#Catherine Chalk | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

Visit Blog

Explore Tumblr blogs with no restrictions, modern design and the best experience.

Fun Fact

The Tumblr office adopted Tommy, an 11-year-old Pomeranian.

world-of-wales · 2 years

Text

CATHERINE'S STYLE FILES - 2022

22 June 2022 || The Duchess of Cambridge carried our a series of engagements to mark Windrush Day along with Prince William.

Catherine opted for -

Grain de Poudre Wool Blazer in White by Alexander McQueen

Ivory Flared Crepe Tailored Trousers from Alexander McQueen

'Florence' earrings from Chalk Jewelry by Malaika Carr

Small Amberley Crossbody bag in White Grain Leather from Mulberry

'Gianvito 105' Pumps in White Leather from Gianvito Rossi

35 notes · View notes

belle-keys · 1 year

Text

The Ultimate Dark Academia Book Recommendation Guide Ever

The title of this post is clickbait. I, unfortunately, have not read every book ever. Not all of these books are particularly “dark” either. However, these are my recommendations for your dark academia fix. The quality of each of these books varies. I have limited this list to books that are directly linked to the world of academia and/or which have a vaguely academic setting.

Dark Academia staples:

The Secret History by Donna Tartt

If We Were Villains by M.L. Rio

Dead Poets Society by Nancy H. Kleinbaum

Vita Nostra by Maryna Dyachenko

Dark academia litfic or contemporary:

Bunny by Mona Awad

The Idiot by Elif Batuman

These Violent Delights by Micah Nemerever

White Ivy by Susie Yang

The Cloisters by Katy Hays

Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro

The Lake of Dead Languages by Carol Goodman

A Separate Peace by John Knowles

Black Chalk by Christopher J. Yates

Attribution by Linda Moore

Dark academia thrillers or horror:

In My Dreams I Hold a Knife by Ashley Winstead

The Maidens by Alex Michaelides

Ghosts of Harvard by Francesca Serritella

Catherine House by Elisabeth Thomas

Plain Bad Heroines by Emily M. Danforth

They Never Learn by Layne Fargo

The It Girl by Ruth Ware

Never Saw Me Coming by Vera Kurian

Dark academia fantasy/sci-fi:

Babel: An Arcane History by R.F. Kuang

The Atlas Six by Olivie Blake

Ninth House by Leigh Bardugo

A Lesson in Vengeance by Victoria Lee

The Starless Sea by Erin Morgenstern

Vicious by V.E. Schwab

A Discovery of Witches by Deborah Harkness

The Betrayals by Bridget Collins

Dark academia romance:

Gothikana by RuNyx

Alone With You in the Ether by Olivie Blake

Dark academia YA or MG:

Truly Devious by Maureen Johnson

A Deadly Education by Naomi Novik

Ace of Spades by Faridah Àbíké-Íyímídé

The Raven Boys by Maggie Stiefvater

Legendborn by Tracy Deonn

Crave by Tracy Wolff

Wilder Girls by Rory Power

The Harry Potter series by J.K. Rowling

Dark academia miscellaneous:

My Dark Vanessa by Kate Elizabeth Russell

Disorientation by Elaine Hsieh Chou

Alphabet of Thorn by Patricia A. McKillip

11K notes · View notes

apesoformythoughts · 10 days

Text

‘There is a famous story about Elizabeth Anscombe, which kept drifting into my mind as I read Catherine Ruth Pakaluk’s new book, Hannah’s Children. Anscombe was an Oxford professor, a high-profile analytic philosopher, and also a mother of seven. People sometimes had opinions about that, and the story goes that she came into her classroom one day (pregnant with her seventh) to find that some mean-spirited troll had written the words “ANSCOMBE BREEDS” on her chalkboard. Calmly, without apparent embarrassment, she picked up the chalk and added two words. “ANSCOMBE BREEDS IMMORTAL BEINGS.”’

— Rachel Lu

#Rachel lu #Catherine Ruth Pakaluk #hannah’s children

88 notes · View notes

olympeline · 3 months

Text

Nations having human names is kinda odd when you think about it. You’d expect their people to just call them by their official names or else “motherland” or “fatherland.” So, here’s me coming in with a headcanon about where these human names come from (´∀｀)

A nation’s legal name, the one used on treaties and trade deals, can change over time. Or be different depending on who’s speaking. Germany is Deutschland to some his friends, Japan is Nihon at home, exonyms vs. endonyms, kingdoms become republics, yadda, yadda. But a nation’s human name - their gifted name - is forever. I call it “gifted” because it’s given to them not by the politics of the world, but by one of their citizens. One of their best and brightest. A son or daughter any of them could be proud of. Any human can try giving a nation a name, but if it isn’t the right one it won’t stick.

The first nation to get a human name was China when he met Confucius. They encountered each other on the road one evening waaay back around 467BC when the philosopher was on his way home. They talked, shared tea, and Confucius called China “Yao Wang” for the first time. China couldn’t explain it, but he just knew this was his name. Knew deep in his soul

Greece was second. He marched with Alexander the Great and finished the campaign as Heracles Karpusi. When the other ancient nations heard the news they were all very excited. Except Yao, who was put out that he wasn’t unique anymore lol. Then gifted names were officially “a thing” that nation people eagerly waited for. I imagine their naming days are very fondly remembered along with the human who was there for them. A few examples throughout history:

Russia knelt before Catherine the Great and rose up again as Ivan Braginsky.

Spain was invited to read a first draft of Cervantes’s and left as Antonio Carriedo.

Japan walked with Nobunaga the day before Anegawa and went to bed that night as Kiku Honda.

One of the sole exceptions to the usual way is America, who was named “Alfred” by another nation rather than a human. Arthur named Alfred after one of his favourite kings: Alfred the Great. Alfred chose the “F. Jones” part himself when he became independent. Before that he was Alfred Kirkland. This was a weird blip in nation people history, but they chalk it up to Arthur’s magic. As for Arthur himself, he was named by Merlin. Yes, that Merlin

I haven’t thought of specifics for every nation. A few ideas are Otto von Bismarck for Ludwig, Napoleon for Francis, and maybe one of the Popes for the Italy bros. What do you guys think? What historical figure might have named your nation?

