#anyway i do not have a copy of jane eyre

[createacamillahect]

laying with camilla hect under the lit christmas tree, feeling the warm light surround you as you lean your head into her, savoring her company

[burningvelvet]

Why Mr. Rochester and Bertha Mason Couldn't Get a Legal Separation; or, the Utter Madness of Marital Laws

So I saw a Jane Eyre post discussing why Mr. Rochester and Bertha Mason couldn't get a legal marital separation. I've thought a lot about this topic, and in order to procrastinate writing the final for my upper-level Brontë class, I've decided to write this sort of convoluted analysis instead. I know many others have written about this subject, but I wanted to explore a bit further on my own.

Preliminary context about me, the Brontës, their Byronic inspiration, etc.: I've learned a lot about 19th century British marriage laws recently in my classes on old British literature, as well as by having studied Byron, whose marital separation in 1816 was a notorious part of his history & also reverberated through 19c literature. He refers to this separation in many of his works, most famously in his notorious poem "Fare Thee Well." Harriet Beecher Stowe, the most famous American female writer at the time, was friends with Lady Byron and wrote a book defending her called "Lady Byron Vindicated: A history of the Byron controversy from its beginning in 1816 to the present time" (the original callout post).

Insanity accusations did factor in to Byron's separation. Many scholars have remarked how the Queens of Byronic Criticism, the Brontë sisters, took significant inspiration from their well-worn copy of Moore's biography Life of Byron when creating their works. The Brontës would have been very familiar with marriage laws not only due to their knowledge of Byron's trainwreck of a marriage, but also due to being well-educated women at the time who knew that marriage was the most important economic decision of one's life and could very well make or break a person. As a result, marriage plays a significant role in their novels.

More relevant preliminary context about the novel: Jane Eyre actually takes place in the Georgian era, despite most adaptations and anaysis presenting is as a Victorian piece due to the novels publication date (this drives me crazy; same goes for the other Brontë books). Marriage laws did not change drastically from the time the novel is set to the time Brontë was writing the novel, but things were a bit different socially. Rochester was also married 15 years before his attempt to marry Jane. According to this very good analysis, Rochester and Bertha probably married in or around the year 1793: https://jane-eyre.guidesite.co.uk/timeline.

Now, here are the reasons why Rochester couldn't separate from Bertha:

1) Insanity wasn't grounds for divorce/separation in the Regency era.

Rochester himself says that he couldn't legally separate from her because of her insanity, which presumably rendered any of her faults null on the grounds of that marital vow "in sickness and in health." This is possibly one of his biggest reasons:

"I was rich enough now – yet poor to hideous indigence: a nature the most gross, impure, depraved I ever saw, was associated with mine, and called by the law and by society a part of me. And I could not rid myself of it by any legal procedings: for the doctors now discovered that my wife was mad — her excesses had prematurely developed the germs of insanity [..]"

2) Divorce was nearly impossible anyway.

There had only been around 300 divorces in English history at the time. Almost all of them were husbands divorcing their wives for committing adultery. Only a handful of divorces had succesfully been obtained by women, and they were only in cases where the husband had committed incestuous adultery or bigamy, and was extremely physically cruel. So technically after his bigamy attempt, Bertha may have had more grounds to obtain a divorce than Rochester would have, if only she were lucid enough to do so. However, in that scenario infertility would have helped their case, and Adèle's existence would have harmed their case if he attempted to seek a divorce before marrying Jane. Though as the novel explains, Adèle is probably not his, she definitely would have been used against him, as would the fact that he kept Bertha's existence a secret in England. But he wouldn't have tried for divorce that late in the game anyway, considering it was one of the most difficult options.

3) Female adultery was your best bet at divorce or separation, and this probably wasn't applicable to Mr. & Mrs. Rochester.

Although some scholars claim that there is subtext hinting that Bertha was adulterous (which some adaptations, like the 2006, include), you needed substantial proof of the adultery, which Rochester may not have had if it did occur. Being a proud man, he also wouldn't have wanted to be humiliated in that way by letting it be publicly known (as shame is one of his main reasons for hiding their marriage to begin with).

However, I lean toward the idea that Bertha may not have committed adultery. If she definitively did, seeing how affected Rochester was by Céline cheating on him (he shot her lover in revenge and left her with a stipend), if he ever suspected adultery on Bertha's part then I'm sure he would have been at court the very next day. I also think Rochester tries not to be too much of a hypocrite, and he is well aware that he himself is an adulterer, so he probably doesn't want to accuse Bertha of a crime he's committed and which he couldn't definitively prove she did.

Rochester does talk about hating Bertha's "vices" when they lived together, citing drinking, arguing, cruelty to servants, cursing, her being "unchaste," a "harlot," etc. - the last epithets, combined with her supposed lack of morality, and her being described as seductive, heavily imply that adultery could be added to her list of offenses. However, if she did truly cheat on him as well, I don't see why he wouldn't plainly tell this to Jane as well. I would imagine it would be his first complaint, and it would probably be considered his most justifiable reason against her by their cultural standards.

I don't see why he wouldn't jump to take Bertha's infidelity as an opportunity to defend his own actions, considering how open he is with Jane about his own adultery and being cheated on by Cèline Varens. While I can see how some of the textual evidence may strongly suggest Bertha's adultery, we cannot be fully certain, and that may be because Rochester himself is not fully certain. I cannot see why he wouldn't have sought legal advice on that account alone.

In short, if Bertha was an adulterer, there must have been no evidence to convict her.

Also: while the double-standard may seem odd and trivial to us, the reason why female adultery held more weight than male adultery has entirely to due with old patriarchal inheritance laws; i.e the risk of a wife getting extramaritally pregnant and passing the illegitimate child off as her husband's heir was considered too great of an affront. A man could have as many bastards as he wanted because he would know they were bastards and were not at risk of inheriting his stuff. One needed legitimate heirs to justify passing on one's ancestral wealth to. Essentially, marriage was a mere economic tool, and the economy was and is inherently patriarchal. I digress.

4) Rochester's lack of social & economic leverage, and risk of social ruin in general.

Only the wealthiest of the wealthy could obtain divorce or official separation, and it often led to social ruin. Rochester is rich, but he has no title and no great network of supporters due to being a younger son and having been abroad for most of the past 15 years (this was the length of his marriage to Bertha, stated by Mr. Briggs during the bigamous wedding attempt). He doesn't have as much leverage as Lord and Lady Byron had.

To continue on official separation, like Lady and Lord Byron obtained. Just like divorce, this was also a messy and scandalous legal proceeding, and required numerous good reasons to obtain, and being well-connected Lords and Ladies really helped your case. You also needed many witnesses and written statements as evidence. Bertha's family, as we see with Mason, would have been unhelpful to Rochester, and due to his shame and secrecy, no one could really testify on his behalf I'm assuming.

5) Unofficial separation would have been inconvenient, especially in regards to living situations.

Aside from divorce, which was extremely rare, extremely controversial, and only for the wealthiest members of society — there were unofficial and official separations. An unofficial separation was simply living apart from one another. I've often wondered why Rochester didn't simply move Grace Poole and Bertha somewhere else, but my main theory is that it would have been cost ineffective, and due to his family who were implied to be shitty, he probably really didn't want to live at Thornfield anyway so thought it would be convenient to place her there. Rochester says it would be dangerous to place her in his other residence of Ferndean:

"[..] though I possess an old house, Ferndean Manor, even more retired and hidden than this, where I could have lodged her safely enough, had not a scruple about the unhealthiness of the situation, in the heart of a wood, made my conscience recoil from the arrangement. Probably those damp walls would soon have eased me of her charge: but to each villain his own vice; and mine is not a tendency to indirect assassination, even of what I most hate."

6) Annulment was likely impossible given their circumstances.

Annulment means evaporating the marriage, acting as if it never existed, that it was a mistake. This was rare and only granted in unique circumstances, and I believe it was more common with aristocracy and royals. I believe you could possibly get an annulment if you could prove that the spouse was insane at the time of the wedding and you did not know. However, Bertha did not begin to truly deteriorate until after they had been living together for a bit. And while Rochester says that he did not know her mother was in an asylum until after the wedding, having an insane mother doesn't mean that you are insane, which Bertha clearly wasn't at that point, at least not in a way that people would have publicly acknowledged, since Rochester says she attended parties and her hand was highly sought after.

Generally, the longer a marriage had gone on, the harder it was to prove why it could not go on. Rochester says that he and Bertha "lived together" for "four years" in Jamaica while her condition deteriorated and he tried to make things work. And again, after the wedding he found out her mother was "mad, and shut up in a lunatic asylum." So we have more reasons for Rochester's difficulty: the fear of Bertha going to an asylum while she was still mostly lucid in those first four years, combined with the fact that they openly lived together and certainly must have consummated their marriage (things which would further prevent annulment), and were certainly publicly recognized as a couple in Spanish Town society, and her family wanting the marriage to continue so she could have children of "good race" i.e. to produce heirs.

Here's an important passage that to me suggests that Rochester and Bertha not only had an initial flirtation but likely consummated their marriage, likely had a passionate sexual relationship for some time, and likely implies his feelings for her were more complex than we'd initially assume, making annulment not so clear-cut of an option to him at the time:

"My father said nothing about her money; but he told me Miss Mason was the boast of Spanish Town for her beauty: and this was no lie. I found her a fine woman, in the style of Blanche Ingram; tall, dark, and majestic. Her family wished to secure me because I was of a good race; and so did she. They showed her to me in parties, splendidly dressed. I seldom saw her alone, and had very little private conversation with her. She flattered me, and lavishly displayed for my pleasure her charms and accomplishments. All the men in her circle seemed to admire her and envy me. I was dazzled, stimulated: my senses were excited; and being ignorant, raw, and inexperienced, I thought I loved her. There is no folly so besotted that the idiotic rivalries of society, the prurience, the rashness, the blindness of youth, will not hurry a man to its commission. Her relatives encouraged me; competitors piqued me; she allured me: a marriage was achieved almost before I knew where I was. Oh, I have no respect for myself when I think of that act! — an agony of inward contempt masters me. I never loved, I never esteemed, I did not even know her."

7) Spousal abandonment wasn't possible, and on some level he honored his legal and financial obligations to her and the Mason family.

Bertha's family likely refused to house her for legal and personal reasons, and spousal abandonment was forbidden due to the husband's financial responsibility as well as the law of coverture (a wife became her husband's full legal responsibility; some say "property"). Like we see in Anne's Tenant of Wildfell Hall, if a woman ran away from their spouse they would have to live in obscurity and be at risk of being sussed out. You couldn't just abandon your partner. Still, people did, because it was the easiest route to take.

But the more upper-class you were, and the more financial entanglements you had, the more inconvenient this was. We know that Rochester and his family became enmeshed with the Mason family, and he got a lot of money from Bertha, so her father likely would have taken him to court. At any rate, Rochester was legally bound to bring Bertha with him to England when he left Jamaica. If he attempted to abandon her in Jamaica, the backlash it would have brought would have brought him social ruin and foiled his chances at getting away with any bigamy attempts.

All this brings us to a further notice of Bertha's family situation. Based on Charlotte Brontë's positive comments about Rochester's character (https://www.tumblr.com/burningvelvet/731403104856195072/in-a-letter-to-w-s-williams-14-august-1848) I see no reason to suspect him, like many feminist critics do, of being an unreliable narrator or of lying about Bertha Mason's history. Everyone is entitled to their opinions, and in mine, that is simply not the novel Charlotte wrote. By her own admission, she wanted his narrative to be a path to further goodness.

It makes no narrative sense for our explanation of his and Bertha's history to be full of lies when he's trying to make ammends with Jane, who never suspects him of lying during his admission, but who does critique him and figure he'd tire of her like she was one of his many mistresses. Jane wonders if Rochester would lock her in an attic too, which he refutes on the basis that he loves her more than he loved Bertha when she was sane, and so he would care for Jane himself. Jane also tells him that it's not Bertha's fault that she's mad. So in my opinion, if Charlotte wanted us to believe Rochester was lying about his and Bertha's history to make himself look better or Bertha look worse, I don't see why she would have been vague about it, and I don't see why Jane wouldn't have called it out like she does everything else. I don't think Rochester is really a villain who locked his harmless wife in the attic for giggles; I think he weighed most of his options and found, like most people back then and even today, that keeping his problems locked up and ignored was the best solution.

Now, on with the point. I have often wondered why Rochester didn't simply "unofficially separate" from Bertha by leaving her with her family when he left. Why did he take her to England? Why didn't he just run away? It wasn't because he was an evil villain who wanted to keep her as a trophy. It's because 1) I don't think her father would have let him, as he was so quick to marry her off, 2) he felt obligated to her, and 3) it was criminal for men to abandon their wives, and it would have attracted publicity, which is what Rochester was avoiding by taking Bertha to England and sheltering her in secrecy.

Many claim that Rochester's adultery is a betrayal of his wife; and while religiously, narratively, socially, we can accept this statement, it was not legally a crime. While Rochester does honor his financial and legal obligations to his wife and her family, he does not take the religious part of the vows into account, and that's why he's cosmically punished and only rewarded after he repents, as he explains toward the end of the novel.

Another interesting point is that when Rochester recounts his decision to move back to England, he tells us that Bertha had already been declared insane in Jamaica and that she was already confined there (presumably around the 4 year anniversary before they left), meaning her father probably knew about confinement:

"One night I had been awakened by her yells (since the medical men had pronounced her mad, she had of course been shut up) — it was a fiery West Indian night; [..]"

Locking away "insane" people was standard procedure then, and if this was done with Bertha's father's knowledge, considering he locked his own wife away in an asylum, then this further absolves Rochester of a lot of the blame in my opinion. It more than likely wasn't his idea to lock her away, but the advice of "the medical men" and presumably her father's consultation as well.

8) Even if he divorced or separated from her, he couldn't remarry. Attempting these, or getting caught attempting abandonment, would have brought negative publicity that would have likely prevented the success of any future bigamy attempts. To him, secrecy and bigamy seemed better chances at securing happiness than the social ruin and likely failure the other options would have brought him.

Aside from Rochester's own explanation (which I supplied in #2 re: the separation veto inherent to Bertha's insanity), the other biggest reason as to why Rochester wouldn't seek a separation/divorce even if she hadn't been declared insane and even if he were willing to accuse her of adultery truthfully or not, is due to the fact that one could not legally remarry upon separation or divorce (unless you were Henry VIII and got God's permission lol). Rochester's impossible dream is that he wants to be married to someone he really loves, and if secrecy and bigamy are his only options then he is willing to succumb; this is shown in numerous passages:

"[..] I could reform — I have strength yet for that — if— but where is the use of thinking of it, hampered, burdened, cursed as I am? Besides, since happiness is irrevocably denied me, I have a right to get pleasure out of life: and I will get it, cost what it may."

"I will keep my word: I will break obstacles to happiness, to goodness — yes, goodness; I wish to be a better man than I have been; than I am — as Job's leviathan broke the spear, the dart, and the habergeon, hinderances which others count as iron and brass, I will esteem but straw and rotten wood."

"Is there not love in my heart, and constancy in my resolves? It will expiate at God's tribunal. I know my Maker sanctions what I do. For the world's judgment — I wash my hands thereof. For man's opinion — I defy it."

Closing remarks on the above's validity: I can't cite all my sources because a lot of this stuff I learned from lectures via my professor who specializes in 19th century English literature & history. But here's some recently published information from a historian, taken from "Inside the World of Bridgerton: True Stories of Regency High Society" by Catherine Curzon (2023):

"And if you were one of the newly-weds, you really did hope things would work out, because in the Regency till death do us part wasn't just an expression. As the Prince Regent himself had learned when he separated from his wife within eighteen months of their marriage, obtaining a divorce in Regency England was no easy matter. He never achieved it, and for those who did the stakes could be high and the cost ruinous in every sense."

"Until the passing of the Matrimonial Causes Act of 1857, which legalized divorce in the civil courts, it was governed by the ecclesiastical courts, and the Church didn't end a marriage without very, very good reason. Even these divorces didn't allow a couple to remarry, though, and they were more akin to what we would today call a legal separation, with no shared legal or financial responsibilities going forward. It was freedom, but only to a point."

"The only way to obtain a complete dissolution that allowed for remarriage was to secure a parliamentary divorce, and these were notoriously difficult to obtain. They began with a criminal conversation case, because they relied on adultery by one of the parties to make them even a slight possibility. If a woman committed crim. con., her life in polite society was over."

[matchamabs]

ok ok ill do this tag thing bc its fun and ive not done one in forever: 9 people u wanna know better

also hello @marvosa-yroz its been a long old time!! how are u

1: Three Ships

hrrng. like. maybe. ok im actually having 2 check my ao3 to see what the fuck i even like lmao. i havent done ship stuff recently !

A. Revali/Mipha that was the most recent ship stuff i did for a while

B. Tokoyami/Bakugou for the nostalgia

C. Terumi Mei/Yagura for the niche crowd

2: First Ever Ship

oh god it mustve been like. Pie/Midorikawa Lettuce from Tokyo Mew Mew?? back when i first started watching anime and back when u could watch 4 parts of an episode on youtube in 280p with no ads. lmao

3: Last Song

Akatsuki Records "Let's Ghost". banger mate

4: Last Film

uhhhhh it might've been Lactopalypse. if you havent seen Lactopalypse, (or Vanamehe Film) uh. go buy a copy from estonia immediately. right now. give them your fucking money. go watch a trailer on youtube its good and its STOP MOTION so. extra love.

5: Currently Reading

like. jane eyre im halfway thru. and wuthering heights! turns out that book is just about everyone and their cat having bipolar disorder

6: Currently Watching

rewatching archer for the billionth time. i got bought a rainbow high doll by my best mate and im really considering watching the series on netflix. is it good? is it like. remotely bearable?

7: Currently Consuming

ok thorntons do these like. seasonal gingerbread millionaire shortbread bites that are only 8 in a pack bc theyre dickheads but fuck me theyre reallllllly good

8: Currently Craving

LEBKUCHENNNNN i want some :(((

ok now i get 2 be a dick and tag people at my whim!! who do i love. who do i wanna know more abt. lets go with @frosty-tian @ohshy @101flavoursofweird @sukipershipper @theghostwthemost @lazypastry @pulpa-de-gorila uhh suddenly ive forgotten everyone i ever know. ok @the-acid-pear ive followed u for like. ever. ur time to shine. and. @kirayoshikage bc i hate u <3 anyway. do it. dont do it. do whatever u want kids ✨✨

[afirewiel]

About your post about Bertha Mason - I think I have an answer to as to why Rochester didn't get an annulment. He says in the book that if word got out to the general public that Bertha was insane, it would be mandatory to put her in an asylum - where she would die anyway. So he believes that he's keeping her safe and alive. Also, I'm sure that insanity was not enough grounds to grant you any kind of separation. Even if she had gone to the asylum, he would still have an alive and legal wife. I don't approve of what he did, but he did live in a time when people with mental illnesses would have been shown no kindness. He believed he was doing the right thing. Three Act Tragedy by Agatha Christie has a few settings similar to Jane Eyre, although it is a very different genre. :)

After posting that, I went a grabbed my copy of Jane Eyre and reread him telling Jane the history, and he did mention that he had no legal recourse as the doctors had discovered she was insane. So it sounds like he actually had tried, but insanity was not grounds for separation.

