#and even with that I still don’t assume I’m the authority on what makes poems good or anything like that!

[kaftan]

You know when you see a post and you’re like. Well. I do hold this opinion. So I guess in that sense I agree. But everything about how this take is being communicated is so repellent to me that I want to disagree on principle

[spanishskulduggery]

Hi can you help me figure out the different between present perfect subjunctive (e.g. haya reconocido) and imperfect subjunctive (e.g. reconociera)? Not those verbs exactly but when to use them? Thank you!

They're very similar, depending on how you use them.

Note: I promise this will come into play later but I just want to make something very clear. In Spanish, there are tenses and there are moods. It may be easier to understand them in Spanish - a tense is tiempo [meaning "time"] while a mood is modo [meaning "mode"]

There are 3 moods, indicative, subjunctive, and imperative [imperative are commands; not useful for this particular discussion]

The moods encompass the different tenses... so think of it like columns; indicative includes present tense, preterite, imperfect, future, conditional etc. And subjunctive includes present subjunctive and imperfect subjunctive.

The layman's explanation is that the mood says how the language works according to the "conditions" of the sentence/thought, and the tense says at what time it happens.

A very simple layman's explanation: the mood is the "conditions" of language. The tenses say whether it was past, present, or future in some capacity.

And there's usually a version of the indicative that corresponds to the subjunctive... present tense indicative happens at the same "time" as present tense subjunctive, for example

And perfect tenses [the ones that use haber] are a bit of a rogue time traveler; they can exist in any tense and can be either indicative or subjunctive, thus he reconocido happens at the same "time" as haya reconocido... just the conditions are different

No hemos reconocido... = We haven't recognized...

Es increídible que no hayamos reconocido... = It's unbelieveable that we haven't recognized...

So while they seem to express the same thought or idea, and though they happen at the same time [tense] the conditions of the second sentence necessitate subjunctive mood.

Keep that in mind going forward and it will make a lot more sense.

-

Present perfect just in general is used for placing something a little bit in the past, but since it's present it's still affecting the present:

Escribí. = I wrote. He escrito. = I have written.

Comí. = I ate. He comido. = I have eaten.

Pagué. = I paid. He pagado. = I have paid.

In the contexts of grammar, the simple past [preterite] in the first examples is just the actions "I wrote" or "I ate" etc. The action is done and completed and over.

Note: There are many people who will use the present perfect in place of the preterite tense because they do equate to largely the same thing in function. Though technically different, it's a colloquial thing.

But in a more grammatical roundabout way, present perfect brings that past action into the present, meaning it still has some bearing on the present in some way. Saying "I have written" is a way of just talking about past actions, but possibly bringing them into the present still.

I realize that doesn't make much sense but consider something like: "I've written a lot of essays, but I don't know how to write a poem"; or "I've read a lot of books but I've never read that author".

In those contexts, your past actions now have some bearing on the present situation. That's the basis of the perfect tenses.

With the haya here, that's the subjunctive form of haber.

In grammatical terms, it's the same idea as the present perfect... just with subjunctive phrasing:

No te has roto el brazo. = You didn't break your arm. Dudo que te hayas roto el brazo. = I doubt you broke your arm.

Lo has terminado. = You finished it. / You've finished it. Dime en cuanto lo hayas terminado. = Tell me as soon as you're done. / Tell me once you've finished it.

No se han equivocado. = They weren't wrong. No creo que se hayan equivocado. = I don't believe/think they were wrong.

Me han llamado idiota. = They've called me an idiot. Aunque me llamen idiota... = Even if they call me an idiot... [present subjunctive] Aunque me hayan llamado... = Even though they have called me an idiot...

In Spanish there are certain subjunctive phrases that activate, and they exist across multiple tenses.

Certain phrases necessitate subjunctive, so it can be the same information sort of, but they'll determine whether it's indicative or subjunctive.

-

Imperfect subjunctive is the equivalent of past tense subjunctive.

So just as an example real quick:

1. Quiero que pongas la mesa. = I want you to set the table.

2. Quería que pusieras la mesa. = I wanted you to set the table.

1. Sugieren que lo hagamos. = They suggest that we do it.

2. Sugieron que lo hiciéramos. = They suggested that we do it.

1. Es importante que tenga tiempo libre. = It's important that I have free time.

2. Era importante que tuviera tiempo libre. = It was important that I had free time.

1. Aunque me hayan llamado cobarde... = Even though they have called a coward...

2. Aunque me hubieran llamado cobarde... = Even though they had called me a coward...

Still subjunctive mood, just 1 is present, 2 is "past" so it's imperfect.

Imperfect subjunctive today also encompasses future subjunctive which can be confusing. This is normally done with contrary to fact states, hypothetical situations, and your basic if/then constructions with the conditional tense.

Si tuviera el dinero... = If I had the money... Si tuviera el dinero, estudiaría en el extranjero. = If I had the money, I would study abroad.

Si pudiera... = If I could... Lo haría si pudiera. = I would do it if I could.

Si me permitiera, señor... = If you allow me, sir... Si me permitiera, señor, podría ayudar. = If you allow me, sir, I can/could help.

Si hubiera otra opción... = If there was/were another option... Si hubiera otra opción, lo elegiríamos. = If there was/were another option, we would choose it.

Como si fuera la última vez... = As if it were the last time...

Me habló como si fuera idiota. = He talked to me like I was an idiot.

No puedo creer que nuestro jefe nos regañe como si fuéramos niños traviesos. = I can't believe our boss would scold us as if we were naughty children. [technically could be niñas traviesas if it the nosotros here were nosotras referring to all women]

You will occasionally see the future subjunctive forms, but really only in literature and contracts. It's not used commonly today; it'll look like imperfect subjunctive just with -e endings; tuviere, hubiere, hablare, llamare, quisiere etc.

For example: si fuere menester is a common thing in contracts and means "in the event of". Literally it's "if it were to be needed"

-

Important historical / regional note!

Once upon a time, the -iera/-ara forms were used as pluperfect, "had done", "had seen" etc.

You see it mostly in literature, particularly literature before a certain time period or things set in the middle ages or that have an old-timey feel (like Lord of the Rings has this)

So if you had come across llamara you might assume it's imperfect subjunctive, but it may read as "had called" which is pluperfect.

In other words for some historical contexts (and only for historical contexts, not for modern day Spanish):

me hablaran = me habían hablado = they had talked to me

les escribieran = les habían escrito = they had written to them

nos dijeras = nos habías dicho = you had told us

viera = había visto = he/she/You had seen

-

I'm not a historical linguist but I believe this is because haber in older contexts was not an auxiliary verb like this. In its original form, haber worked the way Italian did as "to have". You would see el hombre ha dos hijos "the man has two children".

haber didn't get used as an auxiliary verb until later on, and tener which now means "to have", was often used in the context of "to obtain" or "to grasp"

So in these older contexts, pluperfect [now done with haber in imperfect + past participle] was done with one verb.

Imperfect subjunctive would have been done with the -iese/-ase forms. So llamase read as "would call"; si me llamasen "if they should call me" for example

Just be careful when you're reading things like that! It's usually not too bad if you can recognize the verb because at least you get the overall meaning, but if it's not quite translating how you think it might be one of those more "antiquated" usages of a tense

...

Spain still keeps this distinction more so than Latin America. You will see -ara/-iera forms used for imperfect subjunctive [past subjunctive].

But in Spain you're more likely to see those contrary to fact statements or hypotheticals with the -ase/-iese forms:

Si lo hubiese sabido... = If I had known...

Si tuviésemos más tiempo... = If we had more time...

Como si fuésemos niños... = As if we were children...

My own Spanish leans towards Latin American usages, so I tend to use -ara/-iera forms for everything.

Spain makes more of a distinction between them, and that's why in most dictionaries or conjugation charts you'll see two different forms... like "fuera O fuese" for example

-

Importante Note: You will see the -ara/-iera forms used as pluperfect in some contexts, even in Latin America - above all in journalism, biographies, and publications

This is why you may see nació "was born" written as naciera "was born"...

But you will NEVER see it as naciese for "was born"

[iovchlde]

poetry is a clear expression of mixed feelings.

he’s no expert at love poems, only dabbling in the aspect of flirting, and that he’s aware of. there’s also no better way to get more proficient than by getting some critique; so he seeks your opinions, asking for guidance and advice, on the poem he’d written out. one thing you fail to notice— it’s a confession to you.

in which kaeya tries to indirectly confess, but you need some help catching on.

pairing.

kaeya x gn!reader

genre.

fluff

author’s note.

blinks at my own writing

it’s nice and quiet where you’re at— seated on a bench in one of the more secluded parts of mondstadt. you can hear the faint laughter of the drunkards from the tavern a few blocks away, and the running water of the fountain placed in the center of the plaza. the windblume festival always had mondstadt livelier than it typically was, and all you needed was a slight change of pace from a day full of festivities. it was dark out now, and you were simply admiring the beauty of it all, in the dark.

“oh? what brings you here, y/n?” you hear a smooth voice call out to you, and you cock your head to the side to see the cavalry captain. kaeya’s leaning against one of the lamp posts, his arms crossed over his chest, and he wears his infamous smile on his face. brief eye contact is made, and you return a small smile. you can see a small letter tucked into the crevice of his arms, the teal accents contrasting to his blue attire, but you pay no mind to it. the festival was known for love after all, and you wouldn’t be surprised if he’d received some from fond citizens. “avoiding the crowd, too, i assume.”

you nod, before turning back to look at the scenery ahead of you. granted, it’s not much— only a sliver of the plaza can be seen, and all you can really admire are the glowing dandelions and the pretty garlands decorating the sky of the city. “yeah. are you running away from the hoards of love letters and gifts?” he chuckles to this, shaking his head, though not responding.

kaeya carefully makes his way towards you, seating himself on the opposite side of the bench, your hands a hair’s breadth away from touching. it was only a loveseat bench after, so there wasn’t much space to begin with. from your peripheral view, you can see him pulling out the letter that was previously tucked between his arms. “no, actually,” he starts. “i was hoping to catch you at the right time. would you be willing to listen to a poem i made?”

this catches your attention, and you throw him a questioning look; an eyebrow raised and a glimmer of curiosity swirling within your eyes. you’d never assumed kaeya to be the type to write poems, let alone poems during the windblume festival. he bites back the grin that tugs at his lips at your curious expression. “for who?” you ask, and you unknowingly lean closer in anticipation. a force of habit, if you will.

“do you promise to keep it a secret?” he asks, and you nod promptly. you’d also never assumed kaeya to be the type to write poems for someone— but this is kaeya you’re talking about. a man full of mystery and not the easiest to predict. he may have always secretly liked poems, and just skillfully hid this passion of his away from prying eyes. kaeya brings a finger to his lips, as he looks straight at you, an indication of secrecy. “someone i like.”

“what did i expect?” you deadpan at him at the lack of an answer, and you swat at his arm playfully. he doesn’t bother to dodge, simply letting you arm softly push him, and you miss the small glint of fondness that flashes across his eyes as he looks at you. “just read me the poem now. i’m actually kind of curious to see what you’ve written.”

“patience, sweetheart. i haven’t even pulled it out of the envelope yet.” he skillfully tugs away at the string that keeps the envelope together, revealing a piece of paper folded into thirds. kaeya brings a closed hand to his mouth, coughing for added dramatic effect, before he opens the paper. from what you can see, your vision of the paper being obstructed by his hands, that there wasn’t much written on the paper. “don’t be too amazed, though. it’s very simple.” you grunt at the way he’s stalling, throwing him a half-hearted glare, to which he slightly raises his arms in surrender.

“go on,” you urge him, slightly leaning over his shoulder to take a peek at the letter. he turns it out of your sight. “continue.”

“here goes nothing, i guess.” you watch as his eyes gloss over the paper, and he opens his mouth to speak. “olani hoath ol; i love you, in a distant language.”

there’s a moment of silence as you take in his words. your mouth opens and closes, simply from not being able to form a coherent opinion, like a fish straight out of water. he eyes you attentively, watching as your brow creases, and he almost snickers. “wow,” is all you’re able to say in the moment. that was unexpected, and that would be putting it lightly.

“well? do you think i should read this to the person?” he asks, though he can tell from the look on your face that you are less than impressed. you’re staring at him incredulously, baffled at the… simplicity of the poem, to put it in nicer terms. you may have not expected some great literature achievement from him, but your expectations were surely much higher than that.

“absolutely not,” you tell him, shaking your head rapidly. “unless, you want them to think you’re a creep and run away— then by all means, kaeya. go for it.”

“hm.” he brings a hand to his chin as if he’s contemplating his next move, and you can see a smirk pull at the corner of his lips. with a quick glance, he leans towards you slowly. “but you don’t seem to be running away, so i guess it does work.”

you blink once, and then twice. and after the third blink, the gears in your head start to spin and work. he’s still impossibly close to you, his eye boring straight into you and you stare back. “were you trying to romance me?” the words finally come out, and he simply grins at you.

kaeya flashes a wink at your direction, before promptly getting up from his spot on the bench. “noib is yes, in the said distant language.” right before he slips back into the crowded streets, he turns to look at you. “how about dinner sometime soon?”

you think for a moment, and you chuckle. “noib, i guess.”

[theseerasures]

why is it so hard to defect from Atlas?

Barbara Dunkelmann said during Comic-Con at Home last year that this season’s theme would be “distrust,” but i’m wondering now if the more appropriate word is “discontent.” since Divide, we’ve had arguments big and small, teams splitting up and recombining, and of course, :( and :/ galore at all the war, all the crimes, all the war crimes, and all the general bad decisions (not to be confused with James Ironwood, General Bad Decisions). we’ve now had our first major defections of the season with Hazel and Emerald, which is...interesting to me; they’re both long-runners, certainly, but part of the reason they’re long-running is because their arcs have ALWAYS been on a slow boil. for the defection to happen around the mid-season mark, a lot of things (particularly for Hazel) had to happen very quickly, particularly since they both skipped out the previous season altogether. this is made all the more interesting by the fact that the Atlesian supporting cast who filled the time in season 7 are similarly discontented, but...well, a generous reading of it would be that they’re still “figuring things out,” but we’ve also been watching them “figure things out” for two seasons now, Winter and Marrow especially. why did Hazel and Emerald defect first when they work for the main villain, when Winter and the AceOps--who have taken up more screen time cumulatively during the Atlas arc--are still hemming and hawing to various degrees?

long discussion under the cut--but the tl;dr is: it’s because they live in a (narratively constructed) society

i’m actually gonna start with the discontent that DIDN’T result in defection, which is obviously the Yang-Ruby split. we’ve known that members of Team Protagonist--most notably Yang and Ren--have had doubts for a while now, and sure enough, when push comes to shove they pick a path separate from their implicit leader. as protagonists Yang and Ren are frequently our POV characters, so we’re predisposed to sympathize with them as they doubt Ruby’s agenda, root for them as they bring it up to Ruby in conversation, and...watch as they...regretfully but cordially agree to disagree...

wait, what?

that’s the thing about Team Protagonist, especially at this point in the narrative: everyone feels safe and secure enough in themselves and in each other to communicate openly, even when they disagree. every time Yang felt uncomfortable she talked to somebody about it, and even Ren--Mr. Weaponizing Repression himself--was able to express how he felt. even if it took some prodding from Nora/Yang, even if the direction of his emotions ended up misfiring and hurting his friends--they’re his friends. his family, even. Team Protagonist is able to act and stay together so effectively because they make open communication a priority: they follow Ruby’s lead, but they also trust that Ruby will LISTEN to them, even if she doesn’t always agree.

(the reason they had this disagreement at all is because of the time they couldn’t talk things through, and just had to uncritically back Ruby’s play--when they first entered Atlas. funny, that.)

Team Salem obviously doesn’t work the same way, and this season has made it particularly explicit just how much everyone lives in a state of constant fear and surveillance. what makes solidarity and eventual rebellion possible (though terrifying), though, are two things: first, Salem--being an upstart herself--actually encourages a level of individual initiative in her followers (well. encouraged; i have a feeling with the Hound being a success and Hazel and Emerald’s defection she’s about to change her tune). she’s a master manipulator, and uses people’s individual wants to sway them to her side; but she’s also not a mind-reader, which is kind of biting her in the ass right now.

second, Salem herself is so many LEAGUES beyond everyone else on her “team” that (unless you’re actively trying to be a tit) there...isn’t actually much of a hierarchy beyond “Salem’s in charge.” Watts and Cinder--both Atlesian to varying degrees, mind--are the two who try the hardest to carve out some authority of their own, but even Watts is at least convivial with everyone (except Cinder). to be on Team Salem you have to accept that this is her world and you just live in it, and that ends up equalizing people from very disparate backgrounds with very disparate personalities and skillsets. no one, not even Tyrian, is under the delusion that Salem cares about them, or will listen to their counsel. so when it comes to the least of her followers--Emerald, who (joke copyright @professorspork) is basically Salem’s grandpet, this gerbil who follows her around now for some reason and occasionally makes weird noises (”you mean crying?” Emerald asks, crying)--it’s actually quite easy for her to escape Salem’s notice until it’s too late, while firming up the solidarities that she has (Hazel and Mercury--not Cinder).

to defect, Emerald and Hazel need a degree of narrative interiority, some sense of security with each other (even if it’s just subconscious), and time. time to work things out from their point of view, pull the wool from their eyes. this season’s narrative has given them all that and more.

our Atlesian potential defectors...haven’t been so lucky, and the most recent episode has made that contrast very explicit.

i’m sure i’m not the only one who assumed, when Ironwood first floated the bomb plan, that we’d be getting some kind of Mission Impossible sneaky stealth shit. we’re used to seeing the AceOps do small squad missions, after all, and the timing felt right thematically too, since we left War with Ren literally expositing to all of them that they do, in fact, have feelings. an extended mission to themselves would give them a chance to air out those feelings away from Atlas’ own system of surveillance, figure out what to do together...

but we didn’t get any of that. instead, we got the whoosh laser kapow version of a Sassoon poem, and the AceOps barely talked to each other at all. the only points of view we got were from Marrow, and Winter.

this isn’t the first time something like this has happened to them this season, either--remember the Penny Retrieval mission that wasn’t? there were also hopes that Marrow and/or Winter would turn at that point, but then Salem invaded. Winter and the AceOps have had the potential to defect for a while now, but the narrative has been actively withholding opportunities for them to actualize on any of that potential. it’s been actively withholding opportunities for them to act as a team, period.

it’s possible to handwave this as writerly convenience--everyone can’t defect at the same time, the episodes don’t have room for it--but the ways that defections have been prioritized so that the Atlesians come after also points to a recurring motif with Atlas, which Elm says explicitly in Witch: you can deal with your issues later.

there’s always some kind of delayed promise at Atlas, isn’t there? the Amity project will help. Mantle’s Wall will get fixed (until it wasn’t). when Penny confronts Winter about leaving Mantle to die, Winter says first that they don’t have time, and it seems like they never actually do, except for in this imagined later, when they’ll reckon with every thing that they’ve done.

it doesn’t exist, of course. fascism is only able to remain effective through the engineering of crisis, and Salem might as well be a crisis perpetual motion generator. you can’t conscientiously object if your conscience is constantly stifled by the next emergency.

what the Atlesian scenes in Witch demonstrate is this: Atlas presses down all around them, at all times. even if the AceOps want to stop policing each other and work as a real team, they can’t right now, because they are now officers in a war, because they’re constantly looked to, because they’re part of an infinitely greater machine that demands their service. and right now lasts forever--you will NEVER have time to talk out your discontent...

and even if you steal time and perspective like Marrow does (like Emerald has been doing, thief that she is) with Winter, there is no guarantee of any solidarity. what makes their conversation so simultaneously fascinating and frustrating is that there is clearly some level of rapport, or at least recognition. Marrow goes to Winter because Winter’s in charge, but Marrow also goes to Winter because Winter might hear him out...and she does. Winter does what Winter has consistently done when a person seeks her out and earnestly asks to be heard, and responds compassionately. but at the same time, Winter does what Winter has consistently done when a person seeks her out and earnestly asks to be heard: she turns away. in a conversation that is supposed to be about a shared trust between the two of them, Winter cannot bring herself to trust Marrow. the Atlesian system is built out of these hierarchies within hierarchies, distrusts within distrusts (well i guess Barbara had a point after all), and Winter, abused kid that she is, has played this game all her life. so she defaults to rank and duty--what they have to do now--and the conversation goes nowhere. Marrow leaves it as alone and bitterly resigned as when he’d entered it.

so when is this moral inertia gonna go somewhere? IS it going somewhere? well, i’m still holding out hope that the AceOps will get some time to themselves as part of Bomb the Whale, and i’m certain that even if it doesn’t fall into their lap Marrow will eventually demand it. the fact that they still work well together on the field as partners should mean something. the question is, though: what will it take to bring that later to the present?

and at what point does it become too late?