#hetalia #hws america #hws england #hws russia #hws china #hws japan #hws spain #my posts #aph america #aph england #aph russia #aph china #aph japan #aph spain

57 notes · View notes

impatient14 · 16 days

Text

Thinking about how I've always wondered if they knew after Runaway Bride and Martha's arc that the best thing for 10 would be a platonic soulmate, someone who wouldn't be dazzled by his charm and would call him out on his shit, but also love him so much they couldn't imagine their future without him. My favorite trope is the slow burn, platonic BFF to lovers, but if they would have gone that route with 10 and Donna, I would have been absolutely crushed. I wonder if they knew what they had with 10 and Donna, if they knew it was a safe casting when it comes to romantic undertones. David and Catherine's chemistry is so unique. They portray genuine love and devotion without the threat of romance creeping in. It's something you don't often see in characters who aren't related. It feels like there's always a little twinge of a "will they, won't they" scenario. And with 10 and Donna, it felt like a disservice to ship them together. I'm not disparaging the people who did, because everyone has the right to interpret their relationship in any way they want, but their platonic soulmate vibe was so personal to me.

(Because it seems like no matter what I do, I cannot maintain a friendship with a (single) straight man or queer woman (like me) without that twinge of romance creeping in, and it is rarely from my side. I say that not to boast or stroke my ego, but because it is the genuine truth. I'm actually in the middle of that right now. I have a long-distance colleague that I have so much in common with and the relationship crept into the friendship territory pretty quickly. It was established before that friendship started that I was unavailable and uninterested in anything other than a professional or platonic relationship, and he seemed to totally accept that. He didn't flirt. No innuendos. He even started talking to me about his dates. At times I thought I sensed a vibe on his side, but there was nothing I could point to directly that would explain it, so I chalked it up to narcissism and trusted him. However, we finally met at a conference after about 3 months or so of our acquaintance and growing friendship, and being in the same space, his body language and general disposition made it crystal clear that he harbored feeling for me. He did not try anything directly or say anything that crossed the line, but I am confident he has feelings for me. Now, if he maintained our professional and platonic relationship without letting his feelings get in the way, I wouldn't cut off the relationship necessarily. It isn't his fault that he developed feelings, and if he continued to respect my feelings and not address those feelings directly to me, I would not hold anything against him. I'd be more careful about my own behavior and make sure those boundaries were always clearly defined, but I'd try to maintain our relationship.

However, after we met, it seemed like as soon as he realized he really didn't have a chance, he didn't see any value in my friendship. We have a lot in common professionally, joke a lot, and just generally get along pretty well (though his ego is *insane* and he has the emotional maturity of a toddler). I felt like we were developing a really great foundation for friendship, but apparently not. If he feels like he needed to distance himself to get over what he's feeling, that's fair. I can respect that. But it's so frustrating and isolating to feel like the only thing you have to offer is romance. It actually breaks my heart.)

So (getting back to Doctor Who) to see a real platonic friendship between people whose sexuality preferences align is so special to me. And to have the privilege to see that relationship continue with 14? It really was such a gift.

#didnt mean to turn that into a therapy moment but oh well #doctor who #tenth doctor #fourteenth doctor #donna noble

21 notes · View notes

missmaywemeetagain · 1 year

Note

Hi,

for your prompt request.

💻 angst for Austin. There was a short lived rumour he'd perform at the Oscars. I had this in my head for months, that he'd perform the in memoriam section (what Lenny Kravitz did this year). Maybe with the beautiful Elvis rendition of BRIDGE OVER TROUBLED WATER .

Obviously that's a daunting thing, so maybe some praise kink that leads to more at rehearsals? With whoever your comfortable with writing this but if live to read it with Polly Bennett his movement coach.

Xxx

Ohhhh, dearest Nonnie, did you give me a challenge! It took me a minute to try and get into Austin's head because I've never written him before, so thank you for your patience! 💖

I really ended up leaning into that praise kink, and this turned out waaay filthier than I intended, but 'twas where my muse took me lol. The Bridge Over Trouble Water lyrics actually were a bit of an inspiration, so the song appears more figuratively than literally. I hope it's okay that it ended up being so much smut vs. storyline, but it is Austin and Polly! Thank you for your request and I hope you enjoy, When Tears Are In Your Eyes, darlin'! 💋

TW: This is utterly filthy. Minors BE GONE! 18+ only! Really, there is so much SEXXX, but, like, in a sweet, subby Austin way. Panic attacks. Negative self-talk. PRAISE KINK--so much praise kink... Sub space? Not as edited as usual! Hopefully this isn't too much of a mess cuz I'm a little nervous about writing about Austin (and Polly!)...I'm definitely not an Austin expert 👀

When Tears Are in Your Eyes

The first time was a fluke. The panic before he’d had to go out and really perform as Elvis for the first time, for the ’68 Special section, was utterly paralyzing and he’d needed something or someone to break him out of his mind prison, someone telling him he was going to be okay, that he was going to do a great job, that he was good enough. Desperate times had called for desperate measures.

Baz and Olivia and even Catherine had tried help him shake his nerves, but no matter the massive amount of support and encouragement from them all, he was convinced there was no way he could do Elvis justice. That he would fail completely, not only tanking his own career, but also Baz’s, and disappoint millions of Elvis’ fans across the world in the process. To say he’d worked himself into a frenzy was an understatement.

When Polly came in, his amazing and fiery movement coach, he was convinced she wouldn’t be able to stave off this horror building inside him, this pure terror that he was a complete fraud. But they’d worked so many hours together, one on one, that she could sense something in him that he could not. When she’d embraced him and told him he was going to be alright, that everything would be fine, he almost broke into pieces at his friend’s words. He’d sniffled into her blonde hair, his Elvis makeup running, clutching at her like she was a life raft.

And then it had happened. As she whispered words of encouragement into the shell of his ear, praising the commitment he had to the role and how he was already doing Elvis’ legacy proud, he’d felt it. Unfortunately, pressed up against her in that tight black leather suit, it didn’t take long for her to feel it, too.

He was totally mortified, of course, chalking it up to his anxiousness and heightened emotions, and it sent him into another kind of panic because Polly was his colleague and his friend and oh my god, he didn’t want to ruin any of that. Whimpering in her hair, he wanted to pull away and hide even more than he had before, but she just kept breathing praise into his ear. As if he wasn’t rock hard against her.

It hadn’t taken long for his body to go off the rails, his hips rolling into her ever so slightly, the friction of those damn pants coupled with what she was saying arousing him to the point of bursting. But she didn’t flinch or move away, she just kept her arms around him tight and let him grind and whimper into her.

It wasn’t enough. He was a sniveling mess, terrified of going out there and humiliating himself, and now he was insanely aroused, his mind starting to white out, and he needed release but the dry humping just wasn’t enough.

Somehow, she’d known exactly what he needed and for some unknown reason, hadn’t hesitated in the slightest in giving it to him. When she’d popped the button on the pants, unzipping him just enough to reach her tiny hand in, he’d nearly passed out from the way she’d groped his too-sensitive cock through his underwear.

