#put it in a letter jane austen

[jennhoney]

If you’ve moved and maybe I don’t know about it and you want your yearlyish card from me, send me a message! And if you’d like to start a postal relationship also send me a message!

#tumblroos that rock! #put it in a letter Jane Austen #gosh I love stamps

[antagonistenthusiast]

moving away from home is like i feel my roots withering no matter how hard i try. feel new branches starting to bloom. i am in wretched pain because of what i’ve lost. i am the calmest i’ve been in decades. i look at my parents and realize i don’t really know them at all. my partner’s breath is on my shoulder in the dead of night and every nerve ending in my body is soothed. i am making dinner the way my mom taught me. it doesn’t taste like when she made it. i’ve forgotten i’m supposed to be sad for a second. i feel guilty when i laugh because i’ve forgotten. i’m my own person. i’m just an extension of the generations that came before me. but i’m the one who got out. i don’t know why i feel so tired (it’s because you’re used to a certain level of hypervigilence, my partner says, and you can rest now). i want to hug my dad. my dad doesn’t know that i miss him. i should tell him. i don’t. my heart aches and yearns for people who don’t understand me and have chosen their beliefs over me. do they miss me in return? my mom doesn’t even say hi when i call now. i’m sitting on the front porch with the love of my life and she always sits so that we’re touching. i think she wants to make sure i’m real too. i’m sleepy again. i’m safe.

#put it in a letter jane austen

[grendelsmilf]

troy and abed are like best friends to me but also i know that if we ever actually hung out i’d try to get them to read books and they’d resent me for that and talk shit about me behind my back in their like. dreamtorium pillowfort or whatever

#community textposts #i know that im just describing annie #but she never actually talks about literature except for in a scornful way (put it in a letter jane austen) #so we can really only assumes that she reads bc it coheres w the rest of her character #my point is. i’d be more annoying than annie.

[woodcries]

permanent starter call. for annie edison / community. liking this means you're interested in interacting with this muse and are willing to receive starters and asks from them. knowledge of the source material is never necessary but always appreciated.

#annie e. [ ic ] put it in a letter jane austen! #psc. #queued.

[screenviolense]

@kerflooey sent: 🍧 Annie and Abed !!! send 🍧 to get shaved ice/a snow cone with my muse

　　' you were talking to that guy for a long time, what did you even end up getting? '

　　she watched abed approach, stepping away from the truck and ignoring the long line of people behind him looking pretty annoyed about the fact he'd spent five or so minutes describing just what flavor profile he wanted. meanwhile she had been happy enough that they still had bubblegum available, though cotton candy would have worked in a pinch. free snow cone day was a tradition for the beginning of the fall semester before the weather cooled down and they knew just how to get there fast enough to get ahead of the line before it trailed around campus in the blistering heat.

#✦ annie e. * ic put it in a letter jane austen! #✦ annie e. * v.001 put it in a letter jane austen! #kerflooey #the thems

[sunnami]

❝time will tell.❞

[credits to the original artist of the photo!! can't seem to find their @ anywhere. title is taken from jane austen's persuasion, as was the first part.]

summary. ❝you are loved. and harry thinks there is no better description that that.❞

pairing/s. poly!mauraders x reader. (james potter x reader, sirius black x reader, lily evans x reader, and remus lupin x reader.)

word count. 9.5k.

tags. reader is referred to mum, with she/her pronouns[!], canon-typical violence [!], canon-typical deaths mentioned[!], very brief marauders as soldiers of the order[!], creepy old men being creepy[!], child abuse[!], pureblood arranged marriages, a minor character expresses wanting to die[!], Depressed and Traumatized Slytherins, the capital is important[!], themes of misogyny [!], teen boys fuck around and find out there are consequences to their actions, THERE IS ACTUALLY A LOT OF FLUFF, I PROMISE YOU, angst, children lose their baby teeth up until the age of twelve!! google said so!! not proofread we die like dobby the free elf

note. damn, i cried, you cried, we all crode. tbh, the first part was only intended as a oneshot, sdfkhdf, but when i re-read it, i thought that i could have expanded on more details,, so now here we are!! i love it more than the first part ueueue. thank you all so so so much for the kind comments :((( please please enjoy the second part to this installment!! part one

HARRY JAMES POTTER was only a few months old when you died at the hands of Voldemort — or as strangers have told him every time they ravaged his personal space and ogled at his scar. They said it was a quick death, better than what had happened to Alice and Frank Longbottom. But that was all they’ve ever said about your death. Unfortunate; caught in the wrong place at the wrong time, entirely different from the pedestal James and Lily have been put on by the wizarding society. 

At first, Harry had wondered if it was due to your blood relations, being the daughter of a renowned Death-Eater, heiress to the fortune of a pureblood House. Harry can’t even count the amount of conspiracy theories he’s read or heard to his face that it must have been you who betrayed James and Lily, and not Sirius Black. 

Even Hermione’s shared to him a theory that your death was faked to surrender your loyalty completely to Voldemort — of course, Hermione was eleven at the time, head full of books and her favorite theories, and Harry’s already forgiven her. But there’s a part of him that despises the way he’s never known the full truth about his parents, just bits of information dangled in front of him like bait for people [read: the Dursleys] to get him to do what they want, to act like the way they want. Until Remus and Sirius, you were a stranger to him, really.

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

(1976; CURRENTLY, IN THE PAST.)

IT IS RATHER UNFORTUNATE that Madam Pince has already taken her position as the unbearable librarian at this point in time. The woman gives Harry and you a pointed look as you slam the large book onto one of the tables — to Harry’s surprise, you glare right back at her. You’re awfully flushed, however, blushing cheeks betraying the fire in your eyes; it must have been from when Remus escorted the two of you to the library; he had tried to brush your hand with his pinky, to which you had responded with a startled hiss — Remus only smiled and chuckled at you, and Harry swears he’d like to forget that entire interaction because he saw literal stars in Remus’s eyes.

Jumping back in time and potentially causing chaos? Fun. 

Meeting your parents? Definitely fun, in the strangest of ways. 

But watching them pine and fall for each other? Not so fun. 

Nonetheless, he hesitantly takes the seat across yours and watches you flip through the pages until you land on a chapter with the large, bold letters: THE CURIOUS CASE OF ELOISE MINTUMBLE — Time-Travel and Its Many Dangers. He meets your gaze with a sheepish grin, mustering a look of innocence; except the puppy dog eyes only worked when he was nine — you are not amused. 

You slide the book towards him, scarily resembling Molly Weasley when she’s miffed with the twins. “You are aware, right, that just by existing here you’ve changed the future? Your future? And, that’s not even the worst thing that could happen.” 

Harry sulks. “Yes, mum.” He prefers not to think about it, actually, it makes his head hurt. 

“Don’t call me that in public!” You whisper heatedly, looking over your shoulder to check if anyone had heard him — to your luck, the library was empty, save for a Hufflepuff that was passed out on top of his books. “The less people that know about this, the better. It’s bad enough we told Potter about you. Do you even know what you’re going to do?” 

“Considering I was thrown here against my will, no.” Harry shrugs. “And to be honest, I was just going to obliviate the people who asked too many questions.”

You reach over to smack his head, scowling.

“Ow! That hurt!” Harry rubs the sore spot as he grumbles petulantly. “This is technically child abuse, did you know that?” 

You roll your eyes. “Do you at least have a plan to get home?” 

“Of course I do,” Harry retorts with a scoff, “Her name is Hermione Granger.” 

“Hopeless.” You groan exasperatedly. “Absolutely hopeless.” 

Harry only grins in response. For a brief moment, he forgets about the present — his reality where the skies are bleak and home is where he knows the feeling of loss more than the warmth of his own parents’ embrace. He lets himself forget, and pretends he isn’t the Boy Who Lived. Just some random boy who’s pestering his mother — even if she likes to deny the inevitability of being romanced by the Marauders, (except for Wormtail because Harry would eat troll slime before he ever lets that happen.)

“Right then,” You say after your tangent — which Harry tuned out when he hears the words, be responsible. “If I’m going to help you get back home—” 

Harry’s heart drops to his stomach; as selfishly as it sounds, he didn’t want to go home just yet — not to where people just took and took from him. He’s exhausted. Still, he puts up a front of being excited to be returned to his timeline. It’s for the greater good, of course, because his existence — present or past — is always somehow a threat to the wizarding society. 

“—you need to answer this one question for me.” Your voice drops lower as you stare at him intently, lips pressed firmly. 

Harry nods slowly. “As long as it’s within reason, yeah.” 

You inhale sharply. “Do I outlive Dolores Umbridge?” 

The wince escapes Harry before he can even stop it. 

That’s all the answer you need, apparently. Your mouth hangs open in disbelief, eyes nearly bulging out of your head as you slam your hands down onto the table surface, shrieking.

“That slimy bitch!” 

Needless to say, the two of you are kicked out of the library.

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

(1970; ORIGINAL TIMELINE.)

YOU ARE ELEVEN when your father introduces you to Ferguson, commonly known as Fergus, Bulstrode. He smiles at you with a leer, eyes hungrily dipping to the neckline of your dress. You grit your teeth as you hold out your hand for him to take — you almost shudder at the feel of his lips on your cheek. You eagerly take a step back away from him, hoping your father won’t notice the way you shy from Ferguson’s touch. You’re not dull, you fully understand the implications of this introduction and the way Ferguson is complaining to you about his third wife’s passing — as if you were the solution to his loneliness. Bile rises to your throat, and you shove it down with a forced laugh at your father’s jokes about Mudbloods. From across the room, Allegra Greengrass stares at you in sympathy, and you send her a glare — you do not need anyone’s pity. 

The corset your mother laced on too tight is suffocating you; this whole Yule extravaganza made for elitist purebloods is suffocating you; and yet, you smile and greet every red-lipped witch your mother introduces you to. For hours, you pretend, and you pretend. By the time the guests have left, you wonder if you have any more of yourself to give. 

You manage to convince your mother to let you slip away for the night. Without missing a beat, you rush outside and into the garden labyrinth, lest old Ferguson snatches you up for a dance and let his gaze wander elsewhere. For the first time since the sun had set, your aching feet finally find some relief. You drop onto the edge of the stone fountain as you toss your heels to the side. You begin working your fingers through your hair, ripping the glittery ribbons from your head. It’s not until you’re unclasping your necklace that you realize you are crying. Tears fall from your eyes, and they sink deep into the fabric of your dress. 

You barely hold back your sobs. Your chest heaves as you hiccup; your vision goes blurry as your fingers grow numb. There’s nothing you can do but cry. 

You’ve used up all your smiles for tonight. 

But then, the sadness turns into resentment and then turns into indignation. Harshly, you wipe the tears from your eyes as you rip a violent scream from your throat. 

You sink to the ground, perfectly polished nails digging into the soil as you gather patches of grass and tear them from the roots. You throw a handful of mud at the marble statues. You grab another fistful of mud, scream, then bash your head against the garden floor. You let out another cry, whimpering as you curl into yourself; shivering as a gust of wind brushes against your skin. Surprisingly enough, this is the most human you’ve ever felt. This is the most you have ever felt — period. 

When hiccups regress into soft sniffles, you lay on your back, watching the stars float above. As the last of your tears slide down your cheek, you lift a shaky hand to trace the constellation in the sky. It’s not a familiar one to you, but then— 

“That’s Sirius.” 

You sit upright in a snap, wiping away the wetness from your eyes as you muster a mean glare at the newcomer.

Sirius Black.

“Oh, none of that,” He tells you when you move to stand. There’s barely any emotion on his face and it irks you that you can’t figure out what he’s planning. What you don’t expect is for him to sit beside you, thereby ruining his expensively tailored suit. 

“You’ll get creases,” You scold him instinctively, nose scrunched — but your voice is hoarse; too tired to put up any pretences. “Your mother will be cross with you.” 

Sirius scoffs, laying his head on the dirt, making sure to smear his sleeves with grass stains. “Walburga can go fall in a ditch and die for all I care.”

You gasp. “That’s horrible!” 

Sirius gives you a look. “You don’t believe that.” 

You really don’t, but you don’t have the courage to admit it either. 

After a few moments of silence, Sirius asks, raising a brow, “So who was that?”

“Who was who?” You stare at him with knitted brows, toying with your fingers. You still can’t wrap your head around how weird this is — sitting with Sirius Black in the middle of your mother’s hedge maze, your once bright blue dress now sullied at the ruffles, eyes bloodshot and your hair a frizzy mess. (Sirius thinks you look cute, though; especially with your missing front tooth that peeks out every time you talk to him.) 