I know that in the early 1900s in America (before no-fault divorce as a thing) insanity was of the few things that was grounds for a divorce. So that's what had me wondering.

[ohmotherwhereartthou-if]

what books have u read and enjoyed that inspired and improved your writing? I'm just curious cause your writing is so top notch fr

Hello,

And omg thank you. 😊 Got me blushing like a schoolgirl rn.

Sorry for a long response, I apparently like talking about myself.

I read a lot of books, mostly when I was younger. As I got older I mainly wrote a lot of essays and reports which I think is why my writing tends to sound very formal. I am actually fairly new to creative writing, I only took one class for it in my sophomore year of high school and I actually got a -C in in. (Thank you Mr. Vann for that, wait till I publish this fucking story; I am mailing you a physical copy with a packet of salt.) Anyway, I kind struggle writing creatively because I am so used to the structure of essays but I am glad people seem to like it.

In terms of what specifically formed it is honestly an amalgamation of many different things.

The main ones that I think shaped my writing when I was younger was probably the song of ice and fire series (my dad was a huge fan and read them to me, and if your thinking thats too violent of a series for a kid consider the fact that he was a single teenage dad who didn't know any better lol), harry potter, chronicles of narnia, the school for good and evil, the pegasus series, and the three dark crowns series by Kendare Blake was pretty good too.

As I got older I took a lot of advanced english classes in high school so I read classics like Jane Eyre, a handful of shakespeare titles, a lot of edgar allan poe stuff (I like the rhyming of the fall of the house of usher specifically). I was forced to do a report on oryx and crake by Margaret Atwood, I didn't really like it but I read it. I also did a presentation about Emily Dickinson's poetry which I enjoyed.

As for my own personal preferences, I always liked many different mythologies spanning from greek/roman, egyptian, aztec/mayan, ect. Video Games and movies also probably heavily shaped it.

Overall, I think the biggest contributor and honestly this might be a bit weird but growing up Christian I always read and still prefer the old king james version of the bible. (The one with thee's and thou's all over the place) I really think that molded me early on to enjoy and understand shakespeare, in combination with my loving medieval inspired fantasy worlds that sort of old english literature just really vibes with me.

P.S. - My writing might also seem good just because I edit the ever loving shit out of it for days on end before I publish it. I think Act 1 of the prologue shows this off best since I still think it's the best writing I have ever done and I have rewritten that passage countless times.

Thank you for asking! 💙

[tickldpnk8]

Ten books to know me

Tagged by @notallsandmen — so excited to do my first one of these kinds of posts: thanks for the tag!

Rules: 10 (non-ancient) books for people to get to know you better, or that you just really like.

So the big question is how the hell do I narrow this list down to 10?? I consider this my list as of this moment and not the definitive list of all time...as I'll likely think of at least 5 books I should have put on this list as soon as I hit publish. The Secret Garden by Francis Hodgson Burnett with illustrations by Tasha Tudor The illustrations on this book are important: they really captivated me when I first read this in elementary school, and this quickly became my first favorite novel. I'd check it out and read it again and again. I also loved her other books, but this one will always be my favorite. Tasha Tudor's work was really influential on me wanting to go into design/illustration. Probably also why I love reading classic literature.

Lord of the Rings by JRR Tolkien The first fantasy series I really got into and it's still the bar I measure everything else up against. His world-building is amazing, and I love how it's really an exercise in recreating an Epic Saga like the stories of Norse mythology. (which I was also really into: that and Greek myth) I've read it over 6 times and am long over due to watch the EE movies again sometime soon.

Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone by JK Rowling Look, at the time we didn't know she'd become what's she's become. Anyways, I was really bored during a holiday at my grandparents' house, and picked up my little sister's copy. It then became a special bonding book series as I made it my mission to get my kid brother to learn how to read and to also like it. Probably my first real fandom after LotR, and definitely my gateway into fanfiction. Also, surprisingly, my gateway into Agatha Christie and other mystery novels.

Persuasion by Jane Austen I discovered Jane Austen at the end of middle school, and while some of her books were a bit hard at that age to keep track of (I had to make a chart of characters for Emma), she quickly became a favorite author. This is my all-time favorite: as much as I love Pride and Prejudice, the storyline really spoke to my notions of romance at the time. And unlike Jane Eyre, it still holds up for me on a reread. Also, Austen's characterizations can just be really funny.

My Ántonia by Willa Cather Czech pioneers in Nebraska, companionate love vs passionate love...This book had a profound impact on how I approached finding love in my life, as well as giving me some empathy for the immigrants in my own family's past.

Die Verwandlung by Franz Kafka One of the first books I was able to read in German, and still one of my favorites. (Although Tintenherz by Cornelia Funke or a translation of James and the Giant Peach rank up there for favorite) I hate bugs, but I also just really love the line "Er fühlt sich wohl." Because it feels like it encompasses so much more than the English translation of "he felt good/well."

Bleak House by Charles Dickens Dude, Dickens may be wordy, but his characters are hilarious! This and The Cricket on the Hearth are my fav books by him.

Visitation by Jennifer Erpenbeck What if the places we live in have feelings and memory? What have they experienced over the centuries? What have they seen? A fascinating look at one location's experience in Germany.

The Rose Code by Kate Quinn The way Quinn describes her heroine decrypting Nazi code made me feel like my own brain was solving it. Also a fairly accurate description of how my own brain feels when it solves a particularly nasty design problem. Plus a mystery!

How Long Til Black Future Month by NK Jemisin but also her Broken Earth trilogy Dude, I'll read anything Jeminson writes. I found her through both LeVar Burton Reads and also my brother recommending Broken Earth (geology! speculative fiction!), and this short story collection has a little bit of everything for everyone. Some of the stories in this collection just linger in the back of my brain. Also some of the first fan art I've ever drawn. (unless you count drawing Disney characters as a kid)

Honorable mention: just adding that reading The Sandman has basically made Neil Gaiman shoot to the top of the list of my favorite authors. I'm still working through his works, so don't have a favorite yet to share.

I think everyone I follow has already done this prompt, so it's hard to tag someone. If you're reading this and want to participate, consider this your tag! (but tag me back so I can see all your book recs!)

[nottobehornyonthemain]

1. Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen

(Long history with this one, but let’s just say my personal copy of it is the item that family members have told me is the litmus tests if I should ever disappear. If it’s still here, I did not go willingly.)

2. Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkein

(When I was 12 I was in a weird place, and my mother, who adores the movies, told me that she’d never actually read the books. It took me several weeks, and one night where my mom came to check on me because my light was still on after midnight, only to find that I had fallen asleep and was drooling on top of Return of the King.)

3. Jane Eyre – Charlotte Bronte

(First Brontë I ever read, and I listened to it on audio first. Two years ago I gave my grandparents, who never actually pick gifts, they just want Amazon links sent to them, a choice between Jagged Little Pill on vinyl, and a nice copy of Jane Eyre. Apparently they decided Jane Eyre was less scandalous.)

4. Harry Potter series

(My mom read all seven of these out loud to me and my siblings over the course of seven years.)

5. To Kill a Mockingbird - Harper Lee

(The summer before I started college, so when I was 15, I worked twice a week at my local library, and I would always go home with huge stacks of books because I was going through one every day, or two if it was particularly dense. I read this one that summer, mostly while spread out on a picnic blanket in my backyard, and I think that’s how it was always intended to be read.)

6. The Bible

(Yes. All of it. In case my blog hasn’t given it away by now, my religious upbringing was… intense.)

7. Wuthering Heights – Emily Bronte

(I read this book once for school when I was 14 and hated it. I read it again when I was 16 and bought a copy in Grand Central Station, still hated it. But when I read it again at 19, because I was extremely bored at work and saw it on audio? So yeah, I read a book I knew I hated twice, it shouldn’t have surprised me when I realized I actually liked it and it was important to me.)

8. Nineteen Eighty Four – George Orwell

(I actually got into a discussion with my collage English professor at one point about what our favorite books where, and I mentioned Orwell, he had thought I ment this one, but I was talking about Animal Farm. This made me a little self conscious, because I hadn’t read the bigger hit, so I immediately wandered up to the school library and checked this one out, just so I could say I’d read it by Wednesday when class met again.)

9. Great Expectations – Charles Dickens

(I had a hot Charles Dickens summer one year. This was the first one I read, and it was because of Into the Spiderverse. Miles Morales is a role model.)

10. Little Women – Louisa M Alcott

(I do not love this book. I have watched every adaptation that has ever been made, yes, even the anime. The Greta Gerwig one is pretty good because I’m a sucker for non-linear narratives and Florence Pugh and Timothée Chalamet are pretty good at it.) 

11. Catch 22 – Joseph Heller

(In December of 2021, I realized that I had never read this book, and had the opportunity to do something very funny. So yeah. I read what is considered to be one of the greatest novels of the 20th century as a joke to myself. Anyway, it’s very good, you should probably read it, especially if you like WWII stories and Kafka. Again, love a non-linear narrative.)

12. Complete Works of Shakespeare

(Yes. I got a complete edition at a library book sale, and drew stars on the cover in white gel pen so people would know it was mine, because I’m apparently that bitch. Although, I haven’t read the lost plays (obviously) so I don’t know if I can honestly say I’ve read the Complete works.)

13. Rebecca – Daphne Du Maurier

(I read this after watching Hannibal the series for the second time because I got into a very deep Gothic Romance mood. I also accidentally got my friend to read it because we were comparing our current reads at the time, and that is how I ended up reading We Always Lived in a Castle.)

14. The Hobbit – JRR Tolkien

(The far superior Tolkien work in my personal taste. I love it. One of my friends reads this book once a year, and I love that for them, I’m not quite that in love with it, but this is about where my limits on where I can enjoy fantasy lie. Like, I’ll read higher stuff if I make myself, but I’ll tell you right now, I’m going to finish and move the fuck on.)

15. Catcher in the Rye

(It’s by J. D. Salinger, by the way. The list didn’t have an author on there. Read this one the same summer as To Kill a Mockingbird. Anyway, I love that Holden Caulfield was just some fucking guy that Salinger made up and decided to put in a bunch of his works, without bothering to make it into a series by making timelines or middle names match. He really just put his OC in situations, and I love that.)

16. Gone With The Wind – Margaret Mitchell

(My brother used to work a job where he would help a guy in town sort through old books that he got from somewhere, and pick out ones that were still readable from ones that had been completely ruined, and he made a few bucks an hour and got to take home any books he wanted, and the guy would sell the good ones for like fifty cents somewhere. But my brother would always bring home books he thought people would like. At the time I was obsessed with the costume designs Walter Plunkett had done for the 1939 mega-hit film. So, when my brother found one while sorting through books, I ended up being gifted the most beaten up copy of Gone With the Wind I’ve ever seen in my life.)

17. The Great Gatsby – F Scott Fitzgerald

(I am obnoxious about this book. I can, and have, talked for hours about this book. There is an audiobook for this book narrated by Jake Gyllenhaal, he is perfect for Nick Carraway. This book is the save me meme for me.)

18. Bleak House – Charles Dickens

(Again. Charles Dickens summer.)

19. War and Peace – Leo Tolstoy

(Did I read this book after I listened to Great Comet? Yes. Did I read all of it? Also yes. Having done so, and legitimately liking quite a lot of it, I do recommend it if you liked Great Comet, because the detail you get to go into is great, and makes you feel like a huge nerd. Also, recommend for people who want a 55 hour long audiobook.)

20. The Hitch Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy – Douglas Adams

(There’s an audiobook for this one narrated by Steven Fry. It’s also one of the funniest books I’ve ever read.)

21. Alice in Wonderland – Lewis Carroll

(Have I ever mentioned that I hate “it was all a dream/no one remembers” endings? Because I hate “it was all a dream/no one remembers” endings. I do, however, really like “person goes to a fucked up new place” stories. So I guess it balances out. The Cheshire Cat is on the list of characters I would commit war crimes to play.)

22. The Wind in the Willows – Kenneth Grahame

(Me and my brother both read this book when we were younger and for years whenever we hear the name of this one, or literally anything with the word “wind” or “willows” in the title we’ll go “is that the one with the mole?”, because we think it’s funny.)

23. Anna Karenina – Leo Tolstoy

(I was once in a book club with two high school English teachers, and two housewives. We all made the mistake of letting one of the English teachers pick first, and this was the first and only book that club was assigned, as no one but me actually finished it. Anyway, the 2012 film version is a fucking masterpiece and I don’t know why it’s not talked about more.)

24. David Copperfield – Charles Dickens

(Charles Dickens summer. I actually read Demon Copperhead by Barbara Kingsolver recently too, and that book is very very good, I would honestly say go read that one before this one.)

25. Chronicles of Narnia – CS Lewis

(My brother was very into these when he was like, 15, and I read them. They’re not my favorite, and honestly, many people who like them more have more interesting things to say about them than I do.)

26. Emma – Jane Austen

(I don’t know what magic Austen put into this book to constantly get the best film adaptations made of it, but my god she did. It’s a triple header too, because the Gwyneth Paltrow one is a perfectly good older style straight Austen period film. Clueless is probably my favorite of the “let’s do a high school AU of this piece of classical literature” genre, and Emma. (2020) is… just about perfect.)

27. Persuasion – Jane Austen

(This is probably Austen’s best book from a craft standpoint. It’s not my favorite of her works because of nostalgia I have for pride and prejudice, but… I mean, it’s the getting back together one, which is my favorite romance subgenre. Idk, I would recommend this one first to anyone who was asking me where to start with Jane Austen.)

28. The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe – CS Lewis

(Again. People who like this book more than I do definitely have more interesting things to say about it. That being said, the film version of this one fucking slaps, and if you haven’t recently, you should rewatch it.)

29. Memoirs of a Geisha – Arthur Golden

(This is a book that I think would have greatly benefited from being written by a woman. Or someone who grew up in Japan. Or someone who didn’t get sued for breach of contract and defamation of character by one of the geisha he interviewed to write this novel. Anyway, I recommend Mineko Iwasaki’s autobiography, Geisha of Gion.)

30. Winnie the Pooh – AA Milne

(I don’t have much to say about this one. I read, and then I read something else. This one wasn’t a cornerstone of my childhood like I know it was for a lot of people.)

31. Animal Farm – George Orwell

(One of my favorite books of all time. I read it for the first time at 14, and proceeded to read it 12 more times in two months. It’s a very fast read, and I had anti-totalitarianism sensibilities that were ripe for feeding.)

32. The Da Vinci Code – Dan Brown

(I’m not going to lie. I like the movie version of this one just fine. Read the book anyway. But, fun fact, when this movie came out I lived in Mississippi, and there was a campaign against my local library to get the book taken out of their catalog on the basis of blasphemy. So that’s wild.)

33. Anne of Green Gables – LM Montgomery

(In contrast to my last point, this is one that is just so light, and airy, and just reading it makes you feel good. It’s like a scented candle in book form. And no film adaptation is ever going be able to capture that, because it’s not about seeing the world with Anne in it as something shining and beautiful, it’s about how Anne sees the world as something shining and beautiful, and she makes you see it that way too.)

34. The Handmaid’s Tale – Margaret Atwood

(So, this book is great. We all know that. Now, onto storytime. Once upon a time in the 90’s, my dad got bored one day and decided to watch the 1990 movie version of this one, he didn’t know what it was about, but had heard that it was sci-fi, and had assumed it was some Star Wars for girls type thing. He was unprepared.)

35. Lord of the Flies – William Golding

(As a child, many elements of my life and behavior was compared to this book in a way that I, with my infinite understanding of social cues, picked up on the subtle fact that this was an insult. Thinking that I was somehow winning, I decided to read this book to prove… some point? And I ended up agreeing with the adults in my life, I absolutely was like that one kid who wanders off into the woods and is never seen again.)

36. Atonement – Ian McEwan

(I think one of my first posts on this blog was me reblogging gif sets from the film version of this.)

37. Life of Pi – Yann Martel

(Forever gate keeping Black Sails from people who think debating whether or not the tiger was real is important to understanding what the story is about.)

38. Dune – Frank Herbert

(I have been banned from talking about Dune around my family anymore after the time I got super wasted at a thanksgiving party my parents’s friends were hosting, and spent 35 minutes explaining Dune, with relevant facts about Frank Herbert’s life, to a woman who had mentioned that her husband has seen the newer one. She hadn’t even watched that one.)

39. Sense and Sensibility – Jane Austen

(This is my least favorite Austen novel. There’s some modern AU version of this that I read at one point that I don’t remember the name of, but there was this scene where the mom was standing on the beach and looking at golden retriever wondering if she could ask the owner for a clipping of its fur so she could show it to her hair colorist.)

40. A Tale Of Two Cities – Charles Dickens

(Charles Dickens Summer!!!!)

41. Of Mice and Men – John Steinbeck

(If I had a nickel for every 20th century American novel about a deeply strange little man who had to deal with the devastating psychological affects of his best friend’s death, I would have I would have so many nickels.)

42. Lolita – Vladimir Nabokov

(I think there should be a rule about watching the Kubrick film where, in order to see it, you should have to write a five paragraph essay about the original novel.)

43. Count of Monte Cristo – Alexandre Dumas

(This book fucking rocks. It is also my number one on list of novels that I think would most benefit from a podcast adaptation. Not like, a read-along, but like, a story based on the Count of Monte Cristo would kill it in podcast form.)

44. On The Road – Jack Kerouac

(I’ve read it. I can neither confirm nor deny whether or not it was before or after watching supernatural.)

45. Bridget Jones’s Diary – Helen Fielding

(So there’s a The Wombats song called “Kill the Director” where the bridge is just “this is no Bridget Jones” several times, and I wasn’t familiar with the reference, so I looked it up, and somehow managed to miss the, extremely popular, film adaptation, and thought it was just a reference to the book. I didn’t realize my mistake until I mentioned it to someone who didn’t know there was a book, and had assumed I was talking about the film.)

46. Moby Dick – Herman Melville

(This is like War & Peace, in that it is a brick and there should be an adaptation that’s just the last 90 pages. But also, I read this book after reading a book of essays called “Why You Should Read Moby Dick” which, convinced me to read Moby Dick. But yeah, you could give this book to aliens and they would be able to recreate the 19th century whaling American industry from scratch.)

47. Oliver Twist – Charles Dickens

(Charles Dickens Summer! Also, this is one of those books that was very obviously serialized and would probably benefit greatly from being presented in that format as opposed to in a novel, because it does drag on when it’s just one chunk.)

48. Dracula – Bram Stoker

(I’m not the biggest fan of epistolary novels, but hey, it’s Dracula. I’ve done it all. Every film adaptation? Yes. The Edward Gorey illustrated edition? Own it. Dracula Daily? Two years. Re: Dracula? Got the jumpscare of my life when Dr. Seward started talking because I didn’t realize Jonny Sims was in this.)

49. The Secret Garden – Frances Hodgson Burnett

(This book would have been greatly improved by less racism and more talking robins.)

50. The Bell Jar – Sylvia Plath

(This book would be greatly improved by more people who read it understanding what an unreliable narrator is.)

