#and the poetry book is like... it's just a maybe

[lavenderprose]

Imagine you're Johanna Hezenkoss and your one goal in life is to Be Right All The Time and you've got this sidekick named Emmrich. He can do the whole corpse whispering thing and he's an objectively pretty skilled necromancer but, of course, YOU are Johanna Hezenkoss. And you decide that you like Emmrich enough to drag him along with you to glory. So you spend a few decades doing that. Only Emmrich is six and a half feet of saccharine poetry and fanatical devotion to the core tenants of the Mourn Watch and YOU, Johanna Hezenkoss, are just counting the moments until you can go Beast Mode in this bitch and show everyone what TRUE NECROMANTIC POWER means. So Emmrich weighs you down a bit but you're a little obsessed with him only because he's like. Real? That's a real dude? Saying that shit? Wild. Totally insane. He's like an annoying chattering dog who keeps all your secrets and makes the biggest saddest eyes at you when you say stuff like, "The world could be exactly what we want it to be. Aren't you MAD. Aren't you ANGRY at what they've taken from you. Don't you want to MAKE THEM SUFFER LIKE YOU'VE SUFFERED--"

Yeah. Whatever.

And then Emmrich betrays you because you're scaring him. SCARING him? After everything you've done for him? You were going to reinvent the world--you were going to put him at the top of it all so NOBODY could step on either of you ever again and now he's all, Oh Johanna, you're scaring me, this isn't what we believe in, you're letting your fear control you, blah blah BLAH he never shuts UP

Fear? FEAR, Volkarin? How fucking rich.

Then some stuff happens. Half lich 125 foot skeleton someone named Elgar'nan, maybe a God, who cares. You get so close--SO CLOSE--and then fucking Emmrich rolls in and this time he takes it ALL. Your power and your mortal life and your last remaining shreds of fucking credibility in this fucking world. And then he doesn't even have the basic fucking decency to say I Told You So. He keeps you on his desk like a tchochke and listens to you scream and spit and even THEN he doesn't do anything.

All the while he has his own sidekick now. Some vapid little thing always batting their eyelashes and paying Volkarin the kind of lip service that always distracted him, made his eyes go soft and his chin quiver. He's still such a weak man. You tell him so. You tell him and tell him and tell him until--

The sidekick disappears. Emmrich's eyes go empty and haunted in a way that makes you wonder what he's done to himself in his heartache and grief.

"Whoever did this to you," you tell him on the worst day, "You can make them pay. You're powerful enough. You defeated me." You being, of course, Johanna Balls of Steel fucking Hezenkoss.

"I just want them back," Emmrich admits. Because he's weak WEAK he's a weak man mewling pitifully in a dark room for his piece of ass while the moon rises red in the fucking sky and a God walks the earth.

"You have the power," you tell him. "When the world takes from you, you take those things back. This is what I've been telling you all these years, Volkarin. For once in your miserable life, LISTEN TO ME."

Finally, finally, Emmrich reacts. He screams. He throws a few books. He kicks his desk. Punches something, probably, because his knuckles start bleeding at some point. You watch it all with barely-contained glee. Anger, yes, fucking finally. You've been waiting your whole goddamn life for this man to realize how fucking ANGRY he is.

"How do I break into the fucking Fade?" He screams. He's not even looking at you. His hair is seven different kinds of fucked. His shirt is unbuttoned to the navel, and he's missing a boot.

"You could start by asking someone who's done it," you say. Emmrich turns, startled for some reason to hear you. Again you say, "Listen to me."

"Oh, Johanna," he sighs. "I've rarely done anything else."

It's not the words 'Thank you' or 'You're right'. It's certainly not lichdom or godhood or a 125 foot tall skeleton. But it's one point for Johanna Hezenkoss.

You'll make up the deficit eventually. Volkarin has a kid, after all.

[clubsoft]

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⠀ ⠀ CHERIMOYA ⠀ ⠀ JEY USO / POC ! F ! READER ⠀⠀ ⠀

SUMMARY ⋆ jey's completely , hopelessly in love , & this is how he got there . WARNINGS ⋆ fluff , fluff , fluff / minimal character desc ; poc reader oriented / size diff if u squint / pet names overload / loverboy jey / 3rd person POV ; no use of Y/N WORD COUNT ⋆ 3 . 0 k NOTES ⋆ my first real long fic , insp'd by jey saying he wants to be in a love drama , romcom :3 enjoy !! <3

The marketplace sits at the corner of the street where the woman with the moving bookstore and the food truck man who makes the world’s most delicious waffles cross paths six days out of the week, save for Sunday, because what better reason than church to take the day off? The lovers, Jey and the soon to be girl of his dreams, learn this the hard way, standing at the corner of the sidewalk blankly in search of the street stalls, him with cash in his hand, her with a book for exchange. It’s when their eyes meet that the search ends, confusion fades, respective reasons for stepping out so trivial between their mingling gazes. Ever the flirt, never one to even stutter before a woman, Jey breaks the mutual silence first, unable to hide the awe in his tone, his words completely unrelated, but he fears if he doesn’t speak to her now, he’ll live in regret.