“Bald guy, older than Merlin himself.” Sirius makes a face. “Looks like a troll. Smells like one, too.”

A giggle flutters past your lips, and your hands fly to your mouth. You really shouldn’t be bad-mouthing your guests, but Sirius was right — Ferguson really did act like an ugly troll. You sigh, letting your arms fall to your side. “My betrothed.” 

Sirius nods in understanding. “My mother tried to set me up with my own cousin once.” 

You grimace. “Which cousin?” 

He sits on his knees to face you, and with a very solemn face, he says, “Bellatrix.”

This time, you laugh freely, throwing your head back as Sirius pouts at your amusement. “O-Oh, that’s golden.” 

“No, it’s not,” says Sirius, lips twitching as he watches you snort like a pig through your giggles. “It’s horrible. A literal nightmare. You should feel awful for me.” He pokes your stomach, and it just makes you laugh harder, eyes disappearing into your smile. “Oi. I said feel awful, not take the piss out of me.” 

“S-Sorry.” You wheeze, batting away his hand pulling at your cheek. “I just can’t imagine Bellatrix in a white wedding dress and saying her vows to you.”

“That’s disgusting.” Sirius gags. “You’re horrible, I hope you know that.” 

When you finally calm down and Sirius tickles your bare feet until you cry in surrender, the two of you lay on the grass as he points out each constellation to you. Later, he fishes a small box of sugar mice from his pocket and offers it to you, opening one for himself. “Here’s to shitty parents and the one day we get to decide our own future.” 

You bump your squeaky candy mice against his. “Cheers, Black.” 

“Will you go to Hogwarts next year?” He asks you once he’s bitten off the tail of his mice. 

You nod. 

Sirius shifts on his side, holding his pinky out to you. “We’ll be friends when school starts?”

Again, you nod, wrapping your pinky around his. “Friends.” 

The next September comes, Sirius finds a compartment and one James Potter in it. You sit with Allegra Greengrass and Endora Lestrange on the way to Hogwarts. You are sorted into Slytherin, and Sirius finds freedom and a home in Gryffindor. You play the role created just for you; you lift your nose at those beneath you, adorn yourself in custom-made silk clothing, and carry yourself with the etiquette of a pure-blooded lady. Perfect grades, perfect hair, perfect clothes, always picture perfect.

You pretend that Allegra doesn’t throw up in the evenings from the fear of getting married to a man twice her age. You pretend that you don’t notice Endora sleep-walking and begging for her mother to save her from her father. You pretend that under your blankets, in the Slytherin dungeon, you are safe. 

You pretend that it doesn’t hurt when Sirius looks at you in disappointment when you shove a Hufflepuff student to the ground for getting a higher score than you in Charms.

They call you an ice-princess behind your back, and you overhear some of the fifth-years calling you foul words as well, and no one steps in to stop them; there’s no defending a Slytherin, after all. But you are keeping your head above treacherous waters, and you suppose that is all that matters.) 

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

(1976; CURRENTLY, IN THE PAST.)

“SO ACCORDING TO THIS, Eloise was stuck in 1402 for five days until she was retrieved to the present, which means we only have four days left to figure out a way for you to get back home.” 

Harry sinks into his chair, arms crossed over his chest. The two of you had found an empty classroom to discuss your plans away from inquisitive ears. “What’s the rush?” It’s unfair, he’d only just met you, and now he’s losing time with you. 

You sigh. “Harry, Eloise Mintumble spent five days in the past and when she came back, her body aged five centuries, and she died in St. Mungos. It’s not just about altering the whole timeline, you could actually die.” 

When you are met only with silence, you close the book, frowning. “Harry? What’s wrong?” 

Harry swallows the lump in his throat, looking out the window to avoid your gaze. “What do you know about the Mirror of Erised?” 

Your head tilts in confusion. “That it shows our heart’s deepest desire.” 

“Yeah,” says Harry, nodding. “I was eleven when I found it.” 

“Oh, Harry. . .” 

It’s almost pathetic how quickly his eyes water. “Did you know, before today, I hadn’t known at all what your voice sounded like?” 

You stay quiet, and Harry sucks in a shaky breath. 

“When I looked into the mirror, I saw my parents—all of you. There I was, in the middle. You were behind me—happy.” Harry swipes a tear from his eye. “I wanted to stay in that room, stare at that mirror forever.”

“It’s—”

“Dangerous, I know.” He laughs bitterly. “Just like finally being able to meet you all here.”

“Harry, you aren’t supposed to be here in the first place,” You say quietly, eyes drooping sadly. 

“I know that!” He exclaims desperately. “But is it so selfish to just want some time? I don’t want an illusion, I want the real thing. A real family. Why can’t I have that? Bloody Malfoy gets everything he wants, and what do I have?” 

“Your friends,” You tell him firmly. “Your friends who must be worried sick that you’re gone and must be going great lengths to bring you back.” 

“I know.” Harry wilts. He’s got Remus at home, too, who probably needs him more than ever after Sirius’s death. “I know. But can’t I just have this one thing?” 

You purse your lips for a moment, brows furrowed in thought. Then, you break the silence with: “Do you want to hear a story?”

“What?” Harry croaks, peering at you through wet lashes. 

Shrugging, you say, “Stories to remember us by. I’ve got six years worth of stories and then some. I know it’s not much, and you’ve probably heard some of these already from the others in the future, but it’s better than nothing, right?” You lean against the back of your chair, glancing at the wall clock before grinning at Harry. “We’ve got time to spare, anyway.” 

Harry manages a smile, setting down his glasses before rubbing his stinging eyes with the handkerchief you offer him. He figures this is what Remus means when you’re the gentlest creature he’s ever known — just not gentle in what the world expects you to be. 

“What do you say, Harry? I give you tidbits of the past, and you tell me if you know anything about the next Triwizard champion, so I can place my bets in advance.”  

Harry snickers. “Not a chance, mum.” 

“Worth a try.” And the smile you give him is nearly blinding. 

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

(1977; ORIGINAL TIMELINE.)

YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND what it is about Gryffindors and their hobby of invading others’ personal space. 

A year into dating and James likes to shove his head under your shirt, claiming he loves the sound of your heartbeat — but you know really what he wants to nestle his head in between. The amount of cashmere blouses he’s ruined is absurd! Sirius has a hobby of tracing runes on the plane of your stomach. Lily prefers it when you sit in front of her, just within reach where she can wrap her arms around you and rest her head on your shoulder. Remus tends to lag behind the group when he notices you walking slower due to your leg flaring up. He kisses the side of your head and promises to chase the pain away — sappy poetic that he is. And in the moments where all five of you are together, tucked under a wide alcove, you can best believe there is no escaping what they like to call, a cuddle pile. Limbs are tangled, kisses are shared, and confessions of love are whispered. 

Before them, you hadn’t really known the different ways to love and be loved. 

Onto the pressing matters at hand, you discover that the brazen show of affection extends to their parents as well. Particularly, the Potters. After a year, you finally caved into James’s requests for you to spend the holidays at their manor, since the others have already made a space for themselves there, and James had said it would be an honor for you to feel at home with his parents, too. Honestly, you spoil them too much — one look into his bright, wide eyes and you gave in. James didn’t even care that you brought two luggages for clothes alone; he lifted each bag with delight and with ease. 

(Remus had the audacity to laugh when he caught you and Sirius staring at James’s flexed muscles, mouth wide open. 

“As I have said, Remus Lupin, I do not drool!”

“Sure, dove, whatever you say.”)

But now, you really aren’t so sure of your decision. 

“Oh, she’s beautiful, Jamie!” Euphemia encases you in a bear hug the moment you step inside the manor. You’re engulfed in the scent of cinnamon and burnt sugar. You stiffen as she cradles your face in between her palms, smiling ever so fondly at you, cooing about how precious you look, much like a mother would — and how your mother never did. You wonder if this is what you’ve been missing all along — the thought stabs you right in the heart. “Please excuse the mess, dear, we haven’t had the chance to clean up yet, Monty and I are excited to try the recipe Lily owled to us the other day, you see.” 

“I-It’s okay,” You rasp, struggling to hold back the tears. 

“Oh, what a darling you are!” Euphemia smiles and ushers you further inside. “Come, come. The others are right upstairs. You must be tired from the train ride. It is so lovely to finally meet you. Make yourself at home, dear heart — James Fleamont Potter! Give your mama a kiss this instant! Don’t think introducing your girlfriend will distract me from the fact you didn’t owl me letters for two months straight!” 

James whines as he hides behind you. “Mum, I’m seventeen, stop embarrassing me.” 

Euphemia scoffs, hands snapping to her hips. “You’re going to be my baby boy forever, now come here.” 

With a shy smile, you step away to surrender James to his mother — you don’t understand which part of this is embarrassing; you wish for a mum who’d welcome you home like that, with unconditional love and kind eyes. James squawks and calls you a traitor, just before his mum attacks him with loud, exaggerated kisses to his cheek, leaving lipstick stains all over his face. You hide a laugh behind your palm, ignoring the way your heart pangs at the sight of their unrestrained smiles. Euphemia lets her son go after a few more seconds, cackling at the masterpiece she’s created on a grumbling James, who’s rubbing his skin to erase his mother’s affections. She hugs you once more before setting you off, telling you to meet Fleamont after you’ve unpacked. 

Just as you reach the foot of the stairs, you hear a girlish squeal, then the sound of rapid footfall against each wooden step. Lily greets the two of you by jumping off the last step and wrapping each arm around yours and James’s neck. “Welcome home, Jamie!” She captures his lips with her own before doing the same to you, cupping your cheek lovingly, “So happy you made it, princess! How was the ride here?” 

You were never a fan of traveling by Floo; it made you nauseous after, and left you with a pounding headache for hours. Without hesitation, the others offered to accompany you on the train, but you insisted they Floo ahead to Godric’s Hollow — it took a lot of convincing, but they finally agreed, (they’re not the only ones spoiled; they couldn’t refuse you, too.) With the exception of James, who wanted to be there when you saw his home for the first time. You nearly cried when you saw how well-loved their manor was; rose shrubs dipped in snow, Sirius’s motorcycle parked outside, a mailbox with poorly painted shapes, the fences covered in Christmas lights, and the amount of shoes by the door. From outside, you could hear the laughter and warm conversations. 

“It was fine,” You say in a daze.

Lily sees right through you — and frowns sadly. “You alright?” 

Were you? 

You catch sight of the moving photographs of James and you finally reach your breaking point. There’s a swell in your throat that you can’t seem to push down. There’s a photo of James, Lily, Remus and Sirius; James is in his Quidditch jersey, raising the Golden Snitch high up in the air, Remus is twirling Lily, his arms around her waist, and Sirius is holding up a charmed banner that says: Gryffindor Rules! Slytherin Sucks! Except For My Darling Angel Love Of My Life Most Beautiful And Gorgeous Perfect Brilliant Girlfriend! 

There are hints of life all around the manor. Remus’s textbooks and scarf are laid by the coffee table. Lily’s O.W.L. marks are framed on the wall, along with Dumbledore’s letters to James and Lily awarding them the position of Head Girl and Head Boy, as well as McGonagall’s previous letter to Remus that came with his Prefect badge years ago. There’s a spot dedicated to Peter, filled with a photograph of him awkwardly holding his Herbology test, one that he scored a hundred and twelve percent on. It’s a wall dedicated to them, you realize. 

Then, you find it. 

Right there, up above James’s spot, and beside Sirius’s display of beyond perfect Transfiguration exam marks, and a picture of him and Remus kissing each side of your face. 

It’s a space on that wall just for you. 

James follows your gaze and rubs the back of his head, ears tinged with a shade of deep pink. “Mum left a space when I first told her about you. I-It’s yours, you can put anything you want there.” 

“I can’t,” You whisper, lips quivering as your heart cracks into a million pieces. It’s too much. 

James blinks. “Can’t? It’s yours, I promise. Mum won’t mind. You can even hang your dumb Montrose Magpies poster and I won’t tear it down — Marauders’ honor. I can help you if you want. I-I’m not good as decorating as Lily, but I paid attention to your boring explanation of color theory and I know that you hate this shade of—”

“James, I can’t do this.” 

That’s all you say before you run out of the door. 

(And you’re absolutely delusional if you think James won’t follow you out that door and into the brewing snowstorm.) 

You hear James call out to you, but you opt to ignore him and clutch your winter coat tighter around your body, shivering in the blowing wind, trudging through the deep snow through your heeled boots — designer couldn’t help you now even if you tried. You sniff, the salty taste of your tears dripping to your lips, chest tightening with a foreign kind of pain, and the frost nipping at your fingers. You give up after a few minutes, falling to the ground with an anguished cry, hand clutching the front of your chest as you struggle to breathe. 