51. A Christmas Carol – Charles Dickens

(This is not a member of the Charles Dickens Summer club. I just read it one Christmas when I was like 8. Anyway, it’s hilarious and exactly what you expect. I also would have assumed that the coffin nail was the deadest nail of all.)

52. The Color Purple – Alice Walker

(Remember when I said that I don’t love epistolary novels? This is a major exception. Honestly, the number of list I’ve seen for contenders to the title of The Great American Novel, that don’t include this one is criminal. I also don’t know how so many people read it and don’t realize that it’s going to be dark as fuck.)

53. Charlotte’s Web – EB White

(Sometimes it’s very healing to read children’s novels as an adult. Just sit, and tear through a book in a couple hours. Any of Kate DiCarmello’s books, Flipped by Wendelin Van Draanen, Coroline, and Charlotte’s Web are all staples for me in that area. Because I read them all, over and over again growing up, and just, being able to go back to them and still find that magic is… really moving.)

54. Adventures of Sherlock Holmes – Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

(I have the two giant complete annotated edition volumes. The one with the essays. I have broken bookshelves with them. And I got them for $3 at a tag sale when I was so small that I couldn’t carry both of them at the same time.)

55. The Little Prince – Antoine De Saint-Exupery

(This is the book that made me believe that I could write. This book broke my heart. This is a fundamental touchstone in my development as a storyteller.)

56. Watership Down – Richard Adams

(I liked this book. My brother Fucking Loved this book. My father was deeply scarred as a child by this book. I think that’s about the full range.)

57. The Three Musketeers – Alexandre Dumas

(Shoutout to those “Great Illustrated Classics” books that were in every library in the late 90’s/early 00’s. Those things were kickass. I don’t know if I would have read the full version of this one if it wasn’t for the Great Illustrated version I read when I was little. But whoever came up with the idea to just, take classical English literature and tell it exactly the same but in a slightly simplified version for a younger audience was a genius, and they deserve kudos.)

58. Hamlet – William Shakespeare

(I once read a post that opened with “spoilers for Hamlet” and… I don’t know if it’s possible to spoil Hamlet. Like, in America and England at least, it’s kinda baked in. Being alive is a spoiler for Hamlet. Also, can you spoil Hamlet, or is knowing what’s going to happen before it does is kind of part of the modern experience? I don’t know.)

59. Charlie and the Chocolate Factory – Roald Dahl

(I met up with my friends this summer and one of them didn’t realize this book had a sequel. Me and my friend who had also read it then spent the next five or so minutes verbally vague posting about plot points for the Great Glass Elevator to each other, and confusing everyone else, because that book is a fever dream. For that experience alone, I will recommend.)

60. Les Miserables – Victor Hugo

(If I had a nickel for every giant ass brick of a book that I actually did enjoy that included uncomfortable sexualisation of children under the age of 15 and far too much information about a specific city’s sewer system, I would have two nickels, which isn’t a lot, but it’s weird that it happened twice.)

How many have you read?

The BBC estimates that most people will only read 6 books out of the 100 listed below. Reblog this and bold the titles you’ve read.

1 Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen 2 Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkein 3 Jane Eyre – Charlotte Bronte 4 Harry Potter series 5 To Kill a Mockingbird - Harper Lee 6 The Bible 7 Wuthering Heights – Emily Bronte 8 Nineteen Eighty Four – George Orwell 9 His Dark Materials – Philip Pullman 10 Great Expectations – Charles Dickens 11 Little Women – Louisa M Alcott 12 Tess of the D’Urbervilles – Thomas Hardy 13 Catch 22 – Joseph Heller 14 Complete Works of Shakespeare 15 Rebecca – Daphne Du Maurier 16 The Hobbit – JRR Tolkien 17 Birdsong – Sebastian Faulks 18 Catcher in the Rye 19 The Time Traveller’s Wife - Audrey Niffeneger 20 Middlemarch – George Eliot 21 Gone With The Wind – Margaret Mitchell 22 The Great Gatsby – F Scott Fitzgerald 23 Bleak House – Charles Dickens 24 War and Peace – Leo Tolstoy 25 The Hitch Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy – Douglas Adams 26 Brideshead Revisited – Evelyn Waugh 27 Crime and Punishment – Fyodor Dostoyevsky 28 Grapes of Wrath – John Steinbeck 29 Alice in Wonderland – Lewis Carroll 30 The Wind in the Willows – Kenneth Grahame 31 Anna Karenina – Leo Tolstoy 32 David Copperfield – Charles Dickens 33 Chronicles of Narnia – CS Lewis 34 Emma – Jane Austen 35 Persuasion – Jane Austen 36 The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe – CS Lewis 37 The Kite Runner - Khaled Hosseini 38 Captain Corelli’s Mandolin - Louis De Bernieres 39 Memoirs of a Geisha – Arthur Golden 40 Winnie the Pooh – AA Milne 41 Animal Farm – George Orwell 42 The Da Vinci Code – Dan Brown 43 One Hundred Years of Solitude – Gabriel Garcia Marquez 44 A Prayer for Owen Meaney – John Irving 45 The Woman in White – Wilkie Collins 46 Anne of Green Gables – LM Montgomery 47 Far From The Madding Crowd – Thomas Hardy 48 The Handmaid’s Tale – Margaret Atwood 49 Lord of the Flies – William Golding 50 Atonement – Ian McEwan

51 Life of Pi – Yann Martel 52 Dune – Frank Herbert 53 Cold Comfort Farm – Stella Gibbons 54 Sense and Sensibility – Jane Austen 55 A Suitable Boy – Vikram Seth 56 The Shadow of the Wind – Carlos Ruiz Zafon 57 A Tale Of Two Cities – Charles Dickens 58 Brave New World – Aldous Huxley 59 The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time – Mark Haddon 60 Love In The Time Of Cholera – Gabriel Garcia Marquez 61 Of Mice and Men – John Steinbeck 62 Lolita – Vladimir Nabokov 63 The Secret History – Donna Tartt 64 The Lovely Bones - Alice Sebold 65 Count of Monte Cristo – Alexandre Dumas 66 On The Road – Jack Kerouac 67 Jude the Obscure – Thomas Hardy 68 Bridget Jones’s Diary – Helen Fielding 69 Midnight’s Children – Salman Rushdie 70 Moby Dick – Herman Melville 71 Oliver Twist – Charles Dickens 72 Dracula – Bram Stoker 73 The Secret Garden – Frances Hodgson Burnett 74 Notes From A Small Island – Bill Bryson 75 Ulysses – James Joyce 76 The Bell Jar – Sylvia Plath 77 Swallows and Amazons - Arthur Ransome 78 Germinal – Emile Zola 79 Vanity Fair – William Makepeace Thackeray 80 Possession – AS Byatt 81 A Christmas Carol – Charles Dickens 82 Cloud Atlas – David Mitchel 83 The Color Purple – Alice Walker 84 The Remains of the Day – Kazuo Ishiguro 85 Madame Bovary – Gustave Flaubert 86 A Fine Balance – Rohinton Mistry 87 Charlotte’s Web – EB White 88 The Five People You Meet In Heaven – Mitch Albom 89 Adventures of Sherlock Holmes – Sir Arthur Conan Doyle 90 The Faraway Tree Collection – Enid Blyton 91 Heart of Darkness – Joseph Conrad 92 The Little Prince – Antoine De Saint-Exupery 93 The Wasp Factory – Iain Banks 94 Watership Down – Richard Adams 95 A Confederacy of Dunces – John Kennedy Toole 96 A Town Like Alice – Nevil Shute 97 The Three Musketeers – Alexandre Dumas 98 Hamlet – William Shakespeare 99 Charlie and the Chocolate Factory – Roald Dahl 100 Les Miserables – Victor Hugo

[cafeacademia]

Love Between The Pages | Chapter 4 Finale

Blaise Zabini x Reader

Chapter Summary: You and Blaise slowly come to terms with the feelings that have been hanging in the air, along with the future of the book club.

Warnings: The tiniest dash of angst for about 0.1 seconds, boatloads of fluff.

Word count: Approx 2800

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A/N: Hi loves! Here is the final part of this series! Wow I was not ready for this to be over, I've found this series incredibly comforting to write. It took me a little while to write the last part purely because I just wasn't quite ready to end it yet, but I'm really really happy with how this chapter came out. Additionally, I'm really looking forward to writing more for sweet Blaise and I've been thinking about writing a few standalone pieces that might fit into this little universe. I'm not sure yet!! Let me know if you're interested. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this series, I am so SO proud of it, thank you so so SO much for reading it! 💕

It was a calm, quiet afternoon, the old loft windows in the library were pushed open and secured on their old latches, the smell of fresh air mixed with the ever cosy scent of wood polish and old books making it all the more delightful to spend time in the library. Sifting through your bag, you pulled out the books you needed to return to Madam Pince, wondering what you might pick up this week, deciding that it needed to be something special.

You clocked Theo walking in with Cho and Neville at either side of him, the three of them chatting quietly amongst themselves as they began to make their way across to the table you all usually sat at. Looking over towards them as you placed your books on the library check out desk, you realised that having him there had become normal. Having all three of the Slytherin boys in your group had become normal and you weren’t sure you really wanted it to end.

“All of you have been reading a lot of romance as of late.” Madam Pince observed as she slid the books across the desk so she could stamp the library slips inside of the covers. “It’s spring, it brings out the romance, doesn’t it?” You said, idly fiddling with the closure on your bag, missing the way Madam Pince gave you a knowing look. “I suppose it does.” She replied before stamping your library slip and handing it back to you.

Stepping across the library floor, you made your way through the rows of shelves, passing the tables of students chatting and studying quietly, some of them reading, others getting their homework done before the weekend. But as you continued towards the table near the back where the golden hour of sun glowed so beautifully across the deep chestnut hues of the furniture and the aged spines of books that were all positioned neatly on their shelves, you caught sight of him. Blaise.

You wondered if he hadn’t noticed you first, his eyes seemingly already on your approaching figure, his smile bright and lopsided, a sight you had gotten fast used to and yet did not want to lose so quickly in the matter of an hour. “There you are.” He said, stepping over towards you with a book in hand. “Here I am.” You smiled, looking up at him with a sweet smile on your lips, trying your best to conceal the way his smile and his voice made your heart leap.

You had not yet forgotten the way his hand had felt in yours just a week prior, the way he had brushed his fingers against yours and held you with such a gentle grip. Was it too much to ask for that again? To feel the fluttering of something akin to love in your chest or the light airy feeling of something new, something delightfully thrilling.

“What are you reading this week?” You asked quietly as he placed the book he had been looking at back on the shelf. “What would you have me read?” Blaise asked, watching as you pulled your bag off your shoulder and pulled out a chair to set it down on. “Me?” You almost gasped, sounding a little surprised by the question. “Well is there anyone else I’d ask for book recommendations?” Blaise teased, stepping a little closer to you and placing his hand on the back of the chair you had placed your bag on. Smiling shyly and struggling to meet his gaze, you giggled softly. “I suppose not.” You replied, shrugging off your robes to get more comfortable.

“Jane Eyre.” You suddenly said, looking up at him. “You should read Jane Eyre.” You added, awkwardly fiddling with your robes as you draped them over the back of your seat. “Is it romance?” He asked. You knew by now that he was very fond of romance, especially period romance and while it surprised you, it also warmed your heart to know he loved a genre you enjoyed too. “Yes, it’s a classic romance.” You replied. Blaise smiled. He always found himself gazing at you with an uncontrollable smile, it was impossible to keep his usually controlled demeanor in check around you. Perhaps it was your shyness that just seemed so sweet, or maybe it was your kind, gentle nature that made him inexplicably happy.

“Show me where to find it?” Blaise asked, holding out his hand for you. Glancing down at his hand, you felt your heart flutter. What if this wasn’t all a one off feeling between you, perhaps he too was immersed by lingering thoughts of love and attraction. “Of course.” You replied, gently placing your hand in his. Your touch was hesitant at first, his eyes capturing yours for a moment as he carefully grasped your hand in his. Blaise was gentle and soft, his touch just as exhilarating and sweet as the previous week and you felt your breath hitch in your throat before you met his eyes with an amative gaze.

Gently you closed your fingers around his hand and led him towards one of the many sections of muggle fiction within the library. As you both dipped between a couple of bookshelves, you watched as Hermione and Draco rushed in with Ginny in front of them, Hermione hissing at them both about how they were late and it was all Malfoy’s fault.

And while Blaise snorted at their antics, the two of you overhearing Hermione whisper yell as they all began to settle down at the nearby table, you trawled through the shelves in search of a copy of Jane Eyre, all while his hand held yours.

“Here it is.” You spoke softly, reaching up to grasp the copy, a soft dusty pink clothbound spine with a beautifully imprinted and silver embossed title. Blaise smiled at you as he gently took the book from you with his free hand, still holding onto you with the other. “Let me pick one out for you?” He asked, watching as you nodded, smiling rather uncontrollably. How was it that he knew just how to fluster you? All you needed was a sweet boy to hold your hand and talk to you about books and here Blaise Zabini was, doing those exact things and making it seem so romantic.

If only he knew how it made you feel. How he made you feel.

A soft, pale powder blue copy of Arabella was passed to you moments later. “Theo told me this was a good book.” Blaise said, watching as you smiled down at the book in your hands. “Did he now? I never thought Theo would be interested in Regency romance.” You mused, peering around the edge of the bookcase to catch a glimpse of the Slytherin sitting side by side with Neville, who now he seemed closer than ever with, along with Cho who seemed to have warmed up to him. You smiled, watching as Theo read a book over Neville’s shoulder. You managed to see which novel it was they were reading when Neville shuffled around a bit, revealing the lovely old illustrated cover of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.

“Neither did I, but he seems to be full of surprises.” Blaise said softly as he leaned over you, his hand landing gently on your upper arm, the warmth of his presence behind you nearly melted you, nearly made you want to lean back into him. But you were not more than friends with the odd soft touch and longing gaze. In truth it felt as if it could be more, but knowing this was his last week that he would have to attend your book club, you were still unsure if this was something fleeting.

You found yourself perfectly comfortable beside Blaise as you read together in a comfortable chair, his arm resting over the back of the seat behind you while he held his book in the other hand. You tried hard not to lean into his side and you stayed comfortably close.

And while the bell tolled lowly in the background, signalling the turn of the hour, you still had hope that the boys might stay, because it truly would not be the same without them.

Getting up from your seat, you began to walk back towards the table, though you were stopped in your paces when you felt Blaise’s hand rest softly on your shoulder.

“Sweetheart.” Blaise’s low voice rolled through you, warm, sweet and yet there was an edge to it that scared you, that scared your heart. Turning in his grip, you faced him shyly, the sweet name he used for you making your chest warm and your thoughts hazy with adoration. Adoration that you quickly pushed aside. But it all seemed like a helpless attempt when Blaise reached up, gently brushing the backs of his fingers against your cheek. You leaned into him, into his warm touch, your eyes fluttering shut for a moment, breath hitching at the intimacy of the moment. And you looked up at him, eyes softening with something akin to fear and something deeper, something that looked as if it swam deep below the surface.

“What is it?” You asked, clutching the book tightly against your chest. “There’s something on your mind.” He prompted, watching as you looked shyly down at your feet. “This is all fleeting. You’ll leave and- this will have been no more than part of your detention.” You voiced your worry, somehow confident enough to let your feelings air, ones you had been hesitant to even acknowledge for several weeks now; though you still could not meet his eyes no matter how easy it had been to say the words.

There was a soft sigh, heavy swallow before his fingers gently lifted your chin. “You truly think I’d leave after all this club has brought me?” Blaise asked. “It’s much more than just books and an hour of reading in company each week.” He said. “It’s friendship,” Blaise tilted his head towards Neville, Theo and Cho. “And the way your club brought out the better in all of us.” He smiled softly, his eyes now on Draco as he read quietly with Hermione and Ginny, the three of them sharing the odd bit of chatter now and again. “And for me it’s something else. You make me feel,” He paused, the words resting on his tongue. Wonderful. Accepted. In love. “You make me feel like I’m meant to be here. You make me feel.” Blaise stopped. Because you did make him feel. You made him feel everything. Others might have stunted his feelings in the past, things slowly adding up to prompt him to build his mask of stoic temperament. But it was your passion and your love and kindness that brought out the things in Blaise that he long had forgotten. You made him feel energetic, as if there was nothing more amazing in the world than being in your presence and sharing a moment with you.

“What I’m trying to say is that I’m not leaving after this week. I’m not leaving as long as you’ll allow me to stay. This club has become my escape just as books always have been and you have been my guide.” He explained. “You’ll stay?” You asked, barely above a whisper. “As long as you’ll have me.” Blaise spoke softly to you, your eyes meeting his, wide with the warmth of adoration and the softness of simple romance.

And where his words failed to express what he truly felt in his muddled moment, encased in worry and a desperate rush to get it all out, he made up for with gestures of his feelings instead. Leaning in, Blaise gently pressed you against the bookcase, carefully taking the book you held in your grasp and placing both of your books on the shelf beside you. “Can I kiss you?” He asked, words brushing softly against your lips, your heart fluttering and racing with the wild, unequivocal feelings of love. “Please.” It was a whisper, one that was not desperate nor rushed, but soft and sweet and accompanied by the way your lashes fluttered, eyes slowly sliding shut as Blaise closed the gap between you, his lips meeting yours with a gentle touch.

His kiss was slow and sweet, his thumb coming up to rest against your cheek as he held you, one hand at the nape of your neck and the other resting at your waist. His lips captured yours in a moment of slow, amative bliss, kissing you tenderly until you found yourself breathless, your delicate fingers grasping at the edges of his Slytherin robes.

Slowly parting from you, just enough to catch your gaze, Blaise smiled softly. You felt stunned, but in the best of ways, mind reeling with thoughts and feelings of love. You supposed there had always been something so peaceful about sharing time together to read, but even more so now that you had allowed your feelings to feel.

“I got you something.” Neville said shyly, one hand rubbing the back of his neck as he held out a beautiful old copy of The Secret Garden for Theo to take, the brunette grinning at his friend before taking it from him. “You shouldn’t.” He shook his head, unable to stop himself from beaming at the kind gesture. “Thank you. I’ll read it with you next week.” Theo said, gently patting Neville’s shoulder. “You’re not leaving the club?” Neville asked, his voice full of hope. Theo glanced around the group, his eyes landing on Cho and Neville. “Nah, I have a feeling that even if I tried to leave I’d end up back here anyway.” He grinned, the three of them sharing great delight as Neville pulled Theo in for an unexpected, though appreciated hug.

“I suppose you’ll go back to bullying us again, will you?” Hermione asked Draco as she began to pack her bag. Draco eyed her, his glare softening. It was not love he felt, more something like the beginnings of a friendship. His eyes travelled around the room, falling onto you and Blaise for a moment and then over to Theo and his new found friendships. Attending the club had been a punishment and while Draco had acted as if he hated it, he knew that beyond his usually brooding and snarky behaviour, he had begun to hold the club in high regards. “No.” Draco said simply. “No?” Ginny asked, looking up at him with a challenging stare. “I can’t bully people I like, can I?” He sneered, and while it came out rather unfriendly, they all knew that he was being sincere. That Draco had actually grown fond of you all. “Will you come back next week?” Hermione asked. “We’ll see, Granger.” Were his last words to her before he pulled his bag onto his shoulder and took his leave.

“I’ll walk you back to your common room, sweetheart.” Blaise said, waiting until you had pulled your robes back on before he gently took your hand in his. “And perhaps we can plan a date?” He added, watching as your smile became uncontrollable and you giggled in your flustered, shy state, overwhelmed but in the best of ways. “I’d love that.”

And with that, Blaise pulled you close. He put his arm around your shoulders, his hand leaning down to hold your hand as you made your way out of the library as a pair, but not for the last time. There would be many more times, your hand in his each time. And you counted yourself lucky, because you had found love between the pages and it was undeniably real.

Blaise Zabini Taglist (OPEN):

@paintballkid711 @megantje123 @chaotic-fae-queen @slytherinwh0re @frecklesandfirecrackers @starofthedawn @mingyuahjumma @dracosaccount @90smalfoy @fuckingdraco @loving-life-my-way @cpetrova @miraclesoflove @struggling-bee @weasleywhore @little-me204 @dreaming-about-fanfictions @eli-malfoy-asf @ur-local-reality-shifter @voidmalfoy @wh0re4blaise @cherie-draco @lazypeachsoul @sistheselenophile @sw33tgirl

[kissingrhi]

after reading this 3 times in utter shock and inability to move at how fucking good it is…. i’m finally giving my (deliciously positive) notes. because wow???? holy????? shit?????????

here we go:

- “You know her irritation is the by-product of the undiagnosed anxiety that comes with being forced into an uncomfortable Dior slip on such short notice.” i LOVE this

- “Your outfit is a velvety, laced up nightmare.” just like saltburn OOP! op your mind!!!!

- "Am I going to have to use my rape whistle?" please 😭😭😭😭 this tension got me QUICK. fucking latched onto me like a leech

- “Farleigh's scoff sends a string of lightning shooting down your spine.” op i’m going to sign you up for teaching a writing class at harvard hope you’re ok with this

- “Why can't you bring yourself to find Farleigh as vile?” 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫

- THE. ENTIRE. POOL. SCENE.

- so fucking in character, quite literally felt like a scene straight from the movie

- “His hand moved slowly and deftly, so as not to cause too much of a stir in the water and give you two away. And he did it all while leaning his free hand out of the pool, cradling his copy of Jane Eyre with his eyes glued on the pages.” i just screamed and started clawing at my walls

- “Not until I'm finished with Chapter 18." He mumbled almost distractedly, as if your needy voice was something akin to a pesky fly interrupting his reading.” his fuckass would do this (and i would thoroughly enjoy it)

- “It was so undeniably petty to weaponize Farleigh's greatest foe, but the vexation of not being made to cum the night before still hangs heavily on your shoulder. And at the end of the day, you really just were a petty bitch.” i am a petty bitch! op you see me and hear me!

- “As if he was biting down on his words. God, his tongue must be riddled in scars.” hi hello this characterization????

- “She's a slut but not that big of a slut." 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😊😊😊hi😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😊😊😊😊hiiiii😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😊😊😊😊HI

- "Say that again but don't sound like you're on the verge of squirting on my fingers in the middle of dinner." mmmhm YUP THAT’LL DO IT

- “He leans over the table, bringing his fingers to his lips before spreading them over his gums like you would cocaine.” something about this line has just really stuck with me everytime i’ve read this??? because not only does it cater to his canon addiction but it’s adding fuel to the fire that he is addicted to YOU!!!!

- oh wow

- op u need so many awards for this

- “His voice is like the rough gravel encircling Saltburn and you let your eyes roll to the back of your head as you arch backwards in him.” i just died and came back to life. op you have this GIFT of immersion — this gives me total sultry, carnal, interview with the vampire energy

- “You had unashamedly resorted to begging for a man who hooked his nails into your hair, forcing you to sit upright as he parted your legs.” THIS + the back and forth of praise between the two of them???? hi hello welcome back to my bratty switch farleigh agenda ted talk, today i will discuss..

- "You're so stupidly wet, you filthy fucking girl-"😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫

- "When are you going to learn that I own your orgasms?" He whispers, with his other hand furiously undoing the belt of his fitted pants. "You don't cum until I say. You don't touch yourself until I say. You don't even fucking think about cumming until I say-" BITCH?? oh my GOD?!?!?!?!?!?!?!

- him spitting in your mouth oh god

- fine dining right there

- "You'd smoke anyway." 🥲

op this is truly so fucking good and such a pleasure to read! i don’t even know where to start. i can tell you have an incredibly sharp mind and you are so so observant! you are actually PERFECT for writing!!! i loved every moment of reading this!!!

𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐌𝐞 𝐋𝐞𝐬𝐬, 𝐇𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐌𝐞 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐞

Farleigh Start x Fem!Reader

Summary: Hating Farleigh had never stopped him from using you

Content Warnings: Language, Fwb, Forbidden Relationship, Unedited, Dark Fic, Dark Humor, Coarse Jokes, Jealousy, Possessiveness, Smoking, Weaponizing!Ollie, Smut (+18), Minors DNI, Slight CNC, Breeding, Neediness, Exhibition Kink, Grinding, Extreme Degradation, Humiliation Kink, Praise Kink, Hate Sex, Hair Pulling, Rough sex, Messy Sex, Spitting, Orgasm Control, Dirty Talk, Choking

He'd definitely bully me if he was real, and I'd be in love with him

"It's not like we're actually going to eat anything. Mother only insists we all make use of the furniture," Venetia's rambling is incessant as she walks briskly into the dining hall. You know her irritation is the by-product of the undiagnosed anxiety that comes with being forced into an uncomfortable Dior slip on such short notice.

In all fairness, you weren't doing so well either. The dress you are currently wearing is just as suffocating and Venetia's Saint Laurent heels dig into your bone. Your outfit is a velvety, laced up nightmare.

A torture chamber.

You wholeheartedly wanted to crawl into your own bed and forget about everyone and everything. In fact, the only thing keeping you mildly excited for dinner with The Henrys happens to be-

"Gentlemen!" You exclaim, before cleverly adding, "And you've brought Farleigh with you."

You all congregate at the left side of the dinner table, while the Henrys and The Henrys wives all mill about the dinner party. There are'nt any rules to things like this. It's all so self explantory.

What was not all too self explantory was your seating positions. Venetia forces you to sit in between herself and a very vexed Farleigh.

"How interesting," Farleigh barely addresses you in his tired monotonous lilt, "You're almost, nearly, just about, decently dressed." You bristle as you lower your behind to your chair, all while Farleigh shoots you a tight-lipped smile.

"Wow!" Your words drip with sarcasm, promptly halting Farleigh from flirting with the man to his immediate left - one of the Henrys closeted sons, no doubt. "That almost, nearly, just about sounded like a compliment!" You exclaim before leaning over beside him in a daring display of confidence. You place your hand tentatively on his thigh before whispering, "Am I going to have to use my rape whistle?"

Farleigh's scoff sends a string of lightning shooting down your spine.

"You're such a slut, I think you'd enjoy probably enjoy it." His breath is hot against your cheek and would be considered vile.

It should be vile.

Why can't you bring yourself to find Farleigh as vile?

With his elbows lowered underneath the table like a good little gentleman, Farleigh lets his fingers crawl tentatively over your thigh.

The games are on.

Your heart is beating at a million miles an hour with your mind reeling at not only Farleigh's large warm palm finding its home on your ample thigh but his words.

They are in complete contrast to everything you two have experienced together thus far on your stay in Saltburn.

As his fingers inch their way towards your inner thigh you're absolutely breathless. All you can think about is your escapade in the pool the evening before.

Both Catton siblings had been immersed in a very Catton argument, leaving you and Farleigh to your own devices on the banks of the stone pool.

With both your arms leaning over the ledge of the pool and Farleigh pressed to your side, no one could barely tell that Farleigh already had two digits dipped inside your weeping cunt. His hand moved slowly and deftly, so as not to cause too much of a stir in the water and give you two away. And he did it all while leaning his free hand out of the pool, cradling his copy of Jane Eyre with his eyes glued on the pages.

"F-Fuck Farleigh, can I cum?" He sighed at your agitated state.

"Not until I'm finished with Chapter 18." He mumbled almost distractedly, as if your needy voice was something akin to a pesky fly interrupting his reading.

Chapter 18, as you'd probably guessed, had never ended.

His cousins were back from their argument and his fingers left your cunt just as quickly. You had both went back to pretending to hate each other and you were left to 'rub one out' in the safety of your room like some hormonal teenager.

You truly are furious with him.

"What's this I'm hearing about a rape whistle?" Felix pipes up from the other side of Farleigh, equally dressed up all spiffy for the Henry's "You didn't rape anyone, did you?"

Farleigh's response is more of a hiss, "Of course I didn't-"

"Surely there must be more savory topics of discussion at the dinner table other than rape?" Comes the quick mediation of Elsbeth, who sits at the head of the table, clutching her string of expensive pearls as if they weilded the power to rid her of all these insolent little kids.

"Of course there is," you exclaim before turning your head to smile at the presence beside Ventia, nestled quietly in his seat like a little pauper.

Farleigh's manicured fingernails sink half moons into the skin of your thigh, peeking up from the slit of your dress as you lean away from him and say, "You must be Oliver! It's a relief to see another commoner around here." It was so undeniably petty to weaponize Farleigh's greatest foe, but the vexation of not being made to cum the night before still hangs heavily on your shoulder. And at the end of the day, you really just were a petty bitch.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Ollie!" Slightly leaning over Venetia, the boy looks pale. As if he was biting down on his words. God, his tongue must be riddled in scars.

"Pleasure to meet you." Oliver cooly mirrors the warm and inviting smile stretched across your face.

"Don't lean over me," Venetia mumbles, "I'm not a child."

Meanwhile, Farleigh scoffs once again. While he injects himself in your conversation, his hands move swiftly to cup your vagina, nearly raking a gasp out of your throat in the process. "She won't sleep with you, mate." his brown eyes are trained on Oliver's. "She's a slut but not that big of a slut."

The extreme degradation laced in Farleigh's voice is enough to have you nearly moan out in front of all your friends, their family, and all the bloody Henrys.

Farleigh knew exactly which buttons to push to have you melting catastrophically against his fingers. He knew what words could have you slipping into subspace and he knew how to get your cunt weeping.

"Jesus Christ, could we not do this right now?" Venetia asks, staring pointedly at her cousin, and not at the sight of your legs parting to further accomdate his lazy rubbing against your cunt.

"I'm sorry, Cousin," Farleigh replies, "but it's not my fault your best friend is a raging bitch."

A breathless chuckle escapes your clenched teeth, "I-I'm not a-"

"Yeah, I am so completely done with this conversation," Ventitia says, before strangling the stem of her wine glass and chugging it down as if it was nothing but water.

You turn back to hiss into Farleigh's ear, "You're such an a-asshole-"

"Say that again but don't sound like you're on the verge of squirting on my fingers in the middle of dinner." His grin is shadowed by the dimness of crystal chandlier and all the little candles posted along the table. "This is what you get for being a bitch," he says, socasually it makes you break your resolve by shifting in your seat, to better grind your cunt against his fingers, even for a mere second.

It's almost enough to make you cum right then and there.

"Oh-ho!" He aims a guffaw at the sky, "You really are a needy little slut-"

"This dress is shit," you suddenly push yourself out of your chair, creating the minimal noise of wood scraping against the floors. Most eyes are on you and Farleigh slyly removes his hands from in between your thigh. He leans over the table, bringing his fingers to his lips before spreading them over his gums like you would cocaine.

"I have to go change." You say to Venetia, before promptly (and very rudely) bowing out of the dinner.

A few seconds later, you hear Farleigh mumble something about needing a smoke and your heart rattles wildly in its cage. His footsteps are brisk behind yours, and you can feel his eyes sinking into your figure.

While your feet carry you to your destination and you let your brain catch on, you're already sneaking into Farleigh's room.

"Ah! Trespasser!" He exclaims excitedly behind you, with his hands stuffed in his pocket.

"You're so fucking annoying!" Your complains barely escape your throat before he's attacking you in a sloppy, open mouth kiss. He steals the air right out of your lungs, until he's breathing for the both of you. Farleigh slips out of his Abercrombie suit blazer, discarding the material as if it truly meant nothing to him.

His hands are everywhere, with special interests in your breasts compressed tightly by the uncomfortable stitching of your dress.

"This dress..." you mumble distractedly.

"Fuck this dress." He says, and you wholeheartedly agree. Perhaps it was desperate of you to turn in haste. Lifting the ends of your hair to present the zipper to him.

"You look fucking ravenous." He admits in a grave whisper, with his lips grazing the side of your neck, "I wanna fucking eat you." He says, "I wanna be inside you."

"You have such a dirty mouth, Farleigh," the groan that escapes his throat as he zips down your dress lets you know that you may have found your way in.

As the dress spills around your heeled feet, followed by your lacey underwear, Farleigh reattaches his full lips to the skin of your back. "What did you say?" His voice is like the rough gravel encircling Saltburn and you let your eyes roll to the back of your head as you arch backwards in him. His hardness presses against your ass and your fingers weave their way into his curls.

"I said youre a dirty boy, Farleigh." He ruts against you, almost as a second thought. "A dirty fucking boy,"

"Fuck," his hands dig into your hips, rubbing you against him. All as he pleases. "Fucking, fuck. I'm not gonna cum like this-" He says suddenly before spinning you back around.

It is few and sparse moments when you're reminded just how much taller Farleigh is than you and eventide it happens, the wind is knocked out of you. Farleigh advances on you like a literal predator until you're forced to fall backwards on his bed.

He barely undoes the bowtie, and only a few buttons go loose enough to showcase the beautiful expanse of his chest.

"You're absolutely soaked aren't you?" He asks, hovering on the bed above you.

"I need to cum, Farleigh, please-" You knew it was the only way to get what you wanted. You had unashamedly resorted to begging for a man who hooked his nails into your hair, forcing you to sit upright as he parted your legs.

"Look at you," he whispers before cackling maniacally. "You're so stupidly wet, you filthy fucking girl-"

"O-oh fuck, Fuck Farleigh," Your try by all means to grind your cunt into the mattress but is doesn't happen.

"When are you going to learn that I own your orgasms?" He whispers, with his other hand furiously undoing the belt of his fitted pants. "You don't cum until I say. You don't touch yourself until I say. You don't even fucking think about cumming until I say-"

"You're such a big little baby," you spit back, "A big needy, little b-"

You're once again pushed backwards and Farleigh's mounting you with his leaking cock locked tight in his fist.

You automatically lift your legs to present your cunt to him and he groans at the sight.

"I'm going to cum inside of you." He promises.

"I want you too." Farleigh's eyes are heavy as he slides himself inside you. He looks down at you like you were the most precious thing in the world to him. A treasure trove.

"Fuck- I need you to carry on talking." Farleigh says before shutting his eyes tightly. "Fuck you feel so good-"

"You're doing so well, baby," his hips rut inside you, accidentally pushing his cock in way too deep, way too fast and you both hiss and moan. "Such a good boy," you say with your hair finding his own curls, "You're being such a good fucking boy, Farleigh-"

"Open your mouth," you comply robotically. Farleigh places his hands on the underside eod your chin before Tipping your head backwards. His chains dangle above you as you stick your tongue out and he spits directly into your mouth. "Such a slut," he says, "Such a filthy fucking good girl." His words have you grinding your cunt against his cock until soon, you're both on the precipice of cumming.

"F-Fuck-"

"Such a good girl," he whispers, with his breath ghosting yoir face and the sound of skin slapping against skin only grows louder and louder. "S-So fucking good-" He whispers over and over again until your cunt clenches around his cock, promting Farleigh's orgasm with a quickness.

His cum spilling inside you has you slipping unceremoniously into your own orgasm and Farleigh wails in both the pleasure of your cunt milking him dry, or your fingers still pulling his hair like crazy.

"Fuck!" He exclaims before slumping on the bed beside you, "Get your fingers out of my hair, you psycho-"

"You love it, though," there's a teasing lilt in your voice, and all Farleigh does is scoff before patting down the pockets of his pants.

"You give me endless reasons to smoke," he says, before tipping his head back, unknwongly leaning into your embrace as your fingers coil through his soft curls.

"You'd smoke anyway."

[jerseymuppet]

Was tagged by Jask @breastsimeantits (love the bit. Hate that its not the familiar raytoromoans but it is funney) to do a little game lets goooooo

Last song: black sheep - brie larson vocal version.

Last movie: me and @fragile-snail watched John Wick 3 the other night 10/10. We’re watching something else in a little bit.

Currently watching: snapcubes playthrough of sonic frontiers. I’m interested so see where the game goes and penny parker #1 sonic fan, she’s so excited. It’s fun to watch. I’m not currently watching any shows, unless youtube series count? I’m going through red letter media’s best of the worst series (thank you and fuck you snail)

Currently reading: wuthering heights! It’s p good so far! I lost my copy for a bit (forgot it was in my bag) but i have since found it. I also just got a copy of jane eyre from goodwill and I’m excited to start that (I’m so behind on classics)

Currently working on: what a loaded question for me specifically! What am i not working on! Uhhhh, lets seee, I’m working on the gothamverse script (if you know you know and if you don’t know for the love of god please ask me i love talking about it) and my two page spread for the pussycule zine (I JUST figured out what i want to do last night) my dnd character for a new mcr campaign (my first time playing dnd ever!) some prints and stickers and other merch. Some more analysis posts. I got a lot going on. I’m a busy guy. (Also if you saw Jask’s post please for the love of god ask him about damilaurence, I CANNOT be in this alone)

Favorite color: i like willow green enough that i spent $10 on a bottle of nail polish. So I’m gonna say either that or burgundy.

Savory/sweet/spicy: savory!!!!!!! I love savory food so much, I’ve literally been eating nothing but burrito bowls the past two week and I LOVE them. I also enjoy spicy but I definitely prefer it with savory. I’m not as big on sweets as i used to be? I can find too much sweetness to be nauseating, and my tolerance has tanked, i eat a bite or two before i give up. But I definitely still enjoy it on occasion!

Coffee/tea/cocoa: i have severe anxiety and a resting heart rate of 130 bpm, if i drink coffee i will have a panic attack. Does that stop me from drinking iced coffee? No. God bless. I love tea though, that’s my favorite hands down. Me and a london fog lavender latte? Match made in heaven, I drink a cup of that every day. Cocoa is fun too! But I have to be in the mood

Craving: burrito bowls still. I went months without eating them and then when we finally decide to have them my mom got pulled pork with barbecue sauce on it and it ruined everything. I’m getting my fill now.