“Doing such a good job for me, Aus, always doing so good for me. Always putting in your all. You’re gonna be perfect,” she’d whispered as she pumped him expertly. His mind went blank, hearing nothing but her praise, and he surrendered quickly. Shuddering violently, he crested and felt the hot spurts of his release coat the inside of his briefs.

“That’s it, let it go, Aus. Cumming so well,” she’d praised him, talking him through his orgasm, then released him with a genuine smile, pressing her forehead to his as he tried to regain his senses.

It wrecked him just enough to break him free of his anxiety. He’d gasped in both refraction and shock and Polly had just patted his cheek sweetly and handed him tissues to clean himself up, like there wasn’t something completely bonkers that happened between them. Like she hadn’t just jerked him off and successfully made him feel like he could go out there now and be Elvis. Like his confidence hadn’t been restored by the magic power of her words and her hand.

Things had happened so intensely and fast after that with filming that he’d barely had time to think on it. When he’d stripped out of the suit and his messed underwear later that night, he’d actually laughed, thinking of the story of how Elvis had orgasmed in his leather suit as well.

How very ‘method’ of me, he’d thought with a chuckle.

He’d also been confused and embarrassed, but Polly acted like nothing strange had occurred at all. No lingering glances or silly winks. No uncomfortable silences or awkward words. Business as usual.

So, he’d moved on. It was a fluke. A moment of weakness.

Except now, backstage during rehearsals for the Oscars, he finds himself in that same completely panicked headspace for the first time since the ’68 Special. His agent had somehow convinced him to agree to singing “Bridge Over Troubled Water” during the “In Memorial” section of the show. But that was months ago, before he was exhausted from all the award shows and press and schmoozing and the traveling across continents, all the while trying not to let his grief for Lisa Marie (and the residual grief it triggered about his mom) consume him.

He is terrified. Stomach churning and palms sweating, he shakes all over, a leftover effect of those pieces of Elvis still lingering within him. Singing in front of people was never something he’d been able to do until Elvis. But even then, he’d been playing a character. It was so much more vulnerable to get out there singing as himself. In front of a room filled with the biggest names in Hollywood, in front of his heroes, and for millions on live television, no less.

No pressure or anything.

Sure, they’d convinced him to sing briefly on SNL, but that was still under the guise of Elvis and it had been only a small part of the farewell for Cecily, the focus being on her, not just him. He’d been nervous, to be sure, but it had been different. Not this. Nothing like this.

Of course, he knows the song in his sleep, it being one of his favorites to listen to while prepping for Elvis. But as much as the critics and the world loved his performance, and as much as he tries to draw upon the superstar’s confidence, he is not Elvis Presley.

His shallow and quick breaths as he waits for his turn to rehearse makes him think that he might pass out if he keeps freaking out at this rate. Forcing himself to breath in through his nose and out through his mouth, part of the dynamic breathwork he’d learned, he manages to keep from ending up on the floor. But his mind is still whirling and his stomach is churning.

You idiot, you’re just gonna go out there and embarrass yourself in front of everyone you admire. What a failure you’ll be, his inner critic berates him. Stupid fucking fool.

He can’t do this. There’s no way in hell.

Austin feels the tears prick in his eyes. Oh, good, now I’m gonna cry, too. Perfect.

It’s then that he feels the small arms encircle his waist and he knows.

He knows it’s her.

He’s not sure how Pol managed to get backstage—the security is insane—but like a miracle, she’s here. “Come on, Aus. You’re going to be okay,” she says quietly.

Gently, she pulls him back, back, back through the wings of the stage, whispering words along the way (“You can do this, hun, and will do it well. I know you will.”) and into an empty dressing room. He follows more than willingly, letting the tears free fall down his cheeks now.

He finds himself in that strange little space again where all he hears and wants and needs is her, her reassurances and praises, and she gives them liberally.

Polly gently pushes him into the room, closing the door and engaging the lock behind her. His brain is overloaded, his body buzzing with anxiety, but her words leave him wanting and he feels his cock twitch in his pants. All rational thought is abandoned, his body beginning to take over, and he doesn’t have the strength to hold himself back.

Austin steps into her, pressing her back against the door, nuzzling his head down into her neck. She lets him, her hands running softly, comfortingly, through his hair, causing a low moan to escape his lips.

“I-I-I need…please…” he begs through hiccupping little sobs.

“I know, shh, I know.”

Then, she proceeds to murmur at him all the ways he is good and talented and true. He can’t help rolling his now-aching cock into her belly, but she does not falter.

The sensations are all too much this time, even more than the first time, and he is running his hand up her bare leg and under her skirt before his mind even registers what he’s trying to do, all the lines he is going to cross. Because he has to do something, something he knows he’s good at, something he knows he won’t fail.

And by the little squeak that turns into a mewl when he reaches the apex between her thighs, the thin cotton covering her warm little sex, he knows he’s right. Slipping his fingers under, he runs them through her already dampening folds and up to circle the sensitive nub at the top.

“T-this o-okay?” he stutters out, needing to know he’s doing right by her.

“Yes, Aus, that’s perfect, oh god,” she moans breathlessly in his ear.

The praise fully short-circuits his brain, sending him into that white space where his career expectations and fears don’t touch him like they did before.

Please, please, please…is all he thinks and he realizes eventually that he’s panting it out loud, ignoring the straining in his pants because he wants to get her off, he needs to please her, and if he does, everything will somehow be okay.

He slides his fingers down through her softness, and finding her wet and ready for him, turns her around to face the door and slides two fingers into her heat, his thumb working circles on her clit. Pumping, his fingers search for that spongy spot, the one he thinks will make her keen and pleased, and when he finds it, he curls his fingertips into it.

“That’s it…just like that,” she pants, then she bucks back, her ample ass giving him some much-needed friction. The sensation is almost too much, causing him to press her into the door, his throbbing erection making him desperate.

“Oh, my good, good boy. Oh god. Oh g-god, Aus, you’re gonna make me cum,” she chokes out and it’s music to his ears, this approval and proof of his goodness. “That’s p-perfect, you’re perfect!”

Her cry couples the fluttering of her walls and the dam breaks, arousal flooding onto his hand. But her release sends his body into overdrive, and he pulls his fingers out of her, leaving her moaning. Frantically, he pulls her soaked panties down her legs and unbuckles his pants, letting them slide down and free his cock.

“Please, I-I-I…can I?” he whimpers at her.

She nods. “Yes, yes!”

He is in shambles. It only takes a second before he’s rubbing his cock between her legs, coating himself in her slick, and they both moan at the sensation.