“No waffles for me today, I guess,” he says with a chuckle, to which her own laughter chimes in response. It silences the city around him, that heavenly sound, freezes him in time. A simper lingers on his lips, a flash of pearly whites remaining visible as she holds up her book, patting the cover with her free hand, her chin dips with a nod, though there’s a sheepishness to her movements, one he finds endearing.

“I’ll get a new book another day, I guess,” she replies, and if he wasn’t listening so closely, her voice would’ve been swallowed by the nearby traffic.

Caught up, and so awfully, embarrassingly enamored for a man of his age and experience, Jey stutters as he lifts his hand to point his thumb at the large building behind them, managing out, “Looks like t-they’re o-open. Maybe they got a b-book or two in there to hold you over ‘til the library lady gets back?”

He steps backwards towards the automatic doors, awaiting an answer that couldn’t have taken longer to arrive, though it’s mere moments between his invitation and her response. He watches her consider, her eyes flitting about below long, fluffy lashes, the curl of her fingers, with those pretty long nails, tightening around the spine of her book, all things that contrast the calm of her countenance. She’s just as nervous as he is, thank god. “Maybe they got somethin’ for you to eat so you don’t starve waitin’ for the waffle truck.” A perfect reply; it makes Jey smile so wide that every wrinkle and crinkle in his gorgeous face is present. He tips his head towards the doors, she crosses the distance to walk beside him, and together, they head in.

It’s him taking the initiative again, holding out his large hand, “I’m Jey, and you?” No hesitation this time, her much smaller hand slips into his palm, and when she utters her name, he swears it fits perfectly with his, like it’s meant to be said alongside his own, and for a man who knows jackshit and less about poetry, he finds it poetic. “Nice to meet you,” is what he settles for, grin widening when she echoes it back to him.

In the marketplace, they seem to sell everything from live aquatic animals swimming in lavish fish tanks to tiny, miniature figurines that Jey pretends to show no interest in, but hovers around for many minutes, until his companion gently asks him about them. She’s quiet in comparison to him, but he’s met enough people in his almost four decades of life to almost be sure that not a single thing goes unnoticed by those large, sparkly eyes of hers. It’s no surprise that his fascination with the colorful character display isn’t lost on her. “So, are these, like, anime? You recognize these?” It’s too late to lie and pretend he doesn’t, so he grins bashfully, shakes his head to nod, to which she responds sweetly, “Tell me about them.”

Those four words shouldn’t set off a flurry of make-believe fireworks behind her, highlighting her angelic features, making them glow even more, but they do just that. On top of that, he isn’t aware before then that all it takes to bring down his guard is a show of genuine attentiveness, but as he begins to point out every little character he’s familiar with, the connections between those from the same series, his opinions of them, and anything else that comes to mind, he realizes it isn’t a show at all. Her gaze follows his fingertips as they point from one character to the next, and she’s nodding to keep from interrupting him, humming when he pauses between words to show she’s listening. Jey feels his cheeks warm, and he trails off, “Yeah, that’s it. That’s about all I know.”

“What? Jey, that’s so cool! I’m not much of a gamer but that explanation made me wanna change that!” She exclaims, clapping her hands together quietly, beaming. Then, she quickly cuts her excitement short, offering a shy smile as she lowers her hands, smoothing them against her top, as though her enthusiasm would turn him away, a fear he’s quick to remedy with his words.

“If you don’t get tired a’me, I can teach you.” Her features soften further, and she nods appreciatively, holding his gaze a heartbeat longer. The less outwardly flirty of the two by a longshot, she’s the one to break eye contact, returning the attention back to the subject at hand, picking up a medium sized figurine of a bear that Jey recognizes as ‘Kuma’ from Tekken, holding it up like it was a trophy.

“This one’s your favorite? He’s so cute!”

A short while of wandering lands them in the opposite corner of the market, a completely different world, rows and rows of fruits and vegetables, a sticky sweet scent in the air. Jey follows a step and a half behind, and tries his utmost hardest not to be a typical man, though his self control slips from his grasp as his eyes trace the shape of her hips, the sliver of flesh between the waistband of her jeans and the hem of her shirt, swallowing hard while watching one tan finger hook into the belt loop at her side to adjust said waistband. For a moment, he swears he hears twinkling, angels singing, sees doves flying in, but it’s just the noise of her charm bracelet mixed with illusory manifestations of his attraction. One large hand rubs over his face as he sighs, and she turns to him at the perfect time, a smile so beautiful on her glossy, full lips that he’s almost jealous of what brought it on. “Jey, look! Cherimoyas!”

“Cherry-mow-yuz?” He repeats slowly, pronunciation pulling a giggle from the girl before him, his brows furrowed in confusion until his gaze travels the span of her arm to the glittery long nail pointing towards a box of green fruits. He knows they’re fruits only because the sign says so, despite being entirely unfamiliar, he’s excited just because she is.

“Cherimoyas,” she corrects him, and then continues. “These are so good, they taste like dessert, and I can never find ‘em anywhere. I could eat a truck full of these things!”

“Never had ‘em… Should we get some?” The question is rhetorical on his end, because she’s grabbing a bag, nodding enthusiastically, reaching for the box like Jey was already doing. It’s something out of a movie, his hand brushing hers, the second too long that it takes for them to withdraw, the sparks that make his skin buzz where it's made contact with hers. They almost do it again, stop to let the other through, and by the third time, she’s laughing, simply holding open the bag so he can fill it cherimoyas, going until she says stop.

The sun is beginning to set by the time they come to rest on a park bench, having traveled outside the market, talking and talking, and talking some more. Now, Jey’s using his car keys to split open the apple shaped fruit, puncturing a hole big enough in the shell to split it in half with his hands a moment later. Impressed and excited beyond words, the girl to his right oohs and aahs like he’d done a magic trick. It’s adorable, and his cheeks feel hot as he passes her the larger half, which she instantly switches out with his. “Cheers, to the book lady and waffle man, and cherimoyas.”

“And cherry-mow-yuz,” Jey repeats, the two bursting into laughter, struggling to dig in until their giggles fade, but when he sinks his teeth into the fruit, he moans in delight, eyes shutting, head tipping back with a sigh. “Yeah… good as fuck. Tastes like custard,” he says, filling his mouth with another bite.

She answers with a hum, nodding, eyes crinkled with a smile. “I told you we’d keep you from starving.”

“Wait, we didn’t get you a new book,” Jey says, frowning, taking time away from his cherimoya lovemaking to look at her, his big brown eyes set steadily on her. Yet, he’s just a man, and he finds himself staring at her lips, the way they kiss at the edge of the peel before she uses her teeth, dragging the sweet bits into her mouth. He’s a gentleman, so he believes, and scaring her off wouldn’t be so gentlemanly of him. All he can do is allow himself to feel jealous of the fruit, and look away.

“I have a new story to tell, and I made a new friend. That’s way better than a new book.”

If Jey could, he’d magically materialize in front of this past self— the pair of them, actually— and laugh in their faces. Friends, yeah, right! Years have passed since their first meeting, their lives intertwined to the point where it’s impossible to tell where she ends and where Jey begins, not far from their current physical situation, limbs knotted together, his heavy arm holding her down as she tries to lunge at his twin, whose thunderous laugh echoes through their house like a lion’s roar. Jey’s attempts to stay on her good side result in him laughing silently only when she looks away from him, a deep breath drawn into his lungs to keep his voice from shaking before he calls out to his brother, “Jimmy, stop playin’ with her, man!”

“Don’t make me call Naomi!” Her voice co-signs, much more passionate than her lover’s. Jimmy takes no account of the threat, turning up the volume on the TV, the entire reason for the fight in the first place.

He’d visited to spend time with his brother, as he does every week or so, arriving with two boxes of pizza alongside an array of snacks. Nothing wrong with that, all is well. Jey has his own space, with his TV, consoles and other toys, and that’s usually where the twins hang out. This time, Jey insisted on his girl joining, and taking the party to the main living room, where she’s on her third rewatch of some romance series he can never remember the name of despite being completely absorbed in it. After saying hello and giving hugs, Jimmy, ever the joker, took the remote and switched on the game. He does things like this on purpose, he always does, living off the banter it creates between him and his brother’s girlfriend. Everyone else in their family has been around his antics long enough, but she’s a rookie to it, and it takes almost nothing to rile her up. In retaliation, she‘d taken the remote back and switched it back, that’s when the tug of war with the remote started, reaching a point where a throw pillow had earned its name, flung across the space, knocking Jimmy square in the head. That leads them to the present, where Jey is still holding her still, and Jimmy’s nodding along to the game’s commentary like it’s a hymn that touches his soul.

“You think you can just come into my house, turn off my show—”

“It’s my brother’s house, and I don’t see ya name in the credits of the damn show, so—”

“Baby!” Her whine tugs at Jey’s heart, making quick work of his neutral stand and pulling him onto her side. A hum of understanding, a few soft pecks to her jaw and cheek, he sighs, and sits up, gesturing to the remote.

“Jim, gimme the damn remote.”

Jimmy, incredulous, hugs the rectangular device to his chest, imitating her whining, “Noooo.”

Jey doesn’t get a second to process when another pillow is launched into space; it hits Jimmy in his nose, and he groans. Then, without warning, he opens his big mouth and cries out, “I don’t even know why my brother wants to marry your evil ass. With an aim like that, I’d stay as far away from you as I could!” His words are like a gunshot, the shock on the couple’s faces the smoking gun. Realizing he’d fucked up, Jimmy holds up his hands, and then turns the blame onto his twin, who’s laying back with his hands over his face. “I thought you already asked her, dude!”

“I was workin’ on it!” Jey retorts, sitting up abruptly. Between them, his sweet babygirl is frozen in shock, and he ignores anything else Jimmy could say to defend himself, tenderly cupping her cheek with his palm, lowering himself until he’s eye to eye with her.

“Is he serious?” Is her first question, to which he nods, grimacing.

“I wanted it to be a lot more romantic…” He can see the gears shifting in that little mind of hers, piecing together the full picture with a gasp.

“The date! That’s why you gave me money to get my nails and feet done.” Pressing kisses to her knuckles, Jey smiles.

“Baby, I always give you money to get your stuff done.”

“Except it’s different this time,” spoken like the idea hasn’t quite wrapped around her brain yet. Another nod. She has a knack for making him wait, he realizes, it’s deja vu to the time they first met, Jey lingering in hopes of receiving an answer that’ll set their future on track.

“You always this slow?” Jimmy’s voice interrupts their sugary moment, cutting through it like a knife stabbing into tough plastic, sharp and unsatisfying.

“You still here?” His twin snaps back in an identical tone, no pun intended— the twins are fraternal. “Get outta my fuckin’ house! Baby, gimme one of those pillows.”

“I’m goin’! I’m goin’!” A shuffle of footsteps, and the two are left alone. Jey’s doe brown eyes soften, stuck solid on his girl, who sits before him with her chest puffed out and a hollow gaze.

“Honey?” Large hands squeeze around her smaller ones, thumbs rubbing over her knuckles. “You want some more time?” Jey murmurs, lips against her wrist, kissing it after. “Shit was outta nowhere, I don’t blame—”

“Oh my god, I thought you’d never ask! I was just imagining how we’d do it. I wanna do it in your mom’s backyard, actually, with Roman on the grill and lots and lots of flowers! Lotsa flowers—” As the angel rambles on, eyes having stolen constellations from the sky, the man before her listens with a gaze amorous enough to make poets buzz with joy at the sight of such muse, such inspiration, such true love. Interrupting her is subconscious, lips closing over her soft, glossy ones, his frame shifting off his knees to trap her against the cushions of the couch.

“I can make that happen, mama… We can do whatever you want…” He’s almost whispering, drawing shapes against her nose with the tip of his own, chasing kisses till it’s impossible for her to speak, and she has to smush her hand over his mouth, pushing him back gently.

“But I don’t want the ring yet! I bought a really nice dress and I need to get my nails done, and…”

The day can’t come fast enough. Jey’s mom’s backyard is the venue, one that costs little to no money to decorate. His mom is elated to be the host; she prepares a speech and cries so hard near the end that her words are incoherent. Solo, of all people, ends up on stage to finish it for her. He gets a little choked up himself, and that sends the entire family into laughter. Jey leads all the slow dances, gets drunk, then sits and explains how he learned them. His stories draw a crowd, teasing him so intensely that he fights them off, and buries his face in his wife’s— yes, wife— neck. The dramatics last a mere twenty minutes before the entire family is back on the dance floor, each drink helping fade the night to black.

Morning afters are meaningful, no matter how enamored the lovers are, for they mark the blessing of another day started with one’s soulmate. Jey recalls their very first one in a dreamlike trance, while watching his wife’s chest rise and fall as she sleeps soundly after their eventful honeymoon night. Jey woke up first that time, too. Limbs tangled together, breaths mingled, the scene identical to the one in his bed years ago, their love new at the time, nerve wracking but steady, the butterflies flitting about in the unfamiliar environment having settled by now, though the fluttering never ceases. He hopes it never does.

“Honey?” Beside him, his cherubic wife rasps softly in her morning voice, removing him from his thoughts. Her naked form shifts, curls and molds against his as though she’s trying to become one with him, and as he hums to respond, she nuzzles her nose into his collar and drifts off again. A wide smile dimples his cheeks, arms holding her tightly against him, and he looks up at the roof as though it was the sky, as though the divine herself was looking back at him in that moment, listening to him pray his thanks for the next step of their life, and the start of another day with his beloved.

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⠀⠀ ⠀ © 𝓒LUBSOFT

[higuchisora]

Combatting the "illiterate/dumb/insert classist assumption here" headcanons being circulated about Zaunites (particularly Vi) with my own headcanons.

Headcanon that Zaunites are actually super into literature and poetry. Like, culturally. Headcanon that music and poems were there for them when they had nothing else. The bridge song is the only song we hear being canonically sung by a character in the show and it's literally baby Powder (and Vi hums at the end of s2). The only other songs being played in-world are all by Zaunites. Art is a form of expression that they took refuge in as a community.

Headcanon that they generally love storytelling. Regardless of if they do or don't have access to books that are in good and preservable conditions, storytelling (via reading or memorization/orally) is a super important part of their culture. No one population has a 100% literacy rate even IRL, and not being able to read doesn't make anyone stupid anyway. But Zaun has a decently high literacy rate, especially considering their circumstances. They prioritize it because of how fundamentally important art/storytelling is to their culture.

Headcanon that Ekko and his Firelights tell stories to the kids at the base every night before bed. That a lot of these tales are from people he loved, like Benzo or his birth parents, or even Vi, Jinx, Mylo, and Claggor.

Headcanon that Vi in particular loves reading. She's a total bookworm. The few moments where she gets to do things for herself, she chooses to read and collect poetry and literary works. She's only ever kept one classic for herself (sold the others), but the things she keeps, she treasures. Young Vi likes to spin tales for baby Powder. Some are based off of stories she's read/was told by the adults in her life. Others are entirely made up on the spot, for Powder's own enjoyment.

Headcanon that Vi would've maybe wanted to be an author if she wasn't more preoccupied with protecting her family. That she considered pursuing those interests a pipe dream, something for a different version of herself.

Headcanon that Sevika remembers more about her dad's stories than about her dad himself. Headcanon that Renni the chembaron read books with her son whenever they both had a day off from work.

Headcanon that a lot of Zaunites know how to sing. Headcanon that Vi can sing. And that she used to sing lullabies for Powder until Mylo called her a baby for still needing them. And even after Vi punched him for it, Powder insisted she was too big for lullabies- so she and Vi settled on bedtime stories.

Headcanon that Jinx still remembers those stories. That she tells them over and over to herself whenever she can't sleep.

Headcanon that Silco told her stories when she became comfortable enough to tell him about her insomnia as a kid.

Headcanon that he would tell her anything from true stories of his past to things he's read or heard to things improvised on the spot. And they were different from Vi's stories because these usually had some moral/message to them, even the ones that he made up- but she loved them just as much as the aimless, endless tales of wonder and adventure Vi would spin for her.

Headcanon that now, she replays both Vi's and Silco's stories in her head at night. That when Isha came into her care, she shared some of those stories with her, too.

[tuesday-teyz]

Hey, Teyz! I hope you have a good week this week. I'm back for my usual asking, so uh, i'm wondering... (in behalf of a friend), what hobbies do the different Br characters do in their free time. (Does Theseus even have a hobby considering how busy he is or perhaps when he was younger?)

He actually has/had plenty of hobbies, most of which were featured in the story multiple times!

Tommy does gardening (as part of maintaining his butterfly garden, but also for pleasure), knitting and embroidery, he sings and plays the piano. He used to love dancing as a child, but he hadn't done that in a long while. Who knows, maybe I have an occasion planned where he'll get a chance to do that again? wink wink

Techno reads books, spars and hunts, and Niki does all of that as well as bake (they are close friends, Techno taught her to wield a sword and shoot crossbows, but her weapon of choice is a spear), Dream's a skilled sailor and has a small sailboat back home that he takes out for routine voyages around the port (he does swordfighting and chess as well, but that's more of a competition thing), Beau paints and shoots a bow, Phil cooks and is excellent at woodworking, Sally composes music, Quackity is wicked good with card games and is a self-taught magician, Foolish is a gifted shipwright who designed the royal fleet's best vessels just because he likes it, Tubbo secretly enjoys tinkering with little mechanisms like locks and does a bit of light parkour, Sam's a writer when he's not busy inventing things or improving existing architecture, Drista's main passtime is to play pranks on people but she also can throw tridents with dangerous accuracy and is one of the best harp-players in southern court, Sapnap's got a bit of a gambling problem and regardless how much George's whole personality is based around chess, he finds that reading poetry is an acceptable replacement when a worthy opponent is not available. I think Wisp's job keeps him too busy for a hobby and when Purpled isn't shooting things, he is out horseback racing or roasting people for the fun of it.

[honeyflower-bellybower]

Poet Remus AU, Part 2

Sirius has never cared much for literature. Of course he's not ignorant in the field. He's read centuries of authors under severe scrutiny of his preceptor, and he's studied their lives and work. He's been taught to analyze, memorize, interpret. He can read Virgil in Latin, recite Dante by heart in Italian, discuss Voltaire in perfect French. But though he's never hated it exactly, he's never taken any particular interest in it either. He tends to find it either arrogant or boring. He rarely does any reading for personal enjoyment. In addition, Orion Black is famously passionate about the subject, and that's enough to provoke Sirius' scorn.

He keeps himself as separate from that environment as possible; he doesn't frequent any salons and avoids members of literary societies like the plague. That would be why he's never heard of that name before, Lupin, and the supposedly scandalous collection to his name. So, when it comes to gathering more information about the mysterious poet, all he can do is ask someone trusted.

Alright, perhaps trusted is not the right word to define his brother. But Sirius at least trusts that if anyone he can talk to would know about the latest developments in the penmanship trade, that's Regulus. Plus, Regulus wouldn't go telling their parents, at least not without reason. He tries to avoid altercation with them as much as possible; in fact, he mostly doesn't speak to them at all unless required to.

Sure enough, Sirius finds Regulus in the library, flicking distractedly through a gold-bound tome. The Bible.

"So, little brother. Have you finally decided to don the cloth then? Mother will be delighted."

The youngest Black brother looks up, mildly annoyed, and closes the book.

"You would be surprised, Sirius, that when you can read a good book is just a good book."

Sirius snorts and raises his hands. "Didn’t mean to insult your novel, there. Actually, I came to you for that exactly."

"Learning how to read?"

"Close. Reading advice."

"You want a book? Not as burning paper or door holder?"

"Very funny. But yes, darling brother. I’ve been thinking, you know, I might use some more… awareness, of our times. What’s brewing in this young century’s bright minds?"

Regulus' eyebrows twitch, unimpressed. "Mh, and what brought about such deep reflection? I thought you only cared you your bright mind."

"Why, thanks, little brother. I am bright. But, you see, even the brightest stars need the moon to make a night really shine. I need inspiration. New fuel. Where else would I get my brilliant ideas?"

Sirius can see it in his eyes, now, in his grimace, that Regulus is thinking of some of those most recent ideas. The practical jokes, the exuberant gestures. 'The ways he puts himself in ridicule', how his mother would put it.

"Oh, come on, Reggie. Anything interesting on the scene? What’s the latest phenomenon?"

Regulus sighs, but gets up from his armchair and walks to the shelves, contemplating. "…I would suggest Shelley’s A Defence of Poetry, but I suppose that’s a bit weighty for someone who’s never read a verse in their life. Moore is delightfully witty, but maybe too witty. Only for a sharp mind, I fear." Sirius bites his tongue. Oh, he sees what he’s doing. "If you’re after the latest phenomenon, you can’t go wrong with the Lake Poets. Don Juan is causing quite the stir—it’s scandalous, you should like it. Or perhaps something from Wordsworth or Coleridge, if you lean towards the sublime. Do you know the word?"

Sirius plasters a venomous smile on his face and plops in Regulus’ chair. "Dear, Reggie, did you have that prepared?"

"It just comes naturally."

Sirius flicks his hair over his shoulder. "Actually, I was looking for something more… particular. I’ve heard there’s been some ruffled feathers over of a very recent publishment. A poet, perhaps? Sound any bells?"

Regulus narrows his eyes. "…If you already know what you’re asking, Sirius, why don’t you just ask?"

"I want to read Lupin’s Moonlights. And his most recent work, whatever that happens to be."

Regulus’ eyes go wide in recognition. Then he scoffs. "So like you to only pick up a book to unnerve Mother and Father. Do you even know anything about him other than his reputation?"

"He has a reputation?"

Regulus shakes his head and sighs, as if disappointed in himself for even being surprised. "Remus Lupin has been the biggest controversy in clubs since Byron. Two years ago he published his poems, the Moonlights, under Dumbledore Publishing, and the company was nearly shut down because of it. There was talk of legal action, but in the end it was deemed acceptable, by narrow margin. Rumor had it the Chancellor’s wife was so fond of the poems he let the matter fall."

Sirius is enraptured. "But why? What was in them?"

"Oh, everything. For one, it’s clear as daylight that Lupin is an atheist. There’s nothing explicitly against religion, of course, but it’s obvious enough to anyone capable of critical reading. That, I believe, was what caused the major uproar. Churchmen were absolutely livid. But that's just scratching the surface. It’s seditious to the point of being anarchic. Not outright, mind you, but it might as well be. And to cap it all off, it’s rife with licentious imagery. Though, oddly enough, no one was particularly bothered about that."

At this point, Sirius can practically feel his hands spasming with want to read it. He's leaning so far forward he's barely sitting on the chair anymore. "How did it get published then? How did it not get banned?"

Regulus is infinitely relaxed as he states, "it’s good."

"That’s it? It’s good?"

"Correct. It’s so good everyone loved it. Only some people hated that they did. For every Count demanding suppression, a Countess was requesting a personal copy—and one for her friend. For every bishop warning his flock against it, a John Mill wrote an article on how everyone ought to read it. It was the bestselling publication of its year for Dumbledore and it even made it beyond England. The French adored it, as they do anything scandalous. Italians, too, though I believe mostly the poets. The rest can barely read."

Sirius feels astonished. This sounds false. Like an impossible story, a fiction. "Have you read it?" he asks, quietly.

Regulus is silent for a moment. Then, he moves to the far end of the library, towards his own desk, covered in papers and books. He opens a drawer, takes out a pile of journals, an ink box, an old newspaper, and finally, a small hardcover book. Regulus hands it to him. On the cover, purplish tinged leather, was printed a thin circle surrounded by tiny, black stars. At the top it said, in elegant, tall letters, The Moonlights, R. J. Lupin.