ANYWAY! Tagging: @judeiscariot @atlanticnotary @pissditching @fragile-snail @one-singular-crumb @infectiouspiss @8daysuntiltheapocalypseiguess @theresacorpseinthisbed @p4nsy and thats it! We all have the same mutuals and i don’t want tag people again lmao EDIT BECAUSE I FORGOT TO TAG JACK AAAA IM SORRY ILY <3 @scootbian

[dwellordream]

Unexpected Facts About Victorian Era Girls, Part 2

Specifically American girls of the middle and upper classes as detailed in Jane H. Hunter’s How Young Ladies Became Girls: The Victorian Origins of American Girlhood, a book I highly recommend even if you have no interest in history. It does a great job giving a lot of cultural context to the buildup to the ‘New Woman’ of the 1880s and 1890s and the newfound independence, education, and confidence experienced by many American women in the years before suffrage was granted.

Contrary to pop culture stereotypes of Victorian women being expected to be pretty ditzes, reading and writing were highly encouraged by most parents. Reading a wide range of books, both fiction and nonfiction, were considered essential to creating refined and restrained genteel ladies. 

Girls were also encouraged to keep diaries to promote good habits and self reflection. Many of these diaries were gifted by parents, who expected to be allowed to peruse them whenever they wished. There was little concept of privacy for Victorian girls, though many rebelled against this as they matured. Some more dutiful daughters wrote their diaries specifically for the sake of keeping their parents informed on their days, especially if they lived far from home at boarding school. Diaries could also be used to ask parents uncomfortable questions about sex, romantic relationships, or adolescence in general.

Girls were expected to send at least an hour per day reading, particularly upper middle class girls who would not have any serious chores to complete beyond keeping their rooms clean and perhaps some ornamental baking or flower arranging. An advice columnist in 1901 estimated that the average teenage ‘gentlewoman’ read a novel for more than an hour each and every day. 

While Victorian parents were protective and generally expected to approve of reading material beforehand, girls read a wide range of materials, from classical philosophy to Charles Dickens to passionate romance novels, though the latter were often met with disapproval and concern from parents. Despite this, girls got their hands on the books anyways, especially middle class girls with pocket money of their own or access to libraries. 

Poetry was also a very popular hobby, though moralists cautioned against letting young girls become too involved in it, for fear the dramatic themes found in poetry might promote brooding and melancholy behavior or cause them to withdraw from their families. Scrapbooking with popular quotes or snippets of poems, often copied down, was very popular among both city and country girls.

Book clubs and creative writing clubs were extremely popular among Victorian teenage girls. Girls often shared their diaries and poetry among their closest friends, or collaborated on stories together. 

For Protestant parents, especially evangelicals who believed a public profession of faith as an adult was necessary, diaries were seen as a way to invite religious meditation and introspection that would lead girls closer to God. Diary keeping was seen as fairly ‘womanly’ and much less popular among teenage boys. 

Diaries were also seen as a way for teenage girls to ‘vent’ out their feelings in a private space, rather than making unseemly public explosions of emotion that would be damning in Victorian society. Girls often ranted and complained about the trials of their days or conflicts with friends and family, and chastised themselves for not being more calm and composed. However, when girls became too invested in their diaries and spent too much time alone writing as opposed to socializing with the family, it was sometimes seen as a cause for concern or a poor influence on their behavior, and they were encouraged to surrender them to their parents or destroy them.

By 1880 the rate of literacy in native-born Americans was 90%. Among immigrants it was 80%. Books were cheaper than ever before and the newspaper business was booming. Most people had at least some degree of literacy, even if they could not write well. One major deterrent to reading for the impoverished was lack of good lighting in dark tenements and homes that could not afford to light up through the evenings. 

Magazines targeting women and girls were extremely popular and had massive audiences across the country. For those living in rural areas, magazines were enticing because they promised new material to read every month, especially when there was no library to go to. Advice columns were insanely popular and girls of all ages sent in letters to the editors, which we still have preserved today. 

While there was a push to censor what was permitted in libraries, worrying children, especially girls, would gain access to illicit or ‘sensational’ books with themes of sex and violence, especially things like premarital sex or children out of wedlock, this movement largely failed and libraries stocked what was popular. Parents had limited control over what their children read if their daughters wanted to hide it from them. 

Some families reluctantly permitted certain books such as Jane Eyre if girls read it under the supervision of their mother, or aloud to the family. Reading aloud was extremely common as a leisure activity for families to do together after dinner. Girls often read to each other while doing needlework, so everyone would have a rest as they passed the book around the circle. 

One of the most controversial books of the era was Elizabeth Gaskell’s (writer of North and Souths) Ruth, which told the story of an orphaned seamstress seduced into becoming the mistress of a rakish aristocrat, who eventually abandons her pregnant with his bastard son. Unlike many books of the time, Gaskell offered the ‘ruined woman’ redemption and acceptance of friends, which alarmed many conservatives in both England and the US. 

[websthetics]

I want to reread North and South (because I just saw some gifs of the miniseries and I have FEELINGS) but I just realized I have NO IDEA where my copy is???

why does this always happen to me?? when I know i have a copy of a book and then it’s just GONE??

[lit-in-thy-heart]

you know what, what's the point of being on this platform if you don't get to bellow into the void about your interests in the hope of finding someone with the same interest?

in light of this, let me inflict a lowdown of the victorian literature (mostly novels because poetry is difficult to collate) that i've read for my module this year upon my mutuals

i'll do a separate one for vampire novels and reblog with the link

because what are the victorians without vampires? straight

bleak house (dickens): what a ride that was! yes, it was nearly a thousand pages and, yes, some chapters i was like can we move on please, but that's dickens for you. honestly, i loved it. if you're looking for thinly-veiled lesbianism, this is the book for you (esda all the way, if they even have a ship name). unfortunately i already knew one of the plot twists due to watching dickensian five years before, but there are plenty more to go around! if you can get through the first chapter describing nothing but fog and the law courts, you're in for one hell of a treat -- just don't google anything about it until you've finished because you will get spoiled (or don't share a house with me, where i'll tell you the entire plot as i'm reading it). definitely recommend, but marking it down for the heteronormativity with allan. (9.5/10)

villette (c. brontë): where to fucking start. i, quite frankly, do not care for charlotte brontë, and when reading the earlier novel agnes grey by anne, i could see some more things that charlotte has filched for this travesty. no victorian novel is going to be without problems, but this one was xenophobic, ableist and, of course, racist. the protagonist doesn't really give anything away, which is meant to make her more mysterious, but it just renders her an empty vessel. oh, and she tells you stuff that she's figured out waaaaaay after she says she's figured it out, a bit like she's allowing you to feel smart for making a connection before going 'oh yeah i knew that like twelve chapters ago, keep up'. some of the passages are really striking and there's maybe one character who's likeable but that's about it. i'd say it's more a story of omission than repression tbh. (4/10)

janet's repentance (eliot): wait, have i even finished this? no, no, i have not. it's fine, i wasn't going to tell you the ending anyway. i did get hooked eventually, there were just a LOT of names thrown around in the first few chapters, and a word that i didn't know was used frequently (turns out it was a name for the followers of this guy). i did get strong hester prynne/arthur dimmesdale vibes from some of the main characters, but janet is a very sympathetic character which, after reading villette, was nice. slightly depressing in some places, but a good enough read if you're not cramming it in the day before your tutorial, because it is mildly dense. (7/10)

the wonderful adventures of mrs seacole in many lands (seacole): not what i'd been expecting to read on my module, what with it being a biography, but enjoyable nonetheless. horrible histories lied to me, though, she was in her 40s/50s when she treated people in the crimean war, not in her 20s, but that's minor. it was actually quite funny??? like she was very reluctant to give away to give away her age and almost slipped up a couple of times, and also made some very biting remarks about people who were passing comment on her skin colour. for a biography, it wasn't hugely biographical, in that she was married for what seemed all of five minutes before her husband died, when in fact they were married for several years, but if you want an in-depth depiction of war, this is for you. not what i'd usually read, but some of the descriptions are so vivid that it does read like a novel in places, though sometimes the descriptions were so detailed that i did tune out at odd intervals. (9/10)

the happy prince and other stories (wilde): if you're feeling low, don't read these. don't. especially not 'the nightingale and the rose', because that was honestly heartbreaking. really well-written, some passages were just beautiful, i just wasn't in the right headspace to fully appreciate it. it also has a lot of death, i should probably explicitly say that. (8/10)

agnes grey (a. brontë): chef's kiss, honestly. if i'd read this last year then i think it definitely would have hit a lot harder, what with agnes moving away from home for the first time and struggling with loneliness around people who she is different from. beautifully written, i'm irritated at myself for not reading it sooner, even though i've owned a copy for about four years or so. agnes does come across as a bit wet sometimes, but those moments are rare and far between, she's overall a resilient character who is trying to make her own way in the world. seeing as i managed to get through the whole thing and didn't lose focus on what i was reading, i rate it higher than jane eyre (which is a rip-off of this anyway). we stan anne. though i am marking it down for the underdeveloped romantic relationship that just pops up (9.5/10)

now for some old classics that weren't taught on my module, but i can't not mention them

a tale of two cities (dickens): this was my first dickens book and oh my word what a book. yeah, okay, lucie is a bit of a wet dishcloth and has basically no personality, but there is definitely something there between her and her maid. sydney is my baby and oh so gorgeously dramatic ("you have kindled me, heap of ashes that i am, into fire"), which was perfect for the pangs of unrequited love. the plot is slightly confusing, and you don't really understand everything until right near the end, but i loved finding parallels in the chapters set in france with the chapters set in britain. oh and the showdown between miss pross and madame defarge is wonderful. i had a tradition of reading it on the run-up to christmas, just because that was the period when i read it for the first time, but i haven't done that for the past two years just because of exams and stuff. now, bleak house just pips it at the post, but i still love it dearly. (9/10)

wuthering heights (e. brontë): i couldn't review victorian literature and not include this. there are very strong similarities between this and villette (seems charlotte really drew on her sisters' work), particularly in terms of me not liking a single one of the characters except hareton. everyone is called cathy. literally. and heathcliff/cathy one is a toxic ship that should not be boarded. it is obsession, not love. the second volume is basically a repeat of the first one, thus showing that humanity will never move past its vices and will be caught in a vicious cycle of self-destruction for the rest of time. again, though, beautifully and vividly written. the characters are the type that you love to hate. (8/10)

the tenant of wildfell hall (a. brontë): what. a. book. this was a book that was simultaneously loved and condemned as scandalous when it came out. there's mystery, there's a woman escaping a horrible situation and making her own living, and there's a well-developed relationship! and the characters are likeable (i love rose, she's great, completely goes off at her brother when she has to do things for him all the time), which always puts it onto a winner. there's one chapter with gilbert that i have to skip just because i hate what he does in it. there are quite a lot of religious references, with redemption playing a huge part in the novel, but even the religious views brontë expresses went against a lot of the teachings of the anglican church at the time. do i even need to say that it's beautifully written if it's anne? marking it down for gilbert's behaviour and arguable control of helen's narrative. (9.5/10)

far from the madding crowd (hardy): i love this book. a little more uplifting than tess but still with the drama and murder you'd expect from hardy. maybe my review is influenced by my tiny crush on bathsheba: she's not the best role model but damn what a woman. gabriel isn't quite bae but i love him all the same, i'm so glad he's happy in the end. (9/10)

[jungwooisms]

gekokujō | k.dy | official teaser

pairing: kim doyoung x female reader members: suh youngho (johnny), lee minhyung (mark), nakamoto yuta, lee jeno, kim jungwoo, jeong jaehyun genre: historical au (early 1900’s)/historical fiction, angst, fluff warnings: smoking, language, alcohol word count: 13k/? summary: kim doyoung left his home in search of himself; yet when a collection of both familiar and unfamiliar faces surface, he finds that he may just be a a part of something much larger than he anticipated.

| this will be a part of @puppywritings’ historical collab |

[1909.04.01. Boston, MA] ‘John,

I feel enough time has adequately passed to allow me to write to you. Although, there is not much news from home to tell you of. 

The snow is fast disappearing now. I came across an article in the paper the other day about Boston and it said that 14 or 15 years ago bears used to roam around the northern end of the city, but there seems to be nothing around now except the wild fowl, and an uncountable number of deer. 

How are your hands now? I know that the winter air dries yours as it does mine. Mine are very cut, so scattered with paper trails that I fear I should bleed ink from all the books that you left me. Have you been able to acquire any more on your travels? I find that the supply you gave me is running rather low now. 

You left for Munich inquiring after Daniel Lim if I recall the name correctly, I hope you found him in good health on your arrival. I also hope he does not overwork you, you said as much happened the last you worked under him in London.

I am very pleased to say I am keeping very well, and I trust you are the same. If anything happens, know that I will gladly storm my way across the sea and give your wrongdoers what for.

I miss you, John. And I hope you return soon, you know I love to hear about your travels.’

A short chuckle to yourself as you pull the pen away from the paper after signing your name, ink stains settling into the grooves of your fingers as you aren’t cautious enough with the writing implement. Short blows over the thin paper as you try to dry the ink as quickly as possible, although this isn’t the sweltering heat of the summer you’re unsurprised the ink hasn't run but so much. Carefully standing from your seat you begin your search around the room for an envelope, fingers brushing over various stacks of papers and novellas lying around your workspace. Eventually you find a weathered, but perfectly usable one underneath a dog-eared copy of Jane Eyre. You address the letter to his newest residence, some boarding house in Germany, but you aren't sure if he was even staying there anymore. If that doesn't work out and one of your letters was stamped “Return to Sender” once more, you’d just have to wait for him to send you something first. It seemed like you were always waiting after John. Not that you mind much, you had been as thick as thieves as teenagers and that had hardly ever changed, even after he’d decided to go abroad and study, then go onto some teaching stints wherever the wind blew him.

As you return to your seat you hear a gentle meowing outside, head peering over your desk and out of the glass panes into the garden below you spot a small black and white tabby looking up at you. A sigh escaping your lips as you move to grab your pen once more, beginning to write a post scriptum,

‘p.s. Your lovely feral cat has now decided that I take ownership of her in your absence. Is there a name you prefer I call her?’

You hope he can understand your tone, it’s an issue of yours that the words you write sometimes don't hit their mark. Regardless, you’d send the letter and hear his thoughts on it whenever he has the gaul to write back. You straighten your back from your hunched position and move through the house, your fingers tracing along the smooth walls until you reach the door leading into the garden, it lay nestled in the corner of the kitchen. There’s a faint scratching as you approach, only opening it to find the same tabby waiting for you, it barrels inside once it sees an opportunity.

“You wretch,” tsking as she begins brushing up against your leg. “What am I going to do with you?”

[1909.04.30. 今出川, 京都] The ground crunches underfoot as Doyoung walks; the pavement, covered with a thin layer of grit from a small windstorm that had picked up an hour or so prior, feeling as if it’s shifting as his leather soled shoes move over it. Storm having left its mark and not going to disappear until a rain shower decides to wash it away, he breathes in the particles still floating through the balmy weather. A small frown as he fans his jacket, allowing some air to circulate under the thick fabric. Had it not been impolite, he would have shed the garment as soon as he stepped out of the train station only minutes ago. His hand still wrapped around his bag he looks to the signs adorning the tops of businesses along the road. Doyoung was never great at learning hanja, so when it came time for him to begin learning the already different kanji and further hiragana and katakana that would come along with his trip abroad, he thought he might set out to find a tutor during his time here. Hand moving to rummage around the inside of his jacket, he procures a worn letter from its depths. ‘今出川 居酒屋,’ it is the only thing foreign to him within the contents of the scripture, the sender had asked to meet him there for lunch on the second day of Doyoung’s arrival to Kyoto.

Doyoung finds the bar after walking a few more blocks, north from the station and hidden away behind a bookstore in a back alley. Before he enters, he pauses. His grip on the letter tightening, the parchment creasing from the increased pressure as the slight tingly pervasiveness of guilt begins to wrack him from the inside out. A look to his left, and then to his right, a ghost of a figure in his peripheral, deterring him from running from the drinkery. It drives him closer, away from an inevitable future and towards the uncertain present. 

A haze of smoke blankets the air as he enters, that of tobacco intermingling with the small fire stoking in the back of the bar. It invades his nose rather viciously, itching the back of his throat and causing tears to form in the corners of his eyes as he greets the hostess with a small ‘Hello’ and ‘A table, please.’ She guides him and he settles down at a chabudai towards the front of the building, almost with enough of a view so that he can peer past the two small curtains at the entrance and into the street.

The letter now resting atop the table and his bag by its side, he reaches into his jacket yet again to procure an almost empty pack of cigarettes and a newly bought lighter. He had run out of fluid during his journey across the sea and he thought that buying a new one would be a novel idea to commemorate his trip. Doyoung’s eyes wander around the enclosed space as he scans the faces of the patrons. Most were men but there was the occasional woman mingling among the crowd as well. Cigarette placed on his lips, lighter spewing to life and igniting the end as he takes a deep breath in. Doyoung hates smoking, hates the way it pierces his lungs with its inky black vapors. It leaves his breath smelling awful, but it is just something people do to pass the time. Fingers finding the cigarette, he removes it for a moment, tapping it against a small silver dish atop the table, the ashes pooling at the bottom as he continues to look for someone he hasn’t met yet.

“Did you want to order anything else?” A voice to his right calls out, he jumps slightly before turning, only to find the kimono clad waitress at his side. She sets down a tray of dishes, some foods he recognizes, and some he thinks to be the local cuisine.

“Oh, no thank you.” As his eyes look over the food he moves to rest his cigarette in the ashtray to come back for later.

The woman gives a short smile and brief nod before speaking again, “Please let me know if you need anything.” Even after she had walked away, Doyoung could feel her eyes lingering on him like a child seeing some sort of marvel for the first time. This is not to say that he thinks that highly of himself, just that he knows that he is an outsider in a foreign place, his accent could tell anyone as much.

“I think she likes you.” A voice speaking up when Doyoung goes to take a bite out of the onigiri on his tray.

Mouth half full and brow furrowed in confusion, Doyoung turns to face wherever the voice had come from, “What did you say?” Chewing his food and swallowing rather harshly, he almost chokes as he thinks he’s going insane after hearing what sounded like Korean. This time it was a man who spoke, he was sitting at another table across from him, a shifty grin on his face. Something about him seemed different from everyone else in the bar, but the man couldn’t quite put a finger on it in this dimly lit room.

“She’s still staring at you.” The other man answers, now standing up and proceeding to walk over to him. “But it’s not like she’s hearing me say that anyway,” He laughs, brushing his hands against the lapels of his jacket.

Now in a better light, the man can get a better view of this stranger. “Are you Korean too?” He asks in his native tongue, feeling much more relieved that the burden of speaking a different language is momentarily sated.

“No,” Another laugh as the man settles down in the seat adjacent. “Just familiar with the language, is all.” He pauses for a moment, his eyes staring into Doyoung’s as if he’s trying to memorize his facial features. “You wouldn’t happen to be Kim Dongyoung, would you?”

“Doyoung, actually.” He clears his throat. “I am,” Eyes glancing at the letter still atop the table, Doyoung comes to a realization, “Are you Nakamoto Yuta?”

“I am,” A smile as he extends his hand. Less practiced with western formality Doyoung looks at the greeting for a moment before raising his own to formally address him, “It’s nice to meet you.” After a moment they drop their hands away from each other, Yuta’s gaze shifting to watch the hostess move his food from his old table to the one he now shares with Doyoung. “With an accent like that you must be from the south, Daegu, maybe?”

