Here’s Another Detail For The Brain Rot: Lilies Are Herbaceous. This Means That They Have Medicinal

i love stories about betrayal i love depravity i love tragedy i love miscommunication i love backstabbing i love when characters encourage each other to be worse i love dysfunctional partners i love misfits & i love it most of all when they are bisexual

some of you might hate me for this but…. one sided peter pettigrew x james potter lowkey sounds like a good ship

The raging urge to be a villain’s favorite person.

what's your favourite version of Regulus' death in a fic and why?

i like when he’s alive actually

Brotherly relationships be like. I miss you. I hate you. I can't stop loving you. When did you stop loving me?

Reckless, egged on by the warning glint in his brother’s eyes, Regulus continued. “You know, you talk a lot about how much you hate Mother, but you really are exactly like her.”

Sirius’s fist connected with his jaw faster than he could dodge, leaving him with a ringing in his ears and the taste of blood in his mouth.

Regulus ran a thumb over his lip as Sirius stood there, panting; it came away red. He smirked to hide the pain. “See? I say one thing you don’t like, and you go flying off the handle. Who do you think you learned that from? I can’t imagine it was Precious Prince Potter.” He felt like he was walking a tightrope, half an inch either way from plummeting, but he couldn’t stop. “You’re an asshole, you know that, Sirius? A proper asshole. Presumably so are your friends, since none of them have bothered to tell you. Actually - actually, I bet the only reason they keep you around is because you’re the one person shitty enough to make them feel good in comparison!”

Sirius's eyes were shining silver with tears, Regulus noticed with a jolt, but whether he’d even hurt his brother or just driven him into an impotent rage he couldn’t tell. He swallowed spit and blood, mouth suddenly dry. When had the room gotten so silent?

“Regulus, you should go,” Lily said, voice low. She was halfway out of her seat, one hand on James’s shoulder, but Regulus turned such a scornful gaze on her that she sat back down.

“I would love to leave, but if you haven’t noticed, I’m being kept prisoner,” he explained, enunciating each word as though educating a toddler. “Actually, wait - since you don’t have any legal grounds to keep me here, I’m not a prisoner - I’ve been kidnapped!”

“Regulus,” Sirius growled, “fuck off. Go to your room.”

Outnumbered. Regulus felt four glares boring into him, and offered Sirius a mocking smile. “Of course, Mother,” he said with a false curtsey, skipping backwards out of reach of Sirius’s next ferocious swipe. One last scathing look to the room at large, and he turned tail, making it three steps up the staircase before the tension in his chest snapped like a garrotte and he broke into a sprint. He slammed the door of ‘his’ room behind him, and threw himself onto the bed, half-wishing the frame would snap under the abuse. No such luck; it just took the hit, no complaints.

He could call Kreacher. He could summon Kreacher back here, Apparate away, tell the Dark Lord everything he’d learned during his imprisonment and damn the consequences. The more he thought about it, the better the idea seemed, and Regulus was on his feet and halfway to the wardrobe before he remembered that nothing in there belonged to him. The robes he’d arrived in were strewn across the bed, an extra blanket to stave off the winter chill; he screwed them into a ball and tucked it under his jumper. Lily’s jumper, but he wasn’t going to leave it and turn up at home half-naked. His wand was still unaccounted for; he’d have to get a new one as soon as possible.

“Krea-” he began, when he was interrupted by a soft knock at the door.

HE KNOWS

Sirius and Remus, in the poetry of Richard Siken;

Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us.

There are so many things I’m not allowed to tell you. I touch myself, I dream. Wearing your clothes or standing in the shower for over an hour, pretending that this skin is your skin, these hands your hands…

I swallow your heart and it crawls right out my mouth. You swallow my heart and flee.

There are many names in history but none of them are ours.

All I can do is stand on the curb and say Sorry about the blood in your mouth. I wish it was mine. I couldn’t get the boy to kill me, but I wore his jacket for the longest time.

And maybe a mouth sounds idiotic when it blathers on about joy but tell me you love this, tell me you’re not miserable.

Tell me we’re dead and I’ll love you even more.

I want to tell you this story without having to confess anything.

I’m sorry I came to your party and seduced you and left you bruised and ruined.

You see, I take the parts that I remember and stitch them back together to make a creature that will do what I say or love me back.

Love, for you, is larger than the usual romantic love. It’s like a religion. It’s terrifying.

I said my arms are very long and your head’s on fire. I said kiss me here and here and here and you did.

In these dreams it’s always you: the boy in the sweatshirt the boy on the bridge, the boy who always keeps me from jumping off the bridge.

You are a fever I am learning to live with.

I don’t really blame you for being dead but you can’t have your sweater back.

Makes a cathedral, him pressing against me, his lips at my neck, and yes, I do believe his mouth is heaven, his kisses falling over me like stars.

You, the moon. You, the road. You, the little flowers by the side of the road.

You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and you’re trying not to tell him that you love him, and you’re trying to choke down the feeling, and you’re trembling,  but he reaches over and he touches you,  like a prayer for which no words exist, and you feel your heart taking root in your body, like you’ve discovered something you don’t even have a name for.

Here I am leaving you clues. I am singing now while Rome burns. We are all just trying to be holy. (My applejack, my silent night, just mash your lips against me.)

bunny boy reg as whore reg is so brilliant actually

“The Professor walked to Black’s side, seized his hand, and pulled him to his feet so that Crookshanks fell to the floor, and embraced Black like a brother.”

Snape is Reg’s no bullshit friend who tells it like it is, Barty is the “tearful conversations about our daddy issues at 3 am” friend