milunalupin]

— partridge in a pear tree

harry potter x reader ★ 1.3k words

twelve days of nico-mas masterlist

The snow fell softly outside the cozy windows of Godric’s Hollow, blanketing the world in white. Harry stared at the fire crackling in the hearth, his mind drifting back to the moment he had worked up the courage to invite you over for the holidays. He could hardly believe you had said yes.

Harry cleared his throat as he walked up to where you were lounging on one of the sofas in the common room, marking something in the margins of a heavy tome with a quill. Your focus was so intense that you didn’t even notice him for a few seconds.

"Oh, hey, Harry! I was just going through the notes from the last class for our project. Have you found anything useful yet?”

Harry shook his head, suddenly feeling that familiar rush of nerves. Why was this so difficult? He had faced terrifying creatures, dangerous wizards, and even Potions with Snape, but asking you to come over for the holidays? That felt like an entirely different challenge.

“Actually,” he started, rubbing the back of his neck, “I was thinking... since the holidays are coming up... and we’re probably going to need some time to make real progress on this project…” His words tumbled out in a rushed heap, quickly getting distracted by the way the you cutely tilted your head with curiosity.

“I mean, if you’re not doing anything... you could, um, come over to my place. You know, just to work on the project. But also...” He swallowed. “It might be nice to take a break from the usual—just, I don’t know, have a quiet evening. Together.”

You blinked, clearly processing his words, and for a moment, Harry worried you might laugh at him or worse—turn him down flat.

But then you smiled. A smile that reached your eyes, making them shine, and Harry felt a strange warmth in his chest.

“Harry, you okay?” his mother, Lily, called from the kitchen, where she was preparing a feast fit for a family of wizards. James, with his trademark grin, was setting the table, glancing at Harry with a knowing look.

“Yeah, just… thinking about the project,” he replied, shifting in his seat and not so subtly wiping his clammy palms on his jeans. Truth was, he was thinking about you. His Herbology partner, who never failed to make him blush and whose eyes lit up when you talked about a new muggle invention you've learned about, or your favorite constellations—it sent pixies racing through his stomach.

Lily exchanged a quick glance with James, both trying to suppress their amusement. They had watched Harry grow up, but they had never seen him quite so nervous around anyone. Soon, the doorbell rang, and Harry’s heart raced. He shot up from his seat, smoothing down his sweater as if that would somehow make him less awkward. “I’ll get it!”

As he opened the door, the cold air rushed in, and there you stood, bundled in a puffy coat with a bright smile on your face. “Hi, Harry!” you greeted, cheeks flushed from the chill despite the thick burgundy scarf wrapped around your head.

“Hey! Come in!” He stepped aside, trying to appear casual, but his heart pounded.

You walked in, and the warmth of the house enveloped you. Harry took your coat and scarf, and you sighed as you took in the smell of fireplace and winter spices.

James greeted you cheerfully while Lily apologized for not being able to step away from the stove, but Harry felt his father's eyes on him, silently teasing. He pretended to ignore him, leading you to the living room, where a small table was set up with various herbology texts sprawled open.

“So, what do you think we should focus on for our project?” you asked, pulling up a chair.

“Um, I was thinking… maybe we could look at the properties of… um, Mandrakes?” He stumbled over his words, his cheeks flushing. Why was it so hard to talk to you?

You smiled encouragingly. “That sounds great! I read something about their healing properties. It could be interesting to explore.”

As the two of you dove into the project, the initial awkwardness began to fade. Harry felt more at ease, especially when he caught you glancing at him with an approving look. It made his heart race again, but this time in a pleasant way.

Lily peeked into the room, her heart warmed by the sight. “Dinner’s almost ready!” she announced, glancing pointedly at Harry with a smirk.

“Thanks, Mum!” he replied quickly, not meeting your gaze.

As the evening progressed, the conversation flowed easily. You both discussed herbology, sharing laughs over some of the more bizarre plants in Professor Sprout’s class. Harry even began to relax, letting his playful side show.

“Dinner’s ready!” Lily called out, her voice warm and inviting.

The soft clink of plates and silverware filled the air as Harry and you settled down at the long wooden dining table. Lily had outdone herself with a spread of hearty dishes—roast potatoes, Yorkshire puddings, and a steaming roast chicken that filled the room with its mouthwatering aroma. James grinned from ear to ear, clearly pleased with how everything had turned out.

Harry gestured for you to sit first, his hands slightly clammy as he pulled out the chair for you. You flashed him a grateful smile, settling into the seat across from him. As he sat down, his gaze briefly flickered to his parents, who were exchanging amused glances from either end of the table.

“Everything smells amazing, Mrs. Potter,” you said, a touch of awe in your voice.

Lily waved her hand dismissively. “Call me Lily, dear. It’s no trouble at all. We’re just glad you could join us.”

James piped up, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Yeah, Harry doesn’t invite just anyone over. We’re honored, really.”

After dinner, Lily suggested a game of Wizard’s Chess. James immediately jumped in, clearly excited to show off his skills. Harry invited you to join, and to his delight, you accepted.

You took a seat next to him, and as you played, Harry couldn’t help but steal glances at you. You were focused, tongue peeking out of the corner of your mouth as you concentrated on the board. He felt a surge of admiration and… is this what falling in love is like? He'd have to ask his father later.

“Checkmate!” you exclaimed triumphantly, and Harry couldn’t help but laugh. “I think you let me win."

“Not a chance! I just underestimated your strategy,” he countered, a playful spark in his eyes.

As the evening wound down, you both moved to the couch, cups of hot cocoa in hand and a tray of freshly baked pear tartlets—your favorite. The fire crackled, casting a warm glow around the room. The conversation turned softer, the laughter lingering in the air like a spell.

“I’m really glad I came,” you said, your gaze meeting his, and for a moment, the world outside faded away.

“Me too,” Harry replied, his voice barely above a whisper. He felt a rush of courage. “I’ve always enjoyed working with you. You make it fun.”

You smiled, a blush creeping to your cheeks. “I feel the same way. I like spending time with you, Harry.”

His heart raced again, this time not from awkwardness, but from the warmth blooming in his chest. “Maybe we can hang out some other time, too? After the holidays?”

“I’d love that,” you said, your eyes sparkling.

Just then, James peeked in, unable to hold back his amusement any longer. “Hey, lovebirds! How’s the project going?”

Harry’s face turned crimson, and he shot a glare at his father. You both burst into laughter, the tension breaking as James continued to tease. But as you sat there, Harry realized that he didn’t mind the teasing. Being next to you felt right, and he couldn’t wait to see where this budding connection might lead. The magic of the holidays was just beginning, and he hoped it would lead to something special.

— taglist ♥︎

@willowlovestheweasleys

[ch3rrybite]

harry didn’t grow up with stories of james potter, the indian boy who ran through hogwarts, loud and proud and full of life. he didn’t know that his father’s voice would fill the great hall with laughter, or that james would argue passionately in defense of his culture, unafraid to bring the fire of his heritage into every room he walked into.

but as harry gets older, he starts piecing things together, collecting fragments of a man who left echoes behind him. he learns from professors that james would use his wand to create vibrant garlands during festivals, brightening the gryffindor common room with colors his classmates had never seen. he’d coax sirius into trying spicy food they’d never even heard of, laughing as they both coughed and spluttered but insisted on more. and when they celebrated deepavali, james would tell them, grinning with pride, about how it wasn’t just a festival of lights, but a reminder of resilience, of the light within that never dims. he'd shown that same resilience during the war.

harry hears whispers from people who knew his father—the way james insisted on using tamil compliments because they “sounded much better,” the way he would answer teachers in tamil just to remind everyone where he came from. the way he’d refer to remus as “nanbaa” (friend), that special affection saved for the people who shared your burdens. how he called lily his “thangam” (gold) because of the colour her hair shone in the sunlight.

and slowly, harry begins to reclaim pieces of his father. he learns how to wrap a veshti, stubbornly practicing until he gets it right, because he knows it’s something james would’ve worn proudly. he finds comfort in the smell of his dad’s favorite spices, brings them with him to work as his own quiet rebellion, and teaches ron and hermione how to roll up chapatis late at night in grimmauld place.

[melzula]

Heyaa, when the requests are open can you maybe do a princess x Zuko where the princess is always clinging to Zuko when she's cold? Just a random thought that came into my mind since Zuko is a firebender hehe :)

pairing: zuko x princess!reader

a/n: this is technically part of the fire lilies series but can also be read as a solo piece independently

summary: princess and zuko go penguin sledding

~ part of the fire lilies series ~

The rush of cold wind against your cheeks is exhilarating as you glide down the snow covered hills. Your delighted laughter carries through the air and brings a smile to Zuko’s face as you enjoy a day penguin sledding out in the palace courtyards.

Being kidnapped by Gilak and having your life threatened once again had been a traumatic experience for both you and your boyfriend, so Hakoda and your mother had advised you take a much needed day off for yourself. He could handle the work of drafting plans for an eco friendly oil rig and the foreign embassies while Pakku and Katara took on the school for the time being. Though you were hesitant to take a day off knowing there was so much to be done, Zuko had been the one to finally convince you that you desperately needed a break.

Today would be his last day in the South before he had to return home, and so you figured the best way to spend your time together would be with a trip through memory lane. You hadn’t been penguin sledding together since you were kids, so it seemed like a good idea to both of you to revisit your favorite pastime from when you were children.

You slow to a stop as you reach the end of the hill and land onto the plush snow below you with a laugh. The chill of the ice sends shivers down your spine but you choose to ignore it. All the back and forth traveling you’ve been doing hasn’t allowed your body the chance to acclimate to the weather of your home yet, but you try not to let it bother you.

“Having fun?” Zuko asks with a laugh as he helps you up off the snow. You immediately cling to his figure in an attempt to steal some of his heat, prompting the Fire Lord to raise a brow as he wraps his arms around your frame. “You’re not getting cold, are you?”

“Of course not,” you scoff indignantly, though your subtle trembling says otherwise.

“Maybe we should head inside-“

“No!” You immediately cry out in protest before he can finish his sentence. “We’ve hardly just begun the day. Don’t you want to keep penguin sledding?”

“Of course I do,” he assures you with a comforting kunik, “but I worry the cold might be too much for you.

“Too much?! I’m Chief of the Southern Water Tribe, I don’t get cold.”

“Alright,” Zuko relents with a chuckle at your adamant rebuttal. For a water bender you’re surprisingly stubborn, but he loves your headstrong nature more than anything. “Let’s keep sledding.”

Your face lights up with glee when he finally relents and allows you to carefully pick up your penguin and carry him back up the hill while showering the creature with praises and pets. He’d forgotten just how much you enjoyed the activity, and it was nice to see that same smile from your childhood again. It had been years since you both went sledding, since you both were just two kids unaware of what the future held in store for you, since you both were free of fear and responsibility and hurt. The war had taken a lot from you, forced you both to grow up too fast, so he was grateful for the fact that you both could just be kids again, even if only for a day.

“Y/n,” Zuko calls as the sun begins to set and the day begins to end, “I think it’s time we head inside for dinner. Your mother said she was making five-flavor soup for us.”

“Just one more time down the hill?” You plead with your best pout, though you know it doesn’t take much to convince Zuko to give in to your requests.

“Alright, but that’s it,” he tells you with a chuckle before following you up the hill. The courtyard lanterns begin to glow beautifully below as the moon starts to overtake the sky, and you exchange playful smiles with one another before beginning your decent down the snow.

Zuko’s hair blows wildly away from his face, his grin the biggest you’ve ever seen it, and you’re so caught up in admiring him that you don’t even notice the large pile of snow you’re about to crash into.

“Princess, look out!” Zuko tries to warn you, but it’s too late. You can do nothing but pull the penguin to your chest and shield it from the impact as you collide into the snowy mound. The Fire Lord winces on your behalf before quickly rushing to your aid. The otter penguin emerges after a moment and shakes the snow off its body before waddling away, but you fail to do the same. Zuko has to dig through the slush to pull you out, and as he lifts you up and into his arms he’s able to feel just how cold to the touch you are.

“Th-Thhere’s s-snow e-every-wh-where,” you complain through chattering teeth as you wrap your arms as tightly around his neck as possible in a desperate attempt to feel his warmth.

“Let’s get you inside before you freeze to death,” he comforts while carrying your trembling figure back inside the palace. If not for Zuko’s body heat, you’d surely already be feeling the effects of hypothermia taking place.

Thankfully, your boyfriend is able to swiftly make it back inside the palace and carry you through the halls towards your room. The heat of Zuko’s embrace melts the ice inside your clothes, but the dampness only seems to worsen the feeling of cold. You shiver incessantly, and he can only look on guiltily as he tries his best to ease your discomfort.

Finally, he swings the door to your bedroom open and carefully sets you back on your feet before helping you remove your heavy coat. He sets the wet material aside to dry before coming up to your trembling figure and rubbing his hands up and down your arms in an attempt to spread heat across your limbs.

“I’ll go find your mother and tell her what happened. You stay here and get out of those clothes before you catch a cold,” he advises you with a meek smile, a red blush tinting his cheeks when he realizes he probably should have phrased his sentence more delicately. Zuko presses a tender kiss to your forehead before leaving to give you your privacy and shutting the door behind him.

Your skin feels like ice as you peel off the rest of your ensemble as quickly as you can. You were so used to beach days at Ember Island and swims in the lakes with your friends that you’d forgotten just how cold the water could be. Considering you grew up in the South, you’re a tad embarrassed to know how easily it gets to you now. You’d been away for so long, and even when you returned home you still found yourself venturing out often, so a part of you wondered if maybe you’d never fully readjust to the climate.

“Y/n?” A voice calls from the other side of the door followed by a gentle knock. “Zuko sent me to check on you. I have the warmest blanket I could find. May I come in?”

“Just a second, Mom,” you reply as you scramble to throw on a fresh set out of clothes and make yourself decent for visitors. After slipping into the warmest dress you can find, you open the door and allow her into your room.

“Someone got a little carried away penguin sledding, I hear,” she says with a teasing smile before draping the blanket around your shoulders. “You’re like ice! Thank spirits Zuko has that natural fire bending warmth to him or you might have frozen out there!”

“Yeah,” you murmur in agreement with a dejected frown, one that your mother notices right away.

“My little koala otter, what’s the matter?”

“I’m just a little embarrassed, I guess,” you admit with a sheepish laugh. “I thought I’d gotten over my aversion to the cold.”

“I think anyone who managed to get snow in their clothes would be cold,” she notes with a faint smile before pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I’m just happy to see you having fun again. You had to grow up very fast, something your father and I should have worked harder to prevent, so it’s nice to hear your laugh again and see you sledding like you did as a little girl.”

You smile at her words before pulling her into a tight hug, hoping the action conveys all your appreciation for her. Zuko walks in then with a tray of steaming five-flavor soup and tea in the hopes it will return some of your warmth to you.

“I’ll let you both enjoy your dinner alone,” she says after removing herself from your embrace. Exiting the room, she pauses to give Zuko’s arm a light squeeze. “Make sure she stays warm.”

“Yes, Kira,” he replies with a nod before returning his attention to you. “Let’s get you settled in.”

Setting the tray aside, Zuko escorts you back to bed and tucks the blanket around your figure as best as he can with you sitting up. Once you’re comfortable, he presses a tender kiss to your forehead before handing you the cup of tea. It’s the same cup from the set Iroh had gifted you some time ago, and the sight of it brings a faint smile to your face as you take in the smell of jasmine.

“You’re already starting to feel warmer,” Zuko notes pleasantly before trading your cup for the bowl of soup. “I should have warned you about that pile of snow sooner.”

“It’s okay, I don’t regret a thing. I had so much fun today, the most I’ve had in a while. I wish you didn’t have to leave tomorrow.”

“Don’t worry,” Zuko assures you as he uses his bending to reheat your tea before it can grow cold, “the day will come where we’ll never have to be apart ever again.”

“I can’t wait,” you confess with a smile only for it to fall at the sudden sneeze that leaves you.

“I think you might be catching a cold, my love,” Zuko notes with a frown.

“Will you stay and keep me warm?” You ask with a pleading look, one that makes it impossible for him to deny your request. How could he say no to your sweet face?

Climbing into bed with you, Zuko envelops himself around your figure and allows you to steal his warmth. He’ll never get tired of being your personal heater, and he’d be happy to spend the rest of his days like this.

You’ll never reacclimatize to the cold, because no matter where you go, Zuko will always be there to bring warmth to your life.

| zuko tags: @ilovespideyyy @yiyibetch @eridanuswave @lammello @a-monsters-love @taeeemin @livelaughlovekuni @lovialy @alexatiu @aerikim246 @heartfully10 @creationcitystreet-em

| fire lilies tags: @emberislandplayers @kikaninchen-2 @music-geek19 @thia-aep @thyunnamed @haylaansmi @nataliahaslosthershit @idkdude776 @aangsupremacy @thirstyforsometea @ihaveaproblem98 @brown-eyed-thang @xapham @chewymoustachio @that-bucket-hat-gal @chilifrylizard2 @kyomihann @kaylove12 @kiwihoee @freggietale @moon-spirit-yue @bubblegum-bee-otch @rinalsword @cipheress-to-k-pop @potato87123

[forlorn-crows]

Hi, so I had a thought bumping around my head about rain or dew, I'm not picky and I can see either of them doing this, sending mountain a picture of them mid orgasm because why wouldn't they torture him like that? What mountain does about that is up to you

😘

you know that gifset going around of dew's little chest heaving when he breathes really hard on stage? yeah, i think he would use that to his advantage >:)

Steam follows his feet from the bathroom, trailing across the old tile and wisping across the hall. Mountain sighs as he returns to his room. He steps directly into a warm patch of setting sun, and he stretches like a lazy, contented cat. His bed sings its siren call to him, drawing his loose, tired body into its freshly-washed blanketed clutches. 

The earth ghoul lets out an oof as he hits the mattress, groaning with delight at its comfort. Somehow, it feels the most comfortable after a long day of manual labor. He’s starfished out, eyes closed, for no more than thirty seconds before his phone buzzes on his bedside table. 

Mountain grumbles. Blindly reaches for his phone and brings it to his face. Two notifications from Dew fill the screen.

fire lily: video file [118MB]

fire lily: drop something big guy? 😏

Mountain squints at the screen. Huh? He unlocks the phone and taps on the Messages icon, pulling up Dew’s contact. Brain power at close to zero for the day, he clicks Play on the video without really looking at it. 

The video opens on Dew’s face, flushed and screwed up in pleasure. Sweat beaded on his forehead. The corner of Mountain’s shirt, the one he chopped wood and raked leaves in all day, is tucked between Dew’s teeth, and the wet schlick schlick sound of his cock being jacked sounds off-screen. Holding the phone in one hand while masturbating with the other. 

“Fuck, you—” Mountain pauses the video and drops it, eyes as wide as saucers. He furrows his brow, craning his neck to look at the pile of dirty clothes he had deposited at the door. Huh. Indeed, his shirt was missing from it. Where would he have dropped it and not noticed? Did Dew actually come into his room while he was showering and steal it? Lucifer, how long was he in the shower? Or did he just—

His face snaps back to the phone, now semi-dimmed but still paused on Dew’s half-smug, half-pleasured face. Mountain’s brain goes fuzzy, already tingling down south. He rewinds the first few seconds and presses play once more.

Video Dew repeats his smirk, top fangs showing over the fabric of Mountain’s shirt. His eyes blow wide with mischief and desire as his hand flies over his cock. 

“Fuck, you smell so good,” he grits through his teeth. He’s panting, little chest heaving and shoulders lifting with each breath like they do when he gets overwhelmed, close to cumming. “Couldn’t help it.” 

Mountain throbs hard against the mattress as he watches Dew’s eyes flutter, unfocusing for a moment before returning to look at the camera with a hitched moan. The sound of his hand on his cock grows more frantic, his other hand getting shaky as he works to keep his face centered in the frame. Dew’s eyebrows twitch upwards. A little nn-hn sound soaks into the t-shirt. 

“Oh,” the earth ghoul breathes. His jaw stays dropped, and the hand not holding his phone unconsciously grabs at the sheets. 

The sleeve of Mountain’s shirt, damp with saliva, slips from Dew’s mouth. Fabric disappearing completely off screen. He cranes his neck a little to look down at himself, and Mountain can hear the shwish of fabric being rearranged, shuffled about. “S-seven hells,” he keens, head falling right back down. There’s no more sounds of a hand sliding over pre-cum-dampened skin, but the motion of Dew’s arm remains unchanged, signaling to Mountain that he’s bunched up his dirty shirt to hump against as he winds the band of his pleasure tighter and tighter. 

Dew’s breathing grows quicker, more ragged, filled with little uh uh’s as his eyes fight to stay open. A line of drool dribbles from Mountain’s mouth unnoticed, hitting the back of his hand as he watches Dew’s face open, growing lax as his eyes roll back with a long, low groan. The video blurs as Dew presumably hits Stop and flings his phone away, depriving Mountain from watching him finish. 

“H-oh, Belial.” Blood rushes to Mountain’s dick so fast that he doesn’t even have the option to get up and do anything about his secondhand ruined orgasm. Though the fire ghoul resides a mere twenty steps down the hall, Mountain shoves his pants down and props his phone against the pillow, humping at the bed as if Dew were beneath him.

All he can do is groan into his own arm when he soils his fresh bedding with a load far bigger than it should be. 

[brittle-doughie]

Imagine steadily sneaking out of Dark Cacao's Palace, a flourbag load of pure unadulterated determination keeping your legs sturdy. Painstakingly heading for Beast-Yeast yourself to personally confront Mystic Flour Cookie, finally face-to-face.

First, your dreams. These crestfallen memories; these should not be yours, but yet they use your crust, copied down to how it crackles and crumbles. They walk with your legs and use your voice, and not meekly. Your little colorful buttons and creme filling. Through the eternal eyes of another wearing your broken face, a heavy shade of grief insisting a strong quake through your hands and feet, reflected in a broken mirror of indestructible forks and magic. None of this has ever happened to you, all your friends were alive and running free at the center of Gingerbrave's Kingdom.

Yet the firm echo at the crack of your mind reclaims; it indeed, had.

Second, that encounter and furiously attempted Soul Jam corruption with Shadow Milk Cookie, the dark jester of silken half-truths and rusty riddles; who's immortal darkness swallowed your common sense, that shadow with countless steep blue moon slits never dulled once under the unmoving gaze of the Sun.

But now, this sudden interest-an unpardoned heart from the literal pristine white embodiment of weightless apathy and sincerity?

These situations were too specific, familiar, and suffocatingly personal for mere coincidence.

The Beasts regurd you with an infectious stench of deep nostalgia, their eyes flash an infernal fire of thought, the kind one feels upon shaking hands with an old friend. The one that crawls like a bug, wiggles like a maggot. Growing the sprout of an itch, at an open chip of dry frosting the back of your head. A push, a pull, an annoying yet strong temptation of confrontation; of an acceptance, remembrances. Like they've known you since the very first crumb fell off the Witches' baking pan.

You spent this baked life depending on the protection and care of your beloved friends, but if that interferes with the truth you seek, you will risk falling apart into flour for finally having the chance to confront one of these gods about who you used to be.

Shadow Milk was serious when he countered you into an edge of existential dread. He was a frantic for the dramatics. Even for the most serious of cataclysmic events, he danced around the subject of your connection, hoping to unveil the mystery into stellar applause. That was the plan it seemed at leaat until Pure Vanilla threw a stake into his encore.

Cut through the answers.

With a mountain of luck and enough certainty, perhaps Mystic Flour Cookie will spare you doubts.

After all, even a being like her will neigh overlook such an opportunity; the chance of finally re-welcoming you, where she and the rest of her comrades know you rightfully belong.

She actually feels compelled to thank the merger weak Cookie's influence upon your new body, their mortal stupidity and curious self-preservation was an endless plague all within its very self, almost enough for her to forgive them for slowly erasing the dear memory of your once-divine mark upon these waning lands and lesser soils.

Almost.

(Sorry I have thoughts and lots of then, I hope I ain't bothering you.)

Nah, it’s all good. This was a pretty interesting read!

From what my brain of mush can put together, Y/N was a former Primordial Cookie before being reincarnated into a regular Cookie at some point, you were having dreams of this past life at first to the lead up to the search for White Lily Cookie.

The Shadow Milk fight would be the first time you started questioning on who you really were, but Pure Vanilla/White Lily Cookie pushed him back before you could get answers.

Your reputation seemed to be revered amongst the Beasts, as such with Mystic Flour Cookie. As stated, she could almost forgive the transgressions of having your memory altered, making you forget how you left your mark in these lands. You needed to remember who your allegiances should really go to, to remember who your real comrades were.

You were getting answers from Mystic Flour, in one way or another.

[st4r-th0ughts]

Lord, give me one more chance.

I wonder, if this will be the last?

masterlist

Comments and reblogs are more appreciated than just likes!

Mk1 characters x Liu Kang’s child! Reader

4:00A.M. (Taeko Onuki) ▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||။‌‌‌‌‌၊|• 0:47

ׂ���┈➤

tw/cw: reader is very much feeling guilt for shedding so much blood, this is a nightmare so dw our pookies ain’t dead, reader remembers very very vague stuff from mk11 timeline (aftermath and being Shinnok’s spawn carries onto the next timeline), it’s like not making sense? Ig cause it’s a nightmare lmfao, gorey scenes and descriptors, body horror, light religious? themes, drowning, neck snap, shits painful in general bruv, third person pov (you/yours), dw shits dark but it’s a bit happy at the end. Mostly.

notes: first time writing a fic that delves into gory descriptors and I’m doing research in how to write nightmares lol so forgive me if it’s unrealistic, corny or smth

summary: A nightmare that comes back every time you fall into dream land.

characters in focus: Liu Kang mainly (father figure), Earthrealm champions, Shirai Ryu duo, Edenian sisters, and Syzoth x Ashrah and the rest are just rlly implied but they still are nightmarish in descriptions lol

ׂ╰┈➤

Heavy breathing. You heave as your feet connect with the cold, stone slate as opposed to the smooth, soundless wood of your bedroom floors. It’s the same. The same. The same nightmare tormenting you for weeks.

Everything around you is hazy. Blurred lines of dull clouds gloss over the supposedly clear night skies, the stars whispering words of goodbye as they disappeared from your sight. You blindly reach for them, stumbling forward as your feet loose its footing despite there being solid ground in front of you.

A scream escaped you as darkness swallowed you whole, your yells echoing against the stone around you, your hands mindlessly scraping the walls that seem to grow further from you, your fingers scraping them desperately, the pain searing as you feel your nails peel and scrape away.

You prided yourself for being the level headed one, the one who didn’t scream while everyone else was panicking, a trait your dear father… your father. He was in the distance. No wait, no, you’re falling. You’re supposed to be falling.

A gasp. Your standing in front a temple. Deep in the forest, in front a worn down temple, the walls crumbling ever so slowly as you step forward. You don’t feel good. You don’t feel like yourself. Your legs are stumbling forward onto the stairs.

The incense burner is abandoned. Everytime you came here, to watch the mortals worship the God of Fire, people pile up in lines to pay their dues. The ash is pale and white as you pick it up and let it crumble in your hands.

The temple is too silent. You stumble through empty halls of prayer halls, staring straight ahead. There are eyes in the shadows. They follow you. Judge you. Whisper about you. It makes you feel nothing.

There’s a small pond in the temple. You remember. Orange… blobs… float around. There’s no lily pads. There’s a statue of him in the temple. A dragon accompanies him. His marble eyes make contact with yours, half of his face having crumbling into fine dust.

You feel parched. You grasp your throat with bloody fingers, the nailless fingers clawing the skin so hard you think you’ll tear out your trachea. Your legs stumble mindlessly to the pond, and you can feel the marble statue crumble and his eyes following you.

Your knees slam into the pond’s edge as you feel them crack and snap as you cup algae infested water into your mouth, the liquid tasteless and stale as the familiar man’s marble feet crumble as it fell forward. The crash is loud. Your ears ring and there’s warm liquid leaking out of your eardrums.

Your head turns, and you come face to face with those familiar glowing eyes, blood seeping and dripping where his jaw should be. His teeth are bloody, his tongue moves in a weak attempt to speak, and his eyes are glassy and bloodshot.

A empty wail escapes his mouth, and you scream in pure terror as he reaches out for you with cold, bandaged hands, scrambling back as you crawl and scrape the floor, gagging as you feel bile rise up in your throat, a sob of sorrow for this familiar man and fear as your vision blurs.

You can’t run. Faces stare back at you. Their faces. Their names. Their voice. It’s a blur. There’s so much blood. Too much blood. The blindfolded man’s throat is torn out. There’s blood flowing and dripping in front of your feet like a river. If you could hear past the heavy ringing, you’d guess he’d be straining whatever words he can make out.