“Guri, actually.” He returns to his food for a moment, Yuta taking this time to also take a few bites from his own bento. “Where did you learn Korean?”

“Did Youngho not tell you?” Youngho is their mutual friend, he’d given Doyoung Yuta’s contact information to inquire if he had any availability to tutor him. “I studied with him when we were in college, I moved back here a year after we graduated, my mother fell ill and wanted to come back from living in Hanseong.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Doyoung frowns, shifting as he sets his chopsticks down. The two must have met after Doyoung had left his schooling to return to his family, per their wishes. 

A smile, “She made a perfect recovery, but now that she’s home she never wants to leave again.” Yuta reaches for the porcelain flask of sake the hostess had brought over, pouring himself a small glass then offering one to Doyoung. The younger politely refuses, still not accustomed to the savoriness of the drink, as Yuta nods and knocks back his own cup before speaking again. “When can you start classes? We typically meet for an hour or two every day if we can.”

“We?” Doyoung’s caught up on the word, he thought these would be private lessons, not an actual class. He leans forward, somewhat anxious at the thought of his abysmal language skills to be put on show for more than one audience member.

“Just a handful of other students from all over the place,” Shoulders shrugging Yuta leans backwards, hands placed atop his knees as he stretches his back. “We have a few Korean and Chinese kids, even a Canadian student as well. Not everyone’s at the same level so you shouldn’t worry too much about it.” He smiles, toothy and carefree as if there wasn’t an unhappy thought that had ever crossed him, Doyoung somewhat resents the uncertain assumption he made. “The schoolhouse isn’t too far away from here actually; did you want to stop by?” Hand motioning towards the doorway, Yuta’s head tilts inquisitively.

“I actually have to check in at the hotel I’m staying in, my parents told me to write whenever I got here and I’ve been putting that off for a while,” A sigh escaping him. Doyoung had been thinking about what to pen for the past day and a half but couldn’t muster the strength to go through with it. He’d left on rocky terms and was expecting to be hounded whenever they responded. “I’ll stop by tomorrow when you have class if that’s alright?”

“Fine by me,” He’s now searching his own pockets, finding a pen and reaching out for the letter near Doyoung. Yuta scribbles down something, a few kanji that Doyoung can’t decipher, and hands him the paper back, “Classes start at ten, when you’re in the area just ask someone if they know where this is and they’ll point you in the right direction.”

“Thanks,” Doyoung looks down to the paper, seeing in his periphery that Yuta was already on his feet, straightening his jacket as he begins to head over to the waitress.

Doyoung sees him say something but can’t make out what, it’s only when Yuta turns to him and speaks that he can ascertain the meaning, “Don’t worry about paying this time, you’ll have to treat me to lunch some other day.” And with that Doyoung finds himself alone once more in the tavern.

 [1909.04.30. Boston, MA] The letter had arrived early in the morning, but you had been out in town with your mother attending some group function that you didn't want to be a part of in the first place. So, when you walk into your own little study and see it lying atop your things you race over and tear open the seal adorning it.

‘When I arrived in Munich, my work left me so urgent that I could not write in time before I left again. I thus deferred it to a point where I once again found myself with solid footing. It rains heavily in Seoul today, my travels have taken me here instead of crossing the Atlantic.

Currently I am holding a tutoring position for the American consulate’s son. I expect to hold this position for some time before I return home to Boston. 

Tell my mother not to fuss over me too much, if anything I implore her to look after you. Of all people, other than your own family, she knows of the antics you pursue.

I was able to sneak out a few books from Munich, upon my return I swear to you that you will have the greatest library in all America- no, the world, even.

If I were a better artist, or wealthy enough to photograph, I would show you how beautiful my journey across the world has been. Although, so much has changed in Seoul since I held my studies here. I cannot help but have the inklings of melancholy eat away as I recall the memories and compare them to what I see now. This will come to pass, I hope. 

I hear the boy calling for me now— My writing will have to cease here, I fear. Send my affection to your family, I know they miss me as much as you do.

With all the love I can muster,

x John

p.s. I think I have decided to call her Minnie, please refer to her as that accordingly.’

While scattered with his familiarities and humor, the letter seems all too short, all too hurried. Your lips purse as you read over it, brow furrowing as a small knot in your stomach begins to form. Thumb rubbing over the x marking his name the worry only grows ever more prevalent, you pull your eyes away from the words and begin to rummage around for your own writing implements and paper, wanting to respond to him as quickly as possible.

‘John,

Your letter left much to be desired. Seoul? Your mother anxiously awaits your return any day now, before you left you said you would only be gone until early May at most. I hope that nothing unsavory has happened, God knows you find yourself in trouble more than any other man I know. 

Please let her know that you are safe, I fear that she may follow after you should you be gone any longer. A son should never burden his mother with his absence for an extended period, I can only keep her company for so long before her weariness sets in and she longs to see you. 

She also knitted you a pair of gloves, seeing as you left your moth-eaten ones behind. I know the air is growing warmer, but it is somewhat endearing to see how doting she is over you. Please, ease her mind by writing.’

[1909.04.30.-1909.04.31.  今出川ホテル, 京都] Doyoung eventually finds himself standing at the small entrance of a hotel, the name written in cursive English on a wooden sign above the doorway. Youngho had recommended the inn, saying that it would be one of the more accepting places to stay at as a foreigner. It has a somewhat Victorian looking façade, contrasting the traditional Japanese styled buildings around it, he wonders why that is as he ascends the handful of steps to the door, struggling ever so slightly while lugging his bag behind him. As the door swings open, he’s greeted by an elderly woman with a rather round face, “Good evening,” she smiles and ushers him inside. “Did you need a room for the night? Or do you have a reservation?”

Mind fogging as he struggles to keep up, “Apologies, my Japanese isn’t—” The stone floor clicking underfoot as he follows her to the main desk.

“Ah, Korean?” It’s accented, but he appreciates it nonetheless. “Do you have a reservation?” Her hands dance along a worn leather book atop the desk, flipping it open as she looks down a list of names, some of those which are crossed out and some of which are not.

“I do,” He nods his head with a short smile, “It should be under Kim.”

Humming as she runs her finger down the list, as her head turns upward it causes Doyoung to return his attention to her, “Kim Heesung or Kim Doyoung?”

“Doyoung,” he says, shifting his weight from foot to foot, mentally hitting himself as he should’ve been more specific. Eyes scanning the list, Doyoung takes a short look around the interior of the inn.The space is smaller than he imagined, but rather cozy. A glowing fire going to warm the chill of the night, large armchairs beside it and the largest bookshelf he’s ever seen built around the hearth.

“Wonderful,” She smiles, turning her back to him to find his room key from a small drawer behind the desk. Before she faces him again fully, she shifts through a small stack of papers atop the desk, “This also came for you,” The woman reaches to pull out a thin card from the stack, it has both hangul and kanji printed on it so it was easy to assume it’d come from his homeland.

“Thank you,” He smiles back before taking the telegram and tucking it into his jacket pocket. She hands him the key and he’s off to find his hotel room. It lays up the staircase and down a winding corridor, as he passes by some of the rooms, he can hear the muffled voices of a few of the other patrons, speaking languages he can mildly understand and others that sound alien. Once he finds his room, he’s all too giddy to throw himself onto the bed. Door locked, shoes and suitcase strewn aside he falls onto the plush bed, his eyes watching the ceiling as the weight of sleep begins to take over his vision.

Broken sunlight filters into the room, the shades drawn enough only to allow sharp slants of light to come through. The city outside is bustling whereas the hotel room seems almost vacant of any form of noise, save for the sound of soft breathing as the occupant sleeps. Kim Doyoung continues to snore  softly, dreaming of something sweet enough to add a slight curvature to his lips. He rolls in his slumber, the telegram received in the night folding under his weight, unbeknownst to him.

Three swift knocks awake him from the depths of slumber. He bolts up, raising a hand to run through his hair as a frown of confusing forms on his lips, wiping away whatever essence of his dream remained. “Are you awake?” A voice rings out seconds after the rapping. It’s the woman from the night before, Doyoung was too tired to connect the dots quite yet.

“Yes,” He responds groggily, moving to allocate his footing onto the floor. He hears soft footsteps leading away from his door, he supposes his wakeup call is completed. Rummaging around his wrinkled jacket-pocket he pulls out his timepiece, the clock reveals that it is seven forty-five in the morning, he has two hours before his lessons begin. Letting out a soft groan, he places the watch away and pushes himself onto his feet. His knees creaking and cracking as he rises and stretches out his arms, signaling that his sleep must’ve been docile. Once again, his hand moves to his jacket as he recalls the telegram, now crumpled in the crevasses of his pocket. Doyoung pulls out the letter, walking to draw open the shades to allow more reading light in.

“Kim Dongyoung,” He mumbles out, reading over the first, short line as the sleep is rubbed from his eyes. ‘Mom and Dad are going to kill you if you continue to ignore them. For my sake, please write. - Donyun’

An audible scoff after he’s finished reading, he can almost hear his brother’s tone. Doyoung does care about his family, but his brother is as much on his parents’ side as he is against it, it is a giant rift in their already teetering relationship.

The telegram tossed onto the bed as Doyoung takes off his jacket, he’d been avoiding his familial issues for a while now and it seems as if they’re coming back to bite him in the ass. It wasn’t entirely his fault for doing so, his father was never a good listener and Doyoung’s ideas were always pushed asunder.

A few moments later he finds himself in a fresh set of clothes, ready to face the day. In truth, he is dreading his lessons but at least it will provide some relief from thinking about the drama happening back in Guri. His shoes drag along the wooden floor as he steps out of his room, locking it with the small gilded key behind him. Once in the hallway, his posture straightens as he begins to make his way towards the staircase that would lead him into the main lobby. The crushed emerald green velvet railing runs under his fingers as he descends, swiftly moving into his pockets once his feet land on the granite tiles splaying out an ocean of deep gray below him.

A thin beam of light shines in through the slit in the door of the entranceway, the windows attached to the door are covered in the same crushed velvet encasing the staircase via curtain. It feels like he is in a black hole with how dimly lit the interior of the building is. Eventually he makes his way through the lobby, past the plumes of smoke belonging to the lackadaisical men resting in overly decadent armchairs smoking out of their kiserus.

Doyoung shuffles his way to the front desk, a younger woman manning it instead of the elderly woman from the night prior. “Can I help you?” Voice sullen sounding, or maybe tired, Doyoung still isn’t awake enough yet to dissect it fully. 

Reaching into his pocket, pulling out the letter from Yuta with the name of the school, “I’m looking for this?”

The girl leans over the desk, it’s easy to tell the yukata she wears is inhibiting her from her full range of motion. Eyes reading the characters carefully, “Whoever wrote this has awful handwriting,” She mutters under her breath and Doyoung can’t understand it entirely. “It’s about a fifteen-minute walk that way,” Hand raising to motion southward, “When you see the sweets shop you should turn right, and it will be a few buildings down on your right.”

A nod of his head as he thinks he caught most of her instruction. He takes the paper back and tucks it away, thanking her as he makes for the door. The heat greets him with a gentle breeze, an inkling of warmth as to what’s in store for later in the day. Doyoung looks to the sky, to see where the sun is positioned so he is able to gauge the direction he was supposed to go. He sets off, pace not brisk or lax, merely at a stride to absorb what’s around him. It’s still early in the morning, plenty of time before the school day begins to wander the streets for a bit.

The street’s crowded, thinning in places where it seems more residential than not, it reminds him of home. Different feel, different language but it has a strange nostalgic aura about it. A sweetness hitting his nose as he approaches a small wooden building, he can’t read what it is but by the smells emanating from it he supposes that it’s the sweet shop the girl at the hotel had told him to turn at. Head tilting to peer down the street, it looks like nothing of note. As he stands there, presumably looking more confused than the average local, he feels a finger gently tap on his shoulder, “Are you lost?”

The voice comes as a surprise, turning Doyoung on his heels to come face to face with a stranger. Eyes wide as he looks the boy over, “A little bit... I’m looking for,” reaching into his pockets as the other stops him.

“Are you Kim Doyoung?” It seems as if everyone here knew of him before he could introduce himself. Before he can speak, a nod of affirmation rattles through him and the other smiles, “Yuta said that we’d be getting a new student in today.” Hand outstretching, Doyoung’s a little more practiced with the greeting now, “My name’s Lee Minhyung, I can show you the way to the school if you want?”

“It’s nice to meet you,” He gives a brief smile before another nod of his head, “I’d really appreciate it.”

[1909.05.05. San Francisco, CA] If anything were to be your downfall, it would be that of your impatience. You’d been sitting down with John’s mother, a woman you likened to your own family when the one back home was too involved in her own business, when the news broke. She was kind, offered you tea and as always had the little tin of biscuits you loved when you were a child sitting atop the tea tray, and then graciously divulged to you that her son was currently under police custody in Tokyo when the last you’d heard he’d been in Seoul. It would explain the absence of letters, or inability to write. Upon questioning her further you realize that maybe he was in far greater a circumstance than he left you off thinking.

It isn’t a matter of asking your parents to ship you off to a foreign land, it’s a matter of when and how soon you can leave. The money sitting in the dank vault of your late grandmother’s account had laid in wait for some sort of use, and she had wanted you to use it to fulfill some sort of errant dream of yours after her passing. You couldn’t find it within yourself to touch it, seeing it as too prized and too treasured a thing to take away from for some frivolous means. But your grandmother had liked John, the late one on your father’s side and not the vile one from your mother’s. She had treated him kindly whenever he had stopped by, sometimes even saying that she had wished him her grandson more than the monsters that were your cousins. You think that is reason enough to pull from your funds and splurge on a rescue mission to Japan. There were several people you’d known that had been there before, detailing it as a curious place but had neglected to tell you why; you don’t think of the language or cultural barriers separating you until you’re standing on a pier in San Francisco, waiting for your ship to dock.

The brine of the sea had never settled well in your stomach, salty on your lips and your cheeks as the coastal winds torrent towards you. Your ship doesn’t leave for a while yet but the queasiness felt on the decks of other ships returns to the pit of your stomach with a ghostlike vengeance. Perhaps it is anxiousness that riddles you instead of the fear of the sea.

 “Im-a-de-ga-wa Gai-ko-ku-jin Ni-hon-go Ga-kko” words falling from your lips in strange and oblong vowels and consonants that were almost completely incorrect. John had mentioned it in the letter to his mother, detailing that should she not hear from him for another month to contact the school and ask for the aid of a Mr. Yuta Nakamoto, a friend that he’d talked about in passing a few times. Apparently, he is a persuasive sort that would most definitely help him out should the occasion arise. Or so John had put it, you aren't really sure what to think of him.

John’s mother had insisted that it had been a mix up at customs but a bitter taste in your mouth and gut wrenching feeling in your stomach told you otherwise. He was a rebellious spirit and had probably said a few choice words that had gotten him in trouble, he had said his Japanese wasn’t great but he had learned a handful of colorful phrases from the aforementioned friend in University that could definitely be taken the wrong way by unknowing ears.

If the seas were steady and your luck good, maybe you can reach him within a month. If not, a week or so longer but you’re not sure if the anticipation of it all would let you, you might jump ship and hope to swim there faster should such a situation arise. Again, impatience being your downfall you can barely stand just watching the large metal steamship land at port and empty its passengers before you were to board.

The air is salty, the gentle spray of foam from the shore landing on your cheeks carefully as you look towards the ship that is to be your dwelling for the next portion of your life. Maybe you shouldn’t have come alone, taken a chaperone or a friend with you, but you were worried, too crunched for time to even entertain the thought as you packed your bags and told your mother you were taking the first train out of town. Your face still stings with the remembrance of the slap she’d given you in her frenzy, calling you something along the lines of a girl too thoughtless to know her role. By no means a heartfelt way to leave her, but your father had said to go, knowing a little more than your mother how much John means to you.

Your bags, brown leather and worn from the days when your father was still youthful enough to travel, lay at your feet as the thin paper ticket folds under your grasp. The chatter from the crowds around you mixing in with shouts of vendors and merchants lining the docks over the squalls of seagulls overhead. It’s all too much when your mind is racing with concern, not too much though to deter you from a gentle tapping on your shoulder.

“I think you dropped this?” Deep voice causing you to turn on your heels and face the perpetrator. When you do, you’re greeted with your passport being held out to you and a dimpled smile to go along with a rather dashing face.

“Oh,” Eyebrows raised as you reach out to gingerly take your own booklet from the other, you hadn’t realized its absence since you had thought it stowed away in the depths of your handbag. “Thank you—?” A pause as you wait for an introduction.

“Jaehyun, or Jeffery, whichever is easiest for you,” he nods and then you offer your name before he speaks again. “It was really no problem,” he continues with a smile as he looks down to the bags at your feet, “Did you just get back or are you going somewhere?”

The innate curiosity of the stranger mildly perplexing, “I’m off to Tokyo.”

“Tokyo,” his tone faltering as his hand drops down to his side after you begin stowing the passport back away in the small purse slung over your shoulder. “What business is taking you there?”

You pause as you think, it isn’t exactly family troubles or business matters that are taking you across the Pacific, stubbornness, and inability to take your friend for everything he said, more like it. “A friend settled there a little while ago,” a nod after a moment of silence, “it seems that he has gotten himself into a little trouble so I am going to make sure everything is alright.” Absentmindedly patting the bag as you can see the other mull it over in his head, “What about you? Are you heading in or out?”

“Out,” The answer is almost immediate, a shift on his feet as he straightens his posture. “I’m heading to Korea; I haven’t seen my family in almost seven years.”

“Seven years?” The most John had been gone was the three years he spent studying abroad; you can’t imagine someone gone from your life for that amount of time. “What were you here for?”

“I was staying with a group of missionaries as I went through college,” Hands in his pockets as he turns to the blue horizon overlooking the ocean you were both meant to traverse, “Now that I’ve graduated there’s nothing keeping me here.”

“What will you do when you’re-” you begin to speak when a loud whistle blares from the port your ship had saddled up to. Growing quiet as you begin to hear the general buzz of the people around you grow as they begin to shuffle towards the bridge that linked the port to the steamship. “I guess it’s time,” Reaching to pick up your bags, the leather against your palm somewhat soothing your nerves, “are you boarding too?”

A shake of his head, “My ship doesn’t leave until the afternoon.”

“Ah,” the sound leaving your lips as the thought of, perhaps, having someone to accompany you on your journey was swiftly diminished. “Well,” A small smile gracing your lips, “It was nice to meet you, Jaehyun.”

“It was nice to meet you too,” smile returning, “Safe travels.”

“And to you,” You nod as you begin to walk towards the front port, looking down to your hand to make sure that your ticket is still in hand.

[1909.05.16. 今出川外国人日本語学校、京都] “It’s not kūremashita it’s agemashita.” writing on a chalkboard, the dust from the small white stick clinging to the ends of Yuta’s jacket as he scrawls out the hiragana. “Unless you’re thankful that Doyoung’s parents give him money?” A smattering of laughter echoing the room as he tries to teach the handful of students how to show appreciativeness and the reporting of it to others. “Try one more time.” Doyoung sits back in his chair and looks at a pink-cheeked Jungwoo who leans over his notes in an attempt to reconcile his verbal mistake.