James reaches you in a matter of minutes, draping his jacket over you, barely flinching as the cold welts his bare skin. Frantically, he wipes the tears from your eyes, a pained expression on his face as he sees you cry helplessly. “Come on, dove, it’s not safe out here. Let’s go back home, yeah? I’m sorry for upsetting you. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry — I’m so sorry, dove, please don’t cry, it’s killing me to s–see you like this.” Tears fall from his eyes, and he begins stuttering from the cold, but you can’t go back to the manor. “What did I do? Please tell me so I can fix it. I love you—I’m sorry.”

You bat his chest. “G–Go home, Jamie. I’ll just take the train back to the castle.” 

“What?” He shakes his head, grabbing onto your hands. “Y–You can’t. Not in this weather. You’ll get sick if you try to walk back to the station.” 

You withdraw from his hold as you back away from James, slipping into the ice-cold mask you know so well. 

James rises in an instant, reaching for you. “No, no, no, no, no. You don’t get to do that. Not now. Not with me. Please, just come home and I-I’ll fix it.” 

“Goodbye, James,” You tell him firmly, clenching your jaw as you look him straight in the eyes. 

He grimaces. “That won’t work on me, princess, and you know it. Don’t push me away—please.” 

“Go home, James!” You yell bitterly, pivoting on your heel as you march through the thick inches of snow, hearing Remus and Lily’s voice grow louder in the distance. “Just go!”

He grits his teeth, nails digging deep into the palms of his hand. “You’re a coward if you walk away from here—from us—right now!” James shouts through chattering teeth and stray tears. “And I hate cowards more than anything!” 

You don’t look back. 

(Later that night, James stares blankly at the fireplace, tossing twigs now and then. He’s all out of tears. Remus crosses his legs as he sits beside James and offers him a steaming mug of hot chocolate. 

“Don’t want one,�� He mutters, words coarse from earlier, head turning away from Remus’s gift. “Just want her.” 

Remus sets the beverage on the ground before pulling James’s head down to his chest, gently wiping the tears from his eyes as he wraps the blanket around both of them. He presses a soft kiss to James’s hair. 

“I said I hated her,” James says weakly. “I don’t—I never will. I just hate that she’s out there spending Christmas all alone. She could be here—with us. I hate not knowing that she’s safe, or that she thinks I don’t love her anymore—that’s a bloody lie, Moony. I adore her. If anything, I don’t deserve her.” 

James finds out that he does have more tears left in him. “I miss her. Bring her back, Rem, please.”

“You’ll cry yourself sick, love.” Remus wipes each tear away. “Let’s go to bed, yeah? Mornings do have a way of bringing miracles to us.” Because after a night of excruciating pain under the moon’s command, he wakes up to sunlight, and there you all are — smiling down at him like he is deserving of love; and maybe Remus can’t fault you for running away.

You’d kiss him gently and tell him how proud you are of him for coming back to you. 

Remus only hopes you come back to them, too.)

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

(1976; CURRENTLY, IN THE PAST.)

“AND THAT, dear Harry, is how I humiliated Lucius Malfoy in fifth-year.” Your eyes gleam wickedly as you rest your arms on the school desk. “If he ever bothers you in your time, just mention my name—oh, I wish I could see the look on his face when he realizes I’m haunting him from my grave. Tell him, okay?” 

Harry nods excitedly. “Definitely.”

“Got anymore stories?” He asks. 

You cackle menacingly. “Boy, do I ever. Let me tell you about the one time Beckett McLaggen took me out on a date to Madam Puddifoot’s!” 

Harry grimaces. “Do I even want to hear about this?” 

“Oh, pish-posh.” You dismiss him with a wave. “You do, this story is hilarious. Now that I look back on it, Sirius was quite cross with him for the rest of the day—how strange. I wonder why.” 

Harry stares at you in disbelief. “You’re joking.” 

“I most certainly am not, Harry Potter.” 

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

(1974; ORIGINAL TIMELINE.)

AN EAR-PIERCING scream wakes you up in the middle of the night. You snatch your wand from under your pillow, heart thudding against your chest in fear — last year, the Prewett twins decided it was funny to break into the girls’ quarters at midnight; you get a month worth of detention for hitting Gideon with the Expulso curse and suspension from class for two weeks, while the twins get away with a slap on the wrist and have the time of their lives spreading rumors of you being a Death-Eater. 

Endora shoots up to her feet as well, staring at you in panic — then the girl screams again, and you realize it’s Allegra. 

You sigh in relief, lowering your wand before saying to Endora, “I-It’s alright. I’ll handle it.” 

“Are you sure?” Endora asks timidly, gnawing at her lip and wincing when Allegra wails once more. 

“Certain,” You respond, yawning. 

As Endora climbs back into her bed, you slip into Allegra’s side, holding her head to your chest, brushing your fingers through her hair and untangling the knots. Like most of the Greengrass women, she was of ethereal beauty — silky blonde hair, smooth and fair skin, deep blue eyes that enchant wizards and witches alike. But her cheeks have gone sallow from exhaustion, eyes devoid of any emotion, and her skin now sunken into her bones. 

“I don’t want to marry him—I can’t! He’s old enough to be my father!” Allegra sobs violently, desperate for anyone to hear her, but no one really ever hears their cries from the dungeon. “They said they’d wait until I graduated—they promised! I’m supposed to marry him this summer!” 

Your heart breaks for your friend — there’s nothing you can do but hold her until she’s cried every bit of her soul out. 

“I hate them,” Allegra whispers to you; she had been shedding tears for hours, trembling in your arms until morning finally came. 

“I know,” You say defeatedly. 

“I wish I was dead,” She replies lifelessly. “He can’t marry a dead bride.” 

“Don’t say that,” You beg as you hug her tight; afraid to lose her to the world that has worn her down. “Please.” 

Allegra sinks into her pillows, and you follow in suit, hesitantly laying your head beside hers. She stares at the ceiling dully. “The world is so, so cruel to us daughters sometimes. And it’ll be cruel to our daughters, and their daughters. When will it end?” 

“I don’t know,” You say honestly. 

Allegra hums, neither disappointed nor surprised, and turns away to lay on her side. “Pansy,” She mumbles.

“What?”

“If we lived in a better world and I married for love, I’d want to name my daughter Pansy — like the flower.”

(Later that day, you are given detention for beating Evan Rosier to a pulp. He makes a joke about dirty blood, and you snap — you are tired of laughing and pandering to the arrogant men in your life. This is the first time you publicly defy your parents, and it felt good — more than good, it was liberating. It’s like breathing fresh air for the first time. Then, you earn a second detention for storming up to the Gryffindor common room and punching Fabian Prewett in the face — because fourth-year boys had no business sneaking into the girls’ dorm in the middle of the night for some stupid prank — and you threaten him by pointing the tip of your wand deep into his neck, demanding they apologize to you, Allegra, and Endora. 

You get what you want, naturally — as princesses do. You decide then that you’re going to create a world where girls like Allegra don’t cry anymore.)

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

(1976; CURRENTLY, IN THE PAST.) 

HARRY TWINGES WHEN he hears the end of your fourth or fifth story of the afternoon — no wonder you had been so angered by his being in your room. “I-I’m sorry—” 

“Yesterday was hardly your fault,” You interrupt him. “There’s no controlling where magic brings you, not in your case. You didn’t know, but now you know. I don’t hold it against them — anymore. Fifteen-year-old boys can be stupid, and at least they’ve learned from their mistakes. You should have seen your mother — erm, Lily — she looked like she was ready to kill them after finding out what they had done. Even Molly was cross with the twins, and you know how loyal Molly is to her family.”

Oh, Harry knows.

And Hermione knows it all too well. 

“Others call us evil, conniving and cruel, Harry,” You tell him grimly, “But I will protect my own, no matter what I have to do.”

At that moment, Harry thinks he understands why some people come to fear Slytherin. 

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

(1978; ORIGINAL TIMELINE.) 

“LOOK, LILY-PAD, the princess is drooling again.” 

You open your eyes to glare at Sirius. “I don’t drool, idiot.” 

Lily chortles as she presses a kiss to your shoulder. “Of course you don’t, princess.”

Currently, you’re lying on a shabby loveseat that is too small to hold the three of you; it’s the only furniture in the new cottage you call home, where Potter Manor was right across the street. (Euphemia was ecstatic to have you all nearby — the lovely woman was sprite for her age, but you notice the way she stops to sit and catch her breath, Sirius and James hovering over her attentively; you’re good at pretending, so you pretend that the Potters will be around forever.) Some rooms are dusty with cobwebs, walls unfinished, with the floors creak under your feet, and there’s no other place you’d rather call home. 

You’re in between Sirius and Lily; your lips swollen from their kisses, cheeks flushed and the column of your throat graced with love marks. It’s the most beautiful set of jewelry you’ve ever worn, not even burmese rubies could compare. Lily’s hand rests under your jumper, Sirius’s thigh wedged between your own. While peace blankets the three of you, James and Remus have yet to come home from their task given by the Order. 

“You need a haircut, my love,” You mumble drowsily, pulling at one of the dark ringlets — it’s gone past his shoulders now. He captures your hand and leaves a delicate kiss on your fingertips. 

Lily buries her nose in your hair. “She’s right, Siri.” 

“I’m always right.” You pout. 

Sirius, love-sick fool that he is, smiles as he tilts your chin with his finger and ensnares you in a kiss that leaves you breathless. “Course you are — our girl’s bloody brilliant, isn’t she, Lily-pad?”

“Without a doubt.”

You roll your eyes at their antics, rolling around so that your back is pressed to Sirius’s chest — they’re not fooled, however; Lily sees the way your eyes flicker in amusement and the way your lips threaten to curve up into a smile. She traces the swell of your lips with her thumb, to the dip of your nose, and to the apples of your cheek. Sea-green eyes beam at you.

“I love you,” says Lily, committing every inch of you to her memory as she wears a melancholic smile. “I don’t know who told you that you don’t deserve to be loved, but they were wrong. You are so precious to us, dove, you don’t even know how much. This right here is real — and nothing could ever change that.” 

As it turns out, you did have more smiles to give — only the happy ones; not the fake, courteous smiles that you had given to your mother’s friends in the past. You come to intertwine your hand with Lily’s, the one that had been resting on your cheek, tenderly wiping the tears that pooled within your eyes. Your heart could burst from your chest. They had a habit of wringing every emotion out of you; of making love feel real, not just a myth from a Muggle storybook. And you find, that you didn’t mind this particular habit of theirs. In the comforts of the place you call home, where you irrefutably belong, you are free to seek their arms and fall into their love, and the best part is where you get to love them right back. 

How lucky you are. 

“Let’s get married,” You blurt out, holding your breath, feeling Sirius’s hand on your waist stiffen. 

“What?” Lily gasps breathlessly. 

You smile up at Lily. “Let’s get married. All of us. I don’t care where, o–or about the rings, let’s just get married. With the war going on, we deserve s–something good.” 

Lily sobs as she nods excitedly. “Yes. Oh my Gods—we’re getting married!” 

Sirius stares at you in wonder. “Bloody hell, dove, give a guy some warning, would you?”

You grin. “Is that a yes?” 

“It’s a yes — forever.” Sirius dives in to kiss you senseless. “Couldn’t get rid of us now even if you tried.” 

“I don’t think I’d want to, anyway.” 

Right then, the rickety door slams open, and you hear the loves of your life calling out for the three of you. Followed by the heavy thud of Dragonhide boots plunking down onto the floor

“We’re home!” James announces in the entryway. 

Lily wastes no time in shooting up from the sofa and welcoming them home with quite a unique greeting:

“We’re all getting married!” 

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

(1976; CURRENTLY, IN THE PAST.) 

“That ring is an heirloom passed down to the children in our family,” You tell Harry, pointing to the band around his finger. “It’s meant to symbolize our loyalty and duty to our House. My mother said I would have earned it only when I became a wife to Ferguson Bulstrode.” You chuckle at Harry’s perturbed grimace. “No, I didn’t marry him — thankfully. After Allegra. . . I—I. . . I couldn’t bear it. If I was going to marry, it would be on my own terms, and it would be for love, nothing less. Then, if my child wanted it, I’d give them this ring. I want to leave behind a legacy that I created. When I was younger, I’d resigned to a fate that was forcefully carved by someone else’s hand.” 

You shake your head. “I want to die being remembered by those who loved me. Otherwise, I was never truly alive.” 