There’s black shards in the American man’s face, his face looking like it was torn apart by a serated knife you stare blankly into his lifeless eyes as a duo step out from behind him, one decapitated as it stumbled forward, blood spurting out of his neck, and the other was split in two, crawling towards you as he cried out in agony.

Your knees are broken. The bones are jutting out of your flesh as you writhe away from the familiar, mangled states of people you’re begging forgiveness from. Why are you begging forgiveness? You don’t know. The words are tumbling out of your mouth, you know they are despite the ringing.

Unbeknownst to you, your frantic movements edging you closer to the pond’s edge as flashes of bodies, bloodshed, and carnage as you shake your head in despair. Why do these memories torment you? Is the Elder Gods punishing you?

You feel your body being shocked as freezing temperatures drag you down. The water is disturbed as your legs scrape the floor, trying to surface to scream and breathe the stale, dusty air. Your legs cramp, and with that, the icy water swallows you whole.

You struggle. There’s an invisible force dragging you down, you thrash and writhe in its grip, your eyes forced open as your faced with bodies floating around you, bubbles escaping your mouth as your hands weakly struggle to locate them, or locate anything alive at all.

Your lungs are burning. Your legs are useless, limp and floating along with the force as your hands slowly cease your struggling, the overwhelming feeling of helplessness as your dragged deeper as the surface is further and further out of your grasp.

You turn your head as you come face to face to a bloodied face. Two of them, lifeless and floating limply in the dark depths of the water. A scarred right eye housing empty eye sockets and missing limbs, and another man with bloodied gray hair had his mask floating not far from his mouth. Or whatever it was supposed to be considering his entire lower face was torn off, the loose flesh making you almost vomit.

There’s too many faces around you. Mangled, bloodied, grotesque. They are familiar. Some… some you know well. Friendly. Some are those you can feel are enemies. People you’ve battled against before. People whose blood you’ve splattered before, and people who’ve sunk their weapons into you as well.

You feel your neck strain as your slammed against the stone hard floor, gasping weakly as bubbles escape your mouth, your eyes darting around to search for a futile escape. You see two ladies. One dressed in blue, one dressed in pink. They look similar. Their faces are intact, leaving your to stare at their beheaded forms as the sharp teethed lady’s face passes too close to your face.

You gag, your vision blurring as you gain a burst of adrenaline, your hands scraping hard against the stone and dirt of the water, trying to move against the force pushing your neck harder and harder against the floor.

There’s bodies beside you, their necks wrangled as you see a green cloaked man with tattoos lie beside with a black eyed lady as the force on your neck becomes unbearable, your vision blurring as you feel the last of your life leave you.

There’s a crack, and everything goes silent.

You jolt awake, a strangled gasp escaping you as your hands grip the covers, your nails intact and neatly cut, your knees are still in place, and you’re not being drowned and chased by abominations of the dream.

Your father is beside you, worriedly feeling your forehead as he wipes the cold sweat with a comfortingly warm cloth, a shiver running down your back as you remember the harsh, bitter coldness of the pond’s water drowning you.

“Are you feeling alright?”

Liu Kang’s voice rings out gently as he pats your back, coaxing the fear out of you with ease as he brought you into his arms, kissing your forehead.

You nod barely as you hug him back, flashes of that statue of him staring at you, his jawless form trying to embrace you into his cold hugs. This is warm. And it feels like home.

Blood is not uncommon in your life. Your father has always trained you to be one of the consistent Earthrealm defenders. You just hope your battles don’t end up shedding blood of people you cared about.

fin.

© st4r-th0ughts 2025, I don’t allow reposts, reuploads, translations, or copies.

a/n: would love to hear your opinions and what I can improve on when writing stuff like these next time!

[burningcheese-merchant]

"Eyes" - BurningCheese Short Story #4

I have a bunch of asks in my inbox, and I would like to answer them... but I also want to get this short story finished and posted before my SO nags me about going to bed super late again lol.

I'll answer people's messages tomorrow! In the meantime, enjoy this short! Thanks for your patience and thanks to those who reached out! I always enjoy and appreciate people taking the time to tell me their thoughts!

'Were they always like this...?' Golden Cheese wondered. 'So bright...'

Burning Spice returned her curious stare with a smile and nothing more. He quite liked this unprompted attention, honestly. Just how long would it last, if he kept choosing not to interrupt it?

'So bold... I don't think I've ever seen anything like it...'

"Birdie~" he called to her playfully. (He couldn't help it. She looked so cute when she concentrated that he simply had to say something.)

'So red... The shade of White Lily's eyes is so much more... calm. Subdued.'

"Little bird?" His smile began to falter.

'And his pupils... Were they always like this, as well? Was he born with a beast's eyes, right from the very beginning?'

"Little thief?" His tone sounded less playful and more... confused.

'What is it... Just what do I see...'

"Golden Cheese?"

"Hm?"

Only now did she realize that Burning Spice had invaded her personal space (as he was wont to do) by leaning down and resting his forehead against hers. Perhaps that was why his eyes seemed so bright, at least in part - they were hardly an inch from her own now.

When he knew she was back in the waking world, his smile returned. "There you are," he said. "Why are you staring at me, little thief? Can I help you with something?"

"I..." She averted her gaze from him, her cheeks flushing red with embarrassment. "I'm sorry," she said. "I don't mean to be so rude. I was... lost in thought."

"I could tell," he chuckled. "And where did your mind wander off to? Somewhere to do with me?"

"Nowhere important," she said, still refusing to look at him.

"Come on. Tell me. Sing for me, pretty bird." He cupped her chin. "You don't want to keep being rude, do you? Not looking at someone when they talk to you is very rude. Turn those pretty eyes back to me and speak your mind."

"Eyes..." she murmured. She did what he asked and looked at him again, her gaze once more unwavering and... curious. "That's what I was thinking about, actually."

"What do you mean?"

"Your eyes," she said. "That's where my mind wandered off to, Burning Spice. Straight into your eyes."

"Ah, I see." His lips curled into another teasing smile. "What about them? You like them?"

"They're very unique," she told him. "I know plenty of people with red eyes... including a dragon and a man made of fire... and even their eyes aren't quite like yours."

"I certainly hope not. I'd rather you stare into my eyes than theirs."

She made a face at him and gently swatted at his cheek, earning her another chuckle. "I mean it," she said. "I'm not saying this lightly. Your eyes are... one of a kind."

"Such high praise," he purred. "I think and say the same of yours, pretty bird."

"I feel... drawn to them, when I look at them," she continued, past his little attempt at flirting. "I'm not sure how else to put it. I see them and I think of..."

"Of...?" he echoed.

"...Of many things," she eventually finished. "They aren't static. They grow brighter, dimmer... I almost wonder if you change them at will."

"Maybe I do. Maybe I don't." He leaned in the slightest bit closer, letting his nose brush against hers. "Regardless, what do they make you think of? What do you see? Tell me. I'm curious."

She paused, losing herself in thought for another moment. Burning Spice stayed put, patient but eager, waiting for her answer.

"I see... a star," she finally told him. "I see stars, shining brilliantly within the vastness of space. I see them glowing, twinkling, burning so bright... and I see them falling apart. Collapsing in on themselves. Dying valiantly in an all-consuming flame. These beacons of light in a deep, dark ocean, succumbing to loneliness at long last... but not with a whisper. With a bang. With aplomb. With the same brilliance they had possessed all their lives."

His smile grew. "Yeah? What else?"

"I see a great inferno," she continued. "A spark that grew out of control and into something too powerful for anyone to stop. Waves of fire crashing down, consuming everything in their path in mindless fury. Swallowing a forest whole and spitting out its ashes. Striking primal fear in the hearts of all who see it. Rampaging across the world until either someone puts an end to its reign of terror, or there is nothing left to consume, and so it consumes itself instead."

He hummed. For a moment, just a moment, his smile faltered again. He composed himself quickly - but not quickly enough for Golden Cheese not to notice.

"I see... a fire pit," she said, a bit more carefully this time. "A stove top, an oven, a nest of metal and charcoal... I see someone hard at work, their brows knit, tending to the flames as a mother tends to her child. Hammering away at a piece of unrefined steel, sprinkling salt into a pan, carefully molding a mound of clay. Perhaps only for a few hours, perhaps for days and nights. But at the end, when they're finished, I see them reach into those flames they cared for so diligently and pull out the fruits of their labor. A fine sword. A delicious meal. A beautiful vase. Something new, something great. From within this force of death and destruction still comes creation and ingenuity."

A blush began to creep across Burning Spice's face. "I..."

"Now, I don't see these things all at once, all the time," she told him. "They... change. The flames in your eyes rise and fall. They glow, they simmer, they explode. Never a dull moment, in those eyes of yours."

"Yeah?" he asked quietly.

"Yeah," she echoed quietly.

"Then... if they always change..." He let his hand wander up from her chin to her cheek, his fingers ghosting over her skin. "What do they change into... when I do this?"

He kissed her. Slowly, deeply, those fiery eyes still open and gazing into her own. And she stared right back at him, shining gold gazing into smoldering embers. Red, orange, yellow, white... all the colors of summer. Heat and light and unashamed passion, boring into her soul.

When he pulled away, he let himself linger, his lips still just barely brushing against her own. She could feel his hot breath on her lips, on her skin. Still taste it in her mouth.

"And now?" he asked. "What do you see now?"

She didn't answer. She only continued staring at him in silence, lost in his warm gaze.

"Tell me, Golden Cheese," he insisted, caressing her cheek. It was a deep red and hot to the touch. "What do my eyes look like now? What do you see in them?"

"...I..."

He pressed another kiss to her lips. "Tell me," he said again. "Please. I want to know. I must know."

"I see..." She faltered again. Another moment of silence passed before she spoke again.

"I see a hearth," she murmured.

"You do?" He smiled again... with the same warmth and adoration she saw glittering in his eyes. "What about it? What kind?"

She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. She closed her eyes, staying still and silent... and then she sighed softly, shaking her head.

"Sorry," she said. "I'm sorry. I..."

"Sorry? What for?"

She was already pulling away from him. The spell had seemingly been broken; now she was tearing her eyes away from his own and casting them any which way. Anywhere but him.

"It's rude to stare at people, Burning Spice," she said.

She turned and started walking away, her head slightly bowed. He stood frozen in shock for a moment or two, before he snapped out of it and hurried after her.

"I don't care!" he told her. "Who cares about that? I don't mind if you're rude! Be as rude as you'd like!"

"Sorry," she said quickly, shaking her head again.

"Where are you going?" he asked. "Why are you leaving me? At least let me say my piece! Let me tell you what your eyes show me!"

"Maybe another time," she told him, her cheeks turning a shade darker.

"No! Now! Let me do it now!" He rushed up to her side, now keeping perfect pace with her. "Ignoring others when they talk to you is rude too, remember?! If you don't want to be rude, then stay! Stay with me! Let us tell each other more of our thoughts!"

They stayed in this loop for a little while. Golden Cheese with her arms crossed and face a deep scarlet, walking away from her own foolishness with increasing speed. Burning Spice with his pleading look, those telltale flames now crackling frantically, always hot on her heels and fighting to take back their little moment.

Until she had enough of their charade and took off into the air, with a flap of her wings so sudden and forceful that the gust of wind nearly knocked him over, and he found himself pouting after her as she flew up and away.

--------------

A supernova. That's what that first thing Golden Cheese talks about is. She sees supernovae in Burning Spice's eyes. Haha.

Something I often like to do (or attempt to do) when I write is... try to tell people what something is without outright stating it. Describe an object without mentioning its name. Let people put those pieces together themselves. Let their minds wander. Leave a few spots on the canvas blank, so they can fill them in on their own. It's a fun little challenge. A guessing game. Keeps people reading, if only to figure out what you're referring to, before they skip to the glossary out of boredom or frustration.

Things lend themselves to a lot of fascinating imagery if and when you allow yourself to take on that sort of challenge and try to view them that way. Go look at a plant or a mug and try to tell yourself what it is without saying it's a plant or a mug. You start to train your mind the more you do it. Might help you write better. Hopefully. I hope it's working for me.

[yallthemwitches]

More cute silly Jily Headcanon

---Lily and James became close in 6th year as friends, originally finding a mutual annoyance in the standing Head Boy. Both of them thought of him as a complete idiot and both had fun messing with him in different ways. The head had a huge crush on Lily and tried to pair himself up with her a lot for prefect duties, which she hated. James took to bothering him as much as possible for that reason but was tame in his pranking all considering (ex. He once moved all of his things to the bottom of the lake).

From there sprung a true friendship where, despite dating the hufflepuff seeker at the time, Lily would confide in James with more things than her actual boyfriend. She couldn't wait to get out of prefect meetings and unload to him before Remus could beat her to it. It became pretty obvious that they both were attracted to each other but Lily stayed in denial because James had told her he had "gotten over her" by the end of 5th year ( this was a lie).

She dumped her boyfriend for "unrelated reasons" but the two quickly started a secret romance that finally blossomed into full on dating by seventh year.

---In 7th Slughorn had a lot to handle with the growing tensions of the war in the Slytherin house, so he shuffled off a lot of first year potions classes on Lily to teach.

This backfired on him greatly as the first years fell in love with her. She was very hands on and fun loving. She played music during lessons and was cheeky back when they gave her lip. She instantly grew a fan club of first year students who came to her whenever they needed something and often demanded hugs and other moments of her time outside of the classroom. They would complain whenever Slughorn would take up his post again, saying they wanted Lily back.

---James was equally popular with the younger students in 7th---particularly the girls. After an incident where he picked up one of the first year girls as a laugh, a group of them never left him alone in the corridors, demanding that he give them hugs/carry them. Once, a girl asked if Lily was jealous of him giving out hugs in which he responded, "Don't worry, I give her very special hugs no one else gets."

---This will make it into one of my Jilytober fics, but Lily and James were not very subtle in their relationship. Many people wondered if McGonagall or Dumbledore should say something since the two would be snogging the second they left the classroom and even in the classroom would have a difficult time not touching or whispering in each others ear. At prefect meetings, bets were always placed as to which one would slip up first and say something slightly suggestive or touch the other. (Remus always won)

---Lily and James were very much the "fun" Head Students. On OWL and NEWT weeks, they would throw study break parties in the common room which included contraband butterbeer and dancing.

---They would fall asleep together in the common room a lot. Lily loved to study by the fire and whenever James would get off practice, he would always come and lay between her legs with his head on her stomach. He'd fall asleep to her playing with his hair, then she would lull to sleep too, not wanting to stir him.