[lov3nerdstuff]

Hi Kay!

I just wanted to take a moment and say how deeply moving (and overall comforting) I find your writing to be! I've gone through almost the entirety of your masterlist twice in the past month alone and have found myself returning more often to the pieces of literature/poems your reference sometimes. (Especially that one poem by Benedict Smith! I've read a few more by him because of you and they're just wonderfully lovely 💛 so I'm eternally thankful to you for including it.)

I may be wrong in assuming, but I believe you may have studied/are currently studying a degree involving literature. I hope this isn't too foreward of me but I was wandering if you have any other works of literature that you'd recommend? (I'd love to read anything you recommend from poems to plays 💛) I'm slightly embaressed to say but the works I've read are quite limited to a highschool level and since I'm currently studying Pharmacy, there are very few people who can recommend me such moving works. :)

I also feel like I should apologise for writing such a large ask, so please accept this apology as well hehe 💕🥺

Sincerely,

Bek 🌻

Hey there Bek 💚💕✨

First of all... I'm incredibly sorry for how long it took me to reply to this ask, I know you sent it weeks ago and I'm honestly just ashamed of myself for only replying now! I've been taking a bit of a Tumblr break again, or rather a break from literally everything, and I guess not having written anything in a while made me feel guilty whenever I opened Tumblr, so... All I can say for myself really is that I'm sorry you had to wait so long! Again, I never ever ignore anyone, I promise! It just sometimes takes a while for me to reply 😅🙈

Now, I'm so happy to hear that you've been enjoying my writing! 🥺🥰 Hearing that it's comforting and inspiring to you is honestly such a relief and indeed does make me happy more than I can say 💚 It's so cool that you're checking up on all the references I make aaahhh 🥺🥺🥺 I love it 😁 You're always more than welcome, love! I don't think I could stop including references to literature, culture, history and the science around it even if I tried 😅☺️

And yeah, I did study classics and newer literature as a minor for my undergrad degree 😄 But tbh I still work with literally a lot even now (I'm in grad school for media and cultural studies) even though it's technically not something I've been properly taught ☺️ I'm just a nerd who likes to learn on her own, and with media and culture you can pretty much delve into almost anything you want 😂😅🤷🏻‍♀️

Now, it's not forward at all to ask me for literature recommendations! 😁😃 I truly love recommending stuff!!! I have a few up my sleeve, even though you've probably heard of a few already, for obvious reasons: A lot of what I truly enjoyed reading was something Tom Hiddleston has worked on in one way or another! It's truly a magnificent guideline for picking new literature... Just look up the literary origins of his films/shows/plays and you will be in for quality literature most of the time! I don't think I've ever mentioned it on here, but me reading High-Rise (JG Ballard) because I heard Tom would be partaking in the film adaptation was actually what sparked my love and passion for literature!!! Yep, it's that good. Now on to the recommendations though 😁(This... got rather long):

Plays

Anything by Harold Pinter really, but for obvious reasons you'll find a lot of additionally fun stuff for Betrayal, which is lovely and truly funny if you're in on the kind of humour btw

Medea by Euripides (a classic, but I love it nonetheless... You can find translations in almost every language) ((and pls stay away from Seneca's Medea, because ugh... Euripides is far better AND the og story, as much as anyone can say that for Greek mythology)

La Bohème by Puccini (I know, this is technically an opera, but if you read the libretto it's honestly just like a play... And if you're up for it, the og story is in prose and written by Henri Murger... It's better than the opera, but oftentimes more difficult to find) ((this one is hilarious and basically explains an entire cultural subgroup in the 19th century)

Faust by Goethe (many people hate it, but I LOVE this one!!! It's also been translated into any and every language, and it's so interesting philosophically!!! It's also referenced SO freaking often literally everywhere, and the operas and ballets based on it are always my fave) ((there's technically Faust I and Faust II, but you're good to go just reading the first one)

Anything by Shakespeare, obviously... Though I do love me my Hamlet like every other literature enthusiast (Yes, I can do that one famous soliloquy in act 3 scene 1 by heart as well...)

Poetry

Again, anything Shakespeare for the win, but I LOVE the sonnets and keep a copy of them with me most of the time (Yes, I own multiple copies of the sonnets...) ((My faves are 116 and 91, but there's always so much truth to be found in there!!!))

A lot of the stuff William Blake wrote is amazing, though you have to pick carefully with him if certain religious motives aren't your thing... I love The Tyger, which is an individual poem, and the collection of works called Tyger, Tyger which does have many good ones and a few ones that are a little more on the mediocre side

Do not go gentle into that good night by Dylan Thomas (I know this one by heart as well... It's beautiful, and there's a version of Hiddleston reading it on YouTube, which gives you even more goosebumps than the poem does anyway)

Invictus by William Ernest Henley (same for this one, also read by the one and only) ((I love to read this when I'm feeling down or powerless))

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T. S. Eliot (This is another wow piece with many quotable lines and truths... I love it a lot and keep coming back to it! It's also a great example of how literary modernism tried to condense the complexity and passing of time and history into a single frame that had to be intrinsically poetical in nature... As in, this poem could've been a short story in any other period, but modernists loved to make everything a poem so here you go)

Der Zauberlehrling by Goethe (This one sucks in all English translations I’ve found, poetically speaking, but in German it’s such a fun piece! If you’ve ever seen the Disney ‘The Sorcerer’s Apprentice’ with Mickey Mouse or listened to the orchestral piece by Paul Dukas, then this poem proves very useful in truly understanding either! But again, the English translation should only be taken for informational value... The German one is also worded hilariously)

Prose

Short edited by Alan Ziegler (This is a collection of short prose forms that honestly is a must for me... I love this book to pieces and have had it for years now! It’s an international anthology, so you’ll find more and less famous authors from all around the world represented with short stories, prose poems, short essays and just curious and interesting snippets of writing! I draw a lot of inspiration from this book)

High-Rise by JG Ballard (As mentioned above, I owe this book part of my personality... I don’t think I would be the same person without having read it. It’s not necessarily full of wisdom, but if you’re interested in a different kind of portrayal of the human condition, then this is the read you need to take a look at)

The City of Dreaming Books by Walter Moers (This is another piece that changed my perception of literature, even though this is a more ordinary and ‘fun’-value read... It’s one of my favourite books and it’s endlessly entertaining! So if the classics are a bit heavy for you, this one is perfect for casual readers as well! Its value really does lie more in the realisation of how fun literature can be, and the freedom you have as an author... So really, I could recommend everything by Moers, his style is amazing both in the German original and in the English translation. Yes, I’ve read both.)

Good Omens by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett (This is comedic gold, stylistic gold and generally a bloody perfect book. Also a ‘fun’-value read, but it also does a magnificent job at showing you what you can do with literature, and how well-developed characters are supposed to be written)

The Penguin Book of the Undead (Penguin Classics) edited by Scott G. Bruce (This book is basically an education on fifteen hundred years of supernatural encounters and how culture wrote, used and perceived them. You get introductory texts for different periods and social groups, explaining how and why ghost stories were written and used, followed by passages of the prime source texts (eg. ancient necromancy shown on The Odyssey). Really, this book is just for cultural history nerds)

The Earthquake in Chile by Kleist (This isn’t necessarily one of my faves, but it has helped me understand what studying literature and culture can do for you. In case anyone remembers my insistence in Wicked Game that you gotta know what a pomegranate symbolises... this novella is such an instance where this knowledge would prove useful. Generally, it gives many opportunities to think about privilege and circumstance)

The Symposium by Plato (You’ll probably not want to read the entire collection of speeches tbh... But the concepts introduced mainly here and in some of Plato’s other work are well worth looking into! For example, the ‘double being’ introduces a concept that in modern fiction is called soulmates... Just sayin’)

[goldentournesol]

The Receptionist and The Profiler (Three)

Chapter Three: Minimal Loss

(Spencer Reid x f!Reader)

Series Masterlist

General Masterlist

A/N: as a heads up, a large part of this chapter is a flashback, separated by ~~~. angst of minimal loss, buckle up y’all it’s getting serious!

Some cases don’t require the whole team to go investigate. Sometimes a few members go out to consult on something and come right back. Apparently, a 911 call had been received from a 15 year old girl saying that a man was sexually assaulting her and other girls her age. The call came from inside a cult’s base and now Spencer and Emily were sent to the ranch to investigate the leader, Benjamin Cyrus. Y/N selfishly wanted to tell Hotch to send someone else in place of him, but she knew Spencer was the least intimidating of the bunch and so it made sense for him to go undercover as a child victim interview expert alongside Emily.

Y/N watched as JJ zoomed straight past her desk and stood behind Derek’s desk, “Morgan.” she said, flicking the volume button of the TV across the room, panic fighting its way through her voice.

Morgan and Y/N’s attention went straight to the news reporter on the TV, “--what is reportedly being called a routine questions and answers meeting by Colorado child services has turned into a violent and deadly standoff between Colorado authorities and a French religious group known as Separtatian sect. The raid--”

“JJ, that’s not the ranch Prentiss and Reid--” Morgan said, standing from his desk.

“They’re still inside.” JJ informed.

“HOTCH!” Morgan yelled across from the bullpen, sending panic and goosebumps to every nerve ending in Y/N’s body. All she could think was, not again, please, God, not again.

Suddenly, all the phones of the bullpen began ringing. Y/N was absolutely frozen in her seat, not even aware of the phone on her desk ringing its wire off. It was like the air was heavy and she couldn’t breathe. She was vaguely aware of JJ’s outline as she approached her and placed her hands on her shoulders.

“Y/N. Y/N!” JJ called out as if she’d been calling her name for hours already, for all she knew, she had. Y/N unexpectedly felt a salty bead of water enter her mouth through her lips, she was crying.

“JJ...not again, JJ.” She practically whimpered, shaking her head in disbelief. The blonde’s heart wrenched in her chest as she thought back to the events of Georgia.

“It’s okay, it’s okay. We’re on our way to him right now. We’re going to do our best to get them out. I need you to stay strong for me now, alright? The phone’s going to be ringing a lot, we need you here.” JJ attempted to comfort her and Y/N was quick to compose herself, nodding.

“Yes, yes, I know. I’ve got it.” She sniffled, rubbing her cheeks. JJ pulled her into a quick tight hug, well, as tight as she could with her growing belly between them. Y/N squeezed her tight, “You get him back to me safely, JJ.” She whispered and the blonde nodded before taking off with the rest of the team.

“Is she okay?” Morgan muttered to JJ as they speed walked out of the building, secretly wondering if that’s how friends should react to hostage situations.

“I’m not sure.” JJ answered honestly and the two shared a pointed look. 

It was no secret that there was something going on between Y/N and Reid, they knew they held intense feelings for each other, however the team decided to stay out of it...for the most part. Derek, on the other hand, was very good at not missing opportunities to mess with Reid and tease the hell out of him.

It took Spencer a while to get back on his feet, especially after Gideon had departed, but Y/N helped him every step of the way. She drove him to NA meetings whenever she could. She helped him take his mind of things when he was having cravings. She finally, finally agreed to learn how to play chess, even though she was positive she was destined to lose. She’ll never forget how excited he got when she’d offered.

~~~

“Wait--what?” Spencer stopped mid-sip from his morning coffee. The team hadn’t filed in yet, but he was hanging around her desk like he usually did when she told him.

“Yup, you heard me. I’ll let you finally teach me how to play.” Her eyes twinkled with playfulness and he could have sworn his heart swelled twice its size. He was aware that he was gaping at her, but for some reason he couldn’t stop. The thought of sitting across from her so closely and for so long as he tried to teach her the moves was enough to make him forget his words.

“Hello? Earth to Spencer?” She laughed, waving a hand in front of his face. He snapped out of it, blushing.

“Yes! Yes, I’ll teach you! We’re going to have so much fun!” He exclaimed, his face practically splitting in half from his grin. She was about to make a comment about how it wouldn’t be so fun to lose to him (the whole point of not wanting to learn it in the first place), but she decided the genuine excitement on his face was worth more than winning ever would be. 

~~~

She also remembered him practically fangirling to her over David Rossi’s books. He was so excited when the other founder of the BAU joined the team in place of Gideon. Of course, Spencer had read all his books and was more than ready to recite them to her if she wanted him to but she preferred to keep the crime and the gore at a minimum, preferring to hear about Victorian love stories and obscure children’s stories that are told in African villages she’d never heard of before. Rossi was a fairly nice man, much warmer than Gideon but was still somewhat cagey upon joining the team. She didn’t really blame him, he’d left the job only to come back to it years later and find a bunch of younger hotshot agents in the unit he created. At least Rossi took the time to learn her name and smile at her in the mornings. 

Sometimes he’d sit and watch the two interact from his office. He’d assumed they were together when he’d first joined the team, almost a year ago now. Seeing how they leaned into each other when they spoke and maintained such intense eye contact, it just made sense to him. That and the fact that he’d noticed the way Reid was so much more comfortable around her than he was with his team mates. He’d note the not-so-subtle lingering hand touches on arms and the way they chose not to move their knees away from each other if they bumped. But, most of all, what he thought was a dead giveaway, was the way they smiled at each other; they smiled with their whole faces. Spencer’s mood seemed to brighten around her and even though he hadn’t known the young genius for long, he knew that that was a good sign. If he hadn’t seen Y/N and Anderson getting in the same car together, he’d never have guessed that they were together, much less engaged. You don’t need to be a profiler to know what the longing glances across the bullpen meant, though. Or the sad eyes she gave him every time he left for a case. Or the hug she gave that was obviously tighter than anyone else’s when they came back.

Hopefully, he’ll come back this time.

Y/N was practically a mess at her desk after they all left. She was glad that Anderson was currently not around, then she remembered she should be wanting his presence. That is...assuming he brought her comfort. He didn’t. She took calls to try and distract herself from her panic but she found herself freaking out in between them. Her eyes traveled to the far corner of her desk where the book she was currently reading sat. She smiled as she saw the tassel fall from in between the pages of the book. The book felt heavy as she opened it, she slipped the bookmark from in between the pages, and pushed the book aside. The raised letters of her favorite poem felt familiar as her fingertips touched them. She touched the words as if they could seep into her bloodstream and finally calm her. She remembered the day he gave her the bookmark.

~~~

After years and years of participating in the office Secret Santa, Spencer finally got Y/N. He was overjoyed, in fact, he couldn’t wait to give her her gift. He had it meticulously planned out. He was ready. He poured out his heart and soul in a letter first (this took the longest). Turns out, confessing your undying love for someone wasn’t as easy as it looked on screen. With all the letters he’d written in his lifetime, he was positive this one would be no different. But, man, he couldn’t have been more wrong.

 Then, he made the bookmark. Store bought would never impress her. He struggled with finding the right kind of paper and the right kind of string for the tassel, but thankfully Garcia had his back. She even helped him laminate it so it could last, for years and years. The way he wanted to last with her. He printed the words of her favorite poem. One that he’d never forget, and not even because of his eidetic memory. He chose a shiny gold string to represent the strings of fate. He had told her once the ancient Greek myth of the Moirai, the three women responsible for fate. Although he’d gone in way too great of detail, she hung onto every word. He knew she’d remember the story whenever she saw the gold string. He hoped she might pick up on what he was trying to say.

That fate would always bring them together. 

That he knew that she was it for him, but if he wasn’t it for her, that’d be okay, too.

She’d also complained all too often about the nasty coffee at work, claiming that she wished she never tasted the “vile bean juice”. It was enough to shift her off of coffee completely, unless it was from the coffee shop on the corner of Spencer’s street (he took her there a lot and he liked to bring her her favorite drink in the mornings when he wasn’t rushing in). But she’d recently gotten into teas, and was annoyed at her teapot at home because she said it just tasted weird. So of course, he researched the best kind of teapot possible and hunted every single kitchenware store in DC down until he found it. She’s gonna love it.

To top it all off, he decided to get her a necklace. While looking for the teapot, a small silver necklace caught his eye in one of the shops. A small birthstone hung by two chains, he recognized it as her own, and it was perfect. 

He placed the gifts and the letter inside the teapot carefully and placed two pieces of tape to ensure the top doesn’t come off in the box before making his way to Garcia’s apartment. It was really no surprise she decided to host the Christmas party, considering her love of all things Christmas. He was buzzing with nervous energy as he set the gift box under the tree. He was the first to arrive, which meant he had to endure Garcia’s endless questions about the finished gift. She pried it all out of him, even the letter. Garcia was practically jumping up and down as he told her about the contents of the letter. He didn’t know he and Y/N were such a hot topic around the office. A few minutes later, the team flowed in, one by one. Y/N and Anderson were the last to arrive.

But something felt different as they entered the apartment. Her smile was brighter than usual and she seemed extra comfortable around her fiance. He thought maybe he was reading into it too much, but then even Emily noticed.

“Woah, Y/N! You look literally radiant, what’s going on?” She asked as the couple struggled to find places to sit. Anderson found a seat on the couch and offered her his lap. Spencer watched as she blushed and pursed her lips shyly, leaning into her fiancé as he wrapped his arms around her waist. Spencer practically had a nervous ugly green creature growing inside of him. He’s decided to name him Carl. Might as well name him, you know, since he seemed to be around a lot lately. He shifted in his seat a little, which made Morgan glance over at him.

“Well, we were going to wait until later to tell everyone, but I guess that’s the downside to being friends with profilers.” She laughed and shared a look with Anderson, whose hand was grasped tightly in hers. 

Spencer noticed her change in vocabulary, she said ‘we’ instead of ‘I’. He grew more and more nervous as the pause lengthened. He had to physically put his hands on his knees to keep them from bouncing.

“We finally set the date! Next August!” She exclaimed and Spencer’s heart absolutely combusted in the same exact moment. 

He immediately drowned out the cheers of congratulations and kisses on cheeks. The sinking feeling in his chest seemed to strive for more. More destruction. 

He was vaguely aware of Morgan grabbing his shoulder and giving him a pointed look, reminding him of his silence. Morgan felt bad for the kid, but didn’t want to embarrass Y/N. Spencer snapped out of his trance and swallowed heavily.

“Congratulations, guys.” He mustered a smile and she beamed at him.

“Thanks, Spence!” He barely registered it.

It was finally happening. 

The wedding. 

And he’d have to go.

And see her.

And smile at her like his heart hadn’t been ripped from his chest and placed at the altar for everyone to see as it beat for absolutely no reason.

Seriously, what was the point of his heart beating if it wasn’t beating for her?

Except, he knew it’ll always beat for her, even if she didn’t want it.

He’d have to watch her marry another man.

Watch as she walked away from him rather than toward him.

Everyone pretended not to look at Spencer but he could feel the glances anyway.

Oh no.

The letter.

The letter that was in the teapot under the tree! 

Spencer didn’t know his heart was capable of beating as fast as it was. He sent a panicked look to Penelope, hoping she’d get the message, but she was too busy coming up with wedding ideas. Spencer could feel panic oozing out of the pores of his skin. Morgan took him aside and into the kitchen.

“Kid, you alright?” Morgan asked, watching as his younger teammate squirmed in the kitchen.

“This is bad, Morgan. This is bad.” Spencer paced around the kitchen, hands in his hair.

“I know, kid, I know. But you need to calm down.” Morgan tried to reason with him.

“No, Morgan! You don’t understand!” Spencer whisper-yelled as he gripped his shoulders and Morgan saw his wild eyes, “You don’t understand! The letter!”

Morgan steadied Spencer, “Reid, breathe. What letter?”

“I’m her secret Santa. I wrote her a letter, Morgan. I wrote her a letter, a letter which contains very sensitive information that she cannot read right now--o-or ever!” Spencer’s hands flew to his hair again and Morgan had to think quickly.

“Okay, okay. I’ll help you, we need to think of a way to get the letter out of the box.”

“Morgan, it’s inside the teapot-- which is taped shut by the way-- inside the box, under the tree!” He flailed around nervously.

“Damn, man. Okay, just follow my lead. When she opens her gift, I’ll distract her and Anderson and you have to get that letter out.”

Spencer nodded and when they joined the rest of them outside, people were already opening their gifts, one by one. Spencer waited anxiously as she began to unwrap her gift.

“Oooh, I’m excited!” She said, carefully unwrapping the wrapping paper and opening the box, still seated on Anderson’s lap. She gasped, “It’s a teapot!” 

Spencer grimaced as he watched Morgan fake a trip and spill his drink all over Anderson’s shirt, getting some on Y/N’s back.

“Shit, man! I’m so sorry!” Morgan glanced at Spencer and Spencer jumped into action as the couple were distracted by the spilled drink. He quickly unstuck the tape on the teapot and lifted the lid enough to squeeze his hand through to remove the letter. He stashed it away in the pocket of his cardigan. In fact, he planned on burning it when he got home. He successfully restored the gift to how it was before they returned from the bathroom.

“No one says a word.” Reid warned the rest of the group, who were watching the whole debacle like it was a spectacle. They all undoubtedly figured out what was written in that letter, therefore they understood and nodded.

“Not a peep.” Garcia said, locking her lips with an imaginary key.

“Anyway! Now that that’s all sorted out. Back to the teapot.” Y/N came back to her gift and her seating arrangement.

“Um, you should...you should look inside. There’s um, bonus gifts.” Spencer was absolutely beet-red in the face. 

But Y/N knew the gift was from Spencer the second she saw the wrapping paper, which was full of adorable snowmen dressed in Christmas clothing. She grinned, remembering the argument between them which started by her telling him how cute she thought snowmen wearing clothes was and him getting frustrated trying to explain to her how snowmen wouldn’t need protection from the cold. She opened up the teapot and pulled out the bookmark. Spencer watched her eyes soften as they roamed over the words of her favorite poem. She toyed with the gold string of the bookmark as she reached into the pot again and pulled out the small pouch that contained the necklace. She pulled it out and gasped.

“Oh, Spencer, it’s all so perfect. Thank you.” She moved the gifts aside and wrapped him in a hug. Spencer stopped listening to the persistent ache in his chest as he hugged her back. He let all his senses be consumed by her, just temporarily. He found peace in that moment and he tried his hardest to hold onto that peace as he watched her fiancé clip the necklace onto her neck. 

Oh, what he’d give to be in Anderson’s place.

~~~

She smiled at the memory the bookmark brought. She found her fingers weaving themselves through the gold strings gingerly. That seemed to calm her nerves enough for now. Garcia had convinced her to go home finally after promising to call her and let her know if anything changed.

2 days.

It was 2 days before she heard any news. She had been cooped up with Garcia in her batcave for emotional support. Also she wanted to know about any advancements as soon as possible. Garcia and Y/N were currently watching a live feed from some news channel.

“Damn, how did he know there were FBI agents in there? Word travels--” Garcia began but the explosion on screen cut her off. Y/N stood up from her seat abruptly.

“What was that?! Garcia, was that the ranch?!” Y/N all but screamed with panic, “Penelope! Answer me!” Garcia’s stunned face was paired with teary eyes as she turned to look at Y/N. Garcia frantically called Hotch and Rossi, but no one answered.

“No, no, no. NO! This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening, Penelope. Are we sure Spencer and Emily were still inside?” Y/N’s voice wavered as she held her hands to her chest in disbelief. Garcia shrugged honestly and wordlessly.

“NO!” She began sobbing uncontrollably, falling to her knees, mumbling nearly incoherently, “I never got to tell him...I never got to tell him.” 

Garcia fell to the floor, holding the sobbing woman as best as she could without falling apart herself. Y/N gripped her tight as she felt the walls closing in on her. Her chest felt tight and she suddenly felt as if the air was ripped from her lungs. She could hear strangled sobs, but wasn’t even registering that they were her own.

It was too late.

She’d never see his smiling hazel eyes again. She’d never hear his hearty laugh once more. She never told him. She never told him how deeply her love for him ran. What was she waiting for? She’d waited too long. How utterly stupid of her. And now there’s no chance. He’s gone...he’s pulverized into bits and pieces--

The phone rang and Garcia leapt to it ungracefully, “Sir?! Reid and Prentiss--”

“They’re okay, Garcia. They made it out in time. With Morgan.” Hotch said sternly.

“Morgan was in there?!” Garcia screamed into the phone.

“Yeah, but I’m alright, babygirl, don’t you worry ‘bout me.” Morgan’s silky voice was heard from farther away. Garcia was about to reply when Y/N snatched the phone from her.

“Spencer?! Spence, are you there? Are you okay?!” She half-sobbed into the phone, not wanting her voice to give her away completely.

“Yes, yeah, I’m here. I’m alive.” Spencer choked out, relief flooding her system as she heard his voice. He was very much still alive and breathing, albeit with difficulty. Y/N didn’t register the rest of the conversation between Hotch and Garcia. She lay back in her seat and buried her face in her hands, trying to control her breathing. Garcia hung up and rested a kind hand onto her shoulder.

“Whew, that was a close one.” She said with a small smile. Y/N took her hands off her face and met with her warm eyes, “You know you’ll have to tell him eventually.” Y/N froze in her place again. She suddenly avoided her friend’s gaze. She was really hoping she hadn’t caught onto that. “It’s okay, pumpkin, we can all see it.”

She was right, oh my God, she was right.

“No, I don’t--I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re wrong, whatever you think you know, you’re wrong.” Y/N felt bad saying those words but there was nothing else she could do to protect herself. Garcia stayed silent, but gave her a look that shook Y/N at her very core.

Later, on the jet, Morgan took a seat next to Reid and stared at him intently before speaking.

“So, a little birdie tells me your girl was pretty heartbroken…” He trailed off, but not without an obvious wiggle of his dark brows.

“Morgan, for the last time, she is not ‘my girl’, she is engaged. She is very much someone else’s girl.” Reid rolled his eyes, attention going back to his book, although he tried to ignore the way his heart fluttered at the thought. He didn’t know if his heart was fluttering because of what Morgan called her, or because she was so torn up about the thought of him dying. He knew he shouldn’t ever feel good about someone else’s pain, but what did her pain mean?

“So what? Engaged ain’t married, pretty boy.” Morgan shrugged, saying it as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Spencer shook his head at his friend.

Back in the bullpen, Y/N waited for their arrival ever so anxiously by the glass doors across from the elevator. She was rolling onto the balls of her feet and bouncing with anticipation. It didn’t even matter that it was half past 3 in the morning. She had to see him. 

The ding of the elevator was the most comforting noise she’d heard in about a week. There he was, way in the back of the elevator, lifting his gaze from the floor to meet with hers. They both broke into the largest grins they’ve ever seen. She practically pushed Morgan out of her speedy way as he stepped off the elevator and slammed into Spencer with enough force to knock the air out of the both of their chests. Spencer caught her gladly and spun her around, laughing.

“I thought I lost you.” Y/N whispered into the embrace.

“I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.” Spencer replied softly into her hair.

The team all watched the reunion, adoration clear on their faces.

Emily was caught mumbling, “Damn, I wish I had someone to greet me like that after almost dying.” This, of course, resulted in a full blown bear hug from Garcia.

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[brandstifter-sys]

Sonnets

Word Count: 2144 (Ao3)

Pairing: Dukexiety with some Creativitwins

Rating: T+

Warnings: Sexual themes, brotherly angst, talk of death

Roman finds a journal and assumes it’s Remus’ but when Remus says it’s not his Roman leaves him with it, so he has some time to read. Little does he know what will come from perusing that book.

-----

Remus was chaos, he didn't bend to anyone else's rules unless he wanted to. Almost nothing was off the table for him—gore, violence, monsters, pain—but he had limits. Don't steal Janus' hat when he isn't holding or wearing it, because an angry Janus meant silence, or worse being silenced and alone. Never ever get too gross with Patton, because he will scream and cry and flash those hideous puppy dog eyes! Stay at least 6 feet away from Logan or suffer through a lecture on how little influence the duke held. Never let Roman hurt himself so bad he can't heal. And never ever read Virgil's diaries. 

Remus was happily throwing shurikens at a large canvas with paint balloons, having fun despite only hitting the ones filled with red. It was just a little annoying to only have one color on a solid white background, and even more annoying when it was Roman's colors staring at him. Roman hadn't been much of a good brother in the past few years, and it stung to think about how they drifted apart. How almost everyone ran from him to Roman. It hurt to be so lonely. 

"Greetings, Your Disgrace!" Roman said as he entered the castle atrium suddenly. Remus threw another star that lodged itself in the canvas with a splash and a thump, and grinned manically at the unsettled prince. 

"Well if it isn't MacBetty himself!" Remus said and cracked his neck sharply, "What hell did I probably unleash on you today?" 

"Don't flatter yourself," Roman scoffed and held up a black journal with sparkling green trim, "You left this in the common area." 

"Did I?" he asked and righted his head with a sickening pop. He was as bad as Roman about collecting cool journals and never filling them, so it could be his, even if he didn't recognize it. Roman handed it to him and crossed his arms. 

"It would appear so. If Logan yells at me for leaving my notes lying about, he will certainly yell at me for yours." 

Remus hummed softly and ran his fingers over the cover, ignoring the jab. The trim pricked his fingers as they glided over it. It was a nice journal, but definitely not something he conjured up. He supposed it might have been a gift, but that would mean someone made something for him—someone other than Janus, and maybe just one other side, but he remembered every gift Virgil ever gave him.

"He likes to yell. Are you sure this is mine?" he questioned, still learning the rise and fall of the trim.

"I assumed, considering the design. I don't like to open other people's journals," Roman answered. Remus knew he was scared of leafing through it, probably expecting some security monster popping out the second he opened it. He didn't blame him for that one, but it stung nonetheless.

"Me neither, but now I'm curious!" Remus laughed and opened to a random page. It was all hand-written poetry. Interesting!

"It's a poetry book! Wanna hear one? It could be a hint!" Remus wiggled his eyebrows. Roman let out a short sigh but went tense. 

"I have other things to do. I came to drop off the book and now I must depart. Farewell." Roman bowed and sank out with flourish. He left far too quickly for comfort.

"Love you too, nice seeing you again, don't be a stranger," Remus pouted and went back to his room, too bummed to paint anymore. 

  He rose up and flopped on his bed with the journal open. Some angsty poetry might make him feel better. He got comfy and let his eyes traverse the page

My mouth is dry Sugary sweet and kind Choking me with my own tongue Out of everything, that saccharine isn't a lie

Remus pursed his lips. That one was really short, and with the talk of lies, he had to wonder. Was this actually Roman's? Did he want to share this with him covertly? Remus bit back a squeal at the thought and kept reading with some hope. 

Lost in translation Obstinate and selfish Get over yourself Avoidance builds pressure Never any quiet when you snap

Remus giggled, knowing exactly who that one was about! Someone pissed the author off! And he knew that that person pissed Roman off a lot! He turned the page, expecting to learn more about this author, believing they could be his brother wanting to reconnect. He was a little surprised to find a skull doodled in the corner but brushed it off.

I want to pull him from the shadows and into my heart Will he see me? Will he disappear if I reach for his hand? Am I blind and staggering in desperation? Someone like him would be better without me Someone like him deserves someone better No star deserves to succumb to a black hole

That one hurt. Remus wiped away the tears forming in his eyes. He knew that feeling all too well. The one side who made him want to obey, the side that made his heart flutter like the bats in his tummy—that side was his best friend and then he left. He missed his partner in crime and he wished that Virgil would come back, just for a visit, and spend time with him again. But that wasn't happening and he had a whole book to read about an author he could really connect with, Roman or not.

He went through several poems that were angsty and angry, full of self-loathing. With each piece he read, the more he doubted it was Roman. The language wasn't formal enough and it didn't match his style at all! It was good stuff, most of it, and Remus kind of hoped the real author would be willing to collaborate with him. He liked this guy.

Like the sun overhead, you're on fire The big man has a little golden boy Pompous and cruel with haughty desire Which one of us are you gonna destroy?

Darkness and shadow that cannot be lit Overshadowing you to make it stop Use that hubris to land another hit I'll keep fighting until the curtains drop

You think you're Hercules when you're so weak Rise like a phoenix Icarus, just try  Maybe you'll learn what it means to be meek Until that day you won't see me cry

I will rain on your parade every damn time Stopping stupidity is my worst crime

Okay so that one threw him for a loop. It would take a few minutes to piece it together. Remus decided that he could assume it was about Roman this time. Princey loved the classics and he had a pet phoenix. This author had some beef with him! Remus hoped for more anger at Roman with the next poem, because he certainly had enough pent up with the snobby, best-friend stealing, always got the spotlight prince. He didn’t get that catharsis, he got more than he bargained for.

I find comfort in breathing in his scent Even if his hands are mine for tonight If he asks, I don't know where his clothes went What I'm doing is wrong but it feels right

If I close my eyes I can taste his kiss A dream in a nightmare clouding my mind Hearing my name on his lips would be bliss To pin him down, our fingers intertwined

I long to stare into piercing jade pools So he thinks of me while I stake my claim I want him to never want to let go I always thought that love was just for fools But on his green sash, love, or something, came I almost regret that he'll never know

This was definitely not a book the author wanted to share. Remus was pretty sure that his face was going to melt off. Now he really wanted to figure out who wrote these! Someone actually liked him like that at some point! It definitely wasn't Princey in that poem—Remus still had the sash mentioned! He was just the tiniest bit turned on, but most of his hype went into his famous wiggles.

"You're so dead!" 

Remus jolted up and beamed. Virgil never stopped by anymore, so when he popped up threateningly, Remus was too happy to care or put the pieces together.

"And how do you wanna kill me? I have some suggestions!" he sang and shimmied. Virgil scowled and crossed his arms. 

"Have Janus wipe your memory and give it back." 

"What, the book?" Remus questioned and held it up. Virgil snatched it and held it to his chest protectively. Remus' eyes widened in horror.

"You wrote all that?! And I read it!? Oh no no no no no! I had no idea—I'll get Hisster Myde and scrub it away with steel wool! Dammit I am so sorry, Sca–Virgil!" Remus yelped and got up to pace. His only rule about Virgil, broken! The only rule he wanted to follow—tarnished!

"Were you about to call me 'Scabby Doo' again?" Virgil scoffed, hiding the fear and hurt he felt. 

"No, 'Scare Bear,' something kinda cute but that’s not important right now!" Remus answered, "I read your stuff without asking! I might be a crazed Camus Stranger boy, but I have some standards!" 

"Remus. Breathe. You're gonna wipe this trash from your memory and it'll be okay," Virgil tried to soothe him, only for the duke to go rigid. 

"Trash!?" Remus snarled and spun on his heels and marched up to Virgil until the lumbering emo hit the wall, confused and scared. 

"It's not trash! I know trash! I eat it for breakfast! That book holds some of the best stuff my critical creative ass has read in ages!" Remus snapped and glared up at him with a fire in his eyes. 

"What?" 

"Those poems are great! I was gonna find the author and beg on my knees like a needy subby bitch to collab with him because holy shit! I felt something with each one!" 

"Even the one with the skull doodle on the page?" Virgil squeaked, his face a beautiful shade of red. Remus smiled sadly. 

"Yeah, that one hit a little too close to home. I got all teary eyed. Thinking about it now after reading that saucy sonnet, it really hurts!" 

"I uh—" Virgil stammered, "I'm, uh, 'm sorry for the sash and the whole—"

"If you apologize for anything else I am going to lip wrestle that apology away!" Remus cut him off, "Because dammit, Virgil, I love you, even if you don't feel the same way anymore. No more self-hate and no more doubting yourself." 

"Puppy," Virgil said and finally took back some control, guiding Remus back and having him sit down, "I can't promise I'll be able to stop that completely, but if you can stand a little bit of it, I wouldn't mind making that collab a date." 

"Really!?" Remus grinned making Virgil's eyeshadow turn purple, "Can we paint too? And watch scary movies? And make out? And then try and woo each other with some dark prose until one of us caves and asks the other to be his boyfriend? And then f—" 

"Yeah," Virgil cut him off and pressed a finger to Remus' lips, "Except for the part about caving. Will you–I mean, only if you want to, would you–and it’s cool if you say ‘no’ since things might be a little weird but—”

“Band-aid, Emoraptor!” Remus cut him off, like he used to do back in the day when Virgil started down one of his nervous tangents.

“Maybe be my boyfriend now?" Virgil said quickly and winced.

"Yes!" Remus cheered and dragged Virgil into a hug, tumbling on the sheets, "Loom over me like a cypress tree and stay with me until I taste death for a night." 

"Stay here and cuddle until we pass out like touch starved gremlins? Only if you visit me in the abyss until this world calls," Virge mused and wrapped his arms around the duke, curling around him protectively. 

"And then the next," Remus hummed softly and kissed his hand, “But you’re always in my dreams!” Virgil buried his face in Remus’ neck and smiled against his skin. Who would have thought that they would wind up here?

Roman sat on his bed and stared at the collage of pictures he had on the wall. In the very center was an old drawing of him and Remus in front of a castle. He sighed wistfully and stared at it, admiring Remus' work. He hoped that sneaking into Virgil's room was worth it—he wanted Remus to be happy even if he couldn't provide that joy. Maybe one day he’d be able to, but until then, he hoped he got his best friend and brother together to make some amends if not more.

[revolutionary-demosthenes]

4th of July: John Laurens and Slavery, and why we shouldn’t idolize him

I’ve written several drafts of posts trying to explain John Laurens’s complicated relationship with slavery and, in a broader sense, how the hypocrisy of freedom for our country--while denying the freedom of enslaved people--has led directly to the situation we find ourselves in now, in terms of race in America.

I’ve struggled with even going there, because I’m trying to focus on the present now, not the past. But I firmly believe that America can only fix its present once we’ve faced our past. And I want this information on my blog. John Laurens was not a perfect man, not even close. He was an abolitionist, yes. But how he came to these views is complicated and his personal conduct towards African-Americans is often troubling. Too often, in fact, the racist ideas of his era are visible in his writings.

There’s lots out there about not glorifying or idolizing historical figures, such as Thomas Jefferson, Washington, and other slave-owners.

This is becoming particularly clear today, with the truth of violent systemic racism in America finally becoming more fully recognized. When people watch videos of a black man begging for his life under the knee of a policeman, that brutality becomes undeniable.

But John Laurens is often exempt from this “historical disclaimer” of sorts. In the world of the Hamilton fandom and even more broadly in history, he becomes The Abolitionist, a White Savior figure who abhorred slavery and fought for racial justice, no exceptions, no fine print.

But there is a fine print for John Laurens. And it is a vital one to examine, because it shows us the importance of carrying our beliefs into our personal lives, not just our political ones.

First, let’s acknowledge the circumstances John was born into.

South Carolina, where he was born in 1754, was a southern colony, and as such relied mainly on agriculture in its economy. The rich plantation owners were the pinnacle of society. Washington’s family is an example of one such rich and powerful plantation owning family. The wealth and standing in society of these men led to positions in the government. And a man who illustrates this perfectly is none other than Henry Laurens.

Henry Laurens, John Laurens’s father, was, despite his pleading to the contrary, a significant slave owner and slave trader. Though in his private life he claimed to dislike slavery, he co-owned the largest slave-trading house in North America, Austin & Laurens. It doesn’t matter what he thought, or claimed to think. What matters is what he did.

Henry Laurens owned between close to three hundred slaves. His attitude toward the treatment of his own slaves was dehumanizing, self-righteous, and willfully ignorant. He chose to look upon himself as a “good” slave owner, rather than actually face the horrors he was perpetrating. He wrote in a letter that he’d rather treat his slaves “with Humanity” and make “less Rice” than “submit to the Charge of one who should make twice as much rice & exercise any degree of Cruelty towards those poor Creatures who look up to their Master as their Father, their Guardian, & Protector.” What Henry is trying to say here (to my reading) is that he’d rather his plantation produce less of a crop and not work his slaves too hard than treat his slaves cruelly to produce more profit.

Henry Laurens, in an attitude that is all too familiar today,  consistently chose to think of himself as an exception to the problem rather than as part of the problem. He was quick to talk up abolition and condemn cruel treatment of enslaved people. But when it came to his own slaves, he insisted that “my Servants are as happy as Slavery will admit of, none run away, the greatest punishment to a defaulter is to sell him.”

I don’t know how John’s mother, Eleanor Ball Laurens, viewed slavery, but she also came from a large slave-owning family. Even if she personally didn’t approve of the practice wholeheartedly, she benefitted directly from slavery and married someone in the slave trade.

So this is the life John Laurens was born into. A life of incredible privilege, sourced directly from the the slave trade and the labor of kidnapped and enslaved Africans. This is the first thing that needs acknowledging in terms of John’s relationship with slavery. He was able to accomplish much of what he did because of his social standing and wealth as the son of a very powerful South Carolinian, powerful mostly because of his standing in Southern society.

John was able to get his education in Europe because of slavery. He was able to use his father’s influence to become an aide-de-camp to George Washington. His social standing and quality of life all stood upon the backs of slaves.

Because of this background, John was exposed to the brutal truths of slavery since he could understand the world around him. Is this how he came into his abolitionist views? It absolutely could be. But it is more likely that John first became serious about abolition when he was taken to Europe for his education. He attended a school in Geneva, a cosmopolitan place that was very open to new ideas. Being an abolitionist was not considered as radical there as it was in the Southern Colonies, and there was more writing on the subject of abolition, including a poem by Thomas Day, an abolitionist patriot, whom John was friends with.

So John’s serious thoughts on abolition may have partly been a product of being away from a place where slavery seen as a part of life and being in a place which was more open to abolition. John may have thought slavery wrong for a long time, but lacked adequate support to be vocal about it.

Significantly though, John did not abandon his beliefs when he returned to America. He continued to be a vocal abolitionist, and unlike his father Henry, confronted actual slave owners and tried to convince them to free their slaves… including his boss, General George Washington.

He also converted Lafayette into an ardent abolitionist, and Lafayette, even after Laurens’s death, stuck to these beliefs. He later in life even bought a plantation and ran it with the labor of paid black people, to prove it could be done.

But once we get to the war, we must also talk about Shrewsberry.

John didn’t own slaves, technically. But his father dispatched two of his slaves to serve as John’s valets during the war, one of whom was named Shrewsberry. (Something to note: I am not sure if these slaves were paid or not. I would assume not, and I have yet to find a record of payment, if it did exist. But if anyone knows more about this, I would love to know the answer, as it’s an important question to think about.)

This alone would mar John’s “perfect abolitionist” image, but it gets more disturbing when you consider how John viewed and treated his valets. I should mention we don’t have a ton of evidence of their living conditions, but what we do have is distressing.

On to the primary evidence: if you read the correspondence between John and his father, a funny/not funny pattern is that John is always requesting clothes, fabric, hair powder, etc., from his father. He usually thanked his father for these items. But here is a quote from a letter John wrote to his father on December 15th, 1777: “Berry received a hunting shirt and a check shirt. If there be any difficulty in getting him winter clothes I believe he can do without.” So while John advocated for black Americans in his public life, his private conduct tells differently.

And this is further evidenced when, after Laurens’ death in 1782, Thadeus Kosciuszco wrote to Nathaniel Greene that John’s slaves (his father's technically, as explained above) were “nacked” and that they were in need of “shirts jackets Breeches.” (“nacked” meaning “naked.”)

While John Laurens was certainly more enlightened than the average man of his time on the subject of slavery, he still had trouble connecting his broader ideas of freedom and emancipation to his personal life. He also wrongly blamed Shrewsberry for the loss of a hat, writing to his father, “Shrewsberry says his hat was violently taken from him by some soldiers as he was carrying his horses to water. If James will be so good as to send him his old laced hat by the bearer I hope he will take better care of it.” The blame for this incident obviously lies upon the soldiers who stole Shrewsberry’s hat, but John acts like Shrewsberry was in the wrong, or somehow that having the hat “violently taken” indicated that Shrewsberry was not taking care of the hat. The automatic and unjust condemnation of Shrewsberry again speaks to how John did have the prejudices of his time period in his head, even as he fought against them in a broader sense.

Later in the war, John left Washington in favor of his home state, South Carolina. He wanted to raise a regiment of slaves to fight for the patriot cause, who would then be emancipated for their service. John had written his father about the idea earlier, saying,

“I would bring about a twofold good, first I would advance those who are unjustly deprived of the Rights of Mankind to a State which would be a proper Gradation between abject Slavery and perfect Liberty—and besides I would reinforce the Defenders of Liberty with a number of gallant Soldiers—Men who have the habit of Subordination almost indelibly impress’d on them, would have one very essential qualification of Soldiers—I am persuaded that if I could obtain authority for the purpose I would have a Corps of such men trained, uniformly clad, equip’d and ready in every respect to act at the opening of the next Campaign…”

Reading through this carefully, we can see some ideas expressed here that are important to note. Firstly, “proper Gradation between abject Slavery and perfect Liberty.” This means that though John did want to free the slaves, he did not think that black people should have the “perfect Liberty” that whites enjoyed. Additionally, when John writes, “Men who have the habit of Subordination indelibly impress’d on them” he is suggesting (to my reading) that because slaves were constantly treated as inferior, they would be good soldiers (I assume because soldiers have to obey their commanding officers.) Honestly, this reads to me like John wanting to take advantage of the cruelty slaves endured because “They’re used to it.”

Henry wrote back that what John was offering was hardly better than slavery, again assuming his attittude of “my slaves are happy.”

John wrote a long letter in return, explaining his reasoning and also basically being like, “dad please support me, dad, please.” But there are also some phrases here, in his letter defending his abolitionist views, that are revealing about the prejudices John harbored. 

He writes, “I confess, indeed, that the minds of this unhappy species must be debased by a servitude, from which they can hope for no relief but death, and that every motive to action but fear, must be nearly extinguished in them.”

Note John’s reference to slaves as a “species” rather than a race. (And, by the way, race is a social construct, not an actual biological thing.) The belief that blacks and whites were separate species was common at the time, and often used by slave traders to justify their actions. And this bit of writing shows that even if John didn’t really believe this wholeheartedly, he at least had the idea in his head. However, later in the letter John does use “race” so it’s a little unclear what he actually believed.

And we can see the belief that black people were not as intellectually capable as white people, owing to their enslavement.

Gregory Massey puts it this way: “Young Laurens reasoned that blacks were not innately inferior to whites; rather, their apparent mental deficiencies resulted from generations of enslavement.”

John goes on, “I have had the pleasure of conversing with you, sometimes, upon the means of restoring [the slaves] to their rights. When can it be better done, than when their enfranchisement may be made conducive to the public good, and be modified, as not to overpower their weak minds?”

What sticks out here is, of course, the assertion that the slaves had “weak minds.”

Essentially, John thought that once black people were allowed to live free, “rescued from a state of perpetual humiliation” as he put it in the same letter, their nature would change to more like whites. Black Patriots and Loyalists: Fighting for Emancipation in the War for Independence by Alan Gilbert states, 

“Nonetheless, John Laurens retained a slave-owner’s perspective about the psychology of blacks at the time. In a 1776 letter to his father, he ignored manifold black acts of resistance and their hunger to be free: ‘There may be some inconvenience and even Danger in advancing Men suddenly from a State of Slavery while possessed of the manners and Principals incident to such a State... too suddenly to the Rights of freedman. [T]he example of Rome suffering from Swarms of bad citizens who were freedmen is a warning to us to proceed with caution.’ [...] The son insisted, however, on the principal that slavery is simply wrong, the immoral shackling of another: ‘The necessity for it is an Argument of the complete Mischief occasioned by our continued Usurpation.’”

But the same book also says, “John Laurens was a practical abolitionist. Favored by nature and fortune, he chose no easy path. He could, for instance, have worked for Washington, recruited a company of white soldiers as his father urged, and still have advocated for the “public good.” Instead, he committed himself to the nobler course of fighting determinedly for abolition.”

However, “18th century abolitionist” usually did not mean someone who believed black and white people were equal and should have the same rights. It meant that you wanted to end slavery. The difference between these views often gets blurred for John Laurens. Saying that John Laurens was an abolitionist is accurate, but he probably did not believe that black and white people should have the exact same rights, at least not at first. That needs to be acknowledged. John was an abolitionist, but it is unclear how much equality he really wanted. 

Only paying attention to his anti-slavery professional life also leads to the idea that it is safe to idolize Laurens, rather than critically examine his complex views on race. The idea forms that he is the one white man from the 18th century we can be fully proud of. The one we can say is our beautiful cinnamon roll without having to confront his relationship with slavery. The fact that John Laurens wanted to help enslaved people gain their freedom doesn’t change the ways in which he benefited from white supremacy, nor how he treated his personal servants, nor the racist ideas he expressed in some of his writings.

This does not mean Laurens was evil, or that you can’t like and admire parts of him. By the standards of other revolutionary figures, like the aforementioned Jefferson and Washington (and Madison and Hamilton to an extent*) Laurens was remarkably enlightened. But also, that in itself is terrible. Like, the idea of a “good guy” from the 18th century is still one that believed that black people had “weak minds” owing to their enslavement. 

If we truly want to reckon with the racial sins of America, and how they originated, we need to see figures like Laurens for all they were. Not just the noble abolitionist, but also the inherently privileged white man whose righteous public crusade was enabled by the very system it sought to end, slavery. We also need to see him as the extremely wealthy young man who regarded the command of his servants as part of the natural order of his life.

I didn’t write this solely for history. John’s story is a reminder to all allies that actions based on our beliefs are important to make in our private lives, as well as public. Yes, it’s important to advocate for racial justice in our public and professional lives. But it’s also important to examine and be honest about our own forms of privilege and the ways in which we have internalized the racism of the world around us. All white people in America benefit from slavery and the systems it was built upon, even those whose forebears came to America long after slavery was abolished. I firmly believe that a step forward for racial justice in the US is simply to acknowledge privilege, because we cannot fix a broken system until we realize all the ways in which it is broken. 

[fictionadventurer]

Thoughts on Edwardian literature (as opposed to Victorian)?

To keep things as simple as possible, I’m defining Edwardian fiction as anything published between 1900 and 1914, no matter which country it was published in.

The Edwardian fiction I’ve read seems to be a lot lighter than the Victorian fiction. Maybe it’s easier for the lighter works to stick around since not as much time has passed? Or maybe it’s just that the age of pay-by-the-word epics had passed? (Is this the point where cheap paperbacks started to be a thing? That could account for the rise in short, fluffy literature, unless my just-making-this-up-off-the-top-of-my-head method of historical inquiry turns out to (somehow) be faulty).

First association with this era’s always Chesterton. My love of him is no secret, and a lot of my favorites of his works come from this pre-war era.

Graybeards at Play was his first published book of poetry--conveniently, for the purposes of this post, in 1900. According to Ward, even Chesterton hated it. (He always considered The White Knight his first published book). I don’t think it’s deserving of hatred. It’s like, four or five poems. They’re light and forgettable (I couldn’t have told you a thing about any of them an hour after I read them), but there’s nothing all that terrible about them.

I don’t talk enough about my love for The Napoleon of Notting Hill. It’s such a fun story, and a lot of the ideas of it form important parts of my mental landscape. I think of it every time I see a Renaissance Fair, and any time there’s a Cheat-the-Prophet style prediction about the future. So much of it is so very silly, but it’s built on such an interesting tension between people who care too much and people who don’t care enough. Adam Wayne and Auberon Quin are such good characters. The ending section always kind of creeps me out--of all things, it made me think of Elmo Saves Christmas, because both stories left me with an extremely unsettled feeling when the silly story turns into an unexpectedly dark alternate reality--but the ending reconciliation between Quin and Wayne is excellent.

Manalive is delight in novel form. It was the first book I ever read by Chesterton and it changed my life. At first, I was just blown away by the love of life shown in the pages, but I thought it a better essay than a story. Later rereads have made me appreciate the excellent character work and the turns of the plot.

The Ball and the Cross was an excellent book, but very weird. A lot of the issues are still relatable, but I don’t understand the weird mystical happenings of the later part of the book.

I think Chesterton’s essays are my favorites of the things he’s written. “On Running After One’s Hat” is a particular favorite. As is the one about drawing with chalk on brown paper.

Lepanto is one of my favorite poems of all time. Ballad of the White Horse gets a bit long and repetitive, but it’s a stirring epic.

I have an entire section of Father Brown reread posts that go into my love of the stories. Those rereads gave me a greater appreciation of the stories as stories, rather than Chesterton essays. I low-key regret that I was never able to finish my post for the last story in Innocence. The reread posts were a big undertaking, but I would have liked to have had posts for at least the first volume of stories. (But there was something about that last story that just halted all attempts to say anything about it.)

Oh, how can I forget about Orthodoxy? Absolute cornerstone of my mental landscape. But Chesterton has already taken up far too much space here.

I’ve also got two years’ worth of Psmith Pseptember posts talking about my love of Wodehouse’s work in this period. They may not be Wodehouse’s best work, but they might be my favorites. It kind of shocks me to remember that the Psmith author is the same guy who wrote the Jeeves and Wooster stories, because I’ve kind of split them up in my mind. So much similar between the series while feeling so different.

I always assumed The Phantom of the Opera was the quintessential Victorian Gothic novel, but I ran across a copy this week and was shocked to see that it was published in 1911. I like the book, especially the parts that didn’t make it into the musical. I love that the book casts Raoul as the hero of the piece and plays up the horror of the Phantom’s past, making him this exotic genius. (The scenes with the traps below the opera house? Shivers.)

I seem to have developed a deep fondness for A.A. Milne’s adult books. His sense of humor is so relatably daffy, and I can see why he hated only being known for the Pooh books. I have a copy of The Sunny Side that I read about half of, and I really need to go back and finish the rest of the stories sometime.

Peter Pan is...fine. I was glad I read it, but I can’t say it’s a favorite.

This period also gives us Anne of Green Gables and Anne of Avonlea. The first book deserves its status as a classic. It was one of the first books I ever bought for myself at full price (I had won a bookstore gift certificate). I hadn’t even heard of it before, but I loved it. Then I tried to read the second book and got so bored that I never finished it, and I never read the rest of the series until I was an adult. I’ll always hold a grudge toward that second book for depriving me of years of Anne enjoyment.

A Little Princess was one of the only books I got as a gift as a kid (my parents are not bookish). My aunt gave it to me, with an inscription saying it was one of her favorite books. I read it lots, still have that copy, and was glad to see that it held up when I reread it last year.

Daddy-Long-Legs was a book I discovered thanks to tumblr recommendations, and I loved it. Such an engaging voice! (Though the twist does make the MMC a bit skeevy). The musical is rather good, too.

The Rosary by Florence Louisa Barclay was an impulse pick when I was looking for free Kindle books. (It has nothing to do with religion--The Rosary is the title of a song the character sings). It was apparently the bestselling novel of 1910, and I can kind of see why. The characters and humor are surprisingly sharp, and the romance is sweet, even though it devolves into improbable tropes. I’ve only read it once, but I have intensely fond memories of it, and it always makes me wonder what other Edwardian gems have been lost to obscurity.

Kilmeny of the Orchard has some beautiful descriptions and cute characters, which makes it a crying shame that the entire plot hinges upon complete medical codswallop.

There are a lot of books that I think of as Edwardian that turn out to have been published during WWI or the ‘20s. But that’s probably a good thing because this post is already far too long.

[writing-in-april]

A Tale of Two Poe’s

Poe Dameron x Gender Neutral Reader

Summary: AU where Poe Dameron and Edgar Allan Poe both exist in the Star Wars universe. Reader finds a book containing the writings of Edgar Allan Poe and just can’t wait to show her Poe.

A/N: This is a purely self indulgent fic lmao 😂 this AU idea where Poe Dameron and Edgar Allan Poe exist in the same universe came into my head a while back and I just had to write it. Idk if it’s weird or not but I enjoyed writing it lmao- also obviously credit goes to Edgar Allan Poe for all his stories and poem excerpts I use. @writefightandflightclub and @sergeantkane are definitely my go to for Poe fics if you’re curious and they always inspire me to write more for Poe but- there are so many other amazing writers for Poe too. I’ll have to make a fic rec list for him soon. This also is my second fic for my 1000 follower celebration!!! I want to thank you all so much again, this is so surreal!! Thanks for reading and requests are open!!

Warnings: Uhh- a sexual innuendo & talk of death in the war I think that’s it...

Main Masterlist Word count: 2.2k

The amount of bookstores that were left in the galaxy was such a small and minuscule number, most people just used their data pads to read, that is if they read anything at all. It was such a shame, in your opinion. No data pad could truly recreate the magic of a physical book.There was nothing better than opening a book, new or old, the parchment smell wafting around under your nose as you fully enveloped yourself in the words on the page.

You had stopped in at the old library after you had completed a routine information pick up for the resistance. The planet you were on was the beautiful Naboo and you had a couple hours to kill before your partner, Poe came with his x-wing to pick you up. The little vintage book store stood out in the ethereal metropolis of the big city, and you were instantly drawn to it.

When you entered the little shop it was filled wall to wall with books, you had never seen so many books in your life before. Personally, you only had three that you kept on top of your small dresser that you put the small amount of clothes in. They weren’t interesting books to say the least, mostly consisting of military procedurals from your early days in the academy, besides one novel written on a planet far away called Earth named “A tale of two cities”. The book shop made you want to take all of them back to base and read every leisure novel you could ever want to read. However, there was no real time and you didn’t have the money to take all the books home with you, so you settled on picking one that really grabbed your attention.

The book that caught your eye was a black hard cover, so thick because of how many pages it held that you could barely hold it in one hand. The spine said “The complete collection of stories and poems by Edgar Allan Poe” and just by flipping through it a little you gathered that it must have also been written on the planet Earth, just like your one other novel. You loved the other novel and you knew that you were definitely going to bring this book home, even if you didn’t enjoy it at least you could tease Poe about the shared name. But, you had a feeling you were going to enjoy it.

You opened the book to another random page written by the person who held a similar name to your man and landed on a page that had a poem by the name of Annabel Lee. Poems were not something that were often seen in the galaxy anymore, even on the data pads that everyone used. They had fallen into obscurity as a form of literature that was obsolete and pointless.

The poem instantly had you hooked just in the first few lines, it was definitely a sad poem, as you suspected the rest were as well. But, the beautiful well written rhymes seduced you like the sirens you had heard about from Ahch-To. Though, Rey had told you the Thala-sirens were not nearly as beautiful as the myths would have you believe. Realizing that you were getting tight on time you rushed to check out the book, you didn’t want to worry Poe. Once you had paid the kind older lady who ran the shop you ran quickly out to your rendezvous point where Poe was already anxiously waiting.

“Kriff- there you are, I was worried something had happened to you.” His eyes were a bit frantic looking and hair disheveled. he had undoubtedly been looking around for you in worry while running his hands through his hair and had been pacing. Poe needed to learn to relax every once and awhile, he was often an overworrier and was often overworked.