Harry won’t let that happen, he won’t ever let your name be forgotten. He’ll share of your kindness to his friends, of your bravery and loyalty. Hermione will love your fondness of Muggle musicals and how you stood up to Lily’s defense in a world that ostracized her for being different. He’ll remind Remus of your love for him, that he had brought you hope in times of despair. Harry is going to make sure the world knows you had been so full of life with endless love to give. You are going to be remembered in the way Voldemort never will. 

“What do the words mean?” He stares at the writing: Tempus Edax Rerum.

You smile. “Time, devourer of all things.”

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

(1978; ORIGINAL TIMELINE.)

“REMUS—THE MUGGLES ARE stuck in the telly again!” 

Remus snickers as he takes the vacant space beside you on the loveseat, now sewn up with care and spattered with knitted quilts and throw pillows — still too small to carry three people but hasn’t given out yet, anyway. He takes Lily’s legs over his lap, swiftly stealing a kiss from your lips. “It’s a film, dove, they’re acting.” 

You purse your lips. “They’re trapped inside, then?” 

Lily snorts into her tub of chocolate fudge ice cream. “Not quite, princess, it’s recorded. Movies are like moving photographs — but they’re an hour long with sounds.” 

“Oh.” You turn your attention back to the screen, back to the film Lily had been watching. You had to admit — the story of Sandy and Danny was an interesting one. “Lily-pad, she’s singing — again.” 

Sirius hushes you from where he was cuddling James on the other couch. “She’s supposed to sing, dove, it’s a musical.” 

“Well, yes,” You begin, and James groans into Sirius’s chest, “But they should just talk instead of singing all the time — Sandy’s got a lovely voice, though. I just don’t understand why Danny’s treating her like that! Truthfully, I don’t like any of Sandy’s new friends, other than Frenchy — she’s harmless. If I was Sandy I’d move on from Danny — but then again, that hair and those muscles, and his leather jacket! I can’t blame her.” 

Sirius glowers at you. “You like his leather jacket?” 

“His hair?” James exclaims in horror. 

Remus chuckles as he tucks you in his side, kissing your temple. “If I were you, dove, I’d be quiet and just watch the film.”

“Oh, no, no.” Sirius barely glances at the television as he pauses the film and stands up to point an accusatory finger at you. “Since when were you into leather jackets? Do you think those are cool? Since when? Jamie, should I get one? Let’s unpack this, right now. And his muscles, really?” 

Your eyes roll to the back of your head. “Play the film, Black, I want to see the end of their love story.” 

“I’m telling Euphemia on you!” 

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

(1976; CURRENTLY, IN THE PAST.) 

“—and then we realized that we accidentally locked Hermione in with the troll.” Harry’s arms flail about as he shares some of his adventures with you — it had only been fair. He felt like a young boy again, entering Hogwarts for the first time as he watched you listen to him intently, gasping at tale of the vanishing glass and scolding him when he says he and Ron had decided to go searching for Hermione, and by extension, the troll. 

Your eyes grow wide. “A troll? In Hogwarts? They can’t have, not unless—”

“Someone let it in—I know!” Harry grins. “You’re not going to believe who let the troll in the castle.” 

You snap your fingers, “Malfoy, the older one. I know that lump’s got something to do with this. Can’t have been Snape or Quirrell.”

“Just you wait.” Harry’s eyes twinkle with mischief. “—and so, Professor McGonagall finds us, and can you believe it? She awards us for dumb luck! Then. . .” 

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

(1979; ORIGINAL TIMELINE.)

IT HAD COME AS A surprise when you volunteered to join the Order of the Phoenix. You wanted to scoff at their shocked faces — was it so surprising that you wanted to protect your family? They let Severus Snape join their ranks, and you’re fairly certain that you’re a better fighter and survivalist than him — not the better liar, however, he can have that one. The week before, you and the others had an argument that lasted for the whole day. They did not want you in harm’s way, and you would rather die than stay at home, waiting idly for them to return, when you could be out there alongside them. 

(“It’s not some game out there!” Remus runs through his hair in frustration — he had always been so careful to never raise his voice at you, but this one time, he needed you to back down. “Every time you step into a raid, there’s a possibility of you dying, don’t you understand that? And even if you survive — you’ll have blood on your hands, and it does not wash away no matter how many times you try, trust me, we know.” 

“So what?” You throw your hands up in the air, equally aggravated. “I just stay here like some. . . some pet waiting for their owners to come home?” 

“Yes!” Lily angrily replies. “That is the whole point of us joining the Order — so you get to live another day. So we all have a chance at this new world without a war. Let us protect you!”

You grind down on your jaw. “You have got another thing coming, if you think I’m not going to fight tooth and nail for my future.” 

James slams a fist onto the kitchen counter. “There are horrors out there you can’t even imagine. I-It’s worse than we thought. It’s our every nightmare come to life.” 

You raise your chin defiantly. “Then we face it together.”)

Each day, you survive, and each day the five of you return home — scarred and bruised, but safe within the arms of one another. When you collapse and crumble, it is only for the walls of your home to witness. 

Now a month into autumn, you are on your first task without Sirius, James, Lily or even Remus. Instead, you are assigned by Dumbledore to Knockturn Alley along with Peter Pettigrew and Gideon Prewett. How strange time was, years ago you’d never associate with the proud Gryffindors, and now you had to trust them to guard your back. Everyone had to grow up quickly during war, even pranksters. 

The alley was quiet — too quiet for your liking. You had been on alert since the moment you apparated into the area, wand at your ready. The back of your neck prickled with goosebumps as you kept an ear out for any sign of movement. 

Peter shivers and you glance at him — he’s become far too skinny, constantly shrinking into himself out of fear. And while you want to comfort him, you keep your eyes up ahead. Still, there's a nagging feeling that you can’t quite make out. It’s different from all the other times you’ve been asked to search and rescue. 

“Don’t you feel like there’s something wrong?” You ask Gideon, eyes snapping to the flock of crows flying overhead. 

“Dunno, kid,” Gideon says, nudging your shoulder with pressed lips. “Everything about this is freaking me out. The place is too empty.” 

“I get what you mean,” You reply, swallowing your own nervousness. Without waiting for the rest, you speed up your pace. “I’ll scout ahead, who knows what’s been here before us. I don’t want to risk any of our lives, so let’s be careful. Gideon, ward the area while I check for any cursed objects, last time you almost got your arm cut off by a newspaper of all things. And Peter, could you. . . Peter?” 

When you turn to check behind you, it all happens so fast. 

“Avada Kedavra!” 

You scream as Gideon’s deathly pale body falls to the floor. 

“No!” 

You aren’t given a moment to rush to his side — someone digs their wand in the side of your neck, and you stiffen in their hold. It’s not until they hiss in your ear that you recognize the voice. 

“Rosier.” You spit, biting down on your lip when he presses the tip of his wand further into your flesh. 

“Stupid witch,” He taunts, eyes dilating with vengeance. “Where are your lovers now?” 

“Jealous?” You claw at his arms, chest heaving up and down. “We don’t have room for one more, sorry.”

“Shut up!” He pushes you to the ground in blind rage, and that’s all the opening you need. 

“Expulso!” 

Each curse you send his way lands on his cloaked body, sending him staggering backwards. With ease, you deflect each spell he counters with. You’re winning, he is growing tired, and perhaps that is why you let your guard down. 

“Accio wand!” 

The magic fizzles out, and the spell dies on your lips. As you swivel your head to find out who’s stolen your wand, you expect to find another Death Eater — except it’s Peter. Just Peter Pettigrew, quivering in his boots with tears and snot dripping down his face, your wand in his free hand. You furrow your brows — it doesn’t make sense. 

“Peter?” You call out. 

“Crucio!” 

The curse finds its home in your body — and it sinks deep into your flesh, grinding your bones until you slump to the ground, wriggling as you draw blood from your lips, refusing to let them hear an ounce of your pain. Blood trickles down your nose as you hear Evan Rosier dancing around you in glee. You know this curse well; the sound of your father condemning you gleefully echo in your head. You crawl over to Gideon — hand desperately reaching for his shirt. 

“Crucio!” Rosier grabs you by the hair and howls with laughter. “Scream for me again—Crucio!” 

It’s as though someone had begun to rip you in half. Your bones shift and crack with every uttered curse. The veins in your eyes have popped and through bloody vision, you see Peter cowering away from you.

“You—fucking—traitor,” You gurgle, throat welling up with blood that’s risen from your stomach. “They’ll—never—forgive you—never.” 

“Crucio! Crucio! Crucio! Come on, witch — SCREAM! Look at her go, Pettigrew, crawling like some pathetic worm.” 

You lay in your owl pool of blood, wearing a body that is marred and lacerated. But you see something in Gideon’s hand. I’m sorry, you want to tell him. I’ll get you home to Molly, you promise, please lend me your magic this once. With every last bit of your strength, just as Rosier directs another curse at you — one you know you won’t survive — you snatch the wand from Gideon’s hand and tear the last of your magic from your throat. 

“Defodio!” 

You wait with a bated breath as silence fills the alley; lucky to have remembered Professor Flitwick’s quick remark as to how the slight difference in pronouncing a charm could alter its effect. Rosier stands on shaky legs, a stream of blood leaking from the corner of his mouth. You watch as he looks down to his chest, where a gaping hole now lies instead of where his ribcage and heart should be. As Gideon had done before him, Evan Rosier crashes to the ground. 

That just leaves one more problem. 

Peter scurries to your side the moment Rosier can hurt him no longer. “I-I’m sorry—I’m sorry. I had to. . . T–They killed my mum, they killed M–Mary, and t–they said I would die too if I d–didn’t do this. I’m sorry. Y–Your father was there, too. He said he would take you in, let you l–live if you joined us. W–We can live, t–there’s still a chance for us to survive.” 

Your fingers are bent at unsightly angles, the remnants of the Torture Curse still flowing through your veins, but your face contorts in anger as you let your hand curl around his neck. He sobs louder, and though your grip is weakening — you make sure he looks into your eyes, that he feels your touch.

“I’d rather—die.” You say through gritted teeth, nails drawing blood from his grimy skin. “You’ll die too—you’ll feel my blood on your skin—everywhere you go, Peter.” 

Peter shakes his head, now clumsily pushing his wand down to the center of your chest. “Y–You were the only o–one who d–didn’t laugh at me. N–Not like the others.” 

“When they find out—you’re dead, Pettigrew.” You laugh darkly as more blood exits your body through your lips. “There’s nowhere you can hide—you’re a dead man.” 

“P-Please die,” Peter cries out, each killing spell coming out as a garbled whisper. “Please die,  s–so I can live. I c–can’t fight anymore, I’m tired.” 

Your vision goes a hazy shade of white, Peter’s silhouette fading away to the familiar scenery of your cottage in Godric’s Hollow. 

Oh.

Dying is less painful than you had expected it to be. It’s like coming home after a day’s work. 

You just wanted to rest now. 

The world caves in on you, and you barely hear Peter’s next words. 

“Avada Kedavra.” 

(It’s past midnight when Peter Pettigrew arrives at Grimmauld Place, where it’s been altered to host the members of the Order, Lily sobs in relief and gathers him in her arms. 

You’ll feel my blood on your skin.

You’re a dead man. 

Dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead. 

“Oh, I’m so glad you’re home safe — welcome home — thank the Gods you’re alive,” Lily blabbers through her tears, checking his face for any major injuries. “Merlin, what happened? There’s too much blood on you. It’s on your shirt and your face.” 

“It’s not mine,” says Peter hoarsely. 

Sirius’s gaze darkens, arms crossed over his jacket as he leaned against the wall. “Where is she?” 

Lily nods, standing on her tiptoes to search for any sign of you. “Peter? I–Is she alright? Has something happened to her?” 

Peter stays silent for a moment too long, and he finds himself slammed against the wall behind him, Sirius snarling in his face as he seizes the front of Peter’s soiled shirt. “Where the fuck is she, Pettigrew?” 

Peter begins to weep. “I–It was an ambush. None of us saw it coming. Gideon r–ran. She was taking on two Death-Eaters at once and I–I was too far away.” 

Lily collapses to the ground with a heart-wrenching scream.

Sirius growls as he drives his fist to the wall, inches away from Peter’s face. “Where is her body?” 

“It was a disintegration spell.” With Severus Snape — brought to the Malfoy Manor to be made as an example of what happens to blood-traitors. 

James pushes Sirius out of the way and grabs a hold of Peter, knocking his head against the concrete. “It should have been you—” James snaps at Peter. “If it came down to you or her—you should have saved her!” 