Going into that white space, the one he only gets to when with her, all he can think is please, please, I need, I need, and it causes him to rush a little. He pushes up into her comforting and plush folds, meeting a little resistance on the way because he’s thick and she’s small but oh god, she’s so tight around him.

Through the hazy fog of his brain, he hears her pretty little gasps as she adjusts to his girth, but when he bottoms out in her wet heat, it feels too good and a fresh panic hits him. This awareness of what he is doing to her—spearing her and splitting her in two—and the thought that he might be doing it wrong or hurting her in some way has him sobbing, “Pol,” as he clutches at her waist.

“It’s okay, you’re perfect, Aus,” she moans, encouraging him. “Now move those hips, just like I taught you.”

Relief and fresh arousal floods over him. He knows this. He can do it in his sleep. Cock twitching inside her, he starts to move, rolling those narrow hips of his smoothly, precisely, just as he’d practiced for hours and hours prepping for Elvis.

Polly lets out a low, pleased groan as he does so, and it fills him with pleasure because he’s pleasing her, he’s doing it right. With each thrust, she coos at him words of praise and he eats them up like he’s starving. The terror and the trepidation are banished into the shadows, consumed by that white space, the space where he is perfect and good and doing everything just right.

He could stay here forever, surrounded by light and warmth and comfort, buried deep in his friend.

His smooth thrusts become pointed because the more she praises his work, the hotter he becomes, like he’s burning up from the inside in the best way possible. She writhes below him, pushing back into him, the sound of his balls slapping her weepy, perfect little cunt sending every ounce of blood straight into his dick.

One hand slams next to hers on the door, using it as leverage to pound into her. Deeper, need to be deeper, oh fuck, oh Jesus. The other grips desperately at her waist, anchoring himself to her so he doesn’t fly too far away into that glorious white space.

Her voice does that, too, her breathless sighs of, “Yes, yes, you’re doing so good, giving me that perfect cock so well, Aus,” are pushing him headlong to the brink.

Reaching around under her skirt, he finds her puffy clit and works it furiously, even in his blinding fog knowing he wants her to come over the edge with him. She keens and he pistons erratically at the sound.

“Fuck, you’re gonna be a good boy and come with me now, right Aus?” she pants, taking him like she was made to do so.

“Mhm,” is all he can manage, biting his lower lip and nodding. Heat floods him, overwhelming his senses as he fucks into her, needing every inch to remind him who he is. He begins to shudder when he feels her walls clench tighter around him.

“Oh, fuck, you’re g-gonna make me cum again, Aus! Oh, YES,” she moans, fluttering around him, and he shatters into little pieces right behind her.

He’s too far gone to pull out, selfishly claiming her and painting her walls white with his seed. Relishing in her warmth, he clings to her in his climax, not realizing the tears of relief streaming down his face.

Every ounce of tension in his body releases. The only sound in the room is their heavy breathing as they recover. She lets him linger inside her, seemingly aware of how far away he’s gone.

Eventually, the white space dims and he comes back into himself, sliding his softening cock out of her. He kisses her softly at the place where her neck meets her shoulder.

“I—Thank you,” he whispers, voice low and gravely, unsure of what to say, unsure of how to make her understand that she managed to banish his self-hating demons away right when he needed her.

She turns around and pulls his head down, pressing her lips to his forehead. “Anything for you, Aus.”

His now-relaxed body fills with warmth at that.

Finding a box of tissues, he grabs a clump, then falls reverently to his knees in front of her with the intent of cleaning her up. He pulls up the hem of her dress, revealing the short thatch of hair at the top of her pussy, worked swollen and red from him.

“You don’t have to do that, Aus,” she breathes. He can sense the blush in her voice, a modesty that was absent when she was trying to help him through his panic.

“Hush.” He taps her legs open and she relents quickly, unable to deny him. Pink and slick and bare to him, he looks up at her from below and adds, “You’re beautiful.”

She flushes pink and bashfully looks away.

His initial task to clean her abandoned, he watches in a kind of awe and pride the way his spent arousal, mixed with her own, leaks from her tight, little hole. He abandons the tissues on the floor. So entranced is he that he can’t stop himself from running his fingers through her folds and the slick.

She gasps from above, which quickly turns into a punctuated sigh when he leans forward and softly kisses her oversensitive nub. Fueled by her reaction and the deliciously musky taste of her on his lips, he flicks his tongue there.

She nearly doubles over, her hands flying into his sandy locks.

His body, still recovering from their sex, hums with pleasure. He laps at her again, and again. He can’t seem to help himself because she just makes him feel so good.

She shudders over him, trying to still his head. “Aus, I can’t,” she whines. This was obviously not part of her plan to calm him.

He smiles against her clit, then pulls back to watch as he uses two long fingers to push his dripping arousal back up into her tight heat.

The sound of her loud moan resonates in the small space as she falls back against the door, eyes closing with pleasure.

He holds there for a moment before he turns his attention back to her puffy, oversexed clit. Licking, sucking, and kissing it, he teases her. He works her into a frenzied, whimpering mess above him.

He pulls away briefly. “Am I doing good?” he asks with a hopeful little smile, still needing her approval. He scissors his fingers, sliding them in and out of her soaking and nearly-wrecked pussy.

All she can seem to do is nod frantically. That thrill of praise runs through him again.

Diving back in, he relishes the taste of her, of them, adding a third digit into her stretched hole. The noises are obscene, the squelching of their combined arousal filling the room as he fucks her relentlessly with his fingers. Her mewling whimpers let him know he’s still satisfying her. He can feel himself hardening again, but it’s an afterthought to her pleasure.

“Cum for me, baby, let me make you cum. Come on now,” he urges her.

Once he curls his fingers into that soft spot inside her and sucks on her nub just so, it doesn’t take long until she goes rigid and comes undone with a panting shudder. Again.

Austin strokes her through her climax then releases her with one last soft kiss to her mound. Then he finally uses those tissues to clean her gently. She shudders with overstimulation.

“You are too good, Austin Butler,” she gasps out.

“Promise?” he says, only half joking as they both put themselves back together.

Polly grabs him by the cheeks and stares directly into his big, blue eyes. “Aus, you are one of the best, most talented men I have ever known. Anything you choose to do, you give it your all. You will do well,” she says seriously. “Now, go out there and kick some ass for me, will you?” She smiles and gives him a kiss on the cheek.

He can’t help but grin from ear to ear, his doubts banished.

And even though he is nervous and emotional the night of the awards, he thinks of that sublime and calm white space where he is always good enough. And when he sings at the show, he gives it his all, knowing that Polly is watching.

#Madi's get to know me gala 💗#when tears are in your eyes #request #austin butler #austin butler smut #austin butler elvis #elvis 2022 #elvis movie #elvis presley #elvis #austin x polly #austin butler fic #austin butler fanfic #austin butler x reader

143 notes · View notes

supermxnthathoe · 6 months

Text

Can someone please explain to me what actually happened with Jason Todd? Like, I am an avid comic reader. I've read the majority of his comics as Red Hood and the Batman comics from his time as Robin (as well as Death in The Family and everything under that sort of era) -- But I still cannot, for the life of me, wrap my head around what ACTUALLY happened to this boy. Maybe it's the sketchy DC timelines and the fact that the writers can't seem to make up their minds- but somewhere along the way, I just got confused.

The story I believed was true was that Jason found out that his mother- Catherine Todd- was not his biological mother and set out to find his real one- Sheila Haywood. It turned out badly, she was in cahoots with the Joker, and Jason ended up dying in that warehouse in Ethiopia. THIS IS WHAT I THOUGHT HAPPENED.

Then they came out with Red Hood and the Outlaws Rebirth: Dark Trinity, and suddenly Catherine is his birth mother again, and there are actual detailed letters from Willis Todd, given to Jason years later after being received by Ma Gunn, about when Catherine was pregnant with him??

So if this is the case, how do they justify Jason leaving and getting killed? Are they just chalking it up to recklessness??? - I'm not sure because I don't remember this being expanded on in the actual comic.

idk, this might be such a dumb question and maybe I'm just missing something-- but I feel like Jason's comics and story overall are just a bunch of different little stories in different continuities and people pick and choose (the white streak in his hair, for example) whichever suits best.

Let me know if I'm being dumb tho guys 😭

#batfamily #dc comics #jason todd #batkids #batfam

29 notes · View notes

foundtherightwords · 22 days

Text

The Firebird - Chapter 16 (last chapter)

Pairing: Prince Paul (Catherine the Great) x OFC, Fairytale AU

Summary: When Paul, a spoiled young prince, spots a strange bird in the forest near his palace, he impulsively chases after it, hoping to both escape from and prove himself to his disapproving mother. Thus he is plunged into an exhilarating adventure across a magical realm populated by enchanted princesses, dangerous monsters, and powerful wizards, an adventure that may change him more than he can ever imagine.

Chapter warnings: none

Chapter word count: 4.2k

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7 - Chapter 8 - Chapter 9 - Chapter 10 - Chapter 11 - Chapter 12 - Chapter 13 - Chapter 14 - Chapter 15

Chapter 16 - Homecoming

Paul walked through the gardens in a daze. He noticed that the leaves, which had been young and green when he went away, were now starting to yellow at the edge. How long had he been gone? He saw no one and started to think this was another horrible trick, like Illarion's temptation. It was past time the court returned to the Winter Palace in Saint Petersburg. What if there was no one here? What if he was too late, and his mother had already presented the Bobrinsky boy to the council, and he had returned for nothing?

The spell was broken when he went through the back door of the castle and ran into a servant girl. Upon seeing Paul, the girl dropped the tray she was carrying as though she'd seen a ghost, which, all things considered, was not far from the truth.

"Where is Her Majesty?" Paul asked.

The girl stared at him, too shocked or frightened to speak. Paul waved her off and made his way up the staircase to his mother's private chamber. It occurred to him that he may catch her with one of her lovers, but he didn't care.

She was alone, sitting at her desk in her morning robes. Hearing Paul come in, she looked up. The quill fell out of her hand.

"Good morning, Mother," Paul said. He didn't know what else to say.

"Paul!" she exclaimed weakly. "It can't be!"

She turned white, as white as the sheets of paper in front of her, and for a moment, Paul was afraid his mother would faint. But she didn't faint. She went to him and tentatively touched him, brushing the long curls from his forehead, perhaps to assure herself that he was real. Paul fought the old reflex that urged him to shy away from her hand, knowing now that this was the closest she could bring herself to a caress.

"Is that—blood?" she asked, reaching for his cheek.

Belatedly, Paul remembered he still had Baba Yaga's blood smeared on his face. "It's not mine," he said, wiping it away.

"But where did you come from?" she asked, peering at him as though she could discern the truth from his face. "And where have you been all this time?"

Paul pondered her question. Eventually, because he could not possibly answer it without sounding like a madman, he only said, "Does it matter? I have come back." He hoped she didn't hear the bitterness in his voice.

***

They rushed him to Gatchina Palace. The Empress wanted to accompany him, but Paul insisted on meeting Orlov on his own. "Otherwise he would suspect you of forcing words into my mouth," he said. "I only have to say that I had typhus, don't I?"

"How did you know that I told them you had typhus?" she asked sharply.

Paul only shrugged. This mother hadn't pressed the question of where he'd been, though he would catch her watching him with something akin to fear. Perhaps she saw something in his distant eyes, some subtle changes in his demeanor, which prevented further questioning.

Paul received Orlov in Gatchina, apologizing for his long absence, chalking his worn-out appearance up to his recent illness, and assuring the minister that he would be at court as soon as his health permitted. Afterward, Orlov went away again, looking greatly put out.

The court returned to Saint Petersburg soon after. The Empress, terrified that he would disappear again, ordered Paul to be attended at all times by a servant, even when he slept. He couldn't walk down the corridors without a servant following close behind. All the attention he had not received as a child was now heaped upon him. He supposed he ought to feel gratified by it, but to his surprise, he found it annoying and longed to be alone.

He tried to focus on his old life, telling himself it was no use crying for what he'd left when he had left it so willingly. He thought about Zhara watching him in the scrying disc and tried to act as the man she thought him to be. But it was difficult. It wasn't simply because he missed Zhara, though he did miss her terribly and would sit for hours watching the garden outside, searching the grounds for the familiar flash of red that he knew wasn't there. It was because everything around him was drab and dull compared to all the colors and life of Lukomorye. After the openness of the Lukomorian landscape and the loftiness of the Arthanian castle, the walls of the Winter Palace closed in around him like those of a prison. Food and wine turned to ashes and vinegar in his mouth, now that he'd tasted the heavenly flavors of Lukomorye. He finally understood why the traveler in the tales was always warned not to eat the food of the enchanted kingdom. Once he did, he would be lost forever.

Even after the sharpness of the memories faded, the longing remained. Now Paul knew how a changeling must feel when it was pulled out of Fairyland and thrown into the human world. He felt himself under an enchantment, without knowing who cast it and who could break it. He couldn't even seek comfort in the old Fool's tales as he had in his childhood, for they were too painful a reminder of all he'd left behind.

A month after Paul's return, the Empress came into his chamber one morning to announce that she had invited the three princesses of Hesse-Darmstadt—Amalia, Wilhelmina, and Louisa—and their mother, for a visit.

"A visit? For what?" Paul asked, reluctantly tearing himself away from the book he was reading. He had taken it upon himself to search for mentions of Lukomorye and other similar lands in old writings of Kievan Rus' and even before that, holding on to those precious, magical memories by any means he could.

"For your betrothal, of course!"

Paul turned startled eyes toward her. When he first returned, thinking only of preventing the throne from falling into unworthy hands, he had not considered the matter of matrimony. It was true that the thought of love had never been far from his mind, but it was more to wonder if he could ever love anyone again.

"I do not think of marrying just yet, Mother," he said carefully.

"Perhaps not, but I have thought about it for you."

"As you please, but I don't care about the Hesse-Darmstadt princesses." He could not even remember which of them was which, and what they looked like.

"Heavens, not all three of them! I have chosen Princess Wilhelmina for you, but of course, it would not do to invite just her. You will care for her, after. You will get used to her, and you will learn to love her."

"I cannot make her happy."

"You need not trouble yourself about that. All you have to do is to respect the wishes of your mother."

Her voice had taken on the half-exasperated, half-mocking tone she often had with him, making Paul's blood boil with the old anger. He realized, with dismay, that despite her fear of the changes in him, the Empress meant to pretend his months-long disappearance had not occurred at all and go on with business as usual.

"I do not wish to marry, and I won't!" he shouted.

"You shall marry, or you can forget about inheriting the throne!"

"Then who will give you the heir you long for, Mother? Or have you already found a replacement?" He didn't mention the Bobrinsky boy, though from his mother's slight flinch, he knew it was who she was thinking of. He took some grim satisfaction from that.

His satisfaction was short-lived, for his mother always insisted on having the last words.

"Perhaps that's what I should have done a long time ago," she bit out, her voice now taking on an iciness that was far more threatening than her fury.

Fuming, Paul turned away from her contemptuous eyes. He looked at the books strewn across the table, at the obsessive notes he'd made on them, and thought to himself, What I am doing? Why was he pining for someone he could not have, a world where he could not stay? Better to marry and produce an heir to please his mother, so she would leave him be and let him do as he pleased. This princess or that princess, what was the difference?

"Fine," he said, swallowing the contraction—of rage or heartbreak, he did not know—in his throat. "I shall meet the Princesses."

***

Over the next few weeks, Paul often felt he had once again fallen back into Illarion's vision, as he was caught in a flurry of activities, most of which he had little involvement and no clear understanding either. Then the princesses and their mother arrived, and he was put in his full court dress, wigged, powdered, and rouged, and pushed into the reception hall.

As the princesses were presented to him, Paul was astonished to see that Princess Wilhelmina bore an uncanny resemblance to his unnamed betrothed in Illarion's vision—the same blue eyes, porcelain skin, and rose-bud mouth, the same doll-like features. Was this a sign? Or had Illarion been able to actually predict the future?

There was something else as well. His best friend, Andrei Razumovsky, who had commanded the frigate that brought the princesses and their mother over from Berlin, seemed a little reluctant to let go of Princess Wilhelmina's hand, and as he took a step back, Wilhelmina's eyes followed Razumovsky almost wistfully. Paul watched all this with a detached interest that was surprising even to him. He remembered Elena and Dobrynya, and wondered if anyone had bothered to ask Wilhelmina what she wanted.

Since Do you really wish to marry me? was not the most suitable question to ask one's intended, especially at their first meeting, with their mothers watching over them like a pair of hawks—they could certainly give Nightingale the Robber a run for his money—Paul kept the conversation between them polite and proper throughout the subsequent reception and dinner. It was during the ball later that evening that he felt confident to take their discussion in a more personal turn.

"Did my mother's invitation come as a surprise to you?" he asked Wilhelmina.

"A very pleasant surprise indeed," she replied. They spoke French. They could have conversed in German, but French was more fashionable. "But I've always wanted to visit Russia." A perfectly correct answer that told him nothing at all.

"If you could go anywhere in the world, where would you go?" he pressed on, hoping to learn something about Wilhelmina herself.

Her face lit up. "France," she said, and Paul tried not to feel disappointed at the rather expected answer. "I hear that it's lovely. Or Italy. Count Razumovsky had been telling me—that is, me and my sisters—about his European tour. He's very well-traveled, is he not?" She glanced at the tall, handsome figure of Razumovsky and blushed when he returned her gaze.

Seeing the looks between them, Paul realized that he could not go through with this nuptial. He could not be like Afron. He could not marry just any princess. It made all the difference.

He became quiet for the rest of the ball. To Wilhelmina's chattering, he only nodded, without actually hearing a word. At one point, he thought he saw a flash of red gold, and his heart thudded against his ribs so violently that it hurt. But when he looked again, he realized it was only the gown of a lady-in-waiting reflected in the gilding of the candlesticks.

Gazing despondently around the ballroom, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirrors—a boy, nothing more, a ridiculous-looking boy in his periwig and frock coat and frills, surrounded by gold and glitter. None of it seemed real. None of it was real.

He missed a step and stumbled over Wilhelmina's toes.

"Excuse me, Princess," he mumbled, before turning on his heel and walking out.

***

Paul returned to his chamber and did something he had done but rarely in the past: he thought. He thought about Lukomorye and what he'd left there. He thought about Zhara. But more than anything else, he thought about Illarion, who'd gone on a rampage for power, about Afron, who had committed a terrible act of betrayal for power, about Kostroma, who had locked up her own daughter for fear of losing her power, and about Baba Yaga, who kept herself away from it all.

And he realized what a fool he had been.

"Zhara?" he said quietly, afraid the servants standing outside the door may hear and think he had gone mad. "Are you using the scrying disc? If you're watching—if you can hear me—can you ask Baba Yaga to open a door for me? Please?"

Nothing. Perhaps she wasn't watching. Perhaps it was too painful for her, as it was for him. Perhaps if he wanted to come back, he needed to seek out a door for himself. Regardless, he would not find what he was looking for if he stayed here.

His mind made up, he took off his wig and cleaned the rouge off his face. He donned his old clothes and packed a satchel with some changes of linen and all the money he had in the world. Then he went to his desk and began writing a letter.

He heard the door open with a loud bang but didn't look up. He finished the letter, signed it, and sealed it up, just as his mother stalked into the room, all disapproval and fury.

"What is the meaning of this?" she demanded. "Return to the ballroom at once!"

