#Typewriter Tarot

[kathylbrownwrites]

Living Your Best Writing Conference

In a fit of enthusiasm last fall, I registered for a big, well-regarded writing conference, the Association of Writers and Writing Programs (AWP), But as the time to head out to Kansas City drew near, I found myself more and more second-guessing the decision; my cold feet had nothing to do with the conference offerings and everything to do with my interior emotional landscape. I reflect on all…

[itscontinental]

Q #881

[lohstandfound]

I just ordered the prettiest agate bookends for one of my bookshelves oh I can't wait

[ironfoxtypewriters]

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[someday-dreamlands]

[kookygranger]

Notes On Progress

Ghost!Steve Harrington x Witch!Reader

Series Masterlist

500 words

“Can I hear them?”

Steve’s been watching over your shoulder as you type up a review of a band from upstate. Reading along as the black ink stamps into the paper with each clack of your typewriter.

You wondered how he didn’t get bored. Surely, you were one of the least interesting witches in the coven to follow around day-to-day. You weren’t used to entertaining, and you rarely practised witchcraft outside of your daily rituals – although he’d watch that intently too, asking about all the different ingredients you’d steep in your tea and why continuously getting the Ace of Cups card in your tarot spread was bothering you.

But he was still here, and you were still wary of why that was – both spiritually and physically – why you?

“Uh, sure.” You click your Walkman, taking out the cassette when it pops up and move over to your stereo. You watch as Steve reads over what you’d written again while the first track fills the room, his tongue digging into his lower lip in concentration.

“That’s good. What you’ve written is like, what it sounds like.” He winces at his inability to articulate, but you get what he means. The compliment makes your shoulders hunch.

“Thanks.”

A knock at the front door of your cottage pulls you away, and you ignore the tingling in your arm as you pass the ghost.

“Hey.” Your fellow coven member Kelsey smiles at your appearance, holding out a thick A4 piece of paper towards you, “Essie made this painting for you, but she was too shy to show you so I volunteered to bring it ov–“ she stops talking when she notices something over your shoulder, then leans in to whisper, “You have a ghost?”

You follow her line of sight to Steve who smiles at the both of you, offering a wave from where he’s standing further in the house.

“Wait, you can see him too?” You turn back to Kelsey who nods, eyes still trained on him. “Huh, I guess he really isn’t here because of me then. He kind of just popped up a few days ago. Would he have anything to do with you?”

She shakes her head, frowning at the way Steve is staring at you like you invented tight, dark-wash jeans.

“Fuck, well if you hear of anyone missing a spirit let me know.” You look down at the colourful portrait she handed you, “And tell Essie thanks. It’s beautiful as always.”

“Will do.” She turns away slowly and you hear her release a deep sigh as you close the door.

Steve follows you as you walk into the kitchen, admiring the portrait of you with crossed arms as you stick it onto the fridge.

“Pretty.” He mutters.

“I know, she’s so talented.”

He rubs the back of his neck before taking a step closer, chest almost close to touching your back if it were possible. “I didn’t really mean the art.”

You turn your head to see a shy smirk on his face, eyes transfixed on you. You roll your eyes, trying to hide the heat creeping into your skin. Who the hell flirts this much when they’re dead? You’re not even used to the alive ones doing it to you.

You shake your head, trying to rid yourself of his spell if you can’t his spirit, and move back to your typewriter.

Steve settles back into his place over your shoulder, nodding along to the music as the words flow from your handwritten notes to the page in front of you.

Steve edit by @petersspideymask on Pinterest

[adapembroke]

The Joys of Saturn: Why Aging Is Easier for Saturn and Capricorn People

There’s this saying in astrology that Saturn and Capricorn age in reverse. People born under the influence of these archetypes are born serious, and they learn playfulness and joy as they get older. I think it’s because they spend their youth learning about limits. By the time they’re old, they’ve learned to dance between the lines.

People born under the influence of Saturn and Capricorn are here for Saturn school, and Saturn school is all about boundaries. Your boundaries. Other people’s boundaries.. How to respect your own boundaries, even when others don’t. How to keep other people’s lack of boundaries from pushing you over your limits. 

Saturn school is full of hard lessons.  I have Saturn opposite the sun, and these are lessons I know well. 

In Kindergarten, it became apparent that I had a physical disability that kept me from running around and playing with the other kids. There wasn’t a name for my disability at the time, but it’s since been recognized as one of the sub-types of Ehlers-Danlos syndrome. I experienced a lot of pain growing up with EDS. My body ached. I was diagnosed with arthritis as a teenager. I struggled to walk, so I spent many gym classes and recesses sitting on the sidelines.

For most kids, I think that growing up with EDS would have been torture, but I was a child of Saturn. My parents said I was born three years old, and adults often said I was “wise beyond my years.” I wanted nothing more than to be grown up, so I learned at an early age that if I listened quietly, adults would feel sorry for me, and I could sneak a seat at the adults table. 

There were many years of frustration, waiting for the grownups to take me seriously, but I’ve spent almost 4 decades in Saturn school, and I’m finally starting to see the benefits.  

Saturnine people shine in middle age and beyond. Aging is much easier for us. Because we are already so used to dealing with limitations, we tend to approach the limitations that come with aging with a sigh and a few adjustments. Astrologer and tarot reader Psyren calls this “Saturn’s promise.” She says that Saturn is tough on you when you’re young, but Saturn will “make sure your heart and looks are renewed like a child as you age.”

My favorite example of Saturn’s promise is Ray Bradbury. He had a Capricorn AC and Saturn conjunct Venus in Virgo. He was a super serious young man. He spent his life clawing his way into the publishing industry, literally paying his dues on a typewriter he had to pay to use at the library. Ray Bradbury always knew that he wanted to be a writer. He was a disciplined professional who wrote every day, but he was 30 years old when he started writing his bestselling novel Fahrenheit 451. It wasn’t published until he was 33. 

As Ray Bradbury aged, his saturnine dedication to his work never left him, but he became more playful. When his stories were turned into the TV series Ray Bradbury Theater, every episode began with a view of his office, which was filled with model dinosaurs and toys. 

By the time he died at the age of 91, he had a wide smile and eyes that sparkled. 

“I want you to envy my joy,” he said. And it’s difficult to imagine anyone who wouldn’t.

When Saturn people reach middle age, we suddenly find ourselves in a better position than people we’ve spent our lives struggling to keep up with. People who haven’t learned Saturn’s lessons can get into their 40s and 50s without having a serious encounter with limits. There are people who find it easy to work with authority and manage to avoid sickness and disability. They learn that overcoming obstacles is just a matter of discipline and working harder, which makes it easy to believe that every obstacle will be overcome if you just put your back into it. 

In youth, it can seem like Saturn has given them the better deal. The truth is that everyone has hard limits, and Saturn comes for all of us eventually. While Saturn’s children dance through old age, people who are meeting Saturn for the first time really struggle. 

Lessons can be harder to learn when you’re older. People facing Saturn for the first time have often spent a lifetime building the habit of fighting harder when they don’t get what you want. For most people, pushing on in the face of adversity is a virtue. It’s called grit, and it’s a virtue American culture especially loves to applaud. Better yet, without Saturn’s restraining hand showing them their limits, people with grit often have a lot to show for their efforts. 

Habits are hard to break, always, but they’re even harder to break when a good habit becomes unhelpful. When Saturn is in charge, grit is not a virtue. Learning how to recognize your limits, stop, and reassess is one of Saturn’s tests, and the consequences of failing Saturn’s tests in middle age can be severe. A hangover that used to last for 20 minutes can last for three days. Trying to take stairs two at a time can smack you in the face.

Were you a kid who sat on the sidelines? Have you spent your life feeling like a broken record that only plays, “I can’t…” 

I see you. I see Saturn’s promise in you. Your joy is coming, and if you stick around long enough, everyone else will see it, too. 

Related Articles

[bobalegsanji]

Nico Robin HC + Moodboard

Based on my modern magic AU ♡

Clairvoyant. Even though it's an unpredictable ability, her tarot cards are her best friends, and she's quite good at it as well

I see her doing a little tarot reading on her friends when she's worried about them. Obviously she doesn't tell them, it's just to give herself some peace of mind (and maybe to check whether she needs to follow them somewhere and keep them safe. Just in case)

Dark academia aesthetic without trying!

She's intimidating to look at, especially when she's always alone with her nose in some old, stuffy book - but she's the sweetest person if she decides you're worth her time

One of her favourite things to do is go to the library or a coffee shop. Secretly she also visits the cat cafe near her university, but that's kept under wraps

I just KNOW she has one of those old typewriter machines, just for the fun of it

Studies archeology & is so so passionate about it, but it's a quiet kind of passionate. She doesn't really talk about it, but her part of the bedroom is filled from top to bottom with books, posters, tools, anything you can imagine about the topic and more

Likes to drink coffee in the communal spaces, just to feel close to whoever is at home. Sanji coming to live with them has been an absolute blessing, because this means there's always someone tinkering in the kitchen

Easily one of the kindest people in the house. Immediately jumps at any chance to help people, but it's hard to notice at first because she's so reserved

Isn't just knowledgeable about her own abilities, she studies so much and has tipped her toes into so many different kinds of magic - No one but her really knows how powerful she is

UMMNWD Masterlist

[strangestcase]

I thought the Drowned God re-release was a letdown enough, but two days ago someone on Discord let me know that the new game guide that was included with the other bonus materials was plagiarized from a 1998 walkthrough from the website Balmoral Software. I looked into it and can confirm that it was in fact blatantly obvious that was the case and I've put in pics of a couple examples out of many. The pics written in the typewriter font with the occasional redactions are the "new" guide while the pics in a standard font are the old guide.

I'm kicking myself because this "new" game guide was one of the positive things I had to say about the bonus materials, I was so charmed by its presentation, but now I can see that despite the effort put in, whoever made it was also too lazy to reword more of the plagiarized parts to at least cover up their tracks better. I might have actually used the 1998 guide myself the first time I played the game, but it would have been nearly 3 years ago at this point so I would have forgotten what it said.

oh my fucking gooooooood between this, the meager concept art, the REFUSAL to clean up the audio files, and the asisine merchandise…….. On one hand I’m happy that the game is once again circulating / being sold but on the other. This is a complete disappointment. Game back on the market but at what cost. The Harry Horse Estate can only redeem themselves one way now and it is releasing an official tarot deck with the game designs <- THIS IS ONLY PARTLY A JOKE. I NEED THAT DECK.

[eparvierr]

4, 5, 10, 17, 18, 22, 26, 29, 35, 37, 40, 42 srry for sending so many hii

hiiiii

4. what type of shoes do you wear?

black boots !

5. what color are the walls of your room?

three are white, one is black

10. what's your favorite piece of clothing you own?

my royal blue b99 time for gina's opinion zip-up hoodie it is SO special and dear to me

17. what's one thing you want to buy, but don't have the money or resources to get?

mmmm. i guess a car? i could technically buy one i guess but. i want a cool pick-up

18. who's the first person you can think of?

Her <3

22. who was your childhood favorite music artist?

lina larissa strahl

26. favorite kid's show character?

mmmmmm shego from kim possible

29. what's the last outfit you wore?

black top & jeans

35. if you could change your hair however you wanted, how would you change it?

i WOULDN'T my hair is perfect. it's frizzy and big and black and i love it more than anything

37. what's an uncommon/specific /obscure topic you're interested in?

i'm really really really into true crime. which isn't uncommon but it's a huge thing for me. also coldmirror.

40. what's the most interesting item you own?

uhhhhh. teal typewriter. spanish tarot deck from the 1950s. pinoccio italian opera mask

42. what's one regret you have?

i have No idea. actually

[inkwolvesandcoffee]

Cards & Conversations (Werewolf!Alfie Solomons x Reader)

Genre: Romance, Angst, Drama

Pairing: Werewolf!Alfie Solomons x Shelby!Reader

Word count: 3.8K

Warnings: Mild swearing, difficult father-daughter relationship, emotional abuse, melancholy thoughts, allusion to past violence and death, scars

Summary: We lose things over the years. Family members, innocence, the perfect world you held for a single summer.

Your heart.

But sometimes the gods are gracious and re-entwine your fate with the person you thought you lost forever, vanished after a heated conversation you were shut out of. Carefully shut away in a gilded cage again with only a blank page and his old typewriter for company. However, the tarot cards your brother gave you know what happened ten years ago.

They know why the King has returned to Camden.

Author’s note: This wee piece has turned out heavier in plot than I thought, enough so for me to want to work this out into a proper multi-part story in the future because there is a lot to dissect here and it feels kinda rushed. To me, that is, maybe not to you. Ah dinnae ken.

Anyways, I kept the tarot reading a bit shallow if only because I am still a beginner/someone who does it as a hobby. 

TH Masterlist

Tag list: @potter-solomons​ @vir-tual​ @zablife​ @buttercup32sstuff​ @ilovemanypeople​ @hecatemoon87​ @dreamlandcreations​ @elijahssuit​ @liliac-dreamer​ @alikaheroes​​

Support can come from the most unexpected corner, yet exceed your expectations in tenderness. 

A condolence card.

Flowers for your mother’s grave.

An arm around your shoulders throughout the funeral.

A hand to hold yours while navigating the chaotic and dangerous streets of London when finally having a chance to escape the mansion on the hill.

Fingers to keep yours, comically small compared to his, warm outside. 

In bookshops, only let go of during a cup of coffee or tea should it have a café.

An unnaturally warm body to snuggle up to whenever you feel cold.

Shoulders to be carried on during the odd trip down to Margate.

But those holidays during which my brother, Charlie, and I were kept out of business and separated from the rest of our family came to an end. About ten years ago, a long-standing peace pact was broken.

I can still recall the argument resounding from the drawing room. It’s funny how I thought shielding my ears would not have it touch me. Naive, really, innit?

“You crossed the line, Alfie.”

“You fuckin’ what?”

“You crossed the line.”

“The line?”

“She’s my daughter!”

But that wasn’t the real issue. No, there were two actual problems.

One, I’m Thomas Shelby’s and Grace Burgess’s daughter.

Two, according to my father, despite the similarities in hair and eye colour between us, I am the living embodiment of the only woman he’s ever loved. Don’t get me wrong, Lizzie is great and we get along well. Ruby, bless her spirited little heart, is as much of a sibling to me as Charlie is. 

But she isn’t Mum.

And Thomas wouldn’t let her memory be tainted by a connection to his greatest rival and ally, Alfie Solomons.

The King of Camden.

The alpha of the Camden Town Pack. 

The man who stole my heart ten years ago. 

That brings me to problem number three, hidden in the shadows and all too gladly forgotten. 

I was sixteen. He was thirty-six. 

At the time I didn’t know he had imprinted on me. Neither could I have guessed that there were such a thing as werewolves. The supernatural, in general. It was only when I started working in an odd little bakery run by an elderly woman I discovered how thin the veil between the realms are and what it means to have a certain heritage.

Aunt Polly is right.

We shake hands with devils and we walk past them. 

It’s a blessing to be a witch. But also to be a woman locked in a gilded cage, albeit, paradoxically, with a chance to have a life outside the family business. To have a talent for writing and being able to make a living out of it. To have fans curious about my stories, eager to read them and rejoice whenever they see me at signings and book events.

While I’m glad for what the gods have gifted me, to be a modern filid and possess a sixth sense, I might owe them for the rest of my life.

Because only last month they gave me back my heart.

Drunk, his hair and beard out of control, an ugly deep scar over his left eye leaving it blind, and soaked by the rain, he was there.

Alfie.

On my doorstep.

“So you’re the new witch in town, eh? Set up shop in me borough. Me kingdom,” he drawled. However, the way he leant in the doorway with haunted blue eyes ruined the mock indignation at once. A careful though gentle smile spread on his lips as he took me in. “Fuckin’ ‘ell, you’re even prettier than I remember.”

He leaned in, almost toppling over with unsteady feet. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t save us.” I am still uncertain whether he was heavily sniffling or it was a sob he tried to conceal. ‘‘This godforsaken soul couldn’t save you.’’

Thomas walked in at that moment, acknowledging our surprise guest in a cool voice. “Alfie.”

The prodigal alpha of Camden clumsily righted himself, glaring at the tyrant of the Westminster townhouse. “Tommy, good to see you. ‘Ow’s business?”

“Never been better.” Thomas shifted his attention to me. “Y/N, go upstairs. Mister Solomons and I have to talk.”

“I’m not-’’ I began, looking over my shoulder.

“Go upstairs!”

“Don’t yell at her!” Alfie roared before turning to me with a softer voice. “Go upstairs, right? It’s okay. We’ll talk tomorrow… if me head can remember.”

I clenched my fists, trying to keep my breathing even. As per usual, I managed. Still, I could feel myself hanging on by a thread, ragged around my throat.

Always pushed into the corner one way or the other.

Always me.

Why does it always have to be me?

Locked away in loneliness.

Shut away in a prison more cruel than The Tower. Left to my own devices and thoughts dedicated to the shadows, the dark corners of my mind.

Upstairs, Charlie walked out of his room, pale and concern etched on his face. He’s only too aware of how Thomas regards me and to this day makes sure I get treated as fairly as possible. “What’s happening? Why was he yelling at you?”

“The King has returned,” I mumbled, quickly brushing past him since I my pride refused me to let him see the tears brimming on my lashes. Footsteps as loud as a ghost’s, I slipped into my room and closed the door as softly as I could behind me.

The war inside was no one’s business, only for me to fight.

Another night of spilling the blood of its casualties on the page, somewhere between the lines a remembrance for the girl who hoped to rise like a phoenix. Another silent funeral for my soul.

An author is, essentially, all the characters she has created and is yet to create. My stories are told by people that carry little bits of myself, carefully concealed behind a fictional mask. But that’s what gets us through the day, innit, the stories we tell ourselves.

I was already broken up into so many fragments that night that I don’t even know who it is staring back at me in the mirror. Who is the woman people cheer for at signings in bookshops? Who is the lonely girl wandering in every Waterstones in Birmingham and London, a family member always nearby? Who was the young heart that was shredded to pieces and only recently glued together by rum rather than whiskey?

It’s a question I ask myself again now, looking down with a wistful smile. 

A blank page. Empty. Adjustable. Without personality. Whatever you want it to be and can give life to from your inner world.

Outside, the sound of shuffling feet goes accompanied by groaning, curses, low grumbles, and the creaking of wood. Somewhere in the distance a fight breaks out between two men, their voices too dim to make out the topic nor arguments of their heated debate. 

Although it isn’t my writing room with a desk by the window, this London hideout has become my personal bubble too. Alfie offered me to use his office whenever I want to, regardless of him being at work or not. Nonetheless, as during those holidays in Margate, he still prefers me to work on my books in his company on his rare day off. After all, despite the fact I’m, in his words, “off the fucking menu”, he trusts no one in his pack to not try their luck with me.

What a story that would be. A werewolf lower in rank trying to shack a Shelby witch, breaking the alpha’s rule. The alpha would go ballistic and a fight would break out.

Blood would flow.

The end is someone's death.

Fortunately, the rozzers in this part of town are in Alfie’s pocket because I don’t know how I’d save him from a charge for murder without my family’s help. Even then it’s highly unlikely he’d get away with it since no one wants him to live as desperately as I do.

“That ain’t writin’.” Alfie steps into the office, closing the door behind him. It falls into the lock with a soft click.

“No, indeed it isn’t.” I thumb the deck of cards in my hands. “Dad goes ballistic every time he catches me. If I don’t remind him of Mum, it’s this. Charlie’s different, though. He gave me these for my birthday and covers me as much as he can. He knows they’re important to me.”

“Funny, Tom going fucking angry at gyppo stuff.” He scoffs, sitting down in one of the chairs in front of his desk. “His anger is un-fucking-justified. Yes, you look like your mum, but that ain’t your fault. Besides, you’re… never mind. You don’t need to hear that.”

Maybe not right now, but still… one day I want you to say it again.

If only to hear I’m a beautiful person to someone.

To him.

I cock an eyebrow and scrunch my nose. For both our sakes, I ignore the unfinished remark. “Westminster changed him. We’re no longer gipsies. Looks like we’re fucking above that.”

“Not you, though,” Alfie says, a silent hint for me to continue in his soft-spoken voice.

I sigh. “Not me. I’d rather be a witch and honour my roots than become a toff settled in a mansion.”

“Got the itch to travel, eh?”

“Always. I remember what you promised me.” Throat constricted with solemn nostalgia, I swallow and fail to muster even a sliver of a smile. “But then again, I was just a girl back then. Stupid I believed you.”

Alfie opens and closes his mouth, but settles for a groan. He leans in and places a big warm palm over my fumbling fingers. A crown to protect the queen’s hand. “The road is open. I couldn’t take you then, right, I’m very well aware of that, but we can still go.”

“Despite who I am?”

“You’re not a fucking Shelby. Freedom is a ‘uman right, but not every ‘uman gets to enjoy it. I wanna open the cage, see where the little bird goes.”

And will the wolf follow? Or will he get someone else to free him from the Tower?

I bite my lip, gaze averted to our hands. 

Alfie clears his throat and leans back. The rings on his fingers shimmer in the artificial light when he lets his entwined fingers rest on his stomach. “Self-taught?”

“Polly taught me. Well, the basics. I developed my skills further myself.” I tilt my head, our eyes locked while an idea pops into my head. “I’m no expert, but… can I do a reading on you?”

He silently gestures at his desk, giving permission.

“I’ll do a simple spread. Three cards. Past. Present. Future.”

Hopefully, the cards will reveal what you and Thomas swept under the carpet.

I shuffle the deck, focusing on the question of what happened a decade ago. If there’s anything I want and need to know about the pack leader’s history, it’s this small piece we have in common. 

The crossroads between our stories.

I draw the first card, presenting the past. 

Ten of Swords.

The second card, the present. 

Six of Cups.

The third and final card, the future. 

The Chariot.

My stomach drops at the sight of the wolf pierced by swords. “Something failed, a defeat that led to some sort of collapse. But it wasn’t a part of your business that failed, was it?” 

I furrow my brow, pondering what could have happened. However, not a second has passed before I flinch and a vision flashes behind my eyes. 

Growling. Blood. Organs. Alfie clenching his fists and holding his head while his skin ripples. Empty and broken bottles of rum. The nauseating noise of bones cracking resonates in my ears while skin replaces fur and vice versa in quick succession. 

“It was a collapse of self. You took to the bottle, more and more, to drawn out the feeling of having failed. Changed more often until…” my breath hitches and I snap my head up to meet his gaze, still panting lightly. His expression is stoic, his sentiments concealed. “You went feral.”

So that’s why Camden was quiet, but Ollie was always tense. Poor sod, being left in command without warning.

I compose myself as best as possible and continue. “The present, Six of Cups. This world is still strange to you, but slowly you’re getting familiar with it again. How… how much do you remember?”

“Only you. Me fuckin’ noggin’ is a mess, one black hole.’’ Tenderness illuminates his eyes, warming the blue sea and icy lake in them. ‘‘But I, I swear, right, I’ve never forgotten you. You were there, even in the midst of the worst frenzy.”

I shake my head, desperate to stop him before we go down a familiar road. Before I start hoping for an ideal. “Don’t tell me you came back because of me.”