“W-What?” Peter stammers, eyes wide. “She chose to save m–me.” 

James sneers at him. “You should have just died.”)

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

(1996; CURRENTLY, IN THE PRESENT.) 

ST. JEROME’S GRAVEYARD had exactly one visitor. Remus Lupin sits in between James and Lily’s graves, a bottle of firewhiskey in his hand — four empty at his side. He must be going crazy. There’s no funeral for Sirius as there’s no body to actually bury, Harry is presumed missing after an attack in Diagon Alley, and your name stares back at him mockingly. He tries not to dwell on your passing — there have been too many holes, too many details left unsaid; and he knows just the rat who has all the answers. Unfortunately, Wormtail won’t come out of whatever hole he’s crawled into. Either him, or Severus. 

He sighs, rubbing the temples of his head to ease the growing pains. 

You are the first to be buried of the five. Like Sirius, there had been no recovered body to lay to rest, but they asked for a compromise instead. Your name is engraved under Euphemia’s in her tombstone, and Remus figures it’s the fitting place to leave you be — with your mother, welcoming you home with open arms. He hopes you’re at peace, wherever you are. (Because, honestly, at this point, he might just fucking follow you.) 

Remus takes another swig of his alcohol, laughing bitterly to himself. He glances at James’s headstone and raises his bottle to him. “Not even in death, huh?”

He downs the last of the drink, rising to his tremulous legs. Remus gathers the flower bouquets he had bought earlier this morning; lilies-of-the-valley for Lily, white carnations for Euphemia, forget-me-nots for you, and for James — Remus leaves a moving photograph of him and Sirius; it’s a snapshot taken by Lily during the wedding as James dips his head low to kiss Sirius. Remus thinks it’s a wonderful memory to remember them by. 

“Take care of them for me, Jamie.”

And that is all the goodbyes Remus has the strength for. 

end note. i think i was crying the whole time i was writing this part, LMAO. i should be able to wrap things up in the next one. important!! there is actually a scene i was hesitant to include, but i ended up writing anyway. it's the whole part where allegra greengrass breaks down, and it was difficult for me to decide because i knew the implications; that i had a strong underlying message in that part, and i don't want it to be misconstrued or anything. pls pls tell me if it comes off as offensive, i definitely don't want to hurt anyone. nevertheless, thank you again so so so much for reading!! if you spot a plot hole, no you didnt!! i hope the time-jumps weren't too confusing! again, thank you so so much for reading!!

#hp angst #hp fluff #hp imagine #hp x reader #james potter x reader #lily evans x reader #marauders angst #marauders fluff #marauders imagine #marauders x reader #sirius black x reader #poly!marauders x reader #poly!marauders fluff #remus lupin x reader #sunny's hp fics

[fuckyeahgoodomens]

Peter Anderson: Hi, my name is Peter Anderson. I'm from Peter Anderson Studio and we created the title sequence to Good Omens Season Two. So this scene is quite literally a continuation from Season One.

An interesting detail with this scene is the fly. The fly is significant because it stores Gabriel's memory.

Gabriel is hidden in every scene. This is the first time we see it.

This goat is half bird, half goat, representing a mistake in a moment of transformation.

In the pickled herring barrel, we have literally red herrings sticking out.

A lot of the gravestones have hidden engravings, easter eggs, all written by Neil.

[This one says: HERE LIES THE FORMER SHELL OF BEELZEBUB referncing Beelzebub having a new face in S2 :), another ones are: EVERYDAY, JANE AUSTEN, Here lies ADAM (the Adam from Adam and Eve is meant)]

Another hidden Gabriel.

Our same character that was trying to escape Hell in Season One titles is also trying to escape here, moving in the opposite direction to the rest of the procession. Except this time he's apprehended and dragged back into the procession.

Our Hell spider from episode four makes a little appearance in the background here.

Can you tell where the bus is going? Director Douglas McKinnon selected Powell and Pressburger's Stairway to Heaven to put on the billboard.

Another thing to note here is the type is all handmade specifically for Good Omens. The Alphabet only exists within the show.

The big floating turnip is a nod to Azirafel's magic tricks.

The Ladies of Camelot poster we pulled from the show.

We added plaques to the back of the chairs and Neil chose who to honour.

[There are: A TALE OF TWO CITIES by CHARLES DICKENS, PRIDE AND PREJUDICE by JANE AUSTEN, THE CROW ROAD by IAIN BANKS (twice!) and GOOD OMENS by TERRY PRATCHETT (Neil missing for some reason :) <3)]

Saraqael made an appearance from Heaven.

Our Space is back from Season One. Aziraphale and Crowley are having a little dance here. A moment of flirtation. There's a tiny planet in the middle that comes into existence at this moment.

Our Scottish tartan hills make an appearance here.

The aeroplane and the airline is a little bit of a clue here.

[THY KINGDOM AIRWAYS 👀]

It's raining love hearts in reference to Aziraphale's attempt at making Maggie and Nina fall in love.

Here are elevators to Heaven and Hell. A wee thing to spot. Here is Gabriel in the lift arriving from Heaven.

We've updated our flags to reference some of the plotlines in Season Two. For example, The Second Coming.

The movie poster artwork changes every week, representing the episode plotlines and the minisodes. We made the posters to look like the time period and in this case we've got a Good Omens version of Buddy Holly.

[The posters are:]

In the snack bar some of our popcorn is actually communion wafers.

There are specific characters from Season One in the boxes watching the movie as the procession goes by. This includes some of our original concept art from Season One.

The duck playing the accordion is from a newspaper headline that someone is reading in The Dirty Donkey from one of the episodes.

[this is also from the Good Omens book :): "Daily Mail. 'Letter From America.' Um, August the third," said Newt. "Just after the story about the woman in Worms, Nebraska, who taught her duck to play the accordion."]

Each episode is showing a new movie on the screen, each one selected by Douglas, and has clues about what's to come.

The season one phone box tumbles in the background.

The big mountain is made of all the ingredients from Season Two and a couple of remnants from Season One. We are heading towards the biggest Easter Egg, which is the lift. We're heading towards the Second Coming..

#good omens #perer anderson #peter anderson studio #bts #opening title #s2 opening title #fun fact #second coming #kingdom thy airways #duck playing accordion #videos #bts videos #easter eggs

[nowhereborn]

// tfw u watch the scene where Cassie tells Nate that he can tell her what to wear etc...

#& put it in a letter jane austen (ooc) #i know that she's madly in love with the guy #but have some self-respect honey #you telling him to command you is exactly what he wants #and when he tells you to pack your shit and go home #you will do exactly that because you can't see what an abusive prick he is

[im-an-aesthetic-mess]

EMAIL BOOK CLUBS MASTERLIST !!!

alright, there are a lot of email book clubs now, so here's ALL of them, in one convenient list

NOTE: IF YOU FIND MORE PLEASE SEND !!! put them in the notes, my ask box, dm them to me, just notify me in SOME way and i will edit this base post so they all remain in one place

without further ado:

Dracula Daily - dracula, the one that started it all || real time

may 3, 2022 - november 10, 2022

Whale Weekly - moby dick || real time

starting december 2022, continuing for 3 years

Frankenstein Weekly - frankenstein || wednesdays and sundays

begins february 1, 2023

Letters from Watson - sherlock holmes

begins january 1, 2023

What Manner of Man - a new original work by st john starling (its gay vampires click the link)

begins january 2023

Edgar Allen Poe Daily - the works of edgar allen poe || weekdays where dracula daily does not post

began may 13, 2022

The Penny Dreadful - penny dreadful

begins TBA

Ovid Daily - the works of p. ovidius naso (note: these are in latin but they contain a translation)

dates depend on the in-progress work (from what i can tell)

Werther Rewritten - the sorrows of young werther, slightly modernized || real time

may 4, 2022 - christmas 2023

The Sorrows Of Young Werther - the original of the above || you pick the dates

from what i can tell, it begins when you subscribe and you pick the frequency of emails

Carmilla Quarterly - carmilla, just click the link its lesbian vampires

begins TBA

Literary Letters - lesser known public domain works

begins november 12, 2022

Pride and Prejudice Weekly - working title, im doing pride and prejudice now || mondays and fridays

march 10, 2023 - october 6, 2023

The Woman In White Weekly - the woman in white || sundays

begins july 31, 2022

Musketeers Daily - the three musketeers

begins march 14, 2023

LOTR Newsletter - lord of the rings || real time (i think)

september 15, 2022 - march 2023

Rizal Weekly - jose rizal's works (these are in filipino, i don't see a full translation but please correct me if im wrong)

began may 26, 2022

Divine Comedy Weekly - dante's divine comedy || begins on good friday, then updates tuesdays and thursdays

april 7, 2023 - march 5, 2024

Austen Weekly - jane austen's works

find more info on the posting schedule here

The Case Files Of Sheridan Bell - new original fantasy detective novels from em rowene

begins may 29, 2022

Big Dalloway Energy - mrs. dalloway by virginia woolfe || commentary encouraged

begins june 1, 2022

Nightly Knights - excerpts from arthurian texts

posted at random

Samuel Pepys's Diary - daily entries from samuel pepys's diary

the site posts a new entry at the end of each day

Dangerous Liaisons Daily - dangerous liaisons || real time

august 3rd, 2022 - january 14, 2023

Les Chroniques de Choderlos - dangerous liaisons, but in the original french || real time

august 3rd, 2022 - january 14, 2023

Wilde Weekly - oscar wilde's works

begins june 12, 2022

Logbooks of the HE-631-CORDELIA - a new original sci-fi series about a pilot and her robot by loreley

begins july 21, 2022

Les Mis Letters - les misérables || daily

january 1, 2023 - december 31, 2023

The Worst Journey in the World - r.f. scott's diaries + supplemental readings from cherry-garrard’s the worst journey in the world and others’ diaries

intro began july 12, 2022. diary entries begin november 25, 2022, and end in march, 2024

Daily Kafka - franz kafka's letters

began august 31, 2022

#apollo says things #tumblr university #tumblr book club #dracula daily #whale weekly #frankenstein weekly #letters from watson #what manner of man #edgar allen poe daily #the penny dreadful #ovid daily #werther rewritten #carmilla quarterly #dracula #daily dracula #count dracula #frankenstein #jonathan harker #moby dick #sherlock holmes #sherlock #cant believe i used that tag in 2022 and its for a tumblr book club #john watson #sherlock fandom #edgar allan poe #poetry #poe #poem #penny dreadful #ovid's metamorphoses

[aziraphales-library]

I'm seeing so many season 2 "fix it" fics or things along that line which is great; but I feel like I'm missing fics on 2 very important things from the season:

1. Crowley reacting to Nina asking Aziraphale about the "naked man in your bookshop" in ep 1

2. Crowley reading/watching Jane Austen things after discovering that she was more than a criminal mastermind.

If you or your followers know of any fics along these lines, I would be eternally grateful! Thank you.

I've found a couple of Crowley reacting to "naked man friend", one featuring Crowley reading Jane Austen, and a couple that include Jane Austen herself...

Take a Big Cup; Put Six Shots of Jealousy in It, Nothing Else by Violencerarelyknocks (T)

Season 2: 6 shots of espresso scene I thought they moved way too quickly past "How's your naked man friend?", so I adjusted it a little. Jealous!Crowley

What Does It Matter by Multifandom_queer (T)

An alternative to how the "naked man" scene could have ended. Funny misunderstandings reveal many feelings. Teen rating for talks of sex but no actual sex

Pride & Prejudice and Pain by SharpCroft (G)

Struggling to move on, Crowley turns his anger on an unlikely source - The Complete Works of Jane Austen.

Of letters and diamonds by yellow_owl (G)

Aziraphale and Crowley find out how Jane Austen pulled off the 1810 Clerkenwell diamond robbery.

Such Means as Are Within My Reach by HC_Weatherfield (NR)

On her death, Jane Austen left Aziraphale a parting gift: a volume of her personal diary, encrypted in a code entirely of her own invention. When, quite by chance, Aziraphale discovers the key to the cipher, she is able to relive her past with this marvelous lady. The experience is quite different for Crowley, on every count.

well-versed in etiquette, extraordinarily nice by laiqualaurelote (G)

Once she had said to him, hoping to probe: “It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.” To which Mr Crowley had only responded: “What do you know of the universe, Miss Austen?” In which Jane Austen, criminal mastermind and aspiring novelist, pulls off the 1810 Clerkenwell Diamond Robbery, with the help of a certain demon.