"No, Mother." Paul got to his feet. "I'm going now."

"Going? Where?"

"To see the world." And perhaps to find a door to another world.

"What, now?"

"Yes. Please give my regards—and regrets—to the Princesses and their mother."

The Empress's voice turned wheedling. "Look, if the Hesse-Darmstadt princesses are not to your liking, we can find others. And after you marry, you can have Gatchina Palace for yourself, and I shall see about letting you join the council. But I need you here."

She thinks I'm still a child, Paul thought. Dangle a new toy in front of me and I'll forget my tantrums. Like everything else, he felt no bitterness about this. He felt only a sense of calmness and a newfound excitement to leave all the golden shackles of this life behind. He remembered Elena with her mother. This was how she must have felt.

"No, thanks," he said simply. "I'm sure Princess Wilhelmina will make a lovely bride, but she's not for me." He picked up the little satchel.

"You are serious," his mother said.

"I am."

"I don't remember giving you permission for this."

"I don't need your permission."

"And what about funds? How shall you pay for this journey?"

"I have some money of my own. I can get work along the way."

The Empress gave a derisive laugh. "What, travelling incognito? You wouldn't survive a day!"

"That is none of your concern."

She looked at him—really looked at him then—and seemed to notice, for the first time, that he was no longer the angry, arrogant boy who was always chomping at the bit and lashing out at her.

"How long do you plan on going?" she asked, her voice softening.

"That's another thing. I'm not coming back." He handed her the sealed letter. "I'm renouncing my right to the throne."

She didn't even glance at the letter.

"You can't leave," she hissed. "I'll have you locked up if I have to!"

Her imperious tone brought back some of the old anger. "Really, Mother?" Paul snapped. "First you imprisoned your husband, and now your son?"

He'd only meant it as a jab, but she reared back, as though he'd just hit her. Suddenly she looked her age—a tired, lonely middle-aged woman.

"But what can I say to the council?" she asked.

"You can say that I've gone mad, or that I'm dead. Make up an illness, like you did last time. Like you did with my father."

"They would never believe me twice," she said in a small voice.

This was probably the closest his mother ever came to admitting she'd had a hand in his father's death. For so long, he'd wanted her to confess her guilt, to give the memories of his father the respect he deserved. Now it no longer mattered. His bitterness, his anger, it was all gone.

"I'm making this easier for you," he said, trying to sound gentle and sincere. "With me out of the way, you can find yourself another heir, one to mold and form as you see fit."

"But you are my heir—"

"Not anymore." He strapped the satchel on his shoulder. "Goodbye, Mother."

He left the palace by the back door. Nobody stopped him.

***

He traveled far outside of Saint Petersburg, into the countryside. At every inn at every village, he would ask for stories about local witches and wizards, about dvorovoi and rusalka and strange creatures that appeared seemingly out of nowhere, hoping that one of them would contain a clue, that one of them may lead him to a doorway back to Lukomorye. So far, none of the stories yielded anything useful, but he still held out hope. In return, he would tell stories of his own, stories about poor Alyosha Popovich who was turned into a wolf, about the tragic love between Dobrynya Nikitich and Princess Elena the Fair, about Ilya Muromets and Nightingale the Robber. But there was one story he never told, about a princess named Zhara who was turned into a bird and a prince named Paul who fell in love with her. That story he kept for himself.

He learned more during those few months, just by talking to people, than he ever did in the previous nineteen years of his life. He helped them when he could, using his limited store of book-learning to read and write letters for the dedushkas and babushkas whose children and grandchildren, like him, had left home to seek their fortunes out there in the world, or settle arguments between merchants. Most people didn't pay him, but he could always count on some food, a stay in their izba, or at least a hot, sweet cup of tea from them. In this way, he managed to stretch out the little money he had, to keep on traveling.

At first, he was afraid that his mother may send men after him, but then, when he had been journeying for a few months, he heard an announcement of the betrothal of Tsarevich Paul and Princess Wilhelmina of Hesse-Darmstadt. He smiled to himself. His mother must have decided on Alexei Bobrinsky after all. He hoped his half-brother knew what he was getting himself into. Bobrinsky may be tsarevich now, but it might not be such a laugh, living under a false identity. Paul could only wish him the best. And Wilhelmina—she must have stayed so she could be close to Razumovsky. Well, Paul wished them the best as well.

After that, he traveled with more ease, though another problem soon arose. As winter descended over the landscape, turning everything black and white, Paul discovered that his meager fund, despite his frugality, had dwindled to almost nothingness, and he would need to earn some money if he wanted to continue on his way. But every time he went into a village or a farm asking for work, he only received some suspicious looks at his white hands and his still-fine clothes, and people turned away from him. He never really went hungry—there were always good things to be found in the forest and the stream, and he never forgot to thank the vodyanoy and the leshy for their bounty, though they never showed themselves—but he was afraid of getting arrested as a vagrant.

It was his clothes that caused the problem, he decided. People were bound to be suspicious of a young man dressed so richly wandering alone. So one day, upon coming across a muzhik lounging on the edge of the forest by a wagon full of snow-covered timber, Paul asked to trade his coat for the muzhik's old kaftan. The muzhik stared at him with curiosity, but eventually shrugged and agreed.

Paul took his coat off and wrapped himself in the kaftan, which smelled, not unpleasantly, of tobacco, horses, and sawdust. As he handed the coat to the muzhik, something fluttered out of an inner pocket.

It was a feather, gleaming red and gold under the falling snow.

Puzzled, the muzhik reached for it, but Paul snatched it up before the other man could touch it.

"Thank you," he said to the muzhik. He quickly stuffed the feather into the pocket of the kaftan and rushed off into the forest before the muzhik could ask him more questions.

Once he made certain he was well hidden by the trees, Paul sought shelter under an ancient oak tree, its trunk split almost in half, forming a large hollow. With trembling hands, he pulled the feather out of his pocket. It was the feather he had pulled from Zhara the day they met, the day he came to Lukomorye. He didn't even remember having it in his pocket.

Now, at the sight of it, something inside him broke.

"Please," he whispered, the feather pressed to his lips. "Please, Zhar-ptitsa. Let me come back. I was wrong. Please, anyone? Ilya? Elena? Baba Yaga? Can anybody hear me? I made a mistake. Please, take me back..."

There was no reply, only the cold, indifferent silence of the forest that swallowed up his voice.

He sank to his knees in the snow and stayed like that for a long time, not caring who may find him, not even bothering to wipe away the snow that had collected on his bare head and his shoulders.

"Well, well, well," said a voice behind him. "I never thought I'd see the day Pavel Petrovich Romanov admits that he was wrong." A clear, high voice, gently teasing.

