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sissylittlefeather · 10 months

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A/N: Ha HA! Another one done! This is the 68 Special one that I promised y'all after the poll. It goes with my series that is currently unnamed, but includes Baby, What's Your Name, Goodnight, Sweetheart and Always, Honey. There are references to all three in here. It takes place before What Kind of Question is That? and Feels Like Forever. This is angstyyy, but the way the story is in my brain, the mid section is that way and the whole story is kind of tragic, in a way. It's very Catherine/Heathcliff (they should be together but can't be for some reason). I didn't set out to write a tragic story, but there ya go. It is what it is. I hope y'all like it anyway!

Also, don't be shy. Let me know what you think! I'd love to hear from you 😁

Warnings: 18+ minors DNI, smut, unprotected sex, p in v sex, kissing, ANGST

Also, I'm using Elvis gifs for this one because I like actual EP here, but if it makes you happy to imagine Austin!Elvis, do you boo-boo.

I Missed You

It's been over 3 years since you last saw Elvis. This is the longest you've been apart since you met all those years ago. You haven't seen him since he got married or became a father. He did all of those things without you and it nearly broke you. Still, you'd had your own marriage happen and fall apart, too. You wondered if you'd ever tell him that it was because of him and the fact that you never could seem to stop loving him.

The year is 1968 and you just got off the phone with a friend of yours who works in Hollywood. According to her, Elvis is going to be recording a new show soon and they're looking for audience members. She called to see if you might be interested in seeing an old friend.

No one really knows what you had with Elvis. Well, no one but your old roommate. Still, despite your long history, he never made you public like his other girlfriends. Maybe it's because keeping you a secret made the romance hotter. Or maybe it's because keeping you a secret meant he could keep you all to himself. Either way, your love affair had always been something that only the two of you really knew about.

But an opportunity to see Elvis again is hard to turn down, even with everything that's happened between you. Perhaps seeing him one last time will give you the closure you need to move on. You decide to call your friend back and see what you need to do to be in that audience.

******

Now that you're here, you start to wonder if this was a good idea. You're sitting in the audience in your new mod-style pink gingham dress with white boots and a white headband. You wonder if he will even see you in the crowd. Will he notice the pink gingham?

Your hands are starting to sweat and you wipe them on your skirt, pulling on it to try to get it to cover more of your thighs. You're not a teenager anymore and this dress is starting to feel a bit ridiculous.

One of the producers of the show comes out to explain to the audience how to react to the "applause" signs. Elvis is coming out soon and you're starting to feel a little sick at the prospect of seeing him. You don't remember the last time you were this nervous.

And then he's there. On the small square stage, right in front of you, in black leather. Your heart jumps and your warm center gets a little warmer. He looks good. Not that you expected him not to, but he looks better than you could've imagined. He breaks into That's Alright Mama and you're instantly transported back to that first show where you threw your panties on the stage to get his attention. You start to laugh a little thinking about what might happen if you did the same thing right now. You'd probably get carried out by a security guard.

He sings 4 songs and then they do a set change to him sitting down with his old band mates for a kind of casual jam session. You're still waiting for him to notice that you're there. Part of you is starting to hope that he'll never notice and you can just slink back onto a plane and go home. Seeing him has enlivened every feeling you've ever had for him and you can't help but have flashbacks to every time he's ever touched you. You long to feel his strong hands on your body, his lips on yours, his fingers and tongue doing unspeakable things between your legs. You squeeze your legs together and pray that you're not going to leave a puddle on your seat.

And then it happens. He's walking around the stage singing again and he kneels just feet from you. You're in the second row, far enough back to be out of reach, but close enough to be visible. He looks out into the audience and your eyes meet. Ever the professional performer, he only freezes for a second when he sees you. You feel like someone dumped ice water down your back and it's suddenly hard to breathe. You want to get up and run out, but you can't. And just when you think he's completely unaffected by you, he closes his eyes and shakes his head. Then he stands up, turns away from you, and keeps singing.

But he comes back.

He walks around the stage like he's supposed to, but he always comes back to you and keeps his eyes locked onto yours for as long as possible before he has to move. Every time it happens, your heart skips a beat and you start to wonder how much more you can take. Just when you think you might melt from the intensity of his gaze, he leaves the stage and the producer comes back and says that filming is done for the day.

You sit there for a while and let the other people around you file out. Eventually you get up and head for the exit. You're one of the last people in the room as you head for the door. And then you hear someone behind you. You turn, expecting someone to tell you that you need to leave, but no.

It's him.

You stand and stare at each other for a good minute before he speaks. He asks a single question.

"Where can I find you later?"

You want to tell him to go to hell. Instead, you hear yourself say, "Hollywood Hilton, room 647."

He nods, turns, and jogs away from you back to wherever he came from. A man comes and ushers you out the exit door. You head back to your hotel in disbelief. You're not sure what you expected, but it wasn't that.

******

You're trying really hard to stop pacing in your hotel room. The clock on the night stand says 12:24am. You're still wearing the pink and white dress, mainly because you're too nervous to change into anything else, but you're barefooted now, your boots in a pile by the door. You tell yourself you are giving him until 1am and then you're going to bed. That's when you hear the knock on your door.