- Mod D

#good omens #good omens s2 #ineffable husbands #jealous crowley #jane austen #mod d

[bethanydelleman]

Ranking Jane Austen heroes/men on how good of a father they’d be?

I have faith that all of them would be good fathers. After all, Jane Austen clearly knows what bad fathers look like and she is pretty harsh about them (rightfully). I think all of them would be good in different ways, so instead of ranking, here is their dad type:

Fitzwilliam Darcy: Providing dad, his love language is buying his children expensive toys and praising their accomplishments to relations. He is definitely involved in education and discipline. Wee bit overprotective of his daughters, but you get it, he has valid reasons. Gives his sons handshakes instead of hugs.

Charles Bingley: Fun dad, he's not sure about this whole 'parenting' part... but Baby Charles, did you see this cool rock? Do you want to go up on Daddy's shoulders so you can see the elephant? Do you want to see Daddy's fencing swords? (Oh, good point Jane, we'll put those away for a few years...)

Frederick Wentworth: Teamwork dad, he knows that Anne could totally handle everything herself, but he's not afraid to help. He feels confident removing a toddler from someone's back after all. Occasionally cannot figure out what to do and stares helplessly at his wife.

George Knightley: Nurturing dad DOES BABY GEORGE NEED ANOTHER BLANKET? DOES HE NEED A SNACK? BABY GEORGE, IS THERE ANYTHING I CAN DO FOR YOUR PRESENT COMFORT??? (No, Mr. Knightley, he's fine.)

Colonel Brandon: Affectionate dad, he cries when any of his children hits a major milestone. He feels the need to constantly hug and kiss his children. They are miracles, all of them are miracles, and he is going to make them happy and what happened to him and Eliza will never happen again! They need another hug

Edward Ferrars: Thoughtful dad, constantly thinking about what will make his children feel happy and loved. Encourages them to follow their dreams. Has minor panic attacks if he says or does anything that remotely reminds him of his own mother. Elinor assures him regularly that he's doing an excellent job (because he is).

Edmund Bertram: Interactive dad, takes time to discuss their lessons and answer questions. Very anxious about his children's moral education. Will take the time to draw lines on their letter paper. Will never admit he's wrong even when he makes a mistake.

Henry Tilney: Perfect dad, like honestly, have you met him? He's a 10/10, all the best parenting traits rolled into one man. AND YET, his oldest son thinks he's totally lame.

Bonus: Frank Churchill left his child at Kensington Gardens once twice, but Jane never found out so it doesn't count.

Bonus bonus: Robert Martin totally has a mini-me son who rides beside him on a pony.

#jane austen #question response #great question! #I lied I rated Henry Tilney 1 #henry tilney supremacy #Fun fact: all women who read Northanger Abbey ovulate when they get to the country walk chapter #Austen heroes #but honestly I think they would all be good #and Henry's children will groan at all of his jokes #It will be very sobering for him

[antagonistenthusiast]

unfortunately for everyone i have started writing moon knight fanfiction

#put it in a letter jane austen #being unbearable on main again

[crazy-ache]

Jane Austen's most romantic letter, if it had been written by Lucien Vanserra (Persuasion x Elucien)

Or what would happen if Lucien overheard Elain have a conversation about the bond? And what if he wrote a gut-wrenching love confession in said letter? Inspired by literature's most infamously romantic letter ever written.

Some text is directly taken from Chapter 23 of Persuasion by Jane Austen.

"We will write the letter to Helion we were talking of, Rhysand, now, if you will give me materials."

Materials were at hand, on a separate table; Lucien went to it, and nearly turning his back to the rest of the Inner Circle, was engrossed by writing.

Elain eyed him carefully, studying the leather strap that held back his long, molten red hair. Clearing her throat, she found Nesta across the room by the open window of the parlor as they were both on the outskirts of the Inner Circle’s political discussions. It was a respectable distance from where Lucien was writing at the desk, although still somewhat nearby. 

“I have a question for you,” Nesta turned to her younger sister, face like stone. “One that I have been thinking about for some time. What do you think our parents would have thought about the mating bond?” 

With wide, brown eyes Elain sucked in her breath. It was an unexpected question, but also a familiar one. For her thoughts had circled the very same doubts and insecurities that plagued her sister. “Well,” Elain wrung her hands nervously. “Mother would have adored Feyre’s, being mated to a High Lord after all. But if she didn’t like the outcome, she would have demanded a way to break it or alter it for her own advantage.” 

Nesta’s wicked grin revealed an agreement, knowing full well their mother would have been furious at her marriage and bond with an Illyrian general, and her matching status as a Valkyrie now. 

“As for father, well, I suppose, based on what he discussed with me in the past—there is a small chance he would have been disappointed.” Her voice dropped in both volume and confidence, barely escaping as a whisper passed her lips. As if she was instinctually afraid someone would hear, perhaps someone sitting across the room. 

Elain felt compelled to explain further. “He always told me the most important thing to find in a husband was true love. That I should not settle for anyone less than a kind, loyal heart who loves every part of me, because that kind of love will never leave you.” 

Out of the corner of her eye, Nesta regarded her with furrowed eyebrows. “And you do not believe that a mating bond can also encompass those very same feelings? That same love?” 

She considered her question carefully, chewing on her bottom lip. “Perhaps it can, but how can you know it is true? That it is not just the manifestation of desire in its place?” It was always that doubt, that fear, that crept into the darkest crevices of her heart. For as long as those shadows existed, she could not bring herself closer to her own mate, afraid she would be unable to determine the answer. In return, she was afraid of what she could possibly want or feel for him.

“I wish I could make you comprehend, Elain.” Nesta frowned, “I wish I could properly convey the feeling of how your soul glows when your mate loves you—”

Before Nesta could continue, Elain found herself apologizing with a hand on her elbow. “Gods forbid that I should undervalue the love and bond you share with Cassian, or Feyre’s either for that matter. It is a reminder that bonds can be true and constant attachments.”

She could not immediately have uttered another sentence; her heart was too full, her breath too much oppressed.

“You’re a good sister,” Nesta replied affectionately and Elain wonder if her sister could see past her tenderness, if anyone could witness the mask of kindness that Elain could so easily put on for the sake of others to hide her own feelings. The conversation faded as Feyre now joined them with Nyx on her hip, a welcome distraction for Elain as the three of them turned to him. 

“Ready to go?” Cassian’s voice eventually broke through the hum of the room, an echo across the parlor. “We need to meet with Vassa and Jurian.” Lucien was folding up a letter in great haste, and either could not or would not answer fully.

“Yes,” he said. “I will winnow us. I will be ready in half a minute.” 

Cassian left to wait for him at the front door, and Lucien, having sealed his letter with great rapidity, was indeed ready, with a hurried and agitated air, as if he was greatly impatient to leave. Elain could not understand it. Cassian had given her a smile and shoulder a warm squeeze as he left the room, but from Lucien himself, not a single word. He had passed out of the room without a look.  

Elain moved closer to the table where he had been writing, when suddenly she heard footsteps returning; the door opened and it was Lucien. He gave her a polite nod and gestured to where he had forgotten his gloves, instantly crossing the room to the desk. He drew out a letter from under the scattered papers, placed it before Elain with eyes glowing in longing fixed on her, and hastily collected his gloves, once again out of the room before anyone could even be aware he had been in it at all. 

The interaction was almost beyond expression. The letter, with strokes of pen that were hardly legibly, as if rushed, read “Elain Archeron,” was evidently the one which he had been folding so hastily. While he had supposedly been writing to Helion, he had also been addressing her. On the contents of that letter depended all which this world could do for her. Anything was possible. Sinking into the chair which he had occupied, succeeding to the very spot where he had leaned and written, her eyes devoured the following words:

“I can listen no longer in silence. I must speak to you by such means as are within my reach. You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope. Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone for ever. I offer myself to you again with a heart even more your own than when this bond first snapped, two and a half years ago. Dare not say that a mate’s love cannot be true, that his love is influenced by our tether. I have loved another, but none like you. Unjust I may have been, distant and resentful I have been, but never inconstant. You alone have brought me to Velaris. For you alone, I think and plan. Have you not seen this? Can you fail to have understood my wishes? I had not waited even these past few days after Solstice, could I have read your feelings, as I think you must have penetrated mine, I can hardly write. I am every instant hearing something which overpowers me. You sink your voice, but I can distinguish your true thoughts through the bond when they would be lost on others. Too good, too excellent female! You do us justice, indeed. You do believe that there is true attachment and constancy among males. Believe it to be most fervent, most undeviating in your mate,  L.V. I must go, uncertain of my fate; but I shall return hither, or follow the court, as soon as possible. A word, a look, will be enough to decide whether I enter the Night Court this evening or never again.” 

Such a letter was not to be soon recovered from. 

#elucien #pro elucien #elain x lucien #elain archeron #lucien vanserra #i am half agony half hope #elucien fanfic #elucien fanfiction #jane austen inspired #persuasion x elucien #you cant convince me that lucien isnt writing her letters all the time #or that sjm wasnt influenced by this book #very elucien coded

[chlorine-and-daisies]

nobody had to tell aziraphale that he loves crowley.

neither angels nor demons are taught anything about love or relationships or desire. even though crowley has been saving aziraphale for thousands of years and repeatedly asked him to run away, it still seems to hit him as this whole realization when nina talks to him about their relationship. he finally puts the pieces together that he needs to speak to aziraphale about their feelings. even during his de-facto confession he still seems to shy away from using the l-word or calling them a couple (a group of two).

we don't see anyone have a similar conversation with aziraphale (no, the "you're better off without him" guy doesn't count). he's never told that loving crowley is even a possibility for him.

and yet it's aziraphale who starts to choke out an "i love you" before cutting himself off.

aziraphale who constantly stares at crowley like he's barely stopping himself from pouncing.

he may be terrified of his feelings, but he can't deny that he knows their name. somehow he came to the realization all on his own, long before crowley did. he's been fantasizing for so long, inserting crowley into every romance book he read, probably guilty and afraid the whole time.

and furthermore he also picks up a little bit about crowley's feelings for him! the raised eyebrow when shax says he's not crowley's type, the "rescuing me makes him so happy." maybe he doesn't yet fully realize that they could be together, but he does at least acknowledge the mutual attraction, which is more than crowley does.

why else would he respond to a kiss that was *not gentle,* that he didn't see coming, that makes him cry, with "i love you?"

he recognizes that in the final act, after the long-awaited kiss, the protagonists of a romance are supposed to say i love you, and then they will stay together forever and get their happy ending.

the whole touching fingers to lips thing is absolutely a trope he's seen in books and movies too.

and i think this explains the ball as well. aziraphale is clearly intelligent and always reading, so at first i was wondering how he could have misunderstood jane austen so badly. after all, balls in themselves don't necessarily help characters find true love- balls are for watching from across the room and short conversations, for wondering who your dance partner really is and what could be. austen's characters don't really Fall In Love until they communicate.

take pride and prejudice- elizabeth may stare at darcy during balls, but she doesn't start to truly warm up to him until he explains his actions and makes his good intentions clear in his letter.

it seems more likely that aziraphale isn't misunderstanding austen's writing- instead he's misunderstanding love.

he thinks that the balls- the pining from a respectable distance, in a space with everyone watching you- are all people need to fall in love, because THAT IS ALL THAT HAS EVER COME OF HIS LOVE FOR CROWLEY.

and i cannot wait for him to realize that crowley loves him just as fiercely, that they are capable of giving each other so much more than the wondering and dreaming, that love isn't just the *hunger* but also the communication and the mutual expressions and the comfortable and safe and beautiful life together. the nightingales :)

#good omens #aziraphale #crowley #ineffable husbands #aziracrow

[sugaimhome]

country house setting - kth - part one

pairing: 19th century taehyung x reader

minors do not interact!!!

warnings (this part): age gap (10 years, readers 18, he’s 28), masturbation (v brief), loads of smut in the next chapter hold ye horses, yandere (? he’s very obsessed with her and her innocence lol), hints towards previous abuse, distant father figure, the messed up society of 19th century britain, biscuits.

part summary: taehyung wasn't looking forward to the isolation of his fathers manor, when you knock his door, that isolation is shattered, he has a new obsession. When taehyung visits your father to introduce himself as his a new neighbor, he makes you an offer you just can not decline.

words: 4.4k

series summary: your isolated manor house has nothing interesting going on. but when the abandoned manor near to yours has a new occupant, things change. taehyung is obsessed with you from the day you first knock his door. he’d do anything for you, even if it meant going against your father’s wishes, even if it meant you losing something very important to your future marriage on the way, something that would force your fathers hand.

part one  part two  part three  masterlist 

explanation of the title: a literacy genre where fictional characters are often isolated and alone living in a country house.

A/N: i’ve been so excited to post this, then suddenly, min yoongi decides to post a picture with the same vibes... least to say I changed some names around to better suit next chapters 😫😫 he will be appearing more than once in this story. this hasn’t been proof read by anyone but me so sorry about that 😶‍🌫️ i love reader so much i just want to protect her 🥺 also the writing on the banner is jane austens writing, what a queen. I did try and copy the speaking of the time a little but I think I failed 😀

“A ball?” you ask, hope filling every inch of your heart, you’d never been to a ball, you were dying to go “Oh, father, we must go” It had been over two months since you’d properly left the house, and that had only been to the local market. You could only paint the garden so many times before going mad.

“We won’t be going to Min Yoongi’s ball” he replies, not looking up from the letter he’s holding. He sounds so resigned you wonder if he even heard you. 

“But father-” you begin, hoping to say your piece to him.

“No Y/N” his answer is blunt, you know it was final; there's no point arguing with him when he’s in one of these moods, it will only end with you getting hurt. 

“Okay”. This had been the third ball invitation this week and the third rejection from your father. You sigh. How were you ever to find a husband if you didn’t socialise? All the rich men would have found young brides now, and you, at the age of 18 would be seen as too old. The two of you stand in awkward silence for a while as he flips through his letters. 

“Someone is making residence in the manor beyond the brook.” he tells you, licking his finger to separate two pieces of paper from each other. 

“Really?” you ask. “I hope it’s a family, I would love a friend so close!”

“It’s a single man, according to the Park family, they are acquaintances with him in London.”

“London!?” you exclaim, you had been disappointed by the lack of friends the move in would bring but a new excitement had begun with the aspect of the man being from London. You had so many questions about the place. It was another world to you. “When does he move in?”

“You must not bombard him with your incessant questions.” he complains, wiggling a finger at you without looking up at you.

“I only wish to make him a cake, or maybe some biscuits” you admit, trying to lace honesty into your voice.

Your father sighs, putting down his papers and turning to you. “The 10th”

“But father, that is today!” you think he’s playing with you. “Don’t be mean”

“Read the letter if you do not believe your own father.”

The letter did in fact say the 10th. You’re almost jumping on your feet, but that would be impolite so instead you pull the letter, signed by the park jimin your father had always spoken about to your chest. “What great news” you say, trying to hide the excitement in your voice. “If you don’t mind, father, I will begin to make biscuits for him now”

“Do as you please” he replies, not really listening, still flicking through the pages in front of him. Curtsying you leave the room, the letter balled up in your fist. You make a bee-line for the kitchen, you’d get Annie to put the oven on straight away.

*** 

Taehyung had been hesitant to move back to the country. When his father had died 4 years ago he’d left his childhood home in his inheritance. Taehyung had decided that after so long it was time to return home after nearly 10 years in London. Home was a loose term. The manor had been miss kept, the garden overgrown, the surfaces dusty. Upon his early morning entrance to the house he had been ushered in by an elderly maid, Victoria was her name, he only vaguely remembered her. Apparently, he'd been paying her a monthly wage to maintain the place since his father had died. She hadn't been doing a too-great job. Though he was grateful that the house wasn't entirely empty when he arrived. Victoria had made him tea, lit his fire and explained to him that she was happy someone was living in the house again. She left, explaining she lived in the town across and had a family now. He granted her a smile as she went.

With the door locked shut and Victoria gone the only sound the house offered was the low snapping and crackling of the flames. It was so different to London, there was always something going on, someone coming to visit him, a servant cleaning or, even in the silent moments, the sound of the street at the end of his carriage-way. He missed it already. 

Yet the quiet of the house offered an odd privacy and an odd tranquility that he had missed. It dawned on him that he could do anything here and the only witness would be the flames of this fire and the wildflowers that had overtaken the garden. It gave him a sense of freedom.

Leaning back in his chair, cup of tea in one hand the other lying across his thigh. He relaxed in the blissful, slightly creepy, silence until the door knocked. He sighs. Maybe he wasn't as isolated as he thought. Nearly forgetting that no one is here to open the door for him as he had been so used to in London he quickly shoots from his chair. For a moment he struggled to open the front door, Victoria had locked him in it seemed. 

"Give me a moment!" he shouts, hoping his visitor hasn't already left.

He finds a key hanging from one of the plant pots. What an odd place. The door unlocks with relative ease and as he pulls it open he peeks his head around the door.

A teenager. He has opened the door to an unaccompanied female teenager who seems to have a box of biscuits. "Good Evening" she curtsies, the too small corset she's wearing almost over spilling her breasts. He gulps. "I live in the manor across the brook" she explains to him, he can hear the unease in her voice. The naivety and innocence. "I brought you biscuits."

She extends the box to him at arms length, squeezing her breasts together in the process. Was she doing this on purpose? "Thank you," he smiles, taking the box from her. "Would you like to come in?" When she nods he pulls the door open entirely, displaying the very dusty entryway. "Do excuse the disorder, as you can imagine it hasn't been well looked after" 

"I wouldn't have noticed if you hadn't said" she admits, purposely keeping her eyes away from the dust. He appreciates the small action. She scans the reception hall, obviously waiting for him to lead her through to a social area. "My name is Y/N" she tells him as he leads her into the living area. When he doesn’t immediately reply she asks, "Would it be impolite to ask yours?"

She's oddly quiet, he probably wouldn't have heard her voice if he were in the hustle of London "Taehyung" he replies. "My father used to own this manor. He died four years ago, would you have known him?" 

"I would have been 14 then, with little consideration of what was going on around me" Y/N replies. "I am sorry for your loss"

She was 18. Many questions filled his head. "Is your father a respectable man?" He asks her. "Is that whom you live with?"

"Oh, yes, as respectable as yours once was I should imagine" she replies, he turns to look at her, a little blush covers her cheeks.

"Then you would have been in London for the season this year" he asks, wondering if he had ever crossed paths with her.

"I have never been to London," she replies. "Though, I have heard it is exquisite."

An Eighteen year-old who has never seen London. "Then you must have an arranged marriage with a local man. I hope that is going well for you"

There is a pause between his statement and her reply. "My father does not have time to threat over my marital arrangements"

He is shocked, he had not heard of such a scandalous thing in his life. He feels sorry for her. Puzzled, he leads her into the living room where she gently sits down on a sofa he desperately hopes is not dusty. When no little particles rise to meet the sun he assumes he is safe. "I assume you'd like one of these biscuits" he asks her, turning around to place them on the small, delicately decorated table. When he turned around she'd moved, as quietly as a mouse, to the fireplace. Her dress was so close to the flames. Y/N's attention does not seem to be upon the fire though but more towards the painting placed above him. 

"This is not an appropriate place for such a lovely painting." she turns to him. Instinctively he walks up beside her, looking at the painting. "The heat will ruin the watercolour" 

There's a pout on her lips, this was obviously something she was very passionate about. "This is Thomas Girtin" she comments, reaching out and ghosting the frame of the painting with her fingers, above her finger is the signature of this Thomas Girtin. "It is a rare and expensive piece."

Taehyung is no longer staring at the painting but rather at her. He was surprised at her confidence to come into a strangers house and advise them on both the placement of their paintings and the stupidly of it. He smirks. "I'll have it moved at soon as possible, Miss Y/N. I am sure it will look a lot nicer in your premises"

"No, sir" she exclaims, stepping back from the painting and turning to look at him. "That is not what my intentions were when telling you about this piece."

"Perhaps it will persuade you to bring me more of those biscuits," Taehyung replies. He thought of his moment on the chair earlier, when he had the small epiphany of the freedom this house would bring him, how he could get away with anything. He places a hand on the small of her back and leads her back towards the front door. Grabbing two biscuits on his way past and passing one to her. With the hand on her back, she seems to have silenced a bit. "It's nearly dark, I would like to walk you back across the brook." 

"You do too much, Sir. I grew up here. I know quite well my way across the brook" Y/N defends. Taehyung is adamant as he places his boots on, and his overcoat. 

"So did I. I insist" he replies. "I left only 10 years ago, at your age. I'm sure I will find my way back quite safely." She doesn't reply, just stands in front of him with her arms crossed. "If you'd had a season in London you'd know well this is what a true gentleman is supposed to do." 

She blushes at the mention of a season in London. It only gives Taehyung an inflated feeling of power. It is clear that this young woman had no idea how to navigate herself around men, or perhaps other humans. She was as isolated as he was when he had lived in this place. He felt an unwelcome feeling of wanting to show her everything.

*** 

Taehyung had, clearly, known his way around the grounds of both his and your land. As he left you at the bottom of the steps to your mansion, offering you a little smile and a wave as you climbed the steps, he had mentioned something about the biscuits running out soon, his maid had family and once he had shared with them, he'd need more in at least two days' time. You reached the top, turning to see if he'd moved away, he had not. He bows and you curtsy before you slip into the warmth of your home.

As soon as you close the door you place your back against it, as if to block him out. That was not what you had imagined him to look like, you had expected a man in his early forties, perhaps a similar age to your father. You had not expected a young man, a man who's waistcoat fit snugly around his figure, a man who had beautiful fluffy hair. With eyes as dark as the chocolate you so rarely had. Your heart had been beating too fast the whole time you were there, that's what happened to all the women in the books you read when they loved someone, but surely that was over dramatic? Too soon? You wished you had someone to ask but it was just you and your father here now and you doubted he had the answer to this. 

The real problem did not lie in your beating heart, nor in the new strange emotion you felt but rather in the fact that when he had asked you if you'd bring more biscuits, you'd said you could bring some the very next day. And after all of that, you hadn't asked him a single question about London. Sighing, you make sure your door is locked before heading up to your chamber. The rest of the house is dead quiet, you can’t bring yourself to care anyways. You didn’t particularly want to see your father. You'd get up early in the morning and make more biscuits.

***

When Taehyung woke up the next morning he realised two things.

that it would be rude of him to not go introduce himself to Y/N's father, they were neighbors now after all.

that he had some very interesting dreams last night and the majority of them involved Y/N. He had woken up with a very prominent erection. He would need to see her again and soon.

He sat up in bed, having disregarded the bedclothes last night. He was alone, it wasn't like there was a risk of being indecent, plus he'd needed to touch himself. Taehyung could see his reflection in the mirror opposite the bed. Whilst looking at himself he wonders if she'd be able to handle the size of him. He places his hand around his dick, dragging it up and down in a loose grip- pretending his hand is Y/N. He assumes she is a virgin - only tightening his grip with this thought. He tries to imagine how she'd sound, but that's something he won't be able to tell until the moment comes, he would make that moment happen, he'd do anything to insure it. What would he have to do, and to what extent, to make Y/N his? The movement of his hand along his dick is almost painful now. Balls tightening more and more with every thrust his hips make into his hand. He cums, shooting white liquid up his stomach. It runs through the valley of his abdominal muscles like a river between two mountains. He would never look at Y/N the same again. In less than an hour he would be introducing himself to her father with the traces of his cum on his stomach the thought of it oddly turned him on. Instead, he headed for the bathroom where he would wash it off. There were times for such things and they weren't for when he was introducing himself to an elder.

***  

An hour after you'd baked the biscuits you were standing in your chamber, paintbrush between your teeth, painting a figure into one of your old landscape photos of the house across the brook. You hated to admit that the figure was Taehyung, but it only made sense, you hadn't stopped thinking of him.

You step back from the painting, wondering what it was that was missing exactly. There was Taehyung in his blue overcoat as he had been yesterday. It doesn’t seem enough. You can hardly tell it's him in the picture but if you had studied his figure, as you had plenty of times in the hour you had with him, you would know it was him.

There's a knocking at the door downstairs, it echoes around the whole mansion like the chiming of bells. Climbing over the pots and brushes you have thrown across your room, you hang your head from the open window. From this angle you can't see the front door but you can see the carriage drive. It's empty. Who would visit who didn't have a carriage?

Not caring much about your paint splattered dress you step from your room. Vaguely aware of the paint on your face, you choose to ignore it as you race down the stairs. At the door is your father, who is just opening it as you make it to the landing. However you're much more interested in what's behind the door. Your father obviously doesn't connect the dots as he sees the young man standing at the top of your steps. You, however, become much more worried about the current state of your appearance. "Good morning sir, I'm Kim Taehyung" 

Your father stares at him blankly as Taehyung offers his hand to shake. "The new gentleman across the brook?" He asks. Nodding Taehyung smiles at your father, perfectly white teeth on show. From where you're standing he can't seem to see you. You debate running back upstairs before your father lets him in. But you're too late, your father's shaking his hand and pulling him through the door at the same time. There's no hiding now. "My God Y/N!" your father exclaims at seeing you. "I told you not to wear such disgraceful garments out of your room! you'll have to excuse her" he turns to Taehyung, "she's not very well socialised."