Sirius takes it reverently. He feels a hand over it, then looks at Regulus for confirmation before opening it. It's rare for them to share anything, and he can tell Regulus really loves this book. It's well kept, but it has clearly been read many times. The spine is wrinkly, though not cracked, because his brother is far too gentle to crack his books open. The pages are softened by frequent touch. Most importantly though, Regulus has written on them. Sirius knows Regulus hates 'ruining' his books. He likes them to stay pristine, as he’s found them. But sometimes he just can't help himself. He's a creative, even though he tries not to be. That’s why he fills all those 'journals', which Sirius is sure contain much more composition than actual information. When he reads something he really, really likes, and he has so much to say about it but no one to talk to, he starts annotating. Underlining. Commenting. This book is filled with comments.

"Blimey," Sirius whispers. "You loved it, didn’t you?"

"I told you," Regulus says. "Everyone loved it."

Read part 1 here

yeyy told you I was cooking! Actually I cooked a LOT more than this and I think I'll be posting little episodes like this as often as possible. I have the general drafts but I need time to write them out prettily hehe. Anyway, REGGIE IS HERE! I love him.

[puppyfriedrice]

You'd think it'd get routine. In some ways it does. In others… well the difference lies in the feeling. People say you get bored and need to go to the brink to chase the first thrill. That's not true. At least, not in the same sense. Sometimes a feeling never leaves, sometimes it changes.

People wax poetic about the first time doing anything. Their first kiss, their first drink, their first car, their first heartbreak, first time throwing a novel against a wall in rage, first bully, first roller coaster, first ticket, first time. There is something to be said of a first, and that's because whatever emotion one might be feeling becomes entwined in the secondary emotion. The one that amplifies whatever it comes into contact with. It's never really discussed but everyone knows it's there, on the brink of excitement. Fear.

Fear of the unknown.

Overlooked- fear can be replaced easily by hatred. Or love. Sometimes it's not even replaced, not really, sometimes the fear never leaves. Fear and love make the most common bedmates, for to truly love one must place trust in someone other than oneself. And that, that's true fear.

A thrill is endorphins released at the exact moment to counteract the sheer terror a brain is experiencing.

At least, it was for Ben.

He'd always been an adrenaline junkie. A rush that his brain woefully didn't provide most days. Feel good chemicals. A brain that just was not good at making him feel happy.

It was common. Humans aren't perfect, they never were. That fact didn't stop the anger that he couldn't just wake up and feel alive without a little help. He hated relying on help. He felt as though he was a failure because the juices just didn't flow right to create a smile. The pills helped a little, the rest was sheer determination. He knew it was always going to be a battle.

But it was a battle that he was willing to fight. It wasn't just because there was someone he wanted to see smile back at him, but because there were so many beautiful things worth battling for. Long car rides, loud music, the stars littering the country sky, good books, great movies, friends, love, human connection, food.

A change is gradual sometimes. It's soft and creeps up when it's least expected. It won't happen overnight. Sometimes it's unnoticed until you wake up and don't dread getting out of bed. Things get a little easier. You wash the dishes without putting them off another day. You see your friends and you don't think about how they'd react if you were gone. You don't break down into tears in your kitchen at three am because you can't sleep and you can't remember not feeling tired. What you're pushing against has give, and you gain inches in ground against it. You have some strength again. You have the energy to make yourself stronger against that darkness.

The darkness doesn't truly go away, but even a candle has enough light to see by.

Sometimes the change is quick. It's a breath when you realize you've been holding it. It's a jolt of laughter when you can't remember a tickle. It's the feeling that swells when you see a smile. And is not just happiness that returns. The fog blows away and you're no longer empty. Anger, sadness, jealousy, joy all punch you in the gut and you can feel human again.

And sometimes you never stop chasing a thrill.

Emotions are complex. He knew that. Feelings couldn't always be described. Humans never could quite grasp the words needed to relay the multitude of firing neurons in a moment. Not that they didn't try. Poetry and prose as soon as man was capable of speech. Even before we learned to write.

So Ben tried to explain himself to himself. Some people just want to understand. He just wanted that thrill. But lurking at the edges was always the question.

Why?

Maybe it was the lack of control. Maybe it was the fear of judgement. Maybe it was the thought of getting caught. Maybe it was his way of sticking it to the man. Maybe it was because he liked to eat. Maybe it was to feel grounded. Maybe it was the physical pain. Maybe he thought he deserved it. Maybe it was all of it.

As his mind became clearer, he had a gradual change, followed by a sucker punch of a quick one.

Possibly, there was never going to be a time when he didn't think he deserved to be punished. That's just the way his brain was wired.

He admitted to himself he craved it. He had accepted it a while ago. It wasn't too strange to enjoy giving up control.