“You, yeah, you told me you wondered whether or not I’d come back. So,’’ he spreads his hands for a moment and then puts them down again, ‘‘ere I am.”

I mean, you’re not wrong. I did say that, but that was last month.

When I slipped out of my room just to get a glimpse of him before going to bed, feeling like a little kid again, rebellious enough to defy the rules. I ended up sitting at his bed for longer than I intended. To be honest, I had to kick myself out of the guestroom lest I ended up sleeping next to him, which would have worsened the already precarious situation with Thomas.

“I thought you were asleep.”

“Drunk, yes. But not asleep. I forced myself to stay awake, to enjoy every second of your company.” He bites his lip, failing to sound any less direct. “Not a moment went by I didn’t want to go ‘ome. But I ‘ad no one to guide me there.”

“Your guide didn’t know where to look. Lost herself in a terrible dark forest,” I murmur. “Must be strange, though, being back after so many years. Camden has changed.”

“It ‘as, but I still remember the way around me kingdom. Seems even the new faces know who sits on the throne.” He looks down at his hands and rest of his body. “Odd, innit, clothes and what we use them for? Feels unnatural, not like what Yahweh had planned for us to be wearin’ when ‘e made us. Didn’t want to give you a fright, though. Lots of new scars that ‘aven’t ‘ealed yet or barely. Yeah… would only stress you out. I do apologise for me manners, though, the way I ate that sandwich. One eats differently... out there. Besides, being blind on one side ‘as its complications.”

“You were a messy eater even before you left.” I can’t suppress a smile at a particular memory. “I always had to help you wipe crumbs from your beard whenever we went out to lunch. D’you remember that?”

“Can’t say it sounds strange to me ears.” His brow furrows and he flinches, fingertips pressed to his temple. Between shallow breaths sounds a note of delighted relief. “I think such a memory just returned.”

“You’ll get there.”

It’s better to remember something rather than nothing at all.

“Doc told me the best way to sort out the fuckin’ mess up there is to visit the places I’ve been. Said it could form a trigger.”

I shift in my seat. Regardless of being an adult, Thomas still likes to keep a close eye on me. And if it isn’t him, he’ll send another watchdog. Knowing him, it’s highly likely he’ll send for Michael, who has pretty much figured me out over the years. That’s what you get when you spend too many Christmases at Polly’s. “I’ll have to find a way out of the cage to meet you.”

“I 'ave a key.”

“You do?”

Ignoring my question, Alfie nods at the three cards on the desk. “Last card. What does it mean?”

Blinking in surprise at the swift change in topic, I clear my throat and return my focus to the reading. “The Chariot. You’ll gain discipline and self control. You found a way to quell the rage inside or, rather, subdue the Wolf.”

“Guess the Brazilian Jiu Jitsu is paying off,” he chuckles.

“I thought you did boxing?”

“I did that before, you know, the whole leaving and feral thin’. Currently doin’ that.”

“It sounds less violent.”

“It is.”

“No cage fights?”

He shakes his head, a few strands of grey highlighted by the light. “No, love, no more cage fights. I can’t right remember, but I stopped participatin’ in those a long time ago. ‘Ell, I don’t even know anymore what they were like.”

“You were fearsome,” I say, hoping to spark a sliver of a memory which won’t contain the events that ended with fatal accidents. “Nothing could stop you in the ring.”

“What calmed me down?”

“A bath and a cup of tea.”

“Right after the fight, I mean.”

“They’d sent for me lest…”

“Lest what?” I avoid his gaze, which is clearly not appreciated. “Lest what, love?” he repeats, tone harsher and sharper.

I press my lips together, breathing in deeply. “Lest the wolf took completely over. The day it happened for the, fuck, I don’t even know how many times it had been. Four? Five? It might have been ten when I finally got through to you. And on that night, I made you promise to stop fighting.”

“Did I? Stop fightin’, I mean?”

I glance around the room, lost for how to answer. “I don’t know. You were proud of being a wolf, hell, the fucking alpha of Camden Town. It was the one thing you didn’t want to give up. Fighting was in your nature and I fear that it’s a part you wouldn’t give up. Not even for me.”

“I ‘ave now, yeah, I ‘ave now. No more fightin’, Y/N. I swear so on everything between this world and the next, every bloody grave I can think of.”

“Perhaps that abstinence from violence is where your success lies.”

Maybe temperance forms the key to self-control when it comes to us. Maybe we were poison to each other before, but what if we keep an eye on the dosage?

What if we can find our way back?

The door opens. Ollie remains in the doorway, expression pale. “Boss, Randy and Pete are nigh on having a shiv dance.”

“Fuckin’ ‘ell,” Alfie grumbles as he rises to his feet. “I’ll be there in a minute. Go on, off you fuck.”

“Yes, boss.” The second-in-command curtly nods at me, smiling politely. “Y/N, sorry for the intrusion.”

“It’s alright, Ollie. Thank you.”

“‘Ow about you stay ‘ere, hm?” Alfie proposes after his subordinate has closed the door. 

“How’d you mean? I don’t want to inconvenience-’’

“You’re not. And I don’t mean ‘ere as in this shithole of a basement with all these numpties. What I mean, right, is ‘ow about you stay ‘ere, at my side? Plus, I’ll be ‘onest, and you know I only am with you, it’s part of me plan to prove you’re not nor ‘ave ever been a Shelby.”

“Enlighten me,” I say to humour him yet harbouring no expectations for this to be anything more than a joke. ‘‘Tell me about this big plan of yours.’’

“A change of name.” Lost in thought, he strokes his beard. “Yeah… that oughta do it. Y/N Solomons has a nice ring to it, don’t it?”

Jaw clenched, I put the cards down to cross my arms. “Alfie, this isn’t funny.”

“I’m not being funny, Mrs Solomons. C’mon, stand up.” He walks around the desk and pulls me to my feet, his calloused palms warm against my skin. A strong whiff of oud wood and vanilla hits my nose when he leans in to rest his forehead against mine. “This old selfish chap means it. Marry me, eh?”

I run my fingers through his bushy whiskers, an old habit I can’t seem to quit. Sooner or later, this will turn out to be him pulling my leg. The words leaving my mouth are sceptic too, slow and hesitant as they roll off my tongue. “Are you mental?” 

“Perhaps, but I want to set you free. Show Tom he has a wonderful woman of a daughter who deserves the world, right, a world I want to try and give ‘er.” He removes one of his rings and the silver chain around his neck, making a necklace out of the pieces of jewellery. Then he reaches back to put it on me. The silver is lukewarm against my chest, having retained some of his natural heat. “I don’t need an answer right now. You don’t even need to love me in return. I simply wish to keep you safe, that which I couldn’t do the first time. But this time, yeah, this time I will. Swear so on every holy book in this whole damned world. ‘Sides, I had to pop the question at least once while I’m still ‘ere. While I still remember.”

My breath tapers, the butterflies violently trying to break out yet all congesting in my throat. Stuck in a net of fear. “I want to find our way back, I do. But marriage seems too big of a step to take.”

“You know me better than anyone else, love. Take your time to think about it, eh.��’ He lovingly strokes my cheek, softly purring. ‘‘I’ll wait. ‘Owever, if you reject my offer, at least use the name to be free. I’ll find you a place to stay either ‘ere in Camden or in Margate. A nice big apartment or an entire ‘ouse, whatever you fancy. Wherever you fancy, actually. So if you wanna go to, let’s say, France and mingle with fuckin’ baguettes, I’ll make it ‘appen.”

“Alfie…”

Before I can begin to protest, he shushes me by pressing his lips on mine. They’re still as soft and plush as I remember, tender yet full of restrained passion. Needing more of this, us, but sharing the hesitancy of chasing the ideal world we lived in for a single summer. 

After a moment he breaks away and kisses the tip of my nose. “I need to get back to work. Make sure these floors stay clean and those runts get a reminder of the bloody rules. Stay for as long as you like.”

I watch him leave the office, grown a little colder.

And aside from the dim shouting, growls, and Alfie putting the other wolves in place, there’s nothing.

Nothing except a racing, conflicted heart and an all too familiar companion.

Silence.

[pumpkin-wanderer]

I realized that I have one more academia aesthetic that suits me so well. Heres some description and pics for inspo. Let`s call it "spiritual academia" The "Spiritual Academia" aesthetic is a captivating fusion of intellectual curiosity, vintage charm, and mystical allure. It seeks to harmonize the pursuit of knowledge and wisdom with a deep connection to the spiritual and metaphysical realms. This aesthetic embraces both the earthly and the ethereal, resulting in a unique style that is both contemplative and enchanting Wardrobe: A blend of vintage, classic, and bohemian styles. Think tweed blazers paired with flowing, ethereal dresses, adorned with occult symbols like pentagrams or crystals. Earthy colors like deep browns, dark greens, and rich purples dominate the palette. Accessories: Incorporate statement pieces like crystal pendants, antique rings, and feathered headbands. Layered necklaces featuring both literary and spiritual symbols can be a key element. Books and Altar: Create a study space that doubles as a spiritual altar. Arrange old leather-bound books alongside candles, incense, and tarot cards. A vintage typewriter can sit next to a crystal ball or a set of runes. Nature Connection: Integrate nature into your space with potted plants, dried herbs, and botanical illustrations. A window with billowing curtains that catch the sunlight adds a dreamy touch. Rituals and Mindfulness: Embrace practices like tarot reading, astrology, meditation, and journaling to cultivate a sense of self-discovery and intellectual growth. Aesthetic Inspiration: Draw inspiration from literary figures like Virginia Woolf or Hermann Hesse, who explored both intellectual and spiritual themes in their work.

[mariacallous]

That violent nullity James Bond having long outlived his creator, it has fallen to an interesting gang of alpha novelists and superhacks to keep him busy: since the death of Ian Fleming in 1964, more than 20 new Bond books have been written. The latest of them, Jeffery Deaver’s Carte Blanche, was published this year, and as recently as 2008, Bond nuts were solemnly delighted—or I was, anyway—by Sebastian Faulks’s even-better-than-the-real-thing novel, Devil May Care, which featured a partially lobotomized lead goon and a villain with a main de singe,or “monkey hand” (hairy wrist, non-opposable thumb).

Perhaps the most rewarding of the pseudo-Flemings, however, has been Kingsley Amis, whose Colonel Sun appeared in 1968 under the nom de plume Robert Markham. Amis’s Bond, while retaining the familiar psychopath’s obsession with menus, tailoring, and branded goods—“Bond almost felt relaxed, finding the charcoal-grilled lamb cutlets with bitter local spinach very acceptable”—is also a suspiciously Kingsley-esque conservative, deploring newly built houses and the rise of a “vast undifferentiated culture, one complex of super-highways, hot-dog stands and neon … stretching from Los Angeles to Jerusalem.” Amis would maintain a fierce moral allegiance to 007. Decades later, upon learning that John le Carré had described Bond as an “ideal defector” and “the ultimate prostitute,” he vented in a letter to Philip Larkin: le Carré’s comment was a “piece of bubbling dogshit,” he wrote, adding that he preferred Bond to the “dull fuckers” of le Carré’s own fiction.

George Smiley, le Carré’s enduring gift to the literature of espionage, is, of course, the anti-Bond. Across the sequence of novels in which he appears, peripherally or centrally, this secret servant of Her Majesty (like Bond, he works for British Intelligence, known in le Carré world as “the Circus”) is discreet to the point of self-erasure. Bureaucratically dowdy, rarely spotted in the field, a dull fucker by both instinct and training, Smiley drops no one-liners, romances no tarot-card readers, roars no speedboats through the Bayou. Bond has his ultraviolence and his irresistibility, his famous “comma of black hair”; Smiley has his glasses, his habit of cleaning them with the fat end of his tie, and not much else. There is a cultivated blandness to him, a deliberate vagueness of outline that at times recalls G. K. Chesterton’s Father Brown—the little priest’s alertness to sin replaced, in Smiley’s case, by an extraordinary memory and a profound knowledge of “tradecraft.” Smiley is also a cuckold of near-mythic proportions: his wife, the glamorous and rarely-at-home Lady Ann, seems to sleep with everybody but him. (She has doubtless slept at least once with James Bond: he’s just her type.) When John le Carré dies, there will be no pseudo–le Carrés, rotating the clichés of Smileydom through their potboilers. Not only is le Carré more or less inimitable—less imitable, certainly, than Ian Fleming, whose style was essentially that of a school bully with a typewriter—but Smiley himself is too elusive a creature to be captured by any pen other than that of his creator.