You blush, Taehyung must notice you backing away. "It's really not a worry sir, I am already acquaintances with your daughter, she brought me biscuits yesterday evening, I suppose under your instructions"

If your father was to take credit for your ideas, you would have cried, instead your father explodes "I did not advise such an act! I apologise for her rogue mannerisms." You knew he had not been listening to you yesterday. As the pair walk past the bottom of the stairs, therefore past you, Taehyung rolls his eyes and then winks at you. 

"I very much enjoyed the biscuits" he announces, it's a response to your father, but he's looking at you as he says it. Tickling erupts on the inside of your stomach. You place a hand on it, having never felt this feeling before. Taehyung watches your hand as it lands on your abdomen. You don't understand why but he's smirking as he follows your father into the study. It dawns upon you that you do not have a great understanding of the outside world nor the feelings that Taehyung has brung with it. The two men disappear behind the study door, and you run over to place your ear to the key-hole.

“Does she paint?” he asks your father, why this isn’t a question he can just ask you is unbeknownst to you.

“I believe so” your father mumbles, the topic of his daughter seems to put him in a foul mood.

“You believe so?” Taehyung sounds upset, as if the response he had received wasn’t enough.

“There becomes a stage in a man's life when he stops caring about the women around him. He stops caring about silly things like paintings. You understand me don’t you.”

“I don’t believe I do, sir,” Taehyung replies. There's a harshness to his voice you had yet to have heard. You bring a hand up to cover the huff of surprise your mouth admits. If you were to talk back to your father like that you’d be slapped and denied food for a day. When your father doesn’t reply Taehyung continues. “I would like to view her paintings if you would permit it.”

“Of course,” Your father replies, annoyed. Then he asks Taehyung a question using so many business words you give up trying to listen to their conversation and focus more, or panic more, on the fact Taehyung was coming to view your paintings. There seems to be no other option than to sprint up the stairs and at least try to tidy it up a little. 

You’re in the middle of stuffing an old awful painting under your bed when the door knocks. “Give me a moment father and I’ll be out!” you shout, trying to be oblivious after eavesdropping.

“It’s Taehyung,” he replies. “May I come in”

You pause before answering. You could probably tell him to go away and he would. “Oh! Come in!” You’re up from under your bed now. Currently the main painting on display was the one with him in, you figured that he wouldn’t have looked in a mirror long enough to tell that it was his figure anyway. It was still slightly embarrassing. The door knob twisted and he filled the doorway with his figure.

“This is your chamber and workroom?!” was the first thing he asked, you blush, embarrassed both with the fact he was in the only place you stood naked each night, and that he was judging your way of life.

“It’s not ideal.” you reply, deciding to go for the truth. “I tried painting in the parlor but father was not best pleased.”

He nods his head but doesn’t reply to you, beginning to walk around your room of paintings. Wildflowers. Your father at his desk. A deer in snow. The view of the fields beyond from your window. You're shaking. Stopping at the painting you were most dreading, he tilts his head.

“Are they...” he pauses and his lip curves to the side, “kissing?”

"Um" you begin. "Is it off?" no longer caring that it's him and more concerned with your painting. "Her neck is at the wrong angle isn't it!" you exclaim, you're next to him now contemplating the painting together, as you had done with the portrait over his fireplace. This had been one of your very first paintings of people, you’d read from a men's guide to kissing that you had brought from one of the second hand stores in the town. It was the best you could do, you’d never seen two people kiss before. 

Taehyung moves on from that painting to the next, your most recent painting, the one with him in it. You daren’t look at him to see his reaction, instead you wipe a little paint off the bottom of the frame, hoping to distract him from, well, himself.

“I like this one” he smiles, “though I think it's missing something”

You’re too scared to reply to him so instead you just nod your head. It’s funny how he thought the same as you. “You capture the house really well, and the blue of my coat.”

Hands shaking you go to apologise to him. It wasn’t fair of you to paint him without his permission, but he’s moving back to the kissing scene again. Following behind him like a shadow you both end up staring at the painting. You’re aware of him looking at you from the corner of his eye. Your breath catches in your throat. Down the stairs you can hear your father moving about in his study. The rest of the house seems to be in an anxious science, holding its breath, as if it expects something to happen. Do you expect something to happen? He fully turns to you, his focus no longer on the painting, placing one of his hands on your shoulder. Your body freezes, though warmth spreads down your arm and into your body where his hand touches your dress. “Taehyung?” you're aware that your voice sounds so quiet in the greatness of the room. 

He pushes your shoulder slightly so you’re facing him. The whole room blurs and it's only him that you can see. He's like an angel sent from God, his bright light blinds you. “I could show you, Y/N”

Show you what? There's so much in this world that you want to see, want to experience. “Show me what?” you ask him, your brain is too innocent, too behind to pick up on what Taehyung really means. 

“How to kiss, then after that” he pauses, looking at his small figure in the picture behind you. “I could show you anything” lessening the grip he has on your shoulders. You feel no pressure in your answer, you could say no, he’s so close to you. 

“I’d like that” you reply, your mouth staying slightly agape at the eagerness in your tone, you hadn’t realised you were so keen. Smiling, Taehyung brings his thumb up to his mouth, he runs it between his lips, as if to wet them with his spit, then he’s bringing it to your face. This wasn’t how you imagined a kiss to be and, instinctively, step back. 

“Don’t worry Y/N, this isn’t a kiss, I am wiping paint off your cheek” his thumb makes contact with your skin and a blush rushes up to your cheeks. Why were you so responsive to his touch? “I won’t kiss you today”

Your lip sticks out in immediate disappointment, “I want you to think on it more” he admits. “You only get one first kiss.” 

“How long do I have to think about it?” you ask, you were hit by the insufferable feeling of being so naïve, so behind where you should be in the experience of your life, that it was embarrassing. You’re sure a kiss will solve this. You’re sure Taehyung will solve this.

“Tomorrow” he has removed his thumb from your cheek now, but his other hand is caressing your face. He runs slow circles between your eye and your hair and, nature guiding you, you lean into his touch further. This, you realise, is what intimacy was. You had once read the definition in a dictionary

close familiarity or friendship.

When you had first read it, you had realised that you had never had any intimacy with anyone. It was as foreign to you as flying was to a dog, or walking was to a baby. Your eyes are wide in shock, your legs only just holding your weight up. Taehyung is smiling at you softly when he removes his hand. Your body is as attached to this area of your floor as a tree to soil. “I suppose I’ll see you tomorrow” he steps over a paint brush and pot, you want to stop him but your tongue has been stolen from you. He’s at your door now, pulling it shut behind him. He’s hidden behind the near closed door when he softly says “I’ll show you everything, Y/N”

Then he’s gone. 

You hear the front door shut. 

Without his biscuits. 

thank you for reading!

#kim taehyung #kim taehyung smut #taehyung #taehyung smut #bts #bts smut #bts kth #kth smut

[tarotenvelhecida]

pick a card– which book speaks to your soul?

You read something which you thought only happened to you, and you discover that it happened 100 years ago to Dostoyevsky. This is a very great liberation for the suffering, struggling person, who always thinks that he is alone. This is why art is important.

—Conversations with James Baldwin.

this is my love letter to all the bookworms in the tarot community— pick a pile & i'll give you a list of genres + book suggestions carrying important messages to you.

I. THE FIRST

To the daydreamers and the escapists; to the ones that need to rest before following what you need follow.

RELEVANT GENRES & CONCEPTS– fiction in general; romance; fantasy; fairytale; poetry; ‘happy ever after’ endings; hopeful endings; fantasy; magic; dreamy.

AUTHORS – Ursula K. Le Guin; Louise Gluck; Mary Oliver; Jane Austen.

BOOKS FOR YOU–

‘The Paper Garden: An Artist Begins Her Life’s Work at 72 – Molly Peacock'

‘Good Bones – Maggie Smith’

‘If Not, Winter: Fragments of Sappho – Translation by Anne Carson’

‘Owls and Other Fantasies – Mary Oliver’

‘Dog Songs – Mary Oliver’

‘Emma – Jane Austen’

‘Howl’s Moving Castle – Diana Wynne Jones’

‘The Little Prince – Antoine de Saint-Exupéry’

‘Death Comes for the Archbishop – Willa Cather’

‘Sonnets from the Portuguese – Elizabeth Barrett Browning’

‘The Hawk and the Dove – Penelope Wilcock’

‘The Secret Life of the Lonely Doll: The Search for Dare Wright’

‘The Ink Dark Moon – Ono no Komachi & Izumi Shikibu’

‘Alice in Wonderland – Lewis Carroll’

‘The Letters of Vita Sackville-West and Virginia Woolf’

‘Little Women – Louisa May Alcott’

‘Anne of Green Gables – L.M. Montgomery’

‘Kissing the Witch: Old Tales in New Skins – Emma Donoghue’

II. THE SECOND

For the ones that carry the ache to learn and know everything; to the ones bored with life's commodities & seriousness. For the ones that question everything around them – as they should do.

You do not need to fit in. Don't change yourself for other people. If they want to see you this way, then become the proud witch in the edge of the woods.

RELEVANT GENRES & CONCEPTS– books on 'niche' knowledge; science; philosophy; true crime; drama; scandalous romances; adventure, magical realism; YA thriller & horror; comedy & sardonic comedy; ‘controversial’/'weird' books.

AUTHORS– Carmen Maria Machado, Kate Moore, Grady Hendrix.

BOOKS FOR YOU–

‘My Sister, The Serial Killer – Oyinkan Braithwaite'

‘The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat and Other Clinical Tales – Oliver Sacks'

‘St. Lucy’s Home for Girls Raised by Wolves – Karen Russell'

‘Spook: Science Tackles the Afterlife – Mary Roach’

‘The Hitchhiker Guide to Galaxy – Douglas Adams'

‘Inferno – Dante Alighieri'

'Magic for Beginners – Kelly Link'

‘Lace Bone Beast: Poems & Other Fairytales for Wicked Girls – N.L. Shompole'

‘Severed: A History of Heads Lost and Heads Found – Frances Larson’

'The Woman They Could Not Silence – Kate Moore'

‘The Dictionary of Lost Words – Pip Williams'

‘She Kills Me: The True Stories of History’s Deadliest Women – Jennifer Wright’

‘Anatomy: A Love Story – Dana Schwartz'

‘Pretty Dead Queens – Alexa Donne'

‘I’m Glad My Mom Died – Jennette McCurdy'

'Rabid: A Cultural History of the World's Most Diabolical Virus – Bill Wasik'

‘Chilling Adventures of Sabrina – Roberto Aguirre-Sacasa’

III. THE THIRD

You need to put your sadness somewhere. If you can't, remember that someone has done it before – and transformed it into a story. Let the words you'll read be the resting place for whatever you're feeling right now; let yourself remember that not even your pain is lonely in this world.

RELEVANT GENRES AND CONCEPTS— poetry; gothic horror; thrillers; murder mysteries; tragedies; cathartic stories; biographies.

AUTHORS– Shirley Jackson, Osamu Dazai, Clarice Lispector, Sylvia Plath.

BOOKS FOR YOU—

'The Year of Magical Thinking – Joan Didion'

‘The Dead – James Joyce'

‘What The Living Do – Marie Howe'

‘The Hour of the Star – Clarice Lispector'

‘Why This World: A Biography of Clarice Lispector’

‘Some of Us Did Not Die – June Jordan'

Somewhere Towards the End – Diana Athill'

‘We Have Always Lived in The Castle – Shirley Jackson'

'Heaven: A Novel – Mieko Kawakami'

'Journal of a Solitude – May Sarton'

'Jane Eyre – Charlotte Bronte'

'Grief is the Thing with Feathers – Max Porter'

‘Carrie – Stephen King'

'Of Dogs and Walls – Yuko Tsushima'

'Frankenstein – Mary Shelley'

'The Stepping Off Place – Cameron Kelly'

'Letters to Milena – Franz Kafka'

‘Beloved – Toni Morrison'

#pac #pick a card #pick a card reading #pick a pile #pick a pile reading #pick a deck #tarot reading #tarot #tarot reader #cartomancy #divination #witchblr #witchcraft #witch #tarotblr #tarotdaily #intuitive #tarot community #tarot cards #tarotonline #free tarot readings