---James would transfigure a projector for his four poster bed so him and lily could cuddle and eat candy and watch all the muggle films she told him about. He would project it on the closed curtains and when Sirius wanted to watch too, he would transform into a dog to lay at the bottom of the bed.

[a-whispering-echo]

Princess Dust of Irelith

(ik ive already posted that drawing, but im reusing it on this while i plonk the LORE below <3)

Dust wears a full, elaborate gown in dark purple and black and a long, heavy mourning veil that conceals his face. The bodice of his gown is tightly secured, and his arms are bound behind him with thick, buckled leather straps that are e NEVER removed.

Nightmare later finds out, after about 4 days as they stay in his castle, that Dust even SLEEPS like that. that he cant even CHANGE CLOTHING because his arms are restrained. hes forced to kneel ever morning by his ‘guards’ as the fix his veil and crown, but not his gown. he eventually starts to smell, because he cant even go to the BATHROOM alone, because he doesnt have any HANDS TO USE; cant hike his skirts or remove any underwear that he MIGHT be wearing.

Dust’s crown is small and ornate, yet fragile-looking. He often walks barefoot, hidden by his skirts, and the restriction of his movements adds to his haunted, ethereal appearance. His dresses are all embroidered with Lily of the Valley; his kingdoms national flower.

Dust hallucinates, often lost in a world of his own. His speech is formal, restrained, and sometimes unsettling; he’s conditioned to obey, and offers himself to Nightmare in anyway he can at first - he regularly asks if Nightmare wants to bed him, because he was told before coming here, that if he ‘won’ the princes favour, that would be ALL hes doing; not sound of mind nor legally INNOCENT enough for much else. Dust’s inability to move freely makes him withdrawn, but he tries to mask it by projecting an air of submission and obedience. Sometimes you can hear him screaming from his room

He doesn’t expect kindness and is shocked when Nightmare treats him with respect.

Nightmare is struck by Dust’s fragile state, both physically and mentally. As he learns more about Dust’s history, he grows protective, horrified by the treatment Dust endures. Over time, he becomes Dust’s advocate, seeing him not as a criminal, but as someone who was shaped by trauma and control. Dust’s vulnerability awakens a sense of compassion in Nightmare, and Dust slowly begins to open up, trusting Nightmare more deeply, especially when Nightmare nulls Dusts impending execution by choosing to marry him as well as all the other suitors, and frees Dusts restraints.

Horror often helps Dust when his hallucinations become overwhelming, calming him with his quiet presence.

Killer is fascinated by Dust but is careful not to push him too far, and the two share a complex relationship, with Killer sometimes gently teasing him out of his melancholy.

Cross is formal and distant at first, but over time, he recognizes Dust’s suffering, and they share an unspoken understanding, bound by their own hardships.

-

Irelith is known for its mystical practices and secluded landscapes. The kingdom is covered in misty forests and ancient ruins, housing people who are highly superstitious and prone to quiet, contemplative lives. They are skilled in alchemy, necromancy, and medicine, using herbs and potions for both healing and protective purposes.

Irelith’s people observe intense mourning practices, with the entire kingdom often going silent to honour the dead. Funerals are elaborate, with public processions and periods of mandated silence. The Feast of Shadows is their annual festival, where they honour ancestors and lost loved ones with quiet reflection, offerings, and ritual dances around fire pits.

Irelithians worship the Shadeborn, spirits believed to guide the souls of the dead to the afterlife. These spirits are said to inhabit the forests and mist, requiring rituals to appease them and ask for protection. It’s common for people to wear tokens of these spirits, small charms or amulets, as protection against misfortune.

The current ruler, King Morose, is a reclusive and deeply sorrowful figure, having lost his eldest son to murder, an event that has left the kingdom shrouded in scandal. The kingdom’s secrecy and sombre demeanour have only deepened since then. Dust is burdened by his family’s shame and controlled by a retinue of guards - he is believed to have murdered his brother in an attempt for the throne, despite the fact Dust is the third born, and had made no move on his other sibling; everyone assumed he was just caught before he got to them.

Irelith’s architecture is striking, with slender, towering buildings and arched bridges spanning misty rivers. Homes and temples are often surrounded by stone walls or terraces overlooking dense forests. Houses have large, open balconies, and windows are small to retain warmth, giving a secluded feel to the kingdom’s settlements.

Clothing: Irelith favours fine, sheer fabrics layered over one another, creating an ethereal, ghostly effect. Dark, muted tones are staples as well as light cool tones - silver, lilac and pale blue. and noble attire is often decorated with silver embroidery and delicate beadwork. The dress Dust arrives in id distinctly NOT Irelithean style - its Durmous’s

Irelith has a cool, mist-laden climate, with dense forests creating a natural barrier around its borders. The air is damp and cool year-round, and sunlight is sparse, making it feel like a perpetual twilight.

Fish is a staple in Irelith, as their rivers are plentiful and well-stocked. Mushrooms, herbs, and roots are also common, as well as dark berries, used to make preserves and wines. Their food is delicately spiced, using herbs for flavour, as the people believe certain spices attract spirits.

Irelith is known for its shadowy woods, populated by owls, crows, and foxes. The forests yield rare herbs and plants used in alchemy, including ghostflowers, wolfsbane, and moonlit mushrooms. These are also used for dyeing, creating eerie, subdued colours for the people’s clothing.

[rorja]

˗ˏˋ TAKE ME TO THE LAKE WHERE ALL THE POETS WENT TO DIE ─── g. suguru

🪷 synopsis. all suguru wanted was brief moment of silence, a lone moment to take a deep breath without thinking ─── but the blood on his hands failed to grant him much. | knight!suguru x water nymph!reader.

🪷 warnings. 18+. major character death, angst. mention of blood, description of blood, suguru is utterly exhausted, just as suggested by the title, reader does not talk a lot, mentions of death and war. really angsty overall.

ᥫ᭡. notes ; it’s here, it’s the 27th june!! since my birthday is here i wanted to share this little piece with you :33…. hope you enjoy it! as always, i’ll proofread it as soon as i wake up <3 🐣

KNIGHT!SUGURU who finds the lake after a difficult night where most of the king’s men found their ruination. it happens under a full moon, deep inside the forest where he sought refuge in— away from the enemies with a sacred text in their left hand and a crimson stained spear in their right one. on the night where half side of the moon is hidden by darkness and the other half is as luminous as ever, his only guide in this shadowy realm, his only hope for another night of salvation.

KNIGHT!SUGURU who fall on his heavy limbs once he spots the lake lying at the center of the forest, its water kissed avidly by the moonlight and painting its ripples in silver and stardust. the lily pads are in bloom, of pearly white and the softest shade of pink, adorning almost every corner of the stretched and lively body of water. the moon, its lover, reflecting on it as beautifully as ever, quelling his racing thoughts: for the very first time that night, suguru acknowledges the fatigue sitting heavy on his bones.

KNIGHT!SUGURU focused, with what is left of his limited strength, on removing each and every single piece of metal that hangs on his body the same way a noose would around his neck— death’s embrace weighting the same way inside that armor of his, bloodied and twisted like the first time he’d worn it a long time ago. it’s a mark, a heavy reminder of the loss of his humanity for he is now reduced to a mere toll to fight useless battles in other people’s stead. so, when even the littlest piece of iron has found a temporary grave on the dirt, and suguru feels the crispness of the night dancing in his lungs again, it’s in that moment that he lets his emotions out. whispered freely to the lake, the only one listening to his grieving heart.

KNIGHT!SUGURU that is consumed by devotion and duty, honored from the crowds but crumbling on the inside; his soul a castle, a fortress, now victim of the many enemies around it. falling brick after brick, stone after stone until all his walls and the hinges of his doors grow too old to resist the perpetrator’s kicks and punches. what once avidly protected people and made them feel safe, now left to dust and ready to meet its end in a fire. it’s only a miracle, no matter how suguru views it, that he found this place to rest for the night. perhaps the moon took pity on this shadow of a man? or perhaps it was the goddess of luck, toying with his fate the same way the king does from the height of his throne? it doesn’t matter, not anymore, for the sun will rise again and his soul will die a little more.

KNIGHT!SUGURU whose lips part in a pained frown once he dampens his wounds with the lake’s water. it’s a slow process and it takes whatever it’s left of his consciousness washing away from his skin all the blood offered in a single night. scrub, scrub, scrub away all that is left of muted goodbyes and veiled despair that would be uncovered under the scorching sun. men take pride in dying for their country, suguru is convinced it is now a lie: they were the finest of chess pieces, moved on whims and tantrums by greedy beings who never cared about their wellbeing. men die for protecting women and children (of that, suguru is certain— he’s one of them, after all) and not to slaughter them when a monarch cries for a bigger playground. a hiss, and his lips part the slightest— he realizes he is poisoning the lake with a new river of blood.

KNIGHT!SUGURU who catches a glimpse of light moving abnormally between the lily pads. it’s quick, causing some waves to reach the shore and petals to dance as if moved by a nightly breeze, but the winds have gone to rest too, away from that tranquil heart of the forest. but suguru is tired, his legs wounded and aching and he isn’t scared of death— whether it decides to suddenly appear or letting him live enough to see tomorrow’s sunrise.

KNIGHT!SUGURU who doesn’t flinch away when the water decides to cling onto your form, rising from the depths of that lake you call home and revealing yourself. your eyes caught the way his lips part, how his eyes narrows suspiciously— but you do not comment on it, merely getting closer to the shore and starting to mend his deep wounds. he carried the sour taste of desperation, polluting your home, disrupting your sleep… and yet, all that you can do is keep his whispers somewhere close to your heart and offer your ears to him. for you don’t carry every answer to his questions, nor any guidance to the doubts fogging his fate, but you can listen and offer your home as a place where he can always return to rest.

KNIGHT!SUGURU who comes back the next night, covered once again in crimson, half belonging to him and the other to all the companions he lost few meadows down. a little close to the forest than the castles on each side of the infinite land. he comes back the night after, and the one after that, and suddenly he becomes a constant presence in that lone lake. you notice that he always sits in the only corner where the lily pads do not grow and where the fishes do not come near, moonshine impossible to reach because of some branches. you do not say anything, you never do— silently offering to wash away the blood staining his hands and the dirt under his nails, making of them a distant memory. so, at least, until the next sunrise because you know war is nothing more than a ferocious river that takes, takes and takes. and somewhere along the way you find yourself growing as restless; how many moons until suguru’s life will find itself trapped in that endless stream?

Suguru was tired.

It was a weight that he’d grown accustomed to over the years, a horrible thing that has always been present and that built its throne somewhere between his shoulders and ribs. It’s always been there, so it shouldn’t have mattered, but as of lately it grew and grew and suddenly Suguru couldn’t stand still on his feet anymore.

A snakelike thing it was, slithering its way down his bones and then his limbs, biting with no remorse nor any hesitation. And suddenly the armor weighed much more than the first time he wore it.

Could it have been the stains of dried blood of all the companions he fought with? All of those he considered friends, now a indistinguishable pile of empty shells waiting to either be buried or burned? Where were they— they started in many, now left in less fortunate numbers and manners. Outweighed by the endless streams of men that came from the other side of the land, flocking and carrying the sacred words of their gods.

All lies. No god would ever incite his sons in battles as such, putting a brother against another to carry out a sick and twisted game of power and politics concerning few, nameless people that could be counted in a single hand. Was it worthy, he always questioned at the first rays of sunset, was it worthy the lives of many to conquer another piece of land? With all the blood drying into the battlefield, Suguru merely thought that it was not, for no fruits would grow where a man found his uneasy rest.

His legs ached, more so than any other night. And his body failed to carry the weight of the armor— too oppressive, too important on his now frail body to bear. Where the air failed to meet his face, and for a moment he almost believed he forgot how to breathe. It was useless, all of that iron and whatsoever blacksmiths used to forge it.

When he left the helmet to fall, Suguru felt a little bit of relief in his chest. And so, piece by piece, like a ever crumbling fortress, he peeled off what had been a sort of second skin for all those years feeling neither pity or gratitude in his gesture.

The end of an act and the start of another.

It took longer to reach the lake, perhaps longer than any other night and he realized that once he saw the restless waves dying on the shore. He felt bad knowing, as of lately, that every smallest change was the fruit of your own emotions— and he wondered if his tardiness made you feel a tiny bit of the despair he grew used to feel in his chest every waking hour.

Were you scared he wouldn’t come back? That he died like his companions on that gruesome battlefield? That he would leave you without a proper goodbye?

At that his lips eased in a gentle smile, a chilly breeze grazing his exposed forearms by the many cuts on his humble shirt. His boots stepped on a twig and it easily caught your attention— were you scared of the monster he’d been forced to become?

You stilled. Roaming, widened eyes taking in the severe conditions Suguru was in and you found yourself quickly wondering how he could’ve managed to walk up to the lake in that miserable state. It was admirable, in the worst kind ever known to mankind.

He didn’t seem to care, uttering your name in a fond farewell before falling to his knees. The murky waters of the lake dampening the cutted fabric of his pants— and for once you didn’t waste time in cradling lovingly his head on your lap.

It made you sick, how peaceful Suguru looked in his last moments. How the water washed from his body all of that grim stains to leave tearful kisses on his bare skin. How the lily pads framed his body, granting him a blanket in his grand and deserved finale.

His eyes never once left the stars in the sky.

You moved your head, to grant him a better view, and he raised a weak hand to bring you close. That was another silent promise between the two of you: when you strayed away from him, his hands would always guide you back to him. Home. Suguru found a home in you wherein you accepted him in yours— and surely it took a little time before finding a suitable rhythm for the relationship to blossom, but there was a suguru-shaped void now where he usually sat and some of the lily pads were growing too weak and old to bloom next spring. It brought you to tears realizing that he would never come back to fill the gaps he once cut for himself and that he was now leaving behind.

“I want to look at you…”

Because Suguru was leaving after all. Stone after stone, the walls of his fortress had eventually collapsed; leaving him open and vulnerable for anyone to steal and destroy. The white flag has been weaved and of all the people he tried to protect there was none left.

“Bless me a little more with your love.”

Suguru closed his eyes soon after, a smile coloring his face for the last time. His hand limp on the bed of lily pads— and you hated it. Hated how he finally looked peaceful, as if he made amends with his past in the dephts of the constellations reflecting in your eyes.

You hated it so much— for that very reason you left the lake bury it in its dephts, somewhere between your love and your endless sorrow.

©RORJAN — dividers credits: @/strangergraphics , @/firefly-graphics and @/rorjan.