There’s another try from the dark-haired man, it sounds good enough to Doyoung but apparently, the structure of the sentence needs more tweaking, as seen by Yuta giving out a small sigh before walking to Jungwoo’s side. Doyoung takes this time to look around the small, confined classroom. It was in no means shabby, but one could tell this building wasn’t meant to be a school, Doyoung thinks Yuta told him that it had been some sort of distillery prior to the deed falling into his hands.

From eleven in the morning, when the sun slants in through the two glass windows of the classroom just enough to see the dust flying through the air, to noon is when Yuta teaches the native Korean speakers basic Japanese grammar and vocabulary. It’s only a handful of students; Minhyung, whom Doyoung had met on his first day, Jungwoo, who is somewhat timid but roaringly confident at times, Jeno, a kid on some sort of exchange trip who hopes to build up his language skills before his university classes start in the fall, and of course, Doyoung himself. It is an intimate learning experience, perhaps that’s why Doyoung now feels miles more confident in his speaking ability now than he did a month prior. Hell, he could now converse freely, albeit somewhat confined in his topics, to the front desk woman at the hotel he still resided at.

There’s a knock at the classroom door, pulling the attention from the room’s occupants away from their work and now to the dark wooden door that leads out into the small foyer where the next group of students is presumably waiting for their lecture. “The next class doesn’t start until noon,” Yuta looks to the clock placed atop his desk, “You’ve got five minutes.”

The door opens with a small creak, shadows from the entranceway spilling in as Doyoung catches a familiar face standing there to greet the class. “I was actually hoping to sit in?” A voice Doyoung hadn’t heard since his university days accompanied the creak of floorboards underfoot as Youngho strides into the room. “I think my Japanese is a little rusty.”

A small laugh from Yuta as he recognizes his friend, “There’s the jailrat.” Yuta returns to the front of the room to stand in front of the taller, no doubt feeling the confused gazes of the students behind him staring past him and to the stranger. “I’m surprised they let you out that early.”

“You know I’m persuasive,” Smile lingering on his lips as his head turns and he catches sight of Doyoung looking at him quizzically. He is still caught up on the word jailrat and the connotation behind it, when had Youngho been incarcerated?  

“Well,” Yuta turns on his heels to address the class, “Why don’t we end early today?”

Minhyung’s already leaned over his desk to get Jeno’s attention, Doyoung thinks he hears him say something about grabbing lunch at the nearby market, but his interest is far too deterred to be paying full attention to the younger men. The class packs their bags, Doyoung taking the longest time of all as he tucks away his books into his makeshift bag. In all earnest it was a bag he’d borrowed from the reception at the hotel, he’d neglected to bring or buy a suitable bag for school when he left home and arrived in Japan. The worn canvas of the thing almost wearing through at the bottom, he slings it over his shoulder and makes his way towards Youngho and Yuta, who look to be in deep conversation.

Youngho spots Doyoung approaching in his periphery, turning to greet him with a jovial smile. “I see you made it here in one piece?” His eyes looked tired, his face gaunter than the last time he’d seen his elder, but he wasn’t going to question, it was neither the time nor the place.

“Mostly,” Doyoung replies, “Yuta’s been a great teacher.”

“Thanks for the ego boost,” Yuta’s fingers dance on the lapels of his jacket in mock vanity, only then moving into his jacket pocket for a lighter and his infamous pack of Chūyū cigarettes. He offers one to Youngho and then to Doyoung, to which they accept, pulling their own lighters out of their pockets and lighting the butts of the sticks.

“God, these are shit,” a grit through Youngho’s teeth after he pulls in a drag. “They confiscated my Lucky Strike back in Tokyo.” Doyoung’s brow furrows as the other begins to speak again, “Let me know when you’ve got a free night. I’d love to grab dinner and catch up; it’s been a while.”

“I should have time this Saturday?” Doyoung thinks of his schedule, it’s not that he had massive time commitments here, but he was making a point to travel around the city in his free time. “If that works for you, of course.”

“It sounds doable,” A nod as Youngho moves his hand to tap his cigarette against an ashtray atop Yuta’s desk, the wood around the tray stained with the ashes of past smoking ventures. “Are you still staying at that hotel I told you about?”

Doyoung shifts on his feet, “I am, are you staying there too?”

“Yuta has offered me residence in his home until he is sick of me,” Youngho nods to the aforementioned, “I can meet you in the lobby around five then?”

“Sounds good,” Doyoung agrees, looking at the clock hanging on the wall, “I think Jungwoo wanted to go over the homework together so I should go and help him out.” It’s something of an excuse but Doyoung could feel as if there was some sort of pregnant secret looming over the heads of the other two.

“Would you mind sending Sicheng and the others in?” Yuta asks as Doyoung snubs out his cigarette in the ashtray and makes his way to the door.

Metal knob in hand, Doyoung turns and gives him a brief nod, “Of course.”

There’s something that doesn't sit right with Doyoung. Youngho had noted that he’d planned on staying in Hanseong for a while in the letter he’d sent to Doyoung a few weeks ago. It’s not as if plans can’t change or anything of the sort, yet he’d seemed vehement about it, detailing something about a someone he was going to visit before heading home to America. He isn’t one to question where questions aren’t due, if his friend was to stay in Kyoto for the time being, he’d be nothing more than appreciative of having a familiar face around.

[1909.05.18. 今出川ホテル、京都] When Doyoung ascends the staircase, hands tucked in his jacket pockets, he can immediately tell that Youngho sits in one of the large armchairs by the hotel’s unused fireplace in the lobby. Although his face is obscured by the wings, with the way his hand taps in rhythm with the song wafting through the air, the excitedness of the movements are a telling sign that it is his friend. 

A glance to the victrola that lies in the corner of the room, the audio scratchy and soft as it emits a tune that Doyoung does not know. He strides over to the plush chair, glancing down to its occupant before speaking. 

“Good afternoon,” the words escape him and Youngho turns to him with a jump and widened eyes before he realizes who it is. 

“Dongyoung!” Youngho smiles from the armchair, rising to his feet to greet the other with a quick embrace, “Long time no see.”

“Actually I go by Doyoung now,” he nods awkwardly as Youngho steps back from him, his hand rising to scratch the back of his head, “helps me forget myself for a bit.”

“Still having family issues?” Youngho’s brow furrows as they break their embrace, “I thought you wrote that you had sorted that mess out?”

“More or less,” another awkward smile, “But enough about me— I thought you were supposed to be in Hanseong?”

“Change of plans, there was someone I was meant to meet in Tokyo, but they left during the time while I was imprisoned.”

“Yuta mentioned something like that when you first came in, what happened?” Youngho’s holds out his hand, motioning to the door, as Doyoung questions. The latter begins to walk forward, towards the entrance of the hotel as his friend trails behind him, “Were you really taken into custody?”

“They thought I had ties with Homer Hulbert,” A laugh as the two make their way out the front door, trapezing down the steps and onto the sidewalk, “Which is correct, but they had no grounds to imprison me on the idea that I know him alone or had one of his books in my possession.”

“Hulbert— is he the one that—?” 

“The very same,” he nods, “But that is more than contrived at this point, let me know how you are. It sounds like things are the same with your family the last I saw you.”

“If things were okay then I would have stayed home,” A huff of heated breath leaving him in something of a passive laugh. “My father is still trying to set me up with that girl, the past runs deep, I suppose.”

“I cannot agree with you more,” Youngho agrees with a nod, “Have you even met her yet?”

“The last time I saw Seungwon was when I was thirteen, even if I saw her I cannot say I could point her out in a crowd if you asked me to.” Doyoung's hands find purchase in his pocket, hidden away from the sunlight that falls onto his head and burns the back of his neck as Youngho and he walk further down the street, through the masses of people.

The older nods solemnly, almost as if he understands the situation, "I have a friend who's nearly in a similar situation as you. Although her parents haven't found her a match or approved of anyone she's liked, I'd say her feelings mirror your own."

"Is that right?" Doyoung questions rhetorically as Youngho digs through his jacket pocket for a pack of cigarettes, "Is that the girl who you spoke so much about during our classes together?"

Youngho sputters, his hands failing to ignite his lighter at Doyoung's words, a cigarette dangling from his lips, "Did I really talk about her that much?"

"So much so I feel like I know her," Doyoung smiles and shakes his head, a familiar pang hitting his stomach once he looks back to the street before them. "Do you want to grab something to eat? I don't think I've eaten since lunchtime yesterday."

"Too busy studying?"

"Something like that..." In actuality, he'd received yet another telegram, this time from his mother, scolding him for staying away again.

"You always were more studious than me," the other nods and looks to a small restaurant they begin to pass on their left before stopping in his tracks, "What about this place?"

"Soba?" The intensity of the sun once again baring down above him as he looks to the sign on the door, he nods quickly, "Sounds great."

The pair make their way inside, settling down at a small table in the back corner of the shop as they wait for their food to arrive. Doyoung moves his hand to unbutton a few fastens from the front of his jacket to allow some of the shop's cooler air to hit him. His hands then move to rest atop the table, his long and slender fingers tapping as Youngho smokes the last of his cigarette, snubbing it out on the ashtray settled at the end of the table.

"How's your family doing? Is your father's business going well? I saw a few copies when I was in Hanseong.” Lackadaisical in question, Doyoung can hear something edging behind his friend’s tone that tinges upon suspicion. 

“It’s going well,” a silent nod as a server comes to their table, the two order quickly, leaving little room for questions before Doyoung asks, “What about your family?”

“Willfully ignorant as ever,” Youngho frowns, shifting in his seat. It looks as if bitter words reside on his tongue but he swallows them down with a redemption of a smile. 

“About what?” Doyoung pauses as he reaches for the pot of tea the server had brought on her arrival, his hand hovering over the handle. 

“Everything.” Youngho’s shoulders shrug as Doyoung eventually pours himself and his friend a cup of tea. “Korean politics, American politics, hell- even the politics of their own inner circle. I refuse to believe they aren’t intelligent, they refuse to accept anything that isn’t affecting them personally.” 

“I see…” He winds off his acknowledgement with the abating of his words, woefully aware that his parents are of the same mindset. His own father being the worst of all of them, claiming that any interaction or deals with unsavory business men were for the benefit of the family, not to the detriment. 

“My father’s own brother died in ‘07 and he seemed unfazed by it at all,” Youngho huffs out, “At the hands of the Imperial Army, and yet, still, he said nothing.” 

Doyoung’s eyes widen and he raises a finger to his lips as if to tell the older to lower his voice, unknowing if anyone within the shop understands Korean. “Even if he did, there would be nothing your father could have done about it. Not only is he in America, he holds no authority in Joseon.” 

“No one wanting to do a damn holds any authority in Joseon anymore, you know better than me what the yangban have gone through, what everyone’s gone through.” Youngho leans in closer to Doyoung, ceding as he lowers his tone, “It may be easier said than done but I believe we have the ability to change that.” 

“How would-” Doyoung begins but is interrupted when the server comes back with their food, carefully setting each dish atop the table before retreating back into the depths of the kitchen. “How could ‘we’ possibly do that?” 

“There are ways, I know there are. I just need time to think of a proper solution,” Youngho nods as he reaches for his chopsticks, eager to sate his own hunger that had risen during their conversation. “If you’re interested I’ll tell you more when I have an idea.”

[1909.05.27. 今出川外国人日本語学校、京都] Doyoung’s mind doesn't return to that conversation with Youngho until a Wednesday afternoon about a week later. The sun begins to sink down in the sky as Youngho, Minhyung and himself were cleaning off some blackboard tablets in the main room of the school. Yuta was busy teaching a class and Doyoung’s fingers were pruned from what felt like endless scrubbing with a rag and vinegar ridden water.

“You know,” Youngho speaks up after what feels like an eternity of silence, brushing his hands on his pants after setting down a board onto the floor below. “I think we can really change something here.” His shoes quickly tapping on the floor in some sort of anxious apprehension, “Yuta and I have been talking and the resistance effort in Korea seems to be strengthening again.”

“What are you implying?” Doyoung asks, confused at the sudden statement. His brow wet with perspiration, even having the windows cracked open doesn't allow for much wind to travel throughout the building.

“I am saying that we can try and do something to change the… trouble happening back home,” Youngho shows no anger but a passion resides in his voice that remains hard to mask. “Do something before something more is done to us.”

“That is…” Minhyung begins, looking up to Youngho from his task of drying off the boards.

“Idealistic?” Doyoung interjects, biting his lower lip before continuing, “Youngho you do realize if someone hears you talking about that you’ll get thrown in prison again?”

Eyes trailing around the space as if he hadn’t already known they were alone, “Every one of us are sitting ducks. You know that,” a point to Minhyung and then a point to Doyoung, “and you know that. Is fighting back against that such a bad thing?”

“How do you propose we do that? Drop everything now, hop on a ship back to Korea and just roam the countryside looking for this supposed group?” Blood rushing to his ears as it sounds like waves crashing on a beach’s shore. 

“Not at all,” A shake of his head. “There are ways of resisting that do not rely on fighting, think peaceful, diplomatic.”

A nervous laugh escapes Doyoung, it’s involuntary but he can’t help it. “Suh Youngho I knew you were insane, but this is another level.”

“I— uh— I’m going to get some chalk refills from the storage room,” Minhyung excuses himself from the conversation, a glance at him as he walks away tells Doyoung that he doesn’t know how to interact with the situation and was looking for an easy escape.

“Doyoung if you would just listen to me and get that stupid doubt out of your head you might just be able to make some sense of it all.” A sigh from Youngho as he stands, reaching into his jacket to rummage around for a pack of cigarettes. “Can I bum one off of you?”

Cheek bitten as he grabs his pack out of his pocket and tosses it to the other, “Do you have any idea what they would do to my family if they knew we were having this conversation? Your family and Minhyung’s are across the world and have no worries about what they say or do. The other student’s and mine are not privileged with that.” Cigarette carton tossed back, the sound of a lighter igniting and the smell of smoke pervading through the air as he tucks the pack away into his pocket.

Youngho thinks, an exhalation of smoke through troubled lungs as his outward breath intermingles with the dust thick in the air. It dissipates without a sound, quietly invading the space as Doyoung is overcome with a sense of trepidation from the other, he picks his words meticulously, trying to string them together as carefully as possible, “This is not just about you or me or my family or yours. It is the fate of a nation on the line, is that so hard to understand?”

It causes the younger pause for a moment, his hand falling to his pocket, hovering there before he pulls on the fabric as if he’d meant to straighten the coat all along. His throat clears, thinking of his parents and brother he’d left behind in Guri, what any actions that Youngho’s ideals cause may entail for them. Even if he was trying to get away from his obligations back home, he’d never want to intentionally put them in any sort of danger. 

Doyoung opens his mouth to speak, before catching a bright glimpse of color passing by one of the front windows, followed by the school door opening with a large slam against the wall. Silhouette standing in the setting sun for a moment, not looking at all familiar to Doyoung. An equally confusing circumstance when the words, “John Suh,” spill from your lips.  It’s a confounded expression that crosses your face, standing in the front door of the school as the taller leans leisurely back against one of the walls. 

Cigarette in hand, Youngho turns at the call of his name, nearly falling over in surprise to see you standing there. No, not surprise- bewilderment, shock or some form of abject horror as you take a few long strides to stand in front of him. It’s as if a child’s been caught by his mother and Doyoung is playing witness to it all.

Doyoung watches the scene in a state likened to childlike curiosity, he understands not one word that falls from either of your or Youngho’s lips, but he can tell you’re angry and him beyond apologetic. Hand movements gesticulating, he catches the words ‘Seoul’ and ‘Tokyo’ at some point as you huff something out under your breath. Voices raising, Doyoung’s surprised Yuta hasn’t come out to tell them to be quiet, but if he were in Yuta’s shoes he wouldn’t as you sounded royally pissed. When you turn on your heels Doyoung looks to Youngho for some sort of explanation, but his gaze is solely locked on you leaving.

“Shouldn’t you chase after her?” Minhyung asks, the two others not realizing he had returned, box of chalk in hand as the three men watch you storm out into the crowded streets.

“She needs to calm down before I talk to her again or she might really kill me.” Youngho sighs, bringing the cigarette to his lips before taking in a long drag. A hand runs through his hair as it looks as if all of the blood had drained from his face upon your arrival.

“Is that the friend you mentioned a while ago? You showed us a picture I think.” Doyoung questions, somewhat relieved at your intrusion into their previous conversation.

“It is,” the answer not coming from Youngho, but from Minhyung. “And by the sound of it she’s ready to pack you into her suitcase and take you on the next boat home.” Head nodding as he looks to the space you once occupied, “You really didn’t tell her you were coming here?”

“You understood that?” Smoke leaving him he turns to the younger, “You didn’t tell me you speak English.”

“It never really came up.” Shoulders shrugging as he sets the box of chalk he’d been fiddling with down onto a nearby chair. “And I am from Canada, after all.”

“Son of a bitch, Yuta told me you were from Hanseong.” Youngho muses, tossing the cigarette from his hand and smothering it with his shoe. “But yeah, that’s her. I may have neglected to mention that but I was a little held up,” he looks confused as he pushes himself off the wall and makes his way to the door, peering out in the street. “I just don’t know how in the hell she found me.”

“She probably used the wrath of God to do it,” Minhyung suggests, “That’s how my mom says she knows everything I’ve ever done wrong.”

“Wouldn’t put it past her,” A shake of his head as Youngho turns to Doyoung. “She said she’s staying at the hotel you’re in. Would you mind meeting up with me tomorrow morning in the lobby to talk some sense into her and get her to go back home?”

“I don’t even know her though?” Hands dried on a nearby towel, Doyoung stands and reaches for the bucket of now dirty water. He walks past Youngho and into the street to dump its contents out, “I don’t even speak that much English.” 

“It’s more of moral support than anything,” Youngho steps aside to let Doyoung back in, “I wasn’t joking: she might actually kill me if she gets the chance.”

“Fine,” Doyoung sighs, walking to pick up his bag from the corner of the room. His hands smell of vinegar and he rubs his still pruned fingertips together as he thinks of what the next morning would hold. “You owe me, though.”

“You’re a lifesaver,” Youngho breathes a sigh of relief as Doyoung makes his way to the front door once again, this time with the intent of leaving. “Nine work for you?”

“Nine works for me.” A nod as he walks down the two steps and onto the dirt road below, the indentations from your shoes leading off down the almost empty road. He glances back to Youngho with a, “See you tomorrow,” and then to Minhyung with a question of “Do we have a quiz on Friday?” before waving it off and beginning his trek back home.

The night descends on Kyoto quietly and without noise, the stores closing long after the sun has fallen behind the western mountains in Arashiyama, lanterns aligning the street as Doyoung shuffles his way to the hotel. It’s quiet, the city typically is at this time of night, he’s learned over the course of his stay in the ancient former capital.

Before he goes inside, he stands outside of the entrance, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat as he stares up at the night sky blooming with stars. His bag lays at his feet, more worn now than it had been on the first day of class. Crumpled in his fists, buried away into the depths of his coat lies a letter, the ink that had adorned it far too smudged and water damaged to read now. Doyoung hadn’t meant to ‘accidentally’ drop it into a puddle when it had arrived that morning, so the contents lie unknown. However, on the corner of the envelope, a blurred name, ‘Seungwon’ stays virtually untouched as if to remind him of former obligations. 