News late last year of a movie adaptation of Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy—the greatest of the Smiley novels—caused me to salivate mentally. Gary Oldman as Smiley? John Hurt as Control, the withered, irascible Circus chief? Colin Firth playing someone, anyone at all? The juices of anticipation squirted in my brain. In the autumn of 1979, every Briton with access to a television set was watching, with avidity and occasional bewilderment, the BBC’s gloomy, labyrinthine Tinker, Tailor miniseries—not least because, as le Carré modestly reminds us in his introduction to the latest edition of Smiley’s People, “the only independent channel in those days obligingly staged a strike and for six precious weeks the entire British viewing public had to choose between BBC1 and BBC2.” There were other reasons, too, for the general enthrallment. Anthony Blunt, a much-garlanded art historian and the Surveyor of the Queen’s Pictures, had just been exposed as a former Soviet spy, part of the Philby/Burgess/Maclean ring. Thus did current affairs conspire to lend a more-than-usual piquancy to le Carré’s vision of an Establishment honeycombed with treachery. In Tinker, Tailor, George Smiley is prodded out of retirement to unmask the mole who sits at the Circus’s top table: Is it busybody Percy Alleline? Roy Bland, “the shop-soiled white hope”? Dashing Bill Haydon? Or the Hungarian, Toby Esterhase? Alec Guinness, playing Smiley (25 years removed from playing Father Brown in The Detective), blinked myopically and carried inscrutable wounds. Around him at the Circus were men both loud and furtive in their natures, swaggering and self-concealing, as if simply to be born into the British ruling class was to sign up for a lifelong career as a double agent.

There had been other screen Smileys—Rupert Davies gave him a bluff inhumanity in The Spy Who Came In From the Cold, and James Mason drawled James Masonically and rather ineffectually through Sidney Lumet’s The Deadly Affair—but Guinness’s became at a stroke the definitive performance. Guinness-as-Smiley was monkish, fastidious, almost prim, bestowing here and there the faint, equivocal benediction of his Smiley smile. He had a doughiness of feature and a plumminess of tone. He moved as if he were wearing three overcoats. In restaurants he looked inexpressibly pained, but if you mentioned his wife his face would register nothing at all. Guinness’s only rival to date for the role has been Simon Russell Beale—the voice of a hooded, magnetic Smiley in a recent series of BBC radio plays.

The new model of Tinker, Tailor—opening in the U.S. in December—is, for me, problematic. Director Tomas Alfredson, previously known for the well-regarded vampire flick Let the Right One In, has reduced the already low pulse of the BBC version to a throb of nearly reptilian thrill-lessness. Which would be fine, except that much of the distinctive le Carré atmosphere has also floated away. Circus HQ, for example, in the novels a warren of pokey corridors with London traffic-grunt coming in through the windows, is rendered by Alfredson as a kind of totalitarian Reading Room, a soaring industrial/cerebral space in which ranks of eavesdroppers and codebreakers clack at their machines, and meetings are conducted in soundproofed cubes. It’s a chillier spy world, with wider gaps between people. The center of gravity provided in the novel by the Establishment, the clubbable Old Boys in their smotheringly furnished rooms—burgundy carpets, burgundy faces, overstuffed men in overstuffed chairs—has gone. Gone too is the heavy fellowship and ghastly heartiness, the endless belaboring of Smiley with the long syllable of his first name: Oh really, George!, George, you must see …, How’s the lovely Ann, George? Now they all communicate in leers of mutual suspicion: a Scandinavian reboot has occurred. Was the Cold War really this cold?

Oldman-as-Smiley, meanwhile, is blanker, harsher-voiced, impenetrable behind the huge reflective panels of his glasses. The wan little smile has become a grimace. Twice we accompany him in the laborious meditation of his early-morning swim in the Thames, watch him pushing pale-shouldered through the tea-colored water—to what end? We cannot possibly guess what he’s thinking. No clue! Smiley’s understatement has been overstated.

It’s very 2011, I suppose, to rub away the interpersonal texture and crank up the anomie. Didn’t the Bond franchise give it a go in 2006’s Casino Royale? Daniel Craig as a harder, icier Bond, hacking his ethically unencumbered way across a borderless post-9/11 globe … To strip down or minimalize le Carré, however, is to sacrifice the almost Tolkienesque grain and depth of his created world: the decades-long backstory, the lingo, the arcana, the liturgical repetitions of names and functions. Did you know that it was John le Carré who introduced the word mole (for “double agent”) into English? Also honey trap? He has enriched the language itself—a claim not even the most devoted Bondian, not Kingsley Amis himself, could make for Ian Fleming.

[lareinamimada]

Academia

- Academia:

is a term referring to a group of aesthetics that involve learning, particularly through study, research, and reading.

- History:

Academia aesthetics, also known as scholarly aesthetics, have gained significant popularity in recent years, particularly on social media platforms and among young adults. These aesthetics are inspired by the academic environment, scholarly pursuits, and the romanticized image of intellectuals.

The history of academia aesthetics can be traced back to various literary and cultural movements that celebrated knowledge, learning, and intellectualism. One of the earliest influences on academia aesthetics is the classical Greek and Roman culture, which revered education and philosophy. The Renaissance period in Europe also played a significant role in shaping academia aesthetics, with its emphasis on humanism, art, and intellectual inquiry.

In more recent history, the 20th century witnessed the rise of literary and cinematic works that romanticized the academic setting. Books like "Dead Poets Society" and "The Secret History" depicted the allure of knowledge, intellectual pursuits, and the aesthetics associated with academia.

With the advent of social media platforms, particularly Tumblr and Instagram, academia aesthetics gained a broader following. Dark Academia emerged as one of the prominent subgenres, characterized by its dark and mysterious atmosphere, classic literature, and a focus on themes like introspection, melancholy, and a yearning for knowledge.

Over time, various other academia aesthetics have emerged, each with its own unique elements and interpretations. Light Academia, for instance, emphasizes a brighter and more optimistic atmosphere, while Vintage Academia draws inspiration from retro aesthetics and nostalgic elements. Gothic Academia combines elements of dark and gothic aesthetics with an intellectual focus.

Academia aesthetics continue to evolve and grow, with individuals embracing these aesthetics as a way to express their love for learning, literature, art, and intellectual exploration. They provide a sense of belonging and community for those who identify with the ideals and aesthetics associated with academia.

- Differences between common academia aesthetics:

Aesthetic: Dark Academia

Description: Embraces a dark and mysterious atmosphere, focusing on classic literature and intellectualism.

Key Elements: Gothic architecture, bookshelves, old libraries, tweed jackets, fountain pens

Aesthetic: Light Academia

Description: Provides a brighter and more optimistic take on academia, with a focus on nature and art.

Key Elements: Sunlit libraries, floral patterns, soft color palettes, flowy dresses, natural landscapes

Aesthetic: Vintage Academia

Description: Draws inspiration from retro aesthetics and nostalgia, evoking a sense of bygone eras.

Key Elements: Vintage books, typewriters, sepia tones, antique furniture, retro fashion

Aesthetic: Cottagecore Academia

Description: Blends academia aesthetics with the cozy and rustic charm of cottagecore.

Key Elements: Cottage interiors, floral motifs, nature-inspired artwork, handwritten notes, home libraries

Aesthetic: Art Academia

Description: Celebrates the artistic side of academia, with a focus on visual arts and creativity.

Key Elements: Paintbrushes, sketchbooks, art studios, gallery walls, colorful palettes

Aesthetic: STEM Academia

Description: Centers around the fields of science, technology, engineering, and mathematics.

Key Elements: Lab equipment, circuit boards, mathematical equations, science posters, futuristic elements

Aesthetic: Witch Academia

Description: Combines academia with witchcraft and magical elements, emphasizing the mystical and esoteric.

Key Elements: Crystal balls, tarot cards, spell books, candles, mystical symbols

- List of academia aesthetics:

Aesthetic: Ballet Academia

Description: Focuses on the elegance and grace associated with ballet

Aesthetic: Chaotic Academia

Description: Embraces chaos and unpredictability in academia

Aesthetic: Classic Academia

Description: Inspired by traditional and classical academic aesthetics

Aesthetic: Coquette Academia

Description: Blends elegance and flirtatiousness in an academic context

Aesthetic: Fairy Academia

Description: Incorporates whimsical and magical elements into academia

Aesthetic: Floral Academia

Description: Centers around floral motifs and nature-inspired aesthetics

Aesthetic: Goblin Academia

Description: Celebrates the mischievous and unconventional side of academia

Aesthetic: Green Academia

Description: Emphasizes environmentalism, sustainability, and nature

Aesthetic: Grey Academia

Description: Characterized by a neutral and minimalist color palette

Aesthetic: Internet Academia

Description: Explores academia in the digital age and online learning

Aesthetic: Miscellaneous Academia

Description: Represents a combination of various academia aesthetics

Aesthetic: Musical Academia

Description: Revolves around music and the intersection of academia and art

Aesthetic: Ocean Academia

Description: Draws inspiration from the ocean and marine aesthetics

Aesthetic: Pastel Academia

Description: Features soft, pastel colors and gentle aesthetics

Aesthetic: Progressive Academia

Description: Embraces forward-thinking and progressive ideas in academia

Aesthetic: Queer Academia

Description: Explores academia from a queer perspective and inclusivity

Aesthetic: Rebel Academia

Description: Challenges traditional academic norms and institutions

Aesthetic: Red Academia

Description: Symbolizes passion, intensity, and activism in academia

Aesthetic: Romantic Academia

Description: Evokes a sense of romance, idealism, and emotional depth

Aesthetic: Science Academia

Description: Focuses on the scientific disciplines and exploration

Aesthetic: Social Science Academia

Description: Centers around social sciences, human behavior, and society

Aesthetic: Theatre Academia

Description: Incorporates theatrical elements and drama into academia

Aesthetic: Vibrant Academia

Description: Embraces bold and vibrant colors, creating a lively atmosphere

Aesthetic: Winter Academia

Description: Reflects the coziness and introspection of the winter season

Aesthetic: Witchy Academia

Description: Combines academia with witchcraft, mysticism, and magic

Aesthetic: Writer Academia

Description: Celebrates writing, literature, and the art of storytelling

Aesthetic: Yellow Academia

Description: Radiates warmth, optimism, and creativity in academia

- Source: Internet (Fandom)

- Searching by: @lareinamimada

[quinloki]

There is no way you just guessed one of my real names unintentionally lol

I have 3 names not inclusing my family name, and Gomez is indeed one of them! You can call me that if you'd like, I don't mind haha, fits with the context too!

>.>

Alright, Gomez it is \o/

I would love to say something mysterious about tarot cards and crystal balls, but honestly I’m reminded of an old adage from my hometown (honestly it’s probably not the regional)

But the saying is “even a blind squirrel finds a nut.”

Squirrel behaviors aside, it really just means anyone can stumble on a thing completely by chance. The whole Monkeys and typewriters thing is about the same.

Idk why, but I love that you have four names.

Technically I’ve had five! But I only kept three. My initials used to spell a word, but now it’s just nonsense.