“I’m only a few minutes late, relax. I just had to pick up a little surprise for you.”

“A surprise? What is it?” He reached to grab the parcel that the book had been wrapped in by the owner of the shop. You swiftly pulled the package away from him, you wanted it to be a surprise for later, when you both could relax.

“Hands off- I’ll show you later, be patient.” His indignant sigh only caused you to roll your eyes while you both climbed into the x-wing, with you sitting on Poe’s lap. He was so dramatic sometimes. Maybe, someday you’d get to come back to the bookshop on Naboo to get some more books, with hopefully Poe in tow next time.

—-

When we got back to base you were vibrating with excitement in anticipation of showing Poe the book that had an author with the same name as him. Throughout the entire briefing with Leia she could probably tell that my mind was in a far off place, almost like you still had my head stuck in the book. When she’d finally dismissed you after you had gone through the mission debriefing I bolted to our shared quarters. Once you had gone in the fresher for a quick wash and got dressed for the night you hopped in your small bed that you shared with Poe, but not before grabbing the new book you had added to your collection.

“Come to bed, I’ve got something for you.” You said as soon as Poe got through the door. He always had to check in with the main mechanic that worked on his x-wing right after he came home on a mission, it was the only way he would ever let anyone touch black one.

“Oh? Is it that surprise you were talking about earlier?” His signature cheeky smile that he flashed you while he stripped off his flight suit let you know immediately what he assumed the surprise was.

You threw his pillow he used at him, then accosted him playfully,“It’s not what you think it is you horndog, I’ve got a book for you.”

“A book? You know I don't know how to read.” You wished that you had a third pillow to throw at him in that moment, but you didn’t want to lose your own pillow. There had been many times in your relationship where Poe had stolen your pillow to mess with you and you weren’t about to give him the upper hand.

“Shut it, I’ll read it to you, you big baby.” He was now dressed in your favorite ensemble besides his flight suit, a white tank top, boxers, and nothing else.Patting the bed right next to you, you finally got him to come over to you. He sank down next to you on the bed, making sure to immediately cuddle up into you, you then spoke again,“But, before I do I want you to see what the Author’s name was.”

Handing him over the hardcover he looked at the name on the spine with furrowed brows, then letting out a breath of laughter once he read the Author’s last name. He didn’t read often like he had joked earlier, but he definitely could read the big gold leaf cursive letters that said, Edgar Allan Poe. “Woah, that’s cool. He would’ve been cooler if he had Poe for his first name though.” In response to another cheeky comment from him I bonked him on the head with the book before I started to read, “It was many and many a year ago,   In a kingdom by the sea, That a maiden there lived whom you may know   By the name of Annabel Lee; And this maiden she lived with no other thought   Than to love and be loved by me. I was a child and she was a child,   In this kingdom by the sea, But we loved with a love that was more than love—   I and my Annabel Lee— With a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven   Coveted her and me. And this was the reason that, long ago,   In this kingdom by the sea, A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling   My beautiful Annabel Lee; So that her highborn kinsmen came   And bore her away from me, To shut her up in a sepulchre   In this kingdom by the sea.” As you lilted your voice through the poem you could feel Poe sinking down further into relaxation, which was good since he hardly ever relaxed. He was always on the move all the time because of his vast responsibilities as a commander in the resistance. To be honest, you could do with some more relaxation like this in your life, just you, Poe, and a charging BB-8. You must have paused for a second with your reading because Poe looked up at your with his deep caf colored eyes in question, prompting you to continue, “The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,   Went envying her and me— Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know,   In this kingdom by the sea) That the wind came out of the cloud by night,   Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. But our love it was stronger by far than the love   Of those who were older than we—   Of many far wiser than we— And neither the angels in Heaven above   Nor the demons down under the sea Can ever dissever my soul from the soul   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side   Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,   In her sepulchre there by the sea—   In her tomb by the sounding sea.  — why are you crying?”

A few small tears had welled up in the corners of Poe’s eyes with one spilling over to run down his scruff covered cheeks. He sniffled a bit, wiping away the tears before speaking, “Just reminded me of you and how much I love you. I don’t like thinking about you dying, I don’t think I could survive.”

Your heart broke a little, but also felt filled with the feeling of love. You knew there were even more dark times ahead in the war, you had both even had a conversation of what would happen if one of you passed. You even had letters that were to be read by the other if something were to happen. Even though you had discussed this before, you agreed with Poe, you never wanted to think about what the galaxy would be like without him.

“I’m not going anywhere.” You ran your fingers through his hair in an attempt to smooth him a bit. You felt a little bad that you had not realized how much it might affect Poe, so you decided to shift the subject to something that hit less close to home, “I’ll read something a bit different. They’re all dark, but I’ll pick one that you’ll enjoy more.”

You then began to read the Cask of Amontillado, which was a story that you both could relate to personally less which meant you could both fully enjoy the story.

“You were right, I liked that one.” He took the book from your hands to inspect the black book further, “How old is this book?”

“I don’t know, probably pretty old. I’ll have to take extra good care of it.”

“Yeah, just as long as that doesn’t become your favorite Poe in your life.” Poe’s signature cheeky grin was back on his face, then tilting his head up to nuzzle his nose with yours.

“Ok, Edgar.” A wide cheeky smile was now on your face, proud of your ‘clever’ new nickname for Poe.

“No no no that nickname better not stick.”

“But- your hair looks so similar to his! Look at all those dark messy curls! I’m keeping the nickname.” You flipped to one of the earlier pages of the book that had a short biography at the front about the author with a print of a portrait of the author. His expression soured once he looked at the portrait, realizing that his curls did in fact, look like the Author’s. He let out a fake disgruntled sigh that did a horrible job of hiding his underlying happiness and flopped down back on the bed to cuddle up with you for the night.

The entire resistance was confused why you had started calling Poe, Edgar whenever you wanted to tease him. But, you guys kept the secret of the tale of two Poe’s, the only people who knew the origins of the nickname were you and your Poe. The nickname definitely wasn’t going anywhere.

—-

Tag list (message me if you want to be added)

All works: @shotarosleftpinky​ @oreogutz​

Poe Dameron/SW:

[fandom-blackhole]

Hayloft- Ezra x Reader P.6 Final

AN: Well here we are guys.... I really want to thank everyone who has given this story a chance. I know I'm not a the best writer but it really is one of my passions and with all of the support I've gotten for Hayloft especially, I am hoping to continue writing and maybe even complete my childhood dream of being a published author (though that will be way in the future)! If you enjoyed this, you should go show some love to my sister, @space-nerd2005​​, because without her this story either wouldn’t have been even written/published or would have only been a one-shot! For now I just want everyone to know that I'm really happy that you're all here and you've supported me! 💕💕💕 (Also Happy Valentines Day!)

Masterlist

Words: 3.8k!

Warnings: sex mentioned but not really described, the father talks again so berating and abusive language, fighting, running bc that needs a warning

Sneaking back into the house after that first night in the barn was difficult. Neither Ezra nor I wanted to separate, and we had stalled until it had almost been too late. But, in the end, we didn’t get caught again. Our nighttime visits resumed again after that night, though now I was sneaking out to see him almost every night, not able to stand being away from him any longer. Gone also were the nights of being apart from each other in any way. While not every night was filled with passionate touches and pleasure, each night was spent holding each other and trying to soothe the aches of being apart all day. 

Sleep soon became the least of my priorities and it showed during the day. I was constantly tired and it made the days seem to drag on. Nights on the other hand always seemed to pass too quickly as I tried in vain to grasp and hold onto the stolen moments that Ezra and I were able to share. I noticed that Ezra was also being affected by the lack of sleep, when I worked with them in the field I noticed him yawning in the middle of sentences, but when I would bring it up at night when we were alone he would always look scared and pull me closer saying he was fine and then ask me not to leave. 

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

Shortly after the nightly visits to the barn started, and about a month away from when Ezra’s ship would arrive to take him away, as I climbed my way into the hayloft and faced Ezra, I was met with a sight I hadn’t seen in what felt like forever. Ezra was sitting against the far wall of the loft with the lantern on, his shirt off, and my Edgar Allan Poe book held in his hand. I had not thought of my books until that moment, my mind too distracted with other thoughts to think to wonder where they had disappeared to after the confrontation that had happened in that small spare bedroom. 

Walking over to Ezra now though, I could see that he had all of them, except for the one he was holding, tucked away into his small bag, keeping them safe. Looking up at what I assume to be the sound of my footsteps, Ezra smiled and motioned for me to sit down next to him, and once I had settled, with my head on his shoulder, I spoke softly. “I feel somewhat ashamed. I had not even realized that my books were missing until just a few seconds ago when I saw you with Poe.”

Turning and pressing a kiss to my forehead Ezra answered just as softly, “No need to be ashamed, my delicate and beautiful flower. Your mind has been preoccupied with things that have taken you far from worrying about our shared writing friends. Not to worry though, I have kept them safe and away from anything that could harm their precious pages. I believe that when your brother was gathering my things to bring out here to me he saw the books and assumed they were mine. I didn’t say anything, and selfishly kept them, when I should have returned them to you, but those lonely nights without you were hard on my old soul and these books that held a small portion of you brought me solace. Especially, our dear friend Poe who brought us together. Whenever I missed you most I would find my aching fingers turning to the poem I recited for you that first day and I would read it over and over until I fell into my fitful and aching slumber.”

Looking at the book now, I noticed that he was once again staring at the page that held the poem. It was obvious that this page had been visited more often than naught, as the page showed signs of wear and a few crinkles where the page most likely creased when he fell asleep with it in his hand. Lifting my head to look at Ezra, and already finding him watching me with what I hoped to be love in his eyes, I gave him a smile and bit my lip before opening my mouth and reciting the poem back to him.

“In visions of the dark night

I have dreamed of joy departed;

But a waking dream of life and light

Hath left me broken-hearted.

Ah! what is not a dream by day

To him whose eyes are cast

On things around him, with a ray

Turned back upon the past?

That holy dream, that holy dream,

While all the world was chiding,

Hath cheered me as a lovely beam

A lonely spirit guiding.

What though that light, thro’ storm and night,

So trembled from afar―

What could there be more purely bright

In Truth’s day-star?”

As I watched his face while speaking the same lines he had spoken to me what feels like decades ago at this point, though only a few short months ago, his face morphed into a loving smile. I watched as the soft smile he had turned wider, and the crinkles next to his eyes deepened, and his dimple peeked out beneath his facial hair deepened. After I finished, I blushed and turned away from his gaze.

“I, um...I read that poem almost nightly after we first walked back here to the farm together. I couldn’t bring myself to read past that poem either, it was always just that one, and I always only heard your voice echoing it in my head as my eyes read along the lines. That was all before we started meeting at night….”

After my admission, Ezra had set the book aside, carefully placing it with the others. Then he carefully picked up my hand kissed my palm before sliding my hand to rest on his cheek as he pulled me into his lap. As soon as I was close enough he started kissing me, starting with small soft pecks on the corners of my mouth before moving on to full kissing my lips. He slowly worked the kisses from soft to passionate. 

That night we sat against the wall and as Ezra held me and made love to me, he continuously whispered and recited our poem. For once he didn’t drawl on about this or that, only softly and huskily reciting those words over and over into my ear in between kisses and nips and moans of my name.

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

The days were counting down too quickly for my taste. I was scared, in all honesty. I felt as if I had finally gotten Ezra, but I still hadn’t fully gotten him in the way that I longed for. I wanted to be able to spend every waking moment with him. I wanted to be able to feel his touch whenever without worrying about my father. I want to be able to walk up and kiss him. I want to be able to make love with him in a bed for once. I want so much, still, and time is running out. Even as I sit close to Ezra and listen to him speak about just whatever is going through his mind, I can’t help but worry about what is going to happen in only a few week’s time. Will I have to watch as the man I have come to love walks away from me forever? Will he decide to stay with me and settle down on K-5? Or will he take me with him and into that big ship that comes for him, taking me with him on every adventure following?

“...lower? Darling? Are you back with me yet,” coming back to the present I am met with Ezra’s soft smile and teasing eyes, as he rubs the palm of my hand with his thumb. “What has taken you away from me, flower? For your eyes seemed to be a million miles away from here, and I must say I am slightly worried that you may have finally grown tired of my endless drawl. Tell me, please?”

Shaking my head with a small laugh, I returned his smile. “I’m sorry, Ez. I can assure you that I am far from tired of listening to you talk. I always look forward to getting to listen to you…”

“Then what is stealing your attention from me, flower? I can tell that something is bothering you, and it has me slightly worried. You can talk to me about anything, I promise you no harsh judgments, I could never think or speak anything unsavory when it comes to you, my lovely flower.”

As he speaks, Ezra reaches over to me and pulls my bottom lip free from my teeth as he has done so many times before. We sit in silence for a few moments, before I take a deep breath and quietly whisper, “What is going to happen in the next few weeks? After the harvest is done, and the ship comes for you?”

Watching Ezra’s eyes as I spoke, I saw them get a sad hue to them. I watched as Ezra swallowed and he said in a solemn tone, “I cannot stay flower. I must leave with that ship….but I don’t have to leave alone. Flower, you could come with me, I would more than love to take care of you out there, and show you the universe that you have only seen through stories...That is of course if that is what you want. I will not push you into leaving your family, or your planet, but know that leaving without you by my side will break me. I know that what we have hasn’t lasted long but I know for certain that this is special. I know without a shadow of doubt that I have fallen completely for you. And, if I were to leave you behind, I would end up leaving my heart and soul along with you. I love you, flower…”

Crying, I move my hands to hold Ezra’s face and I press my forehead to his own. For a few seconds, we sit like this and as I run my thumbs across his cheeks, Ezra wraps his arm around my waist.

“You honestly think that I’m going to stay on this Kevva forsaken planet when the man that holds my heart and soul is leaving? If you will have me, I am coming with you. I love you, Ezra, and if you left me here, I fear that I would waste away from the heartbreak.”

“I swear flower, you make me the happiest man in the known universe. If you had said anything about not coming with me I think I would have left this mortal body from the sadness alone. I don’t think I could ever be far from you again.”

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

After we both agreed that we would be leaving K-5 together when the time came in the following weeks, we started planning how exactly we were going to accomplish running away with each other. We both knew that my father would try and stop us, so we couldn’t risk him finding out any part of our plans. And as much as I hated it, I had decided to leave Anthony in the dark as well. I knew that, yes, in the past few months the two of us had gotten closer, but I still didn’t know how he would react if I told him. I still remember what he had said to me in the kitchen and I planned to keep that promise, but I couldn’t find it in me to tell him, still too scared that he might tell my father and dash all hope of me getting off this planet.

Ezra and I’s plan was simple, really. The plan was to have everything packed and ready to go the night before the ship would make its way to town. After my father goes to bed I would go to Anthony, say my goodbyes, and grab the money that was owed to Ezra for his work before going to the hayloft, with my packed things. That night Ezra and I would stay together and in the early morning light, we would leave for town. If everything went well, we both should be loaded onto the ship and gone before my father noticed that I hadn’t just gone on my usual Saturday morning supply run. Simple, as long as everything went accordingly.

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

The weeks and days ticked by quickly, and my anxiety continuously rose. Ezra tried to calm me, giving me soft words and holding me at night, but I could tell that he himself was getting anxious as well. As the last week came, each night we would greet each other and do just about anything to distract ourselves from the looming escape. And as Friday came, I found that my bottom lip was chewed raw from the anxiety and anticipation for what was to come, but I couldn’t stop myself from continuing the bad habit, only wincing when I brushed over an especially sore spot on my lip.

The day itself was rather uneventful. I once again was doing laundry away from the other three, as they pulled in the last of the harvest. Before I had even realized it, it was time for dinner and as we all sat down for dinner, we ate in silence for the first time in what felt like forever. Surprisingly enough it was my father who broke that silence as we were all finishing up our food.

“You’re quiet for once in your life it seems. It almost seems suspicious,” my father spoke watching Ezra with careful eyes. To which Ezra just gave him an easy smile, and replied, “No reason to be suspicious, I assure you. I am just tired and the food was just too good to take breaks for speaking.”

“Hmmm, well I hope you enjoyed it because it’s gonna be your last meal here, I’ll have your money waiting outside in the morning and I want you gone by first light. If you’re not, well, only having one arm is gonna be the least of your problems.”

With that said, my father left the table and went straight to his bedroom. Looking back to Ezra, I found him looking down at his plate with a blank expression, his face neutral to whatever emotion was running through him at that moment. Glancing over at Anthony I found him watching me, and watched him open his mouth before speaking quietly.

“Listen, I don’t know what you two have planned, but dad has something planned as well. If you are leaving, I hope it’s gonna be before he has had a chance to even get up in the morning.”

Looking back to Ezra, I only saw him nod before he left the table as well. I watched as he grabbed his folded clothes, looked back at me with a small smile, and then walked out the back door. After he was gone, Anthony helped me clear the table and do the dishes, him drying as I cleaned, per our newer routine. And, after we had finished and before he could walk out of the kitchen, I wrapped my arms around him. 

“We are leaving in the morning. We hope to be gone by the time dad figures out I am not coming back from doing the shopping…”

“So this is goodbye, then?”

“Yeah, this is goodbye…”

With a hug and a kiss on my forehead, Anthony smiled at me and then left the kitchen, going upstairs to his room. Once again, I found myself standing in the kitchen losing track of time as I thought about what had just happened between Anthony and I. After I came back to the present though, I went and found the money my father had for Ezra, before making my way up to my room. 

Once in my room, I pulled the sack of belongings I had packed from underneath my bed where I had kept them hidden. Setting the bag on my bed I stashed the money away in one of the pockets before slinging the bag over my shoulder. Once again, I found myself stopping and looking around my room, taking everything in for one last time. When I found myself close to tears, I knew that it was time to leave, before the what ifs started to float around my head.

Making a quick and quiet escape out to the barn. Within minutes I was in the hayloft I found myself immediately being pulled into Ezra’s embrace. And, once I was in his arm, I felt a little bit of the stress that had built up this past month finally fade as I clutched him tightly.

“I am sorry for how my father has spoken to you these last few months. Nobody deserves to be treated the way he has treated you.”

“I would live through his constant torment and degradation of my character every day, if it meant that I could be with you. Flower, I do not care what he says to me, while his words may hurt, at the end of the day I still have you and you still have me no matter what he says or does. I love you so much, flower.”

“I love you too, Ezra.”

With that said Ezra lead me to the spot where he had been spending his nights. As we both laid down, Ezra held me close and whispered in my ear, as his hand trailed up my shirt. “Just one more time, for memory’s sake, flower?” And with my nodded consent Ezra brought me slow soft pleasure in the hayloft of my family’s barn before we drifted off to sleep for the first time holding each other. 

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

When I awoke the next morning, it was still dark out, and it was to Ezra’s soft kisses all over my face. Smiling, I moved one of my hands to cradle his face and pull him into a kiss, before whispering him a good morning feeling his smile grow across my lips.

“I don’t think I will ever get used to the feeling of waking up with you next to me. I am not completely sure that I have not left the mortal realm in my sleep and have awakened to an angel in what many have called heaven.”

Laughing I nuzzled my nose into his neck and pressed a kiss to the hollow of his throat. “And I do not think I will ever get used to being woken up by a waxing poet every morning.”

Feeling Ezra's laugh, I pulled away from him and got up from the makeshift bed to pull the clothes that had been thrown from my body the night before back on. Hearing movement behind me, I knew that Ezra was doing the same, and when I turned around, I smiled softly as I found him pulling on one of the shirts I had gifted him, the pants already covering his beautifully strong legs. Catching me looking, Ezra smirked. 

“See something you like, flower? Because I know I do.” Moving over to where I stand with a blindingly wide smile, Ezra leans down and gives me a chaste kiss before walking over to our bags, as I followed behind. Grabbing mine and handing it to me, I slid it on as Ezra turned and grabbed his own. Once both bags were secure Ezra turned back to me, this time looking slightly unsure. “Are you ready, flower?”

“I’ve never been more ready for anything in my life. Ezra,” I say, and take his hand and hold his face. “Take me far away from here. Show me the universe and every secret you know.”

Leaning in, Ezra and I share one last passionate kiss before we made our way down the ladder and into the main portion of the barn. Once, we were both safely there, we both reached for the other’s hand as we walked to the barn door.

Right before we reached the doors, I was struck by the feeling that something was wrong. Before I could say anything, we reached the opening of the barn and I immediately realize why I felt that way, and judging by the way Ezra’s hand tightened in my own, he noticed as well. In the house the kitchen lights were on, and in the back doorway, there was the silhouette of my father holding what could only be his thrower rifle that he had stashed in the house. 

With the soft light of the rising sun, there was no way that my father didn’t see us standing there with our hands linked together. The three of us stood there, no one daring to move and inch, until my father moved the thrower and pointed it towards what I could only assume to be Ezra. He didn’t fire, but he did yell from the doorway, “I told you that there would be consequences, and I told you to stay away from my daughter. But all you do is talk so why did I expect you to know how to listen? Leave. Now. Before I decide to blow your brains out.”

Looking to Ezra with panic written across my face I only found him with a scowl on his face, as he held my hand tighter. And just as I went to whisper his name, Ezra spoke up and yelled back across to my father, “I was leaving right when you interrupted our departure. Now just lower the gun and we’ll be on our merry way. Out of your hair forever-”

“Like hell I am letting you take her. She’s staying right here and you are walking to town and leaving forever.”

Scared and on the verge of crying, I looked back towards my father, only to notice movement behind him. Ezra must have noticed as well because he laced his fingers with mine and whispered, get ready to run, before yelling back to my father. “I think you’ll find that she isn’t inclined to stay on this planet a day longer. She is leaving with me.”

(Thank you all again, you guys have made the last couple of months really amazing for me! I'm always looking for some interaction so please come say hi! I am planning out two more things coming in the future, a one-shot and another multipart fic! I am also always open to expanding this fic so if you have questions I would LOVE to answer them! As always likes, comments, and especially reblogs are super appreciated! I always love your guys’ feedback!)

Tags:  @babybelou @farrvey @anatanotegami @revolution-starter @cadelinhadopedropascal @lucifurrr @coolfishoperatoreagle @pugdalorian @callsigncatfish @marydjarin @jeeperky​ (user with crossed out names I couldn’t tag, sorry!)

[darling-i-read-it]

Compromise

Hannibal Lecter x reader

Word Count: 1.1k

Warnings: hints at cannibalism 

Author’s Note: Hi darling! I hope this was about what you were looking for, I tried to bend Hannibal a bit and the reader a bit to fit what I thought was canon. I am also writing this just after finishing the renion so I’m hyped @ netflix season four pls 

Requested: by anon, Hey can you imagine that Hannibal s/o is a very independent woman but also carefree and Hannibal try to convince her to move in to his house but she is a bit stubborn since she decorated her apartment and doesn’t want to give up her pink kitchen.

Summary: the request

Genre: fluff

I don’t own these characters. They belong to author/director 

(not my gif)

Hannibal thought that on most levels you were the woman that was right for him. Or perhaps you were simply the woman that everyone would figure was right for him so he could pass for some sort of emotional balance. It might help with clients, to know that he is grounded and has a small family to call his own. Plus you were compatible in almost every way. You could cook and you were an independent figure so he wouldn’t have to worry that much about you being incredibly nosy about his business even if you had the normal amount of curiosity.

He figured that you would want to do the only liable thing and that was to move in with him. That was the next step in relationships and he knew this because he dealt with patients often who couldn’t figure out the next step.

You had been going on stunning dates for a few months and he enjoyed them, you enjoyed them. You stimulated his brain and that was a must have. You were in desperate need of a companion and he was in need of someone to understand him.

He was years away from meeting Will Graham and you were half of him not that Hannibal knew it at the time because he had yet to meet Will. You were careful and your fingertips spoke words he had never heard before and you were quiet and content. You were also loud, your laugh echoing off the walls of his home and office as though it were a train tunnel. 

But you had never really wanted to live with Hannibal.

You were stubborn, more stubborn than he had originally noticed. He took that as his mistake although there was no fault in the fact you were very good at hiding it when you first met. Now you were stubborn and loud and still easily loveable because you were comfortable. You piqued his interest.

“I’m not going to move in with you,” you said simply, flipping through the pages of one of his old Ted Hughes books. You were reading through Birthday Letters as though it was your lifeline. He had read a few of the bitter love story poems to you and you enjoyed hearing his voice along with them. You would never say it but when you read Ted Hughes now you let your mind carry his voice along the lines as though he was beside you.

“Why?” he questioned. It was a simple ask but it would make you think. Why wouldn’t you move in with him? He attempted to predict your answer. Perhaps you would blame your trust issues or your stubbornness. Maybe you tell him another story of someone who wronged you in a way that left you on your toes.

“I have a pink kitchen and I like it better than yours.” 

“I must admit, that was not what I was expecting you to say.” You gave him a look.

“I like to keep you on your toes.”

You sat on his bed and he walked over to where you were sitting. He got down beside you, the comforter dipping a bit at the added wave. You gave him a look through a side eye and he caught it so that you had to keep looking at him. You closed Birthday Letters which you hadn’t actually been reading. 

“You’re going to spend the night,” he assumed.

“Like a slumber party,” you promised. Hannibal nodded slowly.

“If you spend the night tomorrow, like I imagine you will, does that not constitute you simply living here.” You shook your head.

“If I lived here I would help you with dinner. I would have my half of the room and have to share your drawers. I would have to bring my books to your bookshelf. It would be a clutter, you would hate it,” you tried to convince him. 

“Will you by any chance be telling me the real reason you won’t move in tonight?” You sighed, the book slipping from your fingers onto your lap.

“I already told you the reason. Your kitchen is nowhere near pink enough for my taste. That is the honest to God reason.”

“If I got off pink towels to hang from one of the ovens would it make you more inclined?” You shook your head.

“It would not.” You took a beat of silence. “You’ve been in my kitchen Hannibal.” You were right. It was a stark difference from his own but he had never met a person with a kitchen quite equipped like his was, for many different tacts. You just obviously didn’t cut up human bodies in yours. If you squinted you could sort of tell that it was a kitchen where he cut up human bodies.

“You can bring the blender.”

“Warmer.” “How about I allow a few things here and there, a compromise for you moving in.”

“Why do you want me to move in so bad?” He pretended to think about it for a moment.

“If we moved in you wouldn’t have to hold that Ted Hughes book as though you were reading it and I can just read it to you. Isn’t it normal for people in our situation to wish for a shared living space?” You smiled.

“What’s our situation?”

“We’re in a relationship.”

“We are? You should have told me.” He shook his head lightly and why he did so you let out a sigh. “What if you let me cook a few nights. I don’t want to give that up. You can teach me a few new recipes and I can cook your favorites.”

He highly doubted that but he was glad you were finally seeming to bend.

“That sounds reasonable.” 

You nodded.

“It’s settled then.” He nodded.

“Perfect. You move in tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

[imagine-loki]

Between pages

TITLE: Between pages

CHAPTER NO./ONE-SHOT: One-shot

AUTHOR: fanfictrashdump

ORIGINAL IMAGINE: Imagine Loki always carries a book. Not because he’s reading 24/7, but because he likes tucking flowers from the bouquets you make and leave in the shared kitchen in between the pages. 

RATING: T

NOTES/WARNINGS: There is fluff in my soul and I will not apologize for it. Language, extreme awkwardness, and unlikely friendships ahead. Let Loki be soft 2020.

=

Loki, God of Mischief, Prince of Asgard, Rightful King of Jotunheim, Odinson was a master sorcerer. His talent was unmatched in the Universe, and he was capable of feats that were previously unheard of in all the Nine Realms. He could defy the laws of physics, of imagination. He could bend the very fabric of the Universe and arrive at a different planet with merely a step in any direction. He was awe-inspiring and nightmare-inducing in equal measure.

So, how in the fucking hell did some silly flowers become his ruin?

Groaning pathetically against the plumpness of his down-filled pillow, he contemplated escaping the Tower. He had run away from more dangerous places before. Surely, walking out of Stark’s prized building would be little more than child’s play to a sorcerer of his caliber. However, any time he reminded himself that he was, indeed, a sorcerer the wound on his ego would split and bleed fresh, once more.

It would have been so easy to explain away. There was a reason they called him the Silvertongue, but he just stood there. Like a moron. He just… he just handed it over, and now…

He groaned again, teeth bared in a half-snarl as the memories flooded his mind.

There were few things in this little, mortal trash heap of a world that intrigued Loki. The supersoldiers held his interest for a moment or two, until he had all but uncovered the secrets of their endurance and had promptly become bored. The spies were fun to watch, if only to watch Barton squirm under his intense gaze, thinking he had another plot to put him under mind control. Banner was… well, he didn’t mess with Banner. Or Stark, for that matter. They were on an unspoken truce upon which his very survival was pinned. After all, Loki was nothing if not self-serving in his quest for continued breathing.

Then, there was the mutant; the plant witch.

The five-foot-nothing little imp who he could not seem to put the fear of god in, no matter how much he tried. The mortal had talked back, disobeyed direct orders on the field, sassed, hugged, and blackmailed him over a hobby in the course of less than a year. Loki would be impressed at her ruthlessness of character if he wasn’t utterly annoyed at her existence.

Well, that, and the fact that he couldn’t, for the life of him, figure out how her powers worked.

And that was the source of his current anguish.

Lily, the little mutant, had a predictable daily routine. She would wake up with the sun, make breakfast for the whole team, go to the gym and be back in time for the meal. Once she set the table, she would always conjure a handful of flowers in the vase in the middle of the table. It was never the same arrangement, twice, and it was never the type of arrangement the mortals would overpay for at the local flower shops. Wild variations of popular flowers, bits of flowering tree branches, weeds–wildflowers of all types that brought in butterflies from the open balcony windows and delighted all.

At first, he thought she simply picked them outside and coaxed them into bloom. It wasn’t until one morning, when he had been up uncharacteristically early that he had been proven wrong. He watched her kneel on a chair at the table, hands held aloft around the vase before every vein visible pumped a fluorescently-bright green. Like seedlings, the flowers grew from tiny roots until they overflowed from the jug. Loki had walked over, almost reflexively, watching how the petals bent under his fingers and how the cool stems still felt like they were thrumming with life as if freshly picked.

Fascinating.

Loki, while talented in his own right, had never been able to conjure a flower that looked so much like a flower. They usually looked too perfect, almost artificial–like a painting of a flower brought to life. He plucked a bud and tucked it between the pages of the book he had been reading (ironically, it had been Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman). He decided that he would study this specific specimen and figure out her secret. Surely, it would be easy to conquer the skill that a mortal wielded.

He had been horrendously wrong.

That first failed attempt at replicating her craftsmanship prompted him to grab a few more samples, the next day. And the next. And the one after that, too. After a while, he had all but given up on learning how to conjure these life-like flowers, with their slightly irregular patterns and charming blemishes. But the habit had stuck and he still collected them.

Every morning, like clockwork, he would go to the kitchen for a glass of water, pull a bloom and press it between Whitman’s promises to return to his beloved dirt. The team had started making jokes about his current inability to put down the poems book, everywhere he went. They wrongly assumed that he was simply enamored by the mortal’s views of humanity or that he was learning what being human really meant. In reality, all Loki was doing was carrying the vessel for his preservation and lying in wait for the opportunity to be all on his own to snatch another souvenir.

He’d be loathe to admit that his theft was now out of pure admiration. Flowers were always his mother’s thing and he never really cared much for gardening, but he could appreciate the intricacies of every subtly veined petal and rough leaf. His fingers often ran the length of the stems and leaves, gathering the light coat of dew that glistened on the greenery, smiling to himself all the while. He supposed he had never found the need to conjure a flower or anything of the sort meant to be a soft gift–it wasn’t really his style–but the fact only made him all the more awestruck.

“You like today’s bouquet, Lokes?”

He nodded, a little distracted, having just pressed the most perfect daisy, with a little notch in one of the petals into the book. The small, leather-bound tome rested beside him on the table, golden lettering catching Lily’s eye.

“Oh my gosh, I love Leaves of Grass,” she exclaimed, and Loki had mindlessly handed her the book for her to peruse before he even had the good sense to panic. “I know. Surprise, surprise, plant babe likes plant-themed title of book, but I truly loved it when I read it in high school. It’s sad, but a good type of sad, if that… makes… sense…”

It was her trailing voice that had made Loki blink away from the flowers. Green eyes trailed from the vase, to his empty floating hand, to the table. His book was no longer there… and he was the reason for that. When his shocked gaze flickered up to hers, he found her dainty fingers trailing over a perfectly dried dandelion that Loki had chosen because it had a singular freckle amidst a canvas of soft yellow.

Loki had disappeared before she even looked away from the keepsake.

“Maybe I should just take my chances in the dungeons. I’m sure Father dearest would rather see me in a cell,” he moaned petulantly before he stiffened.

There was energy crackling in the air, making it smell like ozone and magic. Loki sat up in bed, retrieving a dagger from under his pillow and noiselessly stepping onto the carpeted floor. Beneath his feet, the carpet felt odd. With a frown, he glanced down, finding the floor covered in green and yellow–a blanket of buttercups. By the door, Lily smiled shyly, her body slumping slightly against the wall as the green faded away from her veins.

“You’ve overtired yourself,” he remarked, drily, ignoring the fact that his cheeks burned in a way that told him that he was flushed crimson. His feet shuffled beneath him, grounding him to reality and allowing him to resist the urge to bend down and run his fingers through the blooms.

She shrugged. “I’ll feel better after breakfast.” There was a tense silence between them for several more seconds. Lily held the book out in her hand, but Loki hesitated crossing the landscape to retrieve it. “You always pick the iffy ones.”

His brow pinched in with confusion. “What?”

“The flowers. You always pick the ones that aren’t perfect. Spots, notches, missing petals or stamens–”

“It makes them real,” he interrupted. “The flaws make them real. Machines can make flawless flowers.”

“I agree. I just… didn’t peg you for the type who could appreciate that, y'know?” Lily sighed, trying to suppress a grin. “Then again, I didn’t peg you for the type who pressed flowers, either.”

Loki glanced at his feet with a frown. “Everyone likes flowers,” he muttered under his breath, just shy of defensive. He managed to will his feet forward, relieving her still reaching hand of the book without glancing at her.

He swore that he hadn’t been this pathetic before he moved to Midgard.

Lily cleared her throat awkwardly, tipping a golden flower back with the toe of her trainer. “Would it be OK if I brought some flowers for your room, every once in while?” She gave him a hesitant smile before adding, “I-I need the practice,” in a rush.

“Don’t you think the others would be more deserving of them?” Loki hated the fact that he sounded somewhat bitter.

She giggled under her breath. “The others won’t really appreciate them, will they?” Before he could offer a witty retort to try and dispel the awkwardness he felt, Lily had grasped his wrist and tugged him along out the door. “Come on, we’re late for breakfast,” she remarked, conversation already forgotten.

[chaoticowlpost]

Hello nice person behind the screen. You want some prompts huh? Hmmm, what about a professor au where the student trolls Draco and he blames it on Harry without thinking twice idk :>> have a nice dayyyh

“My deepest regrets, but as you don’t have breasts,

I find that you’re actually quite fit.

And your arse in those pants makes me want to dance.

Your brilliance is most evident in your wit.”

And as the note exploded, the sound of his students laughing began flooding his ears. Yet, despite the sudden awareness of his surroundings, he still stared wide-eyed at where the note had exploded on itself, leaving a small pile of petals on his classroom floor.

If his shock at the sudden arrival of the note during his class wasn’t enough, the contents were just... no. Absolutely not.

“Silence,” he snapped, just loud enough to be heard over the loud peals of laughter. His expression was grim, he knew, and the students immediately began to shut up one by one.

Though he was often quite formal, and even strict, in his classes, he knew that his students still felt comfortable enough around him to be able to make jokes and not feel like someone was always breathing down their necks during class.

“Professor-”

“Stay here and read pages 395 to 420 quietly,” he said evenly, trying to control the tone of his voice. “I will be back shortly.”

‘But Professor, I-”

“Mr. Cohen, if you do open your book in the next 10 seconds, I will be deducting house points,” he threatened, still gathering his bearings. Then, without wasting another second, he stormed out of the room, his robe billowing behind him.

He walked down the familiar halls, mind set on his final destination. There was only one other person who despised him just enough to humiliate him in front of all his students. He was an educator, for Merlin’s sake. They both were, and they knew damn well that it was hard to lose the respect of their students.

“Potter!” He snapped once the man in question came into view.

“Malfoy!” Potter responded brightly, as he would considering he probably knew that his note had already been received. If only he knew what was coming for him. “Don’t you have a cla-”

“What in Salazar’s name do you think you’re doing, sending a bloody note like that during class hours,” Draco demanded, getting up in his face.

“What no-”

“‘Do not ‘what note?’ me, Potter,” Draco spat. “I saw it, and all those 5th years saw it.”

“But I never-”

“I will have you fired,” Draco threatened. “I mean, I tolerated you at first because I don’t have the authority to get rid of you, but I will. Salazar help me, I will get rid of you, one way or another.”

“Now, there’s no need to resort to murder, but-”

“I don’t care,” he interrupted, uncaring as to how childlike that might have come out. “There was no need to send that bloody letter either!”

“If you could just-”

“Potter!” Draco said, cutting him off once again. He didn’t need excuses. “Why? Just why do you always make it your goal to be my living hell whenever we’re present in the same room?”

“I really don’t-” Merlin, did he not know when to quit. Hadn’t he realized that Draco wasn’t going to let him have the last laugh.

“I’m reporting you to the Headmistress.” In all honesty, he felt like a child saying that, but that wasn’t the point. He did respect due process, after all. “And if you even try to pull-”

“Malfoy!” Potter said loudly, eyes wide in distress as he finally managed to stop Draco’s rambling. “What letter are you talking about?”

“The heinous, most pathetic attempt of a love poem I’ve seen since that time in second year with Weasley,” Draco spat. “Is that what this is? Your petty revenge for your girlfriend?”

“Of course no-”

“That was so long ago!” Draco said, throwing his arms in the air. “And even you have to admit that it was pretty awfu-”

“Malfoy!” Potter was almost shouting at this point. “Will you stop that?”

“No, Potter,” Draco scoffed. “The real question here is ‘will you stop harassing me?’”

“I didn’t send you any letter!” Potter claimed, looking just as frustrated as Draco felt. 

“Of course you did,” Draco scoffed. Nobody would be so bold, except for the physical embodiment of Gryffindor itself. 

“Okay, but I really didn’t,” Potter said, rolling his eyes. “Now if you could just explain to me what really happened, maybe we could figure it out.”

Draco ignored the last bit of his statement. “You didn’t send it?” he asked instead, feeling his mind go blank.

“Yes, I didn’t send it!” Potter said exasperatedly. “I know you have a class right now, and frankly I hate writing poems.”

“Yes, well, it would explain why the poem was so awful.”

“Except, you know, I didn’t write it,” Potter reiterated for the nth time that day. Frankly, Draco was getting tired of hearing it already.

“Fine, let’s say you didn’t write it-”

“I didn’t!”

“-then who do you think did?” Draco asked, ignoring the interruption. He resisted the urge to grin triumphantly when Potter rolled his eyes before responding.

“Have you maybe, I don’t know, considered that it was a student?” Potter asked, raising an eyebrow at him. 

“Why would a student send me that?” Draco retorted, not seeing where Potter was going with this accusation.

“They’re kids,” he said in response. “They pull pranks all the time. I’ve gotten my fair share as well this year.”