Your stomach tenses up and your heart jumps into your throat. You walk to the door and open it carefully. Elvis walks in quickly and closes it behind himself. You're reminded of the time he did that when you lived in the dorm and you almost laugh out loud.

"Who are you hiding from?"

"Everyone." He looks at you like no time has passed since the last time you were alone like this. He puts his hand on the side of your face and for a moment you let him. Then you move away from him.

"Don't."

"Honey, why--"

"You have a wife."

"And you have a husband. Never stopped us before."

"I don't have a husband anymore."

"All the more reason--"

"You married her, Elvis." He looks down at the floor.

"She has your baby. You're somebody's father."

"I know that."

"Then why did you come here?" He picks up your hand and kisses the inside of your palm, just like he did so many years before.

"I missed you." You want to take that hand and slap him with it. For a second, you really consider it. Instead, you pull it away from him and turn to face the window. If you look at him, you might give in.

He comes up behind you and touches your dress on your shoulder.

"You know I've always loved you in pink."

"It matches--"

"--the dress you wore on the first night. I remember."

That almost convinces you to turn around, but instead you shake his hand off your shoulder. You can't turn around. Not yet.

"Elvis, we said this was over."

"We've said that before."

"Yeah, but last time I thought we meant it."

He walks around in front of you and faces you. He seems afraid to touch you again.

"Baby, you know I could never mean it."

You cross your arms over your chest and look up at him. He looks different now, grown up and fully himself, but he's still the same boy from Memphis who said he would always be yours.

"No. Go home to your wife, Elvis."

You can see in his eyes that that stung. You immediately wish you hadn't said it, but you did and it wasn't untrue. He does have a wife to go home to and you have what? No one because you can't seem to move on from him. He's as much a part of you as you are of him.

"You know what you mean to me." You do know. But sometimes you just wish he would say the words.

You walk past him to the hotel room window and look out at the street below. They say New York is the city that never sleeps, but this town could give it a run for its money. There seems to be people everywhere. He speaks again, ripping you out of your reverie.

"You know, I could ask you the same question. Why did you come to my show?" You step back from the window and look up at the ceiling. That, you don't have an answer for. You're not even sure why you came. It's no use lying to him or yourself anymore. You turn to face him with tears in your eyes.

"I missed you."

It only takes him three steps to walk across the room and pull you into a deep and passionate kiss, his arms around you to keep you from pulling away. You know you should pull away, but you don't even try. You melt into him like snow in the rain, your mouths picking up a rhythm easily. Kissing him is familiar and satisfying and you begin to wonder why you ever stopped. You wrap your arms around his neck and let yourself get lost in him. He walks you backwards to the dresser and then lifts you up so that you're sitting on it. He runs both hands up your thighs and then grabs your hips, pulling them into his own. You break the kiss and moan softly into his mouth as you feel his hardness press into you. In a second, he has the dress up, over your head, and off. Your fingers shake as you undo the rest of the buttons on his shirt and push it off of his shoulders with his jacket, letting them both fall to the floor. The whole time, he's kissing you on the neck, on your chest, and shoulder, and jawline, and lips. It almost feels like he's trying to devour you whole. In fact, he bites the skin next to your collarbone at one point hard enough that you let out a small yelp. He knows you well enough to know that's a good sound. You grab the back of his hair and pull his head backward, diving into a deep kiss with heavy tongue. He almost breaks your bra, trying to rip it off of you and your panties don't stand a chance as he tears at them and throws them to the side. The button pops off of his pants as you feverishly try to get them off of him. He slides them off his hips and to the floor, letting his erection free to land against your thigh. The sight and feel of it there elicits a moan from your mouth and a good deal of wetness from between your legs. He pulls you to the edge of the dresser and pushes himself inside you. He slams into you heatedly and you both start to sweat. You can feel your climax building around him as he pumps. He's still kissing you all over your face and neck, dipping his tongue into your mouth periodically. Your hands grip his back as your fingernails dig into his skin. As many times as you've been together, it's never felt like this before. There's a desperation and need in both of you that's completely new. You wrap your legs around him and he carries you to the bed, still inside of you. You fuck for a while with him on top of you, until you push him into a sitting position on the edge of the bed. Then, you turn away from him and lower yourself onto him, holding onto his thighs for support. While you slide up and down on him, he reaches forward and makes circles with his finger on the spot between your legs that makes you cry out his name.

"Elvis, fuck!" You scream as your climax pounds into you from every angle, rushing through you from your center to your edges and back again. You turn around and push him back onto the bed. He moves himself backwards until he's fully on the bed and you can ride him easily. You're grinding your hips against him, so that he is so deep inside of you. Nothing seems to be deep enough to satisfy you tonight. You want to swallow him up and keep him there inside you. He moans and grunts while you work, obviously approaching his climax. He flips you over one last time and thrusts into you a few times before he shudders and cusses and fills you with his warmth. You're both dripping wet with sