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Illustrations by Sophie Margolin for Charlotte Brontë's Jane Eyre.

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this is my comfort character, he makes me happy *points to the most mentally ill dude ever*

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oh to be desired and simped for like a brown sister in a talia hibbert book

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YOU ARE MADE OF DREAMS AND THIS WORLD IS NOT FOR YOU.

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SO IT'S LIKE SAFE AS LIFE AND MAYBE I DREAMT YOU DREAM ME THE WORLD AND HE FELT KNOWN THE OCEAN BURNED AND HE WAS STUPID ABOUT ADAM AND RONAN'S SECOND SECRET HE THREW ME OUT THE WINDOW AND NOW THAT SHE HAD THIS KIND SHE DIDN'T WANT THE OTHER AND I'LL BE PROUD FOR YOU AND FRIENDSHIP OF THE UNSHAKEABLE KIND WE INSTEAD OF YOU AND ME THEY ALLOWED NO ONE ELSE TO BE COMFORTABLE WITH THEM SHE SAW HIS EYES DART TO GANSEY NOW WE NEVER SPEAK OF IT AGAIN AND HE WOULD TAKE THEM ANYWHERE WITH HIM HE WAS A KING AND SHE WAS A LITTLE IN LOVE WITH ALL OF THEM. HER RAVEN BOYS.

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You’re always the car crash ronan you’re always the car crash ronan you’re always the car crash ronan you’re always the car crash ronan you’re always the car crash ronan you’re always the car crash ronan you’re always the car crash ronan you’re always the car crash ronan you’re always the car crash ronan you’re always the car cr

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gansey “i could fix him” to ronan and adam vs ronan and adam’s “i could make him worse” to gansey

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the poppy war, r.f. kuang

when man begins to think that he is responsible for writing the script of the world, he forgets the forces that dream up our reality.

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we need more books about queer ppl who are violent and unhinged

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@storyseekers event 17: art in books — the atlas six

The day she woke up and realized she could make her own world would be a dangerous one.

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i’m thinking about adam and noah and how we definitely should have gotten this scene at the end of the raven boys:

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the mirror visitor by christelle dabos

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gods with a little g by tupelo hassman

Dickheads forever.

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don't hate me for this tho, i'm just wondering where black matthew and declan is. i never see them.

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reblog and put in the tags the last book you read, the book you’re currently reading and the next book on your list

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maybe love was superstition, a prayer we said to keep the truth of loneliness at bay. i tilted my head back. the stars looked like they were close together, when really they were millions of miles apart. in the end, maybe love just meant longing for something impossibly bright and forever out of reach.