The gradual change came like a soft kiss. A little unexpected but welcome. He knew he loved Ezra. He learned to be okay with himself and not crush feelings. Or thoughts late at night.

The quick change, that was another story, and just like the unexpected, it came with the thrill that Ben could not resist.

The idea of eating to the point just before the edge of capacity usually is not a pleasant thought. To Ben it was everything he stopped himself from doing.

He didn't let go of his control. He kept his body a sacrament to popular demand. Everything was about others. Never about him. And sometimes he wanted a fucking extra slice of cake.

He felt carved up and served to the people and he finally allowed himself to hate it.

And a damn broke and he changed. And he didn't give a single shit for once.

Not even the idea that Ezra might not like him for it.

It wasn't about her, though she frequented his fantasies. Sometimes as judgement, sometimes as sweet words encouraging another bite, and sometimes (though he didn't mean for it to come to mind) she was the one holding the fork.

[majicmarker]

well i think the problem is that i want to write something that makes me happy, but i'm Not happy, so trying to access that feeling is... murky.

[anxiouslowercase]

sas rh: let eoin survive the fall au » a tale of two lieutenants (part two)

[firstfullmoon]

does anyone have an ereader and read lots of poetry and/or pdfs on it and if so which ereader would you recommend

[idontmindifuforgetme]

i love anthologies. anthologies are so sexy

[lesamis]

Hiya lyres! What books do you have on your tbr this year?

hi anon! as always, i have left christmas with a big stack of Assigned Reading Material From My Best Friend, And Others. this is the physical tbr pile:

a few other books i either received or am looking forward to this year:

the hurting kind, ada limón (this was a gift! i've nearly finished it, it's been my early morning read.)

minor detail, adania shibli (another gift from a friend - this was on my list last year but i couldn't get my hands on it. happy to get to it now)

when the angels left the old country, sacha lamb (this was also a gift but i am SO excited for this. i love fantasy takes on angels and i've heard nothing but good things about this)

the tomb of dragons, katherine addison (this will be released in march and i am on the edge of my seat for it. give me back my favourite bedraggled little elf detective. i need to see him struggle to accept love in even more increasingly dire situations)

[coquelicoq]

[bolts upright in the shower] i need to reorganize my bookshelves

[gomzdrawfr]

End of the Year Asks: 14 and 18!

14. Favorite book you read this year?

I was gifted Sea of Strangers and it was one of the few books I finished reading so I'll pick that one!

My favourite was this:

It's over, she said. It was many years later when the quiet realization dawned on her. It's over, her heart whispered.

lot's of yearning and breakup stuff, I loved it

18. A memorable meal this year?

ohhhhhhhhhhhh had to think a long time for this...but I'll settle with: a burger lunch set by my nurse. Long story short, I didn't bring enough money for lunch, and so I stayed back in the ward to study. The nurse saw and asked why, I told her I just didn't felt like eating but she went ahead and got me food anyways....I cried afterwards LMAO restored my faith in some healthcare practitioners...(especially since THAT particular week in the new department was EXTRA gruelling and I was just having a bad fucking time overall....but that nurse really boosts my mood for the next few days)

[torchickentacos]

I'm reading poetry at 1 am and spiraling over like 45 emotions at once, which is how poetry was meant to be enjoyed, I think

[invinciblerodent]

hang on, this was a very out of pocket thought I had in like, tags on a thing, but fuck, it's actually very sweet to think about the PC early on in their relationship picking and pressing flowers for Karlach

like as a "I saw this and thought of you, but I couldn't give it to you then, so I saved it for when you can enjoy it too"? adorable.

I'm kind of really into this idea of Mara keeping a journal in her attempts to recover her memories, and also pressing flowers between the pages. I'd have to work out the specifics of how their relationship is going to work out once I get there in act 3 (I tried not to spoil myself, but something tells me a romanced Karlach is gonna be pretty upset about Gortash greeting her lover so warmly so maybe an apology gift will be needed), but the idea of the two of them going through a book-bouquet together, almost as kind of a "the person he knew is not who I am anymore, this is who I am, this is the me who loves you" thing is really sweet

like.

"this one is from near where we first met- look, this leaf is even singed where your heat had touched it, like it touched me."

"this one is from just outside camp, and I picked it the night I told you I liked you, because I was just so happy."

"this is from near Rosymorn, when I looked at you just enjoying the breeze, and thought that you looked particularly beautiful."

"this is the prettiest flower I could find near Reithwin, and it may be a pathetic, wretched little thing, but it still grew stubbornly where it wasn't supposed to, and it reminded me of how your love took root in my heart."

"this one is my favorite color, and I wasn't sure why I thought that until I realized it's the same color as your eyes."

and so on and so on.

i'm about to chew gravel istg

[rearranging-deck-chairs]

obsessed with their different reactions to being called starcrossed lovers