#Cather

[cajon-desastre]

#SamCait #the hard life of shippers #Twitter #Cather

[annthusflower]

I love Cath and Levi so much

#fangirl #reading #Cather #Levi #fangirlmanga

[blueraimo]

#manga #fangirl #levi #cather #mangacaps #edits #black and white #blueraimo

[latinmusa]

My favorite scene from Vol. 2 so far. So happy it came out, but I need a Vol. 3 release date NOW 👀

#fangirl #rainbow rowell #levi #cather #wren #cath #cath x levi

[deviika]

Willa Cather // Franz Kafka

#franz kafka #Willa Cather #quotes #classic literature #poetry #deep quotes #dark academia #chaotic academia #classic academia #book quotes #light academia

[oiforfoxsake]

December Reads

Fangirl by Rainbow Rowell

The Kraken's Sacrifice by Katee Roberts

#rainbow rowell #fangirl #Cather #Katee Roberts #December #2022 #December wrap up

[rosepompadour]

She wanted flowers and music and enchantment and love,—

Willa Cather, Lucy Gayheart (1935)

#imagine my shock when i went looking for my willa cather tag and discovered there's nothing in it?! #what kind of blog am i running? #too many interests; i contain multitudes; etc etc #willa cather #lucy gayheart #literature

[onequoteperday]

I shall not die of a cold. I shall die of having lived.

Willa Cather

#Cather #quotes

[petaltexturedskies]

Willa Cather, from "Dedicatory" in The Complete Works of Willa Cather

#Willa Cather #typography #april

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

"We would be 1,500 years ahead if it hadn't been for the church dragging science back by its coattails and burning our best minds at the stake." -- Catherine Fahringer, FFRF

#Cathering Fahringer #Freedom From Religion Foundation #human progress #religion #religion vs science #science vs religion #religion is a mental illness

[cajon-desastre]

When an image is sincere because they are not aware of the cameras 😎 🥰

#SamCait #the hard life of shippers #Golden Globes 2016 #Twitter #Cather

[thisisanerror]

this project will be my ruin fuuck

Follow @mordecaighostdevelopment for more updates

#error draws #i am once again subsiding on coffee until i lineart these bad boys #someone hand me over a catherer so i don't have to piss #mordecai heller #lackadaisy #sketch #wip

[derangedrhythms]

The heart of another is a dark forest, always, no matter how close it has been to one's own.

Willa Cather, from ‘The Professor's House’

#willa cather #the professor's house #prose #heart #o

[gayiconwaluigi]

The thing that caught me after watching Saltburn a second time is when we see Oliver’s father. It all falls into place. Oliver has his father’s eyes, his father’s glasses, his father’s clothes. He sees his future staring back at him when he sees his dad, and it’s rubbed in his face when Farleigh tells him this is all a dream he’ll tell to his fat children someday. Oliver can see how his entire life will go and he can’t take it. Reminds me a little bit of the short story Paul’s Case by Willa Cather.

#Saltburn #emerald fennell #Oliver quick #Barry Keoghan #films #saltburn spoilers #saltburn meta #saltburn analysis #Willa Cather

[anitalianfrie]

young hot trouble // diggianini (ao3)

yesterday i saw the light. so today i wrote this

It started a long time ago, Enea supposes.  

They were – what? Fourteen? Fifteen? - limbs too long, and Diggia’s teeth were still covered in scrap metal. He remembers the excitement, the blood running down to his dick at the thought of doing something forbidden. His heart beating in his ears when Diggia said he was sure he would last longer than him. And Enea was never one to back down from a challenge. “Let’s try, then.” 

It was summer, and it was hot, and their naked thighs sticked together from the sweat on the little motorhome bed. Diggia had placed his phone on a pile of Enea’s school books that his father made him bring with him, but that he hadn’t opened for the whole weekend.  

The video they chose showed a girl getting fucked from behind. They argued a good five minutes before settling on that one, discussing about fairness. For all Enea knew, Diggia could have chosen something he didn’t like on purpose, to win the bet.  

