#The Secret Garden (1993)

[thepunkpanther]

"You brought us back to life, Mary. You did something I thought no one could do."

THE SECRET GARDEN (1993) dir. Agnieszka Holland

[divineandmajesticinone]

THE SECRET GARDEN (1993) dir. Agnieszka Holland

[heartwasglass]

The spell was broken. My uncle learned to laugh, and I learned to cry. The secret garden is always open now. Open, and awake, and alive. If you look the right way, you can see that the whole world is a garden.

THE SECRET GARDEN (1993) dir. Agnieszka Holland

[adaptationsdaily]

The Secret Garden (1993) Dir. Agnieszka Holland

[providence-park]

THE SECRET GARDEN (1993)

Dir.  Agnieszka Holland

[frmulcahy]

Idk what kind of crack they were putting in 90s period dramas but it’s just Not The Same Anymore

[aeaeaexxzd]

bruh

[ilurvyer]

[fawnaura]

The Secret Garden (1993) dir. by Agnieszka Holland

[on-holidays-by-mistake]

The Secret Garden (1993) & Wanderer above the Sea of Fog (1818, a fragment) by Caspar David Friedrich

[epifaniacintilante]

My poor child

[divineandmajesticinone]

THE SECRET GARDEN (1993) dir. Agnieszka Holland

[bellasbookclub]

Comfort Film alert! 🌱🌷

The weather may be bleak but the vibes sure aren't, because this month's movie night is The Secret Garden (1993)!! Join us on our Discord on Saturday, February 10th at 9 PM EST (12 PM AEST Monday morning for Aussies) for this gently gorgeous tale of gothic mansions, Dame Maggie Smith at her Dame Maggie Smithiest, and some insufferable children who really just needed to touch grass a bit of earth.

lurkers and new folks always welcome! 🎥 🍿

Bella's Book Club is an interactive virtual book club created by the Three Books One Plot podcast. Our monthly discord discussions are open to all! More info here.

[ficsbb]

Home

》 Pairing: Lord Archibald Craven x Reader

》 Warnings: fluff, disgusting lovey dovey fluff, drama

》 Word count: 1.4k

Note: I had to write Craven/Reader myself cause it doesn't exist anywhere else??? I mean, it's a tragedy, really. Pardon any mistakes! Enjoy, I hope!

It’s cold in the Manor. It’s always so damn cold. It settles into your bones in a way that brings you comfort because at least there’s something there. You can feel this. You have company like this. Your eyes shift toward the window, where a bird lands just on the windowsill. It’s early in the morning, much too early to be awake and aware of the world, but you can’t fall back asleep at any rate. The plush blankets fall off of you as you push yourself from the bed, making your way quickly toward the fireplace. Within a few moments, the crackling sounds of the wood and fire hold you in place for a while, that is, until you hear the loud echoes of a door being slammed shut.

Normally, it would frighten you, but your ears perk up instead. You’ve grown accustomed to all different kinds of sounds in the last few years. The wails from stormy winds and the shuffling of busy bodies milling about and around the kitchen, the sounds of distant bells; it’s all familiar to you. No sound more familiar, however, than the echoes of those heavy wooden doors slamming shut.

Quickly, you get dressed and leave the room. The floorboards creak under you, and when you reach the stairs, every step is louder than the last, but your eyes are immediately drawn to what you’ve been waiting to see for the last month.

A light under the doors of the study.

You don’t realize you’ve stopped breathing until your body kicks in and does it forcibly. How can he do this to you? How can he do this, and you haven’t even seen him yet?

There isn’t any time between catching your breath and asking yourself this question before the doors of Lord Archibald Craven’s study open. He appears almost from the shadows, his long hair disheveled, eyes steadily at his feet. He is fully dressed, as if he's just arrived from whatever part of the world decided it needed him more than you. You let out an audible breath at the sight of him and it’s enough to make him lift his head slowly, achingly slow from his feet to yours, then your body, until it finally lands onto your eyes.

His eyes are rimmed red.

Your body lurches to him, in a jolt that startles the both of you, but nothing is said. The house speaks instead. The fire crackling right behind him in his study, the whipping of the winds against the windows, the collar of the dogs tinkling, the doorknob clicking back into place as he lets go and moves in front of you. His cane thudding against the floor when he moves closer and closer still.

“You’ve come home.” Is all you can manage with him so close like this. You look up at him and wonder how it is possible for him to be so beautiful in the dark. In this cold, dark place.

“This is just a house, my love. You are my home. I’ve come to you.”

It feels nothing short of a rubber band snapping you back into yourself. His eyes and his touch on the side of your face gently, so, so gently that brings you back into existence. You don’t know where part of you goes when he’s away, but it doesn't matter now. Not with his eyes coming to life as he sees you. You exist again. I'm here, you think. I'm alive.

“You were in my dreams. You were calling my name.” He says. You’re confused for just a short second, believing him to have read your thoughts, but this is how it is with Archibald. How it has always been. A breathing of hearts shared as one.

He takes your hand into his and leads you into the study. Books and papers strewn about as they always are. The dogs come to you and you caress their ears. You notice one of your small quilts he’s gifted you, draped over the back of his chair, haven forgotten about it the other night as you slept with his scent enveloping you.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he says, standing in front of you, looking at you with wonderment as if a flower has bloomed in the wrong season.

“Your eyes, Archie. Come to bed with me.” He smiles shyly and nods. He takes his hand and wraps it around the back of your neck, pulling you into his chest. Holding you there, enveloping you completely, breathing you in. When he lets go, he asks about the quilt offhandedly.

“I love your letters, Archie, but they make me miss you more. I write mine here most times.” He laughs softly and sits at his chair, beckoning you to him even though he doesn’t have to. You’ll follow him anywhere he goes.

“You won’t have to miss me anymore.” You kneel at his feet, looking up at him curiously.

“What do you mean?” He reaches out and barely swipes at your bottom lip, making your lips part slightly. It feels sultry. Does he know what this does to you? He has to, he must.

“I mean, my love, that I will not be going away so often anymore. I will be here with you, in our garden and in every corner of this Manor. How does that sound?” Archibald always surprises you. Whether it’s with flowers, or new books, a trinket that made him think of you, or subtle jewelry. You know this is one of his ways of loving you, and you love him in the ways that he needs in return. There is no question between the two of you that the tether holding your souls together will never falter or break away. Not even in death.

But when he asks you differently this time as you look up at him with tears shining in your eyes, “Do you want me around more? Will you not tire of me after a while?” It breaks your heart because, How could he not know? Something in you rushes forward. His mustache prickles as you kiss him. It’s comforting. It’s familiar. Archie parts from you and tilts your chin up so you look at him. His eyes are pleading. They’re rimmed red and pleading.

“Oh, Archie. Tire of you? How could that ever be possible? I love you, I love you, I love you.” He kisses your eyelids as they flutter closed, rough hands on either side of your face.

“I’ll never love anyone more,” he whispers. “Come, let’s go to bed.” He helps you onto your feet, and you hang onto him, your hand dwarfed by his. He doesn’t let go. Not even when he puts the fire out, grabs his coat, and steadies himself on his cane. The dogs left free to roam.

The room is warm now. You close the curtains as Archibald settles in. You can feel his eyes on your every move, and while anyone else giving you this scrutiny would send you into a bundle of nerves, from Archibald, it feels like a warm blanket draping over you. Keeping you safe from the harsh realities of the world outside of these walls without him.

“Come to me,” he’s already in bed, his white nightshirt unbuttoned. The sight of him like this keeps you still where you stand. His eyes bore into yours, hand outstretched, long brown hair calling for you to run your fingers through.

“Come,” he says again, and the softness of his voice brings you back. There’s a sternness there that makes a knowing heat coil low in your belly. You ready yourself and slide in with him. You can tell he’s pleased by the way he groans and melts into the bed as you lie in between his legs with your back to him. He wraps his arms around you, rubbing gentle circles over your stomach absentmindedly, and it’s lulling you to sleep. He talks about his work while away. He talks about missing you as fiercely as he always does. He talks about ideas for the garden. He talks about his dreams being full of you.

“We will sleep the day away.” You hum in response, much too sated by just his touch and the timbre of his voice right at your neck. He plants kisses there.

“We will sleep tomorrow away, too.”

“And the day after that?” His laugh shakes you a little, and it brings a smile to your face as your eyes close, reveling in the sound.

Your bodies adjust to be more comfortable while you now face each other, your leg lazily draped over him. “Oh yes, my love, the day after that. And the day after that, and the day after that.” Archibald goes on that way, peppering your face with kisses. You don’t remember when you fall asleep, really. That night, when you both wake, he says he doesn’t either, and this is how the days pass in the Manor.

Archibald holding you close, lulling you to sleep while he tells you your favorite stories. Stories of a man and a woman living in a Manor, full of mysteries of old that both you and him can uncover together, in love until the end of time and even after.

[jason-please-see-a-psychiatrist]

some of my favorite reviews ive left on letterboxd bc im a comedic genius

[where-our-stories-start]

The Secret Garden (1993)