It’s as if there’s a clock ticking in his chest, counting down to a day, a time, when he’s meant to take up the holstered responsibility of his family and place it onto his own shoulders. A burden not yet ready to bear, he sighs out into the balmy night and makes his way inside of the hotel. 

[1909.05.27. 今出川、京都] Doyoung wakes to the knocking on his door, his head burrowing into the tangled blankets and pillows from a restless night’s sleep. It takes a moment for him to find himself, writhing around the sheets before pulling himself out of his own stupor. Feet hitting the floor with a dull thud, he drags his lethargic body to the small bathroom, running his hands under the cool water of the faucet before splashing some onto his face to wake himself further. He meets his own gaze in the reflection, tired eyes and the slightest shadow of stubble beginning to darken on his jaw and upper lip. He’d have to visit the barber at some point in the coming days before he becomes totally unkempt.

He dresses himself in casual attire, a white linen button up, the most breathable thing he’d wear today, before he dons the dark blue of his three piece suit, a light gray and black one still residing in his wardrobe. He notices the threadings are nearly worn as he buttons the bottom half of his jacket, the things threatening to fall off should he exert too much force. The soles of his shoes too lie in disarray, wearing thin from endless wandering the streets of Kyoto after his classes have finished. It’s not that he’s searching for anything in particular, maybe a solution to his current situation. But he can’t find that at a merchant’s stall.

The route to the dining hall located on the first floor is a path easily tread, remembered in his first few days of arriving in Kyoto. The carpeted floors giving way to a wooden expanse the further he delves into the hotel, the scents of varying breakfast foods calling out to his aching stomach. 

His hands keep busy with the morning paper, perhaps yesterday’s or the day prior to that one. It takes a while for the Korean post to arrive in Kyoto, the postage system seems to take years for important things to arrive, yet the letters from home seem to be weekly. A sigh as he sets down the news, reaching out for the carafe of coffee situated some ways away from where he’s seated. He begins to pour himself a cup of coffee, only pausing when he catches something out the corner of his eye. 

A few darkened drips from the coffee pot settle into the white linen of the dining room tablecloth as he spots you stalking towards him. His eyes go wide and his breath hitches when your gaze narrows on him, almost causing him to choke on coffee he’d just brought to his lips.

The way you saunter over to his table reminds him of his mother when she’d be out to scold either him or his brother. Doyoung doesn’t know you but can easily tell that you’re not a force to be reckoned with. 

“Where’s John?” You ask, standing before him, arms crossing over your chest as you look down at him expectantly. “You were one of the men with him yesterday, right?”

“What?” Doyoung asks, trying to make some sense of what you were saying. When he was a young boy, his parents had allowed him to take English lessons with a handful of the Christian missionaries that had drifted through Guri, but seeing as he understands nothing of what you just said, it’s obvious he hadn’t retained much, if any, of his vocabulary. “What are you looking for?” He sees no glimmer of understanding in your eyes as your brow furrows, probably trying to decipher what he’d just said. “Youngho? Are you looking for Youngho?” It’s the common connection the two of you seem to have, it’s his best bet on trying to figure out what you want. 

You nod at the name, recalling that his mother shouts that at him whenever he’s angry. “Where is he?” If you’d taken up John on any of his invitational Korean lessons, you may have had much better luck in this situation. But you’d gone off to learn French because you were enamored with one of your classmates at the time, you could almost hit yourself seeing where it’s gotten you. 

“Whe-” Doyoung pauses, lips pursing together as he thinks of the word. Youngho was meant to be in the lobby when she came downstairs, but it’s now clear he’s nowhere to be found. 

 “School.” It’s one of the words he can pull from memory. “He’s probably at the school,” he says again and gestures in the general direction of Yuta’s academy. 

“The school- Imadegawa Gaikokujin Nihongo Gakko?” You’ve said the name of the institute hundreds of times to yourself that you think it’s the only Japanese you know. Not that you fully understand what it means, just knowing that it’s the name of the place. 

Doyoung nods, somewhat surprised that you know the name. 

“Can you take me?” The question falls out quickly and you see he’s confused, so you repeat it again slowly in hopes that he comprehends it. It seems that he does, reaching for his coffee and finishing the cup before rising to his feet, motioning for you to follow him as he heads towards the exit.

The walk to the school is painfully awkward, drenched in a silence that neither of you want to address. Both of you are not confident enough in the other’s mother tongue to make small talk as the two of you begin to walk the streets. 

“Hey!” Doyoung hears Minhyung call out as the schoolhouse nears, “Took you long enough, you’re almost late.” When the younger sees that you’re accompanying him he gives you a small wave, “You’re Youngho’s friend, right?” 

“I am,” You say after a moment, not having expected to hear English today. But with the company that John keeps, you can’t be too surprised at anything now. “Do you know where he is?”

“No, he’s not here yet,” he shakes his head and turns to Doyoung, “Didn’t Youngho say that you’d meet him at the hotel?”

“He did,” Doyoung’s lips curve into a frown as the three of you make your way into the school. “She’s been interrogating me about him, I think. Although I can barely understand what she’s saying.”

Minhyung laughs at the older and then turns back to you, “My name’s Minhyung, but you can call me Mark if that’s easier for you.” His demeanor has a lightness to it that descends onto you as something of a godsend. It’s an ease that you’d probably find with John if he were here and you aren't still angry at him. 

“It’s nice to meet you Minhyung,” you offer him a smile before your eyes go wide and you turn to your partner, “I uhm, I never asked him what his name is.”

“Doyoung,” Minhyung answers, another chortle leaving him and the elder looks confused as to why his name’s just been called out. “What’s your name?”

You respond quickly, glancing over your shoulder to see if John is on his way in, to your misfortune, he isn’t. Minhyung quickly introduces you to Doyoung, probably so he has a gist of who you are. It’s hard to tell if John’s said anything about you to these men, but it doesn’t look as if he’s said much.

“We’ve got class soon,” Minhyung’s voice pulls you from your search and you turn back to him, “I’m sure Yuta would let you sit in on the class if you wanted to, although I’m not too sure that you’ll understand much, I don’t even get all of it.”

“It’s alright,” you shake your head at him, “I’ll just wait out here for Joh- Youngho.”

The man in question strolls into the school around thirty minutes later, the local paper tucked under his arm as his brow raises in surprise to see you, “I thought I said I’d meet you at the hotel.”

“I got impatient,” a frown as your gaze flickers over to him. “Jail John? Jail?” You fume, storming over to the taller, “Do you have any idea how worried I was, how worried your mother was? God- If you don’t write to her today and tell her that you’re okay, I'm stuffing you in my suitcase and taking you back with me.”

He laughs heartily, despite you glaring him down, “I wrote to her as soon as I got out. I wrote to you, too, but it doesn’t seem like you got the message.” A few more chuckles escape him as he holds his arms out, “I missed you.”

You sigh, falling into his embrace, “I missed you too.” After a moment you pull away, stepping back from him, “I’m glad to see that you’re okay, but if you ever do something like this again-”

“I’ve missed your hollow threats,” John smiles and glances around the school’s empty halls, “Do you want to get out of here for a while? I know a good cafe nearby.” 

“Don’t you have class?” You question with a tilt of your head, the gentle murmurs from the classroom some ways away drifting out into the hall. “Minhyung said that Doyoung was already late, I wouldn’t want to stop you from your lesson.”

“I’m not a student,” John shakes his head, “I’m just… in town for a while and Yuta’s putting up with me for a bit.” He flashes you a grin before you have a chance to ask him exactly what he means by that, “Now come on before they run out.”

The two of you walk out into the dense heat of August, passing by a group of students as you do so. John recognizes some of them whereas you don’t, him saying something to them that elicits a laugh or two before you’re both back on your way to the city center. 

“Why were you arrested?” You can’t stop yourself from asking the question as you turn onto the main road from the alley in which the school is situated. There are only a handful of people perusing the streets, but none look interested in what you’d just said. “It wasn’t serious, right?”

“Of course not,” he reassures you and looks to a few buildings ahead, “We’re almost there.” John walks in silence for a moment, his fingers rubbing against his palm as he looks back to you, “I lost my passport, can you believe it?” You recall when you were leaving San Francisco and you had lost your own passport, if it hadn’t been for the man that found it for you, you’re not sure where you’d be.

“Well, actually, I didn’t lose it, it fell between the pages of one of the books that I bought, which reminds me- I have a few for you, I wrote you about them, just remember to tell me to give them to you,” John says quickly as you approach the building he’d been eyeing earlier, walking into the opened door confidently and heading to the nearest open table. 

You can tell he’s lying. You’ve only known him since you were children and he’s the closest person to you, you know almost every little quirk about him. And one of the first things you’d learned was that he talks quickly when he’s not being truthful. Yet, you don’t question him on it, seeing as you’d just calmed the tension between you, you don’t want to ignite it for the second time today. So, you just nod and follow him inside.

More oft than not, you hide your feelings behind a veneer of snark, of a bite that seems to sting but never lasts. It’s a sham way to hold yourself together, for if you let the dread of reality seep into your veins any longer than you allow it, you may just become the person you’re trying to hide. A vulnerable being who longs for the company of others but finds errant ways to keep them close instead of just outright saying it. 

John offers out a seat to you and you sit, hands folding neatly atop the tabletop as you look to the menu scrawled onto a chalkboard near the cafe’s counter. You’re not sure why you do, the mix of Japanese alphabets is still foreign to you.

“I’ll go grab something, just wait here,” he says, noticing your confusion, still standing before he turns on his heels and strides over to the counter. You turn away before he begins to speak to the barista, looking out of the glass window at the front of the shop, 

“How long were you planning on staying in Japan?” John’s voice stirs you some time later, the gentle sound of two cups being placed on the table making you turn in his direction as he sits down across from you. 

“As long as it took me to find you.” You smile at him, reaching out for the small cup, “I guess that means I can pack my bags and leave now.” The smile placated on your lips is joking, but you hold a sincerity in your gaze as if to ask him if that’s what you should do next. He was the entire reason you were here, to find him, to make sure that he was okay and to bring him home if you could. 

John’s finger traces the rim of his own coffee cup, gently lifting after a moment to tap along the surface of the tabletop. He hums, low and obstinate, as if to ponder the significance of you being here. 

“I guess you could,” a slow nod of his head, “You know, you were never obligated to chase me half-way across the world to try and get me back home. I’ve been detained before-”

“You have?” eyes widening as you look from your coffee to meet his eyes, “You’ve never mentioned that.”

“I’ve been detained before but,” he continues, gaze hardening at you as you interrupt him, “I really thought I had lost my papers so I sent my mom a letter saying I may need my official documents back home to get me out of the mess I found myself in. This was a little more serious than the others.”

“What happened the other times?”

“Well, in London they stopped me for taking too much tea out of the country, I guess they thought I’d run them dry of it,” a teasing smile twinges on the corners of his lips, “and in Cairo, I tried to sneak off with a few things from Cleopatra’s tomb.”

“You know,” you lean back in your chair, a snide frown on your lips, “lying less might help you out in the future.”

John laughs, reaching into his jacket pocket to procure his pack of smokes, it isn’t until he’s got a lit cigarette dangling from his lips that he speaks again, “Where’s the fun in that?”

He suddenly gasps, the smoke he’d been inhaling filtering into his lungs and causing him to sputter for a moment. You reach for and hand him his cup of coffee  so he doesn’t choke on himself. After a moment of hitting his chest and extinguishing his cigarette into the ashtray on the corner of the table, he speaks up, “You didn’t use your grandmother’s money to get you here, did you?”

“Well, technically it isn’t hers anymore,” a guilty exhalation of a chuckle, “but yes, I did.”

“Oh,” He’s crestfallen in the most faux of ways, “You said you’d take me to Italy with that.” It’s a joke, but you can see his concern wavering behind the sincerity of his words. 

Your hand falls to run over the textured brocades of your dress, a wavering smile delicately tugging at the corners of your lips, “I was just worried about you.”

“And I appreciate that, I really do,” brow softening as he reaches for his coffee, voice still a bit hoarse from his earlier choking. “But you don’t need to throw everything you have away for me, I know the trip probably wasn’t cheap.” 

John’s not wrong. It had taken quite a large portion from your deceased grandmother’s account to get you here, and the subsequent stay in the country. 

“I had to make sure you were okay,” you shrug your shoulders with a coy smile, reaching out to pick up your teacup and bring it to your lips. It’s then you realize something, setting the cup back down and looking around the shop, eyes wide.

“What is it?” John questions, noticing your shift in demeanor. 

“I haven’t ever been abroad before, I thought maybe I’d travel to Paris or London, Milan, even… Never…” A small hum as you turn to look back at him, “Never to Kyoto.”

“I’d have loved for you to see Seoul,” John smiles softly, his fingers tapping along the sides of the cup, “It’s beautiful this time of year.”

“You make it sound as if it’s impossible to go,” a tilt of your head. John had told you stories from his time studying abroad, of the antics he and his friends would get up to and of the history he’d learned. 

“It would be a little difficult to go back right now,” the smile lingering on his lips looks sad now, almost wistful in a way, “I’m sure we could go in the future if you want to.”  

“I’d love to,” you nod, glancing out of the window once more to watch the passersby walk up and down the crowded street.

[diteach]

A friend sent me a picture of his tv that showed a list of shows bc apparently General Conference was being broadcasted for whatever reason? And I was like "haha lemme just send him a 'and you didn't watch it? smh'" and he said!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! "I actually saw a bit" and obvs I was like ":0 well who was speaking? The German one?" and he's like "no the one I saw kinda looked Amish" and I was like "A M I S H?" and he..................................I'm copy-pasting this bc WHAT did he mean by "Like he would have fit the role of the elder in one of your Jane Austin biopics"?????????????????????????????

So anyway at this point I'm too curious so I take a screenshot of all the talks on Gospel Library and I'm like "do you recognize him" and he goes "Sisters in Zion!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

He...............he meant President Eyring..........

Fellas he said President Eyring looks Amish how are we feeling about that

[wintersongstress]

Hi Isabell! What are some of your absolute favorite books that you've read that causes you to still think about them to this day, or you just couldn't put down when reading because it was so good? Any genre is fine! (ordering books, need some recommendations lol) thank you in advance!☺

So I typed up a lengthy answer to this and my webpage crashed before I could post it so I have to retype everything from memory 🙃. It was mostly rambles anyway but basically: I’m not as avid of a reader as I used to be (reading 15 books a month or so) but I’ve considerably gotten back to reading—at least 3 books a month. My tastes has also changed (compliments of depression). For instance I’m not big into fantasy anymore because getting invested in a new world on top of new characters is a lot to ask me to care about. Lol. 

Historical fiction is what I read now. I find there’s a lot we can still learn from reading about the past and it’s a place I like to escape to. It’s a world familiar yet unknown to me. So here are some titles that I think reluctant readers could pick up and rediscover the joys of reading 🤗 

The Fountains of Silence by Ruta Sepetys

“Drawn back to his mother’s homeland by the utopian promises of the Franco regime in 1957 Madrid, the photographer son of an oil tycoon bonds with a girl who raises his awareness about the lingering shadows of the Spanish Civil War.”

This book. I can’t possibly say one tenth of what I actually want to because it’s so indescribably good. When I finished it, the magic of reading was reawakened in my heart because I was so in love and it touched me profoundly. It’s about the Franco regime—something I knew nothing about—and follows Daniel, a boy who doesn’t want to take up his father’s mantle as an oil tycoon and instead wants to pursue photojournalism. In that way, he’s a character that’s sensitive and perceptive, always looking at the world through his camera lens. He goes to Spain for a summer and meets Ana, a worker at his hotel, and a girl from an entirely different world from his. Through her, his eyes are opened to the brutal repression of the Spanish people during this period and he begins to see the haunting stories behind every photo he takes. 

Told in short chapters and different points of view, this book is easy to get through. Snapshots of different lives and circumstances form a faithful portrait of Spain—you can tell the author really did her research. The writing is incredible. Trying to come up with eloquent sentences to capture the whole range of my bursting thoughts about this book is futile. The romance is beautiful, angst-ridden, poignant and heart-wrenching, but the ending will heal your soul and leave you adrift, floating away like the last of the pages and staying with you for long after the end. Please read it. 

Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë

“In early nineteenth-century England, an orphaned young woman accepts employment as a governess and soon finds herself in love with her employer who has a terrible secret.”

A book many people are forced to read in high school, I feel like Jane Eyre has to be read at a certain stage of your life in able to be fully appreciated. It’s one of the easiest classics to read, with clear, beautiful writing that paints the loveliest of pictures and enchants me with the poetry of it. It swept me away; there was nowhere I would rather be, nothing I would rather be doing, than getting lost in these pages. I didn’t want to finish. Brontë’s character development and growth leaves a lot to envy, and there’s this gothic ambience to the story that I love. And let me just say, the ending is so tearfully beautiful and soul-repairing. It’s such a well constructed story with clever symmetry. I know it will be one I’ll be rereading for years to come. 

Chiltern Classics publishes gorgeous editions of classic novels; I highly recommend their copy because, trust me, you’ll spend lots of time admiring this one 😊

Vengeance Road (duology) by Erin Bowman

"When her father is killed by the notorious Rose Riders for a mysterious journal that reveals the secret location of a gold mine, Kate Thompson disguises herself as a man and takes to the gritty plains looking for answers—and justice.”

I’m a huge fan of westerns, which I’m sure comes as a surprise to nobody, and this is the perfect one. It has everything I want from the genre. Revenge plot? ✓ High stakes poker games? ✓ A quest for lost gold? ✓ Strong female lead? ✓ Heart-throbbing cowboy romance? ✓ 

Kate is a fantastic protagonist I enjoyed to see through the eyes of. I love how the novel is narrated in her southwestern drawl, it really solidified the western tone and setting. For me, a book needs two things to be excellent: good characters and a good ending. This one delivers on its exciting premise; there’s so many action-packed and exhilarating scenes. It’s truly a blast to read and I loved Jesse. Him and Kate are one of my favorite fictional couples and they make this book great on their own.  

Stalking Jack the Ripper (Series) by Kerri Maniscalco

“ A gothic murder mystery set in gritty Victorian-era London, where an intrepid society girl finds herself embroiled in the investigation of a serial killer known as Jack the Ripper.”

These books are too much fun for me to scrutinize. If you’re into true crime, pick this one up. Even if you’re not, there’s a lot to love here. Audrey aspires to be a forensic scientist in a time where women were expected to care only for more feminine pursuits and become dependent on their husbands. In every book she’s after a different killer, alongside her mortician uncle’s assistant Thomas (whose charm is impossible to resist). The two make quite a pair as they descend into the grimy streets of London and the musty underground tunnels of Dracula’s castle. With great characters, these are just fun to read and the mystery aspect keeps you engaged all the way to the end. I recommend these to just about anybody. 

I’m tired and I’ve worked all week so I’m sorry if this comes off as monotonous. I really do love talking about my favorite books! I hope some of these sound interesting to you 😘