“What?” Draco asked dumbly. He’s never been pranked by a student like that before, that was for sure. Maybe the occasional attempt to see what they could get past him, but never anything so drastic.

“I mean, I know they generally avoid getting on your bad side, but maybe someone decided to be braver this year,” Potter shrugged. “Have you tried asking them if they knew who sent it?”

“Er...” Draco trailed off, suddenly feeling guilty. “No?”

“Then why did you immediately assume that I sent it?” Potter asked, a small frown marring his face. It made Draco feel guiltier. 

“Because,” he said, unsure, looking away. “You’ve been acting weird all year with your compliments and things. When I suddenly get a note about my arse, of all things, why wouldn’t I assume it was you?”

“What?” Potter asked, genuinely confused. Draco resisted the urge to groan, because really, he didn’t want to explain this to him in such plain words.

“I mean, obviously you were trying to embarrass me,” Draco scoffed.

“Malfoy,” Potter said softly, eyes kind after a small moment of realization. It made him want to shrink on the spot. “You think I was just messing with you all year?”

“Of course,” Draco confirmed, still not meeting his eyes. “Why else would you do it?”

“Have you considered that maybe, oh, I don’t know, I like you?”

“What?” Draco’s head suddenly snapped up, his heart threatening to lurch from his throat, because Potter what.

“Yeah,” Potter shrugged awkwardly, giving him a toothy grin. “Generally, you do tend to notice things about people you like. And I like you.”

“Oh,” he said, for the lack of a better response. 

“Yes, oh,” Potter repeated, chuckling a bit. “And I didn’t send you that letter. I wouldn’t try to embarrass you like that.”

“Oh.” He was getting tired of saying that.

And then, unsure, Potter took a step closer towards him, almost completely closing their distance. He cupped his face gently, the warmth of his hands heating Draco’s cheeks.

“Do you think that I could take you out some time?” Potter asked, his breath ghosting Draco’s lips.

“I- yeah,” Draco breathed, feeling the air knocked out of his lungs when Potter smiled gently at him. It was such an affectionate gaze that made Draco want to both drink it in and look away. 

“Thank you,” he said before inching his face forward. Draco was half-expecting him to lean in for a kiss but, instead, Potter had tilted his head to the side, placing a chaste, but sweet, kiss on his cheek.

“I- er, I should get back to class,” Draco said awkwardly, looking down. He knew his face was starting to turn red.

“Right,” Harry chuckled, brushing his hair away from his face. “And maybe you could find who sent that letter while you’re at it.”

“Right,” Draco nodded, feeling rather off-balance. “I’ll... I’ll do that.”

“Professor?” A small, hesitant voice spoke from somewhere behind him in the hallway. Immediately, but with no rush, Harry stepped away from him, letting go of his face.

“Mr. Cohen, I believe I instructed that you finish reading the assigned chapter until I get back,” Draco said, exhaling through his nostrils.

“Yes! But I, uh-”

“Get on with it, Mr. Cohen.”

“Right! I wantedtoapologizeforthenoteisent.”

His words were all strung together, but Draco was still able to catch what he said.

“You what.”

“It was a joke!” the student said defensively, clearly regretful.

“Twenty points from your house,” Draco said, looking up to the sky for some divine intervention. “Now get back to class.”

Quick footsteps sounded through the halls as he ran away.

“Don’t be too hard on them,” Potter said, placing a hand on the lower part of his back. “But I think you ought to head back. They’ll probably gossip about you if you don’t.”

“Us,” Draco corrected absentmindedly. “And they’ll gossip either way.”

“Yes, but they won’t read if they’re gossiping,” Potter pointed out. He, unfortunately, had a point.

“I suppose,” Draco sighed. “Then I think I’ll be heading back now.”

“Of course,” Potter smiled warmly at him. 

“Goodbye,” he said awkwardly unsure of what else to say in that moment. Potter, of course, seemed to sense this, because he smiled before getting back in Draco’s personal space.

“Good luck with the kids.”

“Right, the kids,” Draco repeated, nodding. Potter seemed to find it amusing, however. At least, amusing enough to want to press another kiss on Draco’s cheek.

“And don’t forget our date, Draco.”

Maybe he was slightly pink, even as he re-entered his classroom. The students were clearly exchanging glances, having had the time to gossip with one another, but Draco didn’t care.

He had a date to prepare for.

And, hey, maybe that stupid note wasn’t too bad.————————————————-

Masterlist

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I want you all to know that it killed me to write that verse DFJSHFB Thank you for reading <3

[alywats]

May 2021 Reading Wrap-Up

Happy start of summer!!! I still managed to get some reading in during my last month of the school year, and I’m honestly not sure how that happened. I am SO looking forward to chilling this summer and catching up on my *extremely* long TBR list… Anyways, these are the 7 books I read in May, 4 of which are nonfiction. I guess that was the reading mood I was in this month! I read 2317 pages this month, and you know what I’m pretty proud of that!

1. Branches -Rhiannon McGavin (43 pgs) 4.5

This debut poetry collection by Rhiannon is one of my favorites I’ve ever read. Her poem Chick Lit got a sticky tab permanent bookmark, and I’ve gone back and reread it at least twice a week since I finished the collection. I also feel like mentioning that Rhiannon’s has been a voice I have listened to for years on the internet, and her honesty and class and intelligence has been something I have taken massive inspiration and guidance from. I love this poet and I love this poetry collection.

2. A Tree Grows In Brooklyn -Betty Smith (496 pgs) 5

I didn’t really know what I was in for when I picked up A Tree Grows In Brooklyn. I am usually very hesitant to read books dubbed ‘classics,’ because that usually means they are hard to read or outdated or something, and they almost never live up to their hype. This was not the case here, the story is so so moving yet not overly written. It uses language in a beautiful yet simple way, which holds up to a read in 2021. This book is the story of a young girl in Brooklyn, who grows up in early 40s. It is semi-autobiographical of Betty Smith’s own childhood, and there isn’t really a distinct plot; instead there are a series of snapshots which form the mosaic of a story. If I had known these things going in, I probably would have assumed I wouldn’t like it very much, but it ended up being one of the best books I have read this year (and maybe ever). I really recommend this, even if you are hesitant to embark on a classic from the 1940s.

3. Fight Club -Chuck Palahniuk (218 pgs) 3.5

I can’t believe it’s taken me this long to read Fight Club, since I have read 3 other books by Palahniuk that are much less universally regarded as classic. He has such a distinct voice, and it's one that I like, but it is very similar between all of his works. Perhaps if Fight Club is your first encounter with his unique brand of satire, then Fight Club feels important. What I find with Palahniuk, is that I think he is an important author to modern literature, but I don’t know exactly which novel of his is an important novel to modern literature, does that make any sense… It's more that Palahniuk’s voice and style as a whole author is what makes his work highly regarded and influential. Since Fight Club is the most popular (I think mostly because it's also a movie), it’s most people’s first/only introduction to Palahniuk, and that’s what makes it even *more* popular.

I don’t know, maybe this is not a good take on Palahniuk, but I think those are my post-Fight Club thoughts.

4. The Anthropocene Reviewed -John Green (293 pgs) 5

I was maybe a little hesitant to read this new John Green book, his young adult novels were very important to me in early high school, but I can recognize that if I read those books for the first time now, I probably would not have as deep of a connection with them. But this book is not young adult fiction, it is a collection of memoir-eque essays about love, life, and being a human right now. John Green and my dad have a lot in common, John Green and I have a lot in common, John Green knows what to say, and when he doesn’t, he knows who to quote. I don’t really know what else to say about this, but if you are hesitant to pick this up like I was, don’t be. It is a beautiful read, both timeless and timely, that I absolutely treasured. I give The Anthropocene Reviewed 5 stars.

5. A Promised Land -Barack Obama (768 pgs) 2.5

This book is too long. Read Michelle’s book instead, I think it’s better, and I think she’s more well-spoken AND a little less self important… hot takes babey.

6. Journey Through Genius -William Dunham (286 pgs) 3

This was a book that I read for school, and it is a broad history of early mathematics. It is a history book from 1990, so it is Eurocentric, and has some weird lines that maybe don’t hold up; but it had factually accurate information, and written in a way that isn’t unbearably dry, so it was okay.

7. Undiluted Hocus-Pocus: An Autobiography -Martin Gardner (213 pgs) 3

This book was also for school. Martin Gardner was the father of recreational mathematics, a branch of mathematics that is purely for entertainment, and I will say much much more about this in the piece I wrote that used this book as research. As for this actual book, it’s fine if you’re interested in this very niche topic, but otherwise it’s definitely a skip.

[bubble-tea-bunny]

bloom

[claude von riegan x reader]

author’s note: i got fe: three houses over christmas break and fell absolutely in love w claude oml. i’ve only finished the golden deer route so far and i wanna do blue lion next, just not too sure when since i’m back in school, and i am busy. rip

word count: 7,152

Being set atop a hill, Garreg Mach Monastery is afforded beautiful views of the countryside every single morning. Rolling hills are silhouetted against a dark sky giving way to reds and oranges as the sun rises. Mist is low on the ground, a haze in the air like you’re dreaming. Dewdrops rest on blades of grass and birds hidden in branches sing to each other, and maybe they’re sharing poems about the wind catching under their wings. The weather is crisp and cool, cool enough to see one’s breath with every exhale, and it might be best to enjoy the cold and early hours from indoors, where it is warm and cozy with the flagstone floors, wooden rafters, and blazing fireplaces.

The romanticized musings of winter mornings are fully lost on the Golden Deer house today, as they have been the last couple of weeks. Instead, the air is harsh and bitter, biting at their cheeks left unprotected. They stand shivering in the field, simultaneously yearning for the coziness of the monastery and for Professor Byleth to finish giving out directions so that they might finally start moving around and hopefully get some warmth back in their systems.

Professor Byleth’s classes focus primarily on practicals, and Golden Deer had thus far been perfectly fine with that. The lecture halls could quickly grow suffocating, and the general quiet within them, save for a professor’s voice, made it all too simple to doze off. But when training takes them outdoors is when the blood truly gets flowing, for they’re afforded the chance to move around and spar, pushing each other to their limits. The golden deer love their homeroom professor dearly, of course, but with lowered temperatures comes lowered motivation to be out in the field first thing in the morning, and despite this being the start of the third week since winter began, they highly doubt they will ever grow used to the chill.

Claude thinks he might fall asleep right where he’s standing. Another issue with morning practicals this time of year is that the sun rises later. As someone whose internal clock tends to sync with the movement of the sun through the sky, he isn’t quite up to his typical level of jokes and antics until the day has fully broken.

His eyes close. The professor is addressing Leonie’s question, so he takes those several seconds to rest them as if that might be enough to get energized. His fingers feel frozen around the grip of his bow and he’s certain they’re stuck. He’ll need to unthaw in front of a fireplace when this is over. A nice, warm fire sure sounds wonderful right now…

Grass sifts beneath the boots of someone coming closer and Claude’s eyes slide back open. He glances to his left and grins tiredly.

“Hey, [Name],” he starts quietly, for you’re not standing very far. “Do you have any spells that might wake me up? Or at least feel warmer?”

You smile, sympathetic and similarly fatigued, and shake your head. “Unfortunately not, Claude.” Your cheeks and nose are red, and you punctuate your statement with a sniffle.

“I’m turning into an ice block out here,” Claude continues. The two of you are in the back, so there’s no issue of the professor overhearing. “Almost makes me wish for Hanneman’s history lectures instead.”

At this, you chuckle. For Claude, that’s no small claim. He’s fallen asleep in said lectures before, and you’ve had to wake him up before Hanneman noticed and woke him up himself. But you find you’d have to agree. While you mind them less, and can stay awake the whole way through, you do prefer the fresh air. Just… perhaps not when the cold is making your fingers numb even in your gloves.

After Professor Byleth has fielded everyone’s queries, she sets you all loose to begin your training. Everyone shares the same sentiment as they split off, but it’s Hilda who gives voice to the mutual relief inherent within them all at finally moving: I thought I was going to freeze in place if I was standing still any longer!

Once class is done, the sun has fully emerged from its hiding place and the chill is less severe. Claude isn’t bothered by it anymore, however, and he doubts his classmates are either. The professor’s practicals aren’t easy, and they’ve only gotten more difficult as the moons pass and everyone is well past the point of beginner. With blood pumping and heartbeats racing, there was no room left to feel cold.

The other two houses emerge from their classrooms and the corridors are filled with students. Professor Byleth has to raise her voice to be heard above the hustle and bustle, parting with a  commendation for another job well done today. She separates herself from the crowds to return to her classroom, and Lysithea and Lorenz follow after her to ask a question. As for the rest of the house, you join the sea of people. There was some time yet until the next set of lectures, and in your case, you’re keen to freshen up.

Mail comes in at the beginning of the week. You don’t expect many letters. You expect only one, in fact. Every Monday, like clockwork, you collect the envelope with the familiar wax seal keeping it closed. What’s different about the letter today is that it’s accompanied by a small burlap pouched tied up with twine. It confuses you to receive, and you’re wondering what it could be, but despite the distraction, you say your thanks to the courier before taking your leave.

You settle down at a table in the reception hall to review your mail. Carefully you peel open the envelope, breaking the seal, and pull out the letter folded parchment. The correspondence opens with your name, written immaculately in your brother’s handwriting, and the noise around you seems to melt away and you’re not in the monastery but rather, somewhere closer to home, somewhere like home.

You and Ludwig exchange letters regularly, as you made him promise to do before you’d left to begin your schooling at the officers academy. You’d always been close, and he shares with you the goings-on of being head of the guard. He’s privy to many of the discussions your father has with other houses, as is necessary if he’s to take over one day, but he still laments the boringness of it all, sparing you of no detail regarding how heavy his eyelids felt, how the monotone voice of some such lord or other seemed to go on and on and on… (You can practically hear his exasperation and you giggle. Poor Ludwig.)

With the remark that he hopes he hasn't just made you want to fall asleep on the spot too, he changes the subject and turns the conversation on you. This is where you finally get an answer about what’s in the small bag, now sitting on the table: they’re peony seeds. Your eyes light up upon reading this.

I bought them at the market the other day, Ludwig writes. I know you’ve been asking me to send some. Peonies are native to the area where your home city is located, and they grow in abundance there. The greenhouse at the monastery is lacking in the pink flower, and you recently requested that Ludwig sends you seeds if he was able so you could cultivate your own. You’d gone from seeing them daily to not at all, and you’d come to miss them. A ghost of a smile rests on your lips as you pick up the bag, clutching it in your hand and already formulating the heartfelt thanks you will send in your letter back.

There’s a break in Ludwig’s letter then, a new line, a new paragraph, as if a new thought has just occurred to him.

You know what these symbolize, don’t you? Maybe when they grow, you can give them to the one you love most.

Ludwig closes with well wishes and reminders to study hard even though it bears no reminding. You’re studious, more so than he during his time attending the academy. He never could sit with his nose in a book for long. But it’s his obligation as your older brother, he argues, that he tell you to work hard—I want to see you succeed! So don’t let me down, okay?

You remain sitting after you finish reading, processing all the information. Getting letters from Ludwig is a great way to start your week, and nearly makes up for the fact that your morning practicals since the start of winter are a harsh wake up call after lazy and relaxing weekends. You’re always eager to reply, and you plan to write your response tonight and have it sent out first thing tomorrow morning. Then begins the waiting game again.

Your eyes slide back up the piece of parchment, paragraph by paragraph, reviewing every topic covered. Upon reaching the topic about the present he sent, your head tilts thoughtfully. Burlap and twine scratch at the soft skin of your palm. You look down at it, like you can see the seeds inside, and your cheeks are feeling warm. The one I love most…

“There you are!”

Being so deep in thought, you don’t notice someone approaching, and you jump at the loud interruption, nearly dropping the letter and the pouch of seeds in your surprise. Claude smiles apologetically and rubs the back of his neck. “Whoa! Sorry, I didn’t mean to sneak up on you like that.”

“It’s fine,” you brush it off with a dismissive wave and a smile. But your face is still burning, your mind lingering on the subject of peonies and true loves. You clear your throat and try to will away the heat, though it’s to no avail, and you know better than to assume Claude, ever so curious Claude, would brush over the reddening of your cheeks which the cold isn’t responsible for.  

“What’s got you blushing so much this morning?”

You shake your head. “It’s nothing.” Before he can try to goad you to give more information (because you know he wants to), you tuck Ludwig’s letter back in the envelope and stand up. “You ready to go to class?”

Claude’s grin is mischievous but he doesn’t pry anymore as he nods instead, and the two of you exit the reception hall. Dodging the question won’t work with him. He’ll find a roundabout way to come back to the topic after considering what the answer could possibly be, offering up his guesses for you to confirm or deny. But for once you doubt he’ll get this one, and you don’t know that you have the confidence to admit to him that he’s the root cause.

You walk slightly behind and look up at him briefly, staring at the back of his head. You imagine the scenario and can see him now, chuckling as he accepts the bouquet of peonies and pondering aloud if it isn’t he who’s supposed to be giving the flowers. You’ll laugh at his small quip because he always makes you laugh with little asides like that, then you’ll ask if he knows what they mean. And if he doesn’t, you’ll sheepishly tell him, your heart alight with the hope that maybe, hopefully, your affections are reciprocated.

The what-if has your cheeks bursting in warmth once more and you hastily look down at the ground, focusing hard on the motion of your boots as you take each step. The blush needs to be gone by the time you get to the lecture hall, or else other people will ask about it too and you can’t have that!

Once you feel the dusting of pink has gone from your face, you quickly spare one more glance up at Claude. This time he seems to notice and glances over his shoulder, flashing you a quick smile. You smile back instinctually, though it fades once he turns his attention back in front of him.

Or maybe it's too much to hope for, that your relationship could extend beyond anything more than friends. Doubts nag at the back of your mind that he won’t feel the same, and that your confession will have upset the current balance. You fear the prospect of it doing the total opposite and pushing Claude away. Why risk ruining a good thing?

———

Professor Hanneman’s most recent writing assignment practically makes the library a second home for you and Claude. You stay there for hours, poring over old tomes for material to reference in your essay. You see your fellow classmates there occasionally and wave hello, but no one seems to be in there are often as you both. It leads to Claude wondering half-seriously if there’s some lecture you could’ve somehow missed that had pertinent information for this paper. You can only shrug helplessly.

“Maybe I’ll ask Marianne if I can take a look at her notes…” you murmur, flipping through your own. You speak quietly because of the environment, but as far as anyone on the outside is concerned, you may also be doing it because you’re speaking to yourself. Claude’s resting his head on his propped up hand, his eyes having slid shut a few minutes ago.

But you know better, and you smile slightly as you turn to look at him. He hasn’t knocked out quite yet, and at your comment, his eyes open. He sighs, exhaustion creeping up on him, and also glances over what he has written so far.

“Yeah, I could probably go ask Ignatz. He takes good notes.” Claude sits up and yawns, which prompts you to check the time.

The clock on the far wall denotes it’s early afternoon, but being cooped up in the library, the last couple of hours have crawled along and felt like much longer. With a sigh, you gather up your notes, careful not to accidentally grab any of Claude’s. “As much fun as we’re having”—Claude’s laugh earns him a shush from the nearby monk organizing the shelves—“I need to get going. I’m meeting Professor Manuela at the greenhouse.”

Given that Professor Manuela specializes in healing magic, you often spend your free periods with her to better hone your skills. One of the places in which you spend those free periods with her is the greenhouse, reviewing the various herbs to have on hand in case anyone is injured. Spells are good, she’s advised you, but it doesn’t hurt to have herbs on hand as well to aid the healing process.

“I’ll head out too then,” Claude replies, voice extra quiet so as not to be reprimanded by the monk again. “All this fun and no one to share it with? Not fun at all.”

You walk out of the library together with an agreement to meet up again tonight. The paper is due in a couple of days, and usually you don’t like to cut it so close, but Professor Hanneman had given it at an unideal time, caught up in multiple other assignments as you are. To add insult to injury, they had due dates close to each other, which only makes the mad scramble to finish everything even madder. The best you can do to cope is take solace in the fact your plight is not an exception. Your peers are experiencing much the same.

Your talks with Professor Manuela don’t end when she’s finished her small lesson for the day, reviewing the nuances of an anxiety-relieving herb kept at the greenhouse. Every so often there’s a short story about her days with the Mittelfrank Opera Company. You’ve heard her sing before, and you delight in imagining her up on the stage in Enbarr. How amazing it must have been, you muse. You don’t think you could perform in front of thousands of people like that, but maybe in your dreams you could, at the very least, pretend.

Though what tends to be brought up, more so than the opera company and show business, are the professor’s most recent flings. The first instance she had shared with you the failed connection with a man she met at the bar, you’d blanched, unsure if this was even allowed. Weren’t the personal affairs of faculty not meant to be shared with the students? Your mouth opened, prepared to ask if you were really the correct person to share this with, but she’d kept going, and she was so distraught, that you couldn’t bring yourself to stop her.

Better to let the feelings out than in, is how you’d justified it. You refrained from cutting her short and listened patiently. If anything, you suppose you’re glad she thought you someone worthy to share these frustrations with. Even if you couldn’t exactly do anything about it or have any advice to give.

“Love lost then found then lost again,” Professor Manuela laments. The sky is turning orange and dinner would be served soon. If you were closer to the dining hall, you’d be able to pick up the delicious smell of tonight’s dishes wafting out through the open double doors.

“Or what I thought was love. Turns out he was just like the rest of them.” She laughs dryly.

“I’m sorry, professor,” you do your best to console.

Professor Manuela sighs. “Me too, [Name].”

Her words echo in your mind during dinner, where you’re only pulled from your thoughts by your friends pulling you into their conversation. But as you return to your dorm and sit in silence, they come back, and there’s nothing to keep you away from them here. Love lost then found then lost again. You repeat it over and over, and you can’t shake the notion that it sounds so… dismal. It must be tiresome to go through disappoint like that again and again. You don’t know that you’d be able to go through it more than once. The heartbreak the first time might be too much. And besides, who’s to say you could find it again? Or would?

This gives you pause, halting your motions of sorting through your notes where you sit at your desk. If someone were to ask who you love, you can only think of one person, and the possibility of losing him is too much to bear. So much so that it’s frightened you from trying to share your feelings in the first place. Will you even dare to entertain the possibility of someone else out there, that you could feel this way about? At present, such is beyond you. Not when you think of peonies and they make you think of Claude. They might always make you think of him, and how could you stand to lose someone like that? So maybe you can carry on with the current state of things forever, never venturing past the point of friends. (Though perhaps it’s less about can and more about must.)

There’s a knock on the door but you don’t need to ask who it is. Claude is standing on the other side with a smile, texts he’d borrowed form the library and various papers tucked under his arm. “Ready to hit the books again?”

You open the door wider to allow him in before closing it behind him. “Not one bit.”

Claude chuckles and sets his study materials down on your bed. “Yeah, me neither. But I think we could finish tonight if we really go for it.”

You plop down in your chair to review your notes and continue from where you left off earlier. There’s the shifting of paper and flipping of pages to your left so you assume Claude is doing the same, but then the noises quiet down. It’s suspicious, but not enough for you to check on him. Before the quiet stretches on long enough to finally merit your concern, he speaks up.

“A new project?”

You turn to him, wondering what he could mean, but he’s not looking at you. Instead, he’s looking at the pot sitting on your window sill.

“Oh, uh, yeah…” you respond. “I asked Ludwig to send me peony seeds. There’s none here, and I missed them.” You hadn’t planted all of them, since you needed to make sure the pot was small enough for the sill, and you have the rest stored away, along with Ludwig’s accompanying letter, in the top drawer of your desk.

“They remind you of home.” It’s a statement, not a question.

But Claude’s hit the nail right on the head, and you nod. “Exactly.” There’s silence for a few moments as you stare at the pot and the small sprouts jutting from the soil, the beginnings of pink peonies, then quietly you continue. “Admittedly, I do get homesick sometimes…”

The smile Claude graces you with then is sympathetic. “I’m glad you have those flowers, if only to ease up on some of that longing.”

Your thoughts have trailed to your small garden at home with the gazebo and small table for two. At Claude’s words, your eyes flicker to meet his. And you imagine him sitting there with you, among the peonies, and you would have him immortalized in oil paints, his smile that which makes flowers blossom and which keeps your heart warm so that in the very depths of your being, where the soul finds rest, is perpetual spring.

“Yeah.” Your reply is curt, and you do your best to ignore the tightness in your chest. Longing, yes, he’d gotten that right. But was it merely for home? Or was it for him too? “It helps well enough.”

The air had quickly felt as if it was closing in on you. To break past its uncomfortable hold, you change the subject, taking in a steady breath and picking up what you’ve written of your essay so far. “Well, let’s get started then! Maybe we can finish before midnight if we’re quick about it.”

Claude laughs and looks at the clock. “With how fast I’d have to write to make that deadline, my hand might catch fire!”

———

Somehow, you make it. You all do: Golden Deer, Blue Lion, Black Eagle, the victory of each student no matter the house is one and the same. The point in the school year where exams and homework assignments are crammed in around the same three weeks is finally behind you. The atmosphere of the school in those weeks had been stressful, and had many late—sometimes even sleepless—nights packed with studying. On the Friday of the third week, at the end of the school day, a collective sigh of relief sweeps through the hallways like a welcomed breeze on a hot day.

Hilda’s making plans to go into town to celebrate, and she’s adamant you go with her.

“Come on, [Name], I don’t want to go by myself!” She’s practically hanging off your arm.

“I dunno, Hilda, I’m kind of tired.” You shrug, but the arm she’s hugging doesn’t move much due to her hold. “Isn’t there someone else who could go?”

“But I want you there with me! It isn’t the same if it’s somebody else.”

You and Hilda get along well, and despite how long it’s been since you met, it still strikes the others as a surprise as much as it does you. While Hilda is outgoing and energetic, you’re generally calmer and more subdued. You’re happy to stay in, and as is the case today, to go back to your room and relax as a way to celebrate the passing of the stressful weeks composed of midterm tests and assignments. But you guess your opposing tendencies can be good for each other. You help rein in some of that energy, the gentle reminder for her to take a breather every now and then; and she encourages you to go out and take advantage of the sunshine, to go around exploring. And since last time you made plans, the two of you just stayed in your room chatting and gossiping…

“All right,” you concede, and halfway through it’s nearly drowned out by her squeal of elation. “But can we at least get changed out of our uniforms first?”

“Of course! I need to find something cute to wear. You too, okay?”

You laugh at her enthusiasm as you nod your assent. The request shouldn’t be difficult to fulfill, since she had assisted in redoing your wardrobe, which meant a majority of it was now Hilda-approved by default.

Once at the dormitory, you part when you reach Hilda’s room, which is closer to the entrance of the building. You’re still several doors down, and you spot a familiar figure coming towards you.

“I feel like I can breathe again!” Claude declares, setting a hand over his heart to complement his exclamation.

“I’ll be catching up on a lot of sleep this weekend,” you state. That would have begun right this instant, but, well, Hilda happened. “Though I’m sure I’m not the only one with that plan.”

Claude chuckles. “Far from it. But how about right now? You getting up to anything?”

“Hilda and I are heading into town. So shopping, I guess, is what I’ll be getting up to. What about you?”

“I have some books to return to the library, but after that, the rest of my day is free. I think catching up on sleep is gonna start a little early for me, and, to be honest, I feel like I’m more excited than I should be.”

You grin lopsidedly in amusement. “Hey, it’s sleep well deserved, right?”

You bid your goodbyes, Claude continuing down the hall and you retreating into your room. Rifling through your dresser, you opt for a white dress. The days have been growing warmer and the sun is pleasant to feel on your skin in the afternoons. You stand before the mirror and braid your hair to keep it out of your face, for there’s a small breeze today. When you’re finished, you momentarily remain where you are, studying your reflection and nodding in satisfaction.

Then your attention shifts to the left, in the direction of the window. You walk over and flip the latch so you can slide it up. Immediately cool air floats in, and you smile as you glance down at the pot on the sill. The peonies are slightly bigger now; leaves are forming, though it would be a while yet until the flowers bloomed.

While in town, you settle for following Hilda’s lead. She pulls you into basically every boutique along every street you walk on, the wares on display in the window piquing her interest enough to look in detail at the selection inside. So far, she’s bought two blouses and a pair of shoes, and she says she’s now on the lookout for new earrings, but she still gets sidetracked by all the boutiques, whether they carry jewelry or not.

You’re happy to browse but haven’t felt particularly compelled to purchase anything. Hilda picks out clothes and holds them up, aligning them with your figure as she imagines what you’d look like in them. This is cute! she’d say. You should get it! But you chuckle and respond simply with a Maybe because with the number of suggestions she has given, if you had indeed bought every single one, you’d have enough to fill half your closet. While you’re open to the idea of expanding your wardrobe, you’re inclined to be picky else you shop till you quite literally drop. Hilda might be okay with that, but you… perhaps not so much.

By late afternoon, your stomachs are grumbling and you’re searching for snacks. Eating a big meal now made no sense because dinner would be served by the time you returned to the monastery. Hilda spots a cafe at the end of the street: a perfect place for tea and pastries, which would be enough to keep you sated for the walk back.

“Going shopping is so much more enjoyable without the thought of homework in the back of my mind!” Hilda remarks. Following midterms, the professors wouldn’t be handing out any new assignments until Monday, which meant as far as anyone else in the academy is concerned, this weekend is as free as free can be.

“I feel kind of strange knowing there’s nothing to work on,” you state. “But I’m not complaining.”

The two of you are approaching a flower display set up in front of a shop, and you slow down to glance at the pots and bouquets. Hilda slows her pace to match yours, and she grins. “Ah, finally it isn’t just me who’s wanting to pull you into shops.”

You chuckle but don’t turn your attention away from the colorful arrangements. It’s only when you look through the opened door do you turn around to look at her. “I know we were going to get food, but…”

Hilda waves a hand. “Go for it. But I’ll just stay out here, since, well…” She holds up the armful of clothes and accessories she has. “I’d hate to accidentally knock anything over.”

You tell her it’ll only be a few minutes, then step inside the flower shop. There’s a skylight built in to the ceiling, the last few hours of sunlight today flooding in past the glass. Your boots thump quietly along the wooden floors, though occasionally you step over a squeaky board. It is the series of quiet squeaks that captures the attention of the florist, an older woman whose back had been turned to you until now.

Her smile is polite, and when she asks if there’s a specific flower you’re looking for, you contemplate for a moment whether you should tell her or just proceed to browse in search of it yourself. After all, you don’t mind combing through the aisles, if only to take in the pretty selection. But since she offered her assistance, you figure you might as well. Before you can change your mind, you say Yeah, actually and ask if there are any peonies.

She shakes her head regretfully and apologizes. “I’m afraid I’ve sold out of peonies.”

You’re disappointed but smile anyway, appreciative of her help. “Oh, well… maybe next time.”

You can’t say you’re surprised there are no more available. Peonies have been especially popular recently, with the coming spring. Since the ones you’re growing are still young, there are no blooms to be witnessed currently, and you would have liked to buy some to enjoy. It seems as though you were too slow to get a bouquet on today’s visit, but you could hardly be blamed, given you were basically cooped up in your room during free periods and the weekends this past moon to study.

You envision the bouquet in a glass vase, sitting next to the pot of young peonies on the window sill. Then invariably your thoughts shift and you envision handing them instead to Claude, a sudden shyness overcoming you being despite the fact you have been good friends for a long while, but with the implication of your actions, you can’t help it. And you’d like to hide your face behind the pink bunches, too embarrassed to meet his gaze, and your cheeks would burn, jut like they do now.

If you had been able to buy the bouquet, which would it have been? Would you have kept it to yourself, or would you have finally done it, admitted to Claude how much he means to you, a sentiment beyond mere friends? You’re still hesitant that the feelings could be mutual, and are adamant in telling yourself that to risk it would be far from a good idea. So you surmise that if there had, in fact, been peonies available, then that would’ve meant something, a strong enough sign from the universe of what you should do. The flowers in your hands would be the push you needed because Ludwig’s words play in your head again and peonies are pretty sitting in front of a window but they’d look even better in the hands of the one you love most.

You huff out a heavy sigh. And perhaps the opposite is a sign too. At best, a sign to wait; at worst, a sign that it isn’t meant to be. And the latter hurts to consider. Even for all your aversion to risking your friendship with Claude, a tiny part of you holds onto the hope that so long as you don’t acknowledge your feelings, so long as you keep them a secret, there remains the possibility for him to love you back. Those what-if’s have kept you satisfied up until now, but would they always?

Maybe the lack of peonies today are the universe telling you that it’s your choice to make. To reason that your profession of love to Claude depended on whether there were peonies in the shop today, was to discount the magnitude of your feelings. If they’re as strong as you believe them to be (and you believe them to be very strong), they will be that final nudge. The universe removes her hands from this one.

Hilda frowns when you emerge from the store empty handed. “No flowers?”

“Nothing caught my eye,” you explain, not going into anymore detail than that. Your stomach grumbles again, a well-timed reminder of your original goal, and the perfect excuse to change the subject. “Now come on, let’s get food!”

Maybe on the day the peonies in your room finally bloom, you’ll have the courage to confess.

———

When you’re back at the monastery and in the dining hall for dinner, you don’t see Claude anywhere. It’s an observation you make but doesn’t warrant your concern nor suspicion. You hadn’t arrived right when the cooks began serving the food, and by now other students and faculty are finished or are almost finished with their meals, and have left to continue with the rest of their evening. The table you’re sitting at with your fellow Golden Deer steadily empties until it’s just you and Raphael. He tells you he spent his afternoon training, and when you commend his dedication, he gives you a toothy grin and playfully flexes one of his arms.

“Have to keep my muscles big and strong! That’s why I gotta eat so much too, like right now!”

Even he’s lost track of how many times he’s gone back to get more food. Seconds, thirds, fourths… If no one else is eating it, then I will! You can’t help but laugh. His passion for food (more so to eat than to make) is unparalleled, and it leaves little to go to waste. The dining hall is growing quieter as people depart, and there’s still some food left being attended to by the cook, which you know Raphael will be going back for. With slight amusement you wonder if they make extra just for him.

Eventually you too take your leave, wishing Raphael a good night as you stand. The breeze is cool and you shiver, for you don’t have a jacket. You’d come straight to the dining hall when you got back. You hasten your walk to the dormitory, and with every step closer, the thought of sleep begins to excite you. It technically isn’t very late yet, but the stress of the last few weeks have caught up to you, and you’re ready to plop into bed and sleep for days. Besides, there’s sure to be other students who have already fallen asleep, like Claude, according to what he’d mentioned this afternoon, so you’re no outlier.

Or, it seems, not like Claude, because you see him in the hallway.

Your brow raises in confusion and you don’t have to say anything for him to know why you’re looking at him so surprised. He laughs and falls in step with you as you continue on to your room.

“I took a nap earlier and was a little more energized,” he begins, “so I’ve been chatting, hanging out, getting things done.” He shrugs matter-of-factly.

“What things need getting done?” you inquire curiously. “Not anything class-related, that’s for sure.”

“No, nothing about our classes.”

He doesn’t expand more than that, and you look up at him, expecting him to speak again, but he keeps quiet. You’ve arrived at your room now, and your hand curls around the doorknob. You take a second to open the door, opening it wide as a signal for Claude to come in if he wants.

“Then what’s—” Your question is cut short once you step into the room. In shocked silence, you observe the scene before you.

Bunches of peonies adorn every available surface: on your desk, atop your dresser, scattered over your bed and even covering the uniform you’d folded and left on top of it when you changed after class. The window sill where you keep your own pot of peonies is almost hidden beneath how many of the pink flower have been placed there. More are tucked among the books and knick knacks you have on the high shelves mounted on the wall. If you had any words, they’ve left upon the breath you let out, a sigh of disbelief and wonder. It’s beautiful.

You twist around, and the soft smile on Claude’s face from where he stands by the door is an instant giveaway. You want to ask him what this is about, but you can’t find it in you to speak. Thankfully, he understands fine, and answers without needing to be questioned aloud.

“Since you couldn’t go home, being at the academy to study and all, I figured I could bring home to you.”

Your lips lift at the corners in a grateful smile, though it’s shaky because you might cry. The thoughtfulness makes your chest squeeze painfully, that Claude would do this for you. You hadn’t paid any special mind to your comment about peonies and your attachment to them, but Claude had. It had stuck with him, and not only that, it had spurred him into action. Your room is filled to the brim with peonies and you’re certain you’ll see them behind closed eyelids as you sleep.

“Thank you, Claude.” You hope he can detect your gratitude, the heartfelt sincerity. You mean it with your entire being because never in a million years did you think anyone would go to such lengths for you. His smiles grows then, and you know that he had picked up on it. “But how—”

“—did I get all these flowers?” he completes the query for you. “Yeah, about that, I asked around from the merchants if anyone was bringing in shipments of peonies, and when I found someone, I bought the whole supply.” He chuckles and rubs the back of his neck sheepishly.

That must be why the florist from this afternoon had no peonies available. You’re familiar with Claude’s talents, and have been privy to his fair share of schemes, but evidently, he’s so good that he’d managed this one right under your nose. Suddenly you want to ask why. Why had he done this? Multiple crates of peonies couldn’t be cheap, and though money is no issue for a noble like Claude, it’s still a lot to spend on one person. Did he truly value your friendship that much, that he hardly blinked at the prospect of doing something like this?

As if he could hear your thoughts, he speaks up again. “I did this to help you feel less homesick, but… there was more to it too.”

You tilt your head but keep quiet so he can continue.

“I like being the reason for your smiles,” he admits. “I want you to be happy. And when the opportunity to do this”—he motions to the room and the peonies—“fell into my lap, and I knew it’d make you smile, I couldn’t pass it by. I didn’t think twice. I mean… how could I?”

It’s silent for several moments as you process what he has said, and the implication behind his words. He did this because it made you happy. He did this because he does value your friendship but what’s more, he values you. What he shared mirrors your own sentiments, gives voice to the warmth you feel whenever you see him smile and how that’s all you want to dream of and when he smiles because of you, you always feel like the two of you could be something more.

By now it is impossible to deny that Claude is baring his heart to you in a way you never had the courage to. And he watches you the way you imagined you’d watch him, waiting nervously, with bated breath for the response, clinging to the hope that the yearning and the pining and the love, that it’s all mutual.

You swallow the lump in your throat, and your voice is barely above a whisper because if you were to speak any louder, your voice might crack. “So what are you saying?” This feels as if it’s not real, is just in your head, and you’re too nervous to come to any conclusions on your own lest you somehow take everything completely the wrong way. Even now, you’re second guessing yourself, wondering if you can finally acknowledge and confess your own feelings. But you have to know for sure.

“What I’m saying is…” Claude takes the few strides to close the distance between you, and when he’s standing before you, he carefully lifts a hand to rest on your face. He visibly relaxes when you don’t shy away from his touch. “You mean the world to me. You make me feel like I can move mountains, and I never want to let you go.”

You’re overcome with happiness at his words—he feels the same!—and you can’t contain your smile. His eyes light up when he sees it. “There it is.”

The remark only serves you to make you smile wider as you laugh shyly. The skin of his palm is warm against the coolness of your cheek, and you lean into his hand. You notice his gaze drop from your own, flickering to your lips, and then he’s closing what small distance remains, and his lips are soft, so soft, and you could stay here forever. This isn’t quite your garden of peonies and the gazebo with a table for two, but whether you were at the monastery or back home, whether you were in a gazebo or in your dorm room, you’re still surrounded by peonies, and most importantly, Claude is with you. That’s all that matters.

Your thoughts drift to the letter in the top drawer of your desk, and you only hold him tighter.