Paul sat up and whirled around. Zhara was stepping out of the hole in the tree, her red braid glowing like a beacon amidst the snow-white scene, her breath clouding in the freezing air. Her lips curved up in her usual crooked smile, but they were also trembling slightly, and her amber eyes were shining with happy tears.

Paul slowly stood up and approached her, not quite believing his eyes. "Is it really you?" he asked, tentatively reaching for her. "Or is this some trick?" Already the snow was melting a little around her feet.

"It's not a trick," she said, taking his outstretched hand and pressing it to her cheek. If Paul still had any lingering doubt, it vanished at the feel of that smooth, warm skin under his palm. "It was the feather—it brought your call to me."

"You didn't use the scrying disc?"

"I was using it." A blush crept up her face, under her freckles. "But I stopped, after she—that princess—arrived."

She was jealous. Blessed be the Saints, he had made her jealous. Paul wanted to laugh and hug and squeeze her and never let her go.

"I couldn't watch you fall in love with another," Zhara continued.

"How could I," Paul asked, drawing her to him, "when I'm already in love with you?"

She kissed him then, her lips spreading warmth throughout his body until all his doubts and fears melted away completely. He ran his hands all over her as he kissed her back, wanting to feel every inch of her under his palms, wanting to assure himself that she was real, like he had that day he'd first seen her as an otherworldly bird, fluttering in his forest.

It was some time before they pulled apart to draw a breath.

"So what was this mistake you were talking about?" Zhara murmured.

"I thought what I desired the most was to see the dawn with you," he said. "But that wasn't true."

"It wasn't?" she asked, brushing her lips over his in that usual way that never failed to send blood pounding through him.

"No."

"Then what is it?"

"I don't just wish to see the dawn with you. I wish to see many, many dawns with you."

That earned him a smile, a radiant smile that lit up his whole world. He kissed her again, and then he took her hand, and together, they stepped through the tree.

Where did they go? What did they do? Did they live happily ever after? That I cannot tell you, for I do not know. If this was a tale like any other, then perhaps they did. But nothing had happened as it does in the tales, had it? All I know is that they left behind the white forest, where the snow soon covered up their footprints, making everything pristine again.

THE END

A/N: And that's it! By the way, the line about not knowing what Paul and Zhara did after this isn't just a funny quip to end the story in a fairytale-like way, I actually, honestly don't know. I have a tentative idea for a sequel but it's in its embryonic stage at the moment, so I don't know when or if I'll ever get to it. In the meantime, I'm going to have another Hellcheer fic up soon, and more fics for other JQ characters are coming (and perhaps some of those are for his new roles as well), so stay tuned. Thank you so much for reading!

Taglist: @ali-r3n

#prince paul #tsarevich paul #catherine the great #prince paul fic #prince paul x ofc #joseph quinn #joseph quinn fic

11 notes · View notes

mybeingthere · 1 year

Photo

Robert Tavener (British, 1920 - 2004)

Robert Tavener was born in Hampstead, London in 1920. He was keen on art from a young boy, always drawing in chalk on the pavements.On leaving school he initially went into office work until in 1940, when aged 20, he joined the Royal Artillery.

Robert Tavener completed 6 years war service and was part of the D Day landings at Arromanches, Normandy. Soon after beginning his Military Service in 1941 he took unauthorised absence to head back to London to marry Catherine Skardon, a local girl from Hampstead.

66 notes · View notes

vintagestagehotties · 11 days

Text

Hot Vintage Stage Actress Round 2

Angela Baddeley: Miss Prue in Love for Love (1943 West End); Catherine Winslow in The Winslow Boy (1946 West End); Maria in Twelfth Night (1955 Stratford)

Anna May Wong: Hai-tang in The Chalk Circle (1929 West End); Madame Lan Ying in On the Spot (1931 Broadway); Highlights from Hollywood (1939 Melbourne)

Propaganda under the cut

Angela Baddeley:

Anna May Wong:

#vintagestagehotties #vintagestagepoll #vintage tournament #vintage poll #vintage ladies #angela baddeley #anna may wong #ladies round 2

11 notes · View notes

world-of-wales · 8 months

Text

CATHERINE'S STYLE FILES - 2023

3 OCTOBER 2023 || The Princeess of Wales and Prince William carried out engagements in Cardiff to mark the start of Black History Month.

Catherine opted for -

↬ Double-Breasted Blazer in 'Navy Chalk Pin Stripe' by Holland Cooper

↬ High Waisted Straight Trousers in 'Navy Chalk Pin Stripe' by Holland Cooper

↬ 'Cupro' White Shirt Bodysuit by Holland Cooper

↬ 'Rosalia' Pearl Earrings from Shyla London

↬ Ballon Bleu De Watch by Cartier

↬ 'Gianvito 105' Pointed Toe Pumps in 'Blue Suede' from Gianvito Rossi

44 notes · View notes

bethanydelleman · 10 months

Text

Summer reading interlude: Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë

It actually has a happy ending! Colour me somewhat surprised...

Now I've read every Brontë and I stand by my opinion that Anne is the best Brontë, but I did enjoy Wuthering Heights for what it was, which was... an examination of abuse, revenge, and undying love? Maybe? And people making very many stupid decisions.

I love Nelly Dean, don't understand why people dislike her. She stayed in that horrible house with Hindley just to attempt to protect Hareton. She clearly loves Cathy and tried to protect her. Also, she's a servant, what was she going to do to fix anything? She doesn't have real power.

Edgar Linton also seems like a genuinely good guy. His only 'fault' is marrying Catherine, which I'll chalk up to being young and in love. He seemed like a good husband to his wife and a good father to his child. I think he mostly disowned his sister out of self-preservation, which I can't blame him for.

As for Linton Heathcliff, I was rooting for him to die. Honestly that kid annoyed me so much I had trouble even feeling sorry for his situation. I know Heathcliff was horrible to him and was using him as a pawn in his grand plan of revenge but.. like grow a spine or something you loathsome worm.

I mostly liked Cathy except for how horrible she was to Hareton at first. Making fun of a guy for trying to improve himself is low and Nelly was right to call you out on that!

Also, the ending of Heathcliff just burning himself out on revenge and dying was fascinating. He's not sorry, he's not fulfilled, he just dies. The only thing he's sorry about is that he can't destroy Wuthering Heights permanently but also that he's run out of steam to do so. What an story!

And the ending was genuinely cute! Which I was not expecting after... all of that.

Next: Something less insane!

#summer reading interlude #wuthering heights #emily brontë

35 notes · View notes

Last Seen Blogs