As soon as the video started, Enea took himself out of his pants. He was already hard. He tried concentrating on the sounds the girl made, moving a hand up and down on his dick. She looked hot, and her tits were enormous, bouncing every time the man behind her fucked into her. Enea could feel Diggia moving, pressed against his shoulder, trembling. He started moving his hand faster. He couldn’t think.  

At one point, Diggia threw his head back, hitting the wall behind. He started making small, little sounds, as if he was trying to gulp down his moans, and Enea felt the other boy’s breath in his ears, and their thighs and their shoulders and their arms pressing together, and he turned his head to look at Diggia, his throat and his open mouth and his chest. The head of his dick was red and wet, disappearing under the palm of his hand, following a desperate rhythm.  

The sight made Enea feel hot inside, hot of shame and horniness and maybe something else also. 

Enea came first, that time. The first time after that, it was Diggia who did. 

It’s different, now. It’s been a long time since they have stopped pretending, stealing glances in the hope of seeing a fragment of the other’s body, of throat, of leg, of lips. But now that they are teammates again, after years and years, the air between them feels electric again, like it does before a storm, like it did in Enea’s motorhome, all those years ago. 

Enea wins the first race of the season. 

Diggia meets him in his motorhome, after the celebration, and Enea is still in his leathers, skin sticky with the prosecco he got sprayed with on the podium and still high on the win.   

Diggia presses him against the wall, opens his leathers and licks a stripe on his abs, tongue flat against his skin. When they kiss Enea can taste himself, the prosecco and the sweat, on Diggia’s tongue. He can’t think anymore. He reaches down, clumsy, dragging down Diggia’s sweats, feeling the hot and familiar weight of his dick in his hand. Diggia moans, low, in his ear, like he always does, running his hands on Enea’s skin, taking his dick in his hand, stroking him. 

Enea feels trapped, pressed against the wall like he is, but he likes it. Diggia keeps breathing hard in his ear, following the rhythm of the hand on his dick, an arm pressed against the wall near Enea’s head. 

There’s no build up, when Enea is with Diggia. It’s just like – BAM, like an explosion. The blood pumps in his vein, fast, and he can feel it in his ears, he can feel his breaths in his brain, and nothing else, nothing else but Diggia and their bodies pressed together. 

He lowers his head into the crook on Diggia’s neck, smelling him, his sweat, mouthing at the skin, sitcky-hot pleasure running up his spine. He keeps moving his hand, smearing Diggia’s precum on the head of his dick with his thumb, mouth full of his skin, and Diggia’s breath hitches, his throat spasming under Enea’s mouth. It’s just- it's- 

Enea’s hips start moving, out of his control, and Diggia’s hands starts to lose rhythm, fast and desperate, while he moans. Enea feels stupid, stupid, and he reaches up to gulp down Diggia’s little whines, to eat him, breathing him in. 

He can’t- he can’t- 

Enea comes, breathing hard in Diggia’s mouth, collapsing against him, still moving his hand on Diggia’s dick. It doesn’t take long before he comes too, painting Enea’s abs and chest in white.  

They stay like that for a bit, Enea pressed against the wall by Diggia’s weight, coming down from the orgasms, until Diggia takes his shirt off and cleans his hand on it, and then messily passes it on Enea’s chest, smearing the come around more than cleaning him. 

The t-shirt gets thrown in some corner of the motorhome, without much care. 

“Partita alla Play?” Diggia asks, eyes still half lidded from the orgasm, voice still limp, loose. 

Enea nods, still trying to get his breathing under control. 

“Partita alla Play.” 

#this is cathered to me and me only apparently #BUT #i know i can convert you people #i know #diggianini #my fics #motogp

[rosepompadour]

If there were no girls like her in the world, there would be no poetry.

Willa Cather, My Antonia (1918)

#a sequel called my lena #write it willa #death is for quitters #can you tell i'm desperately trying to fill up my willa cather tag after the horrific discovery that i've never posted about her #truly mind-boggling #the trials and tribulations of a girl with too many favorite writers: the sarah rose story #willa cather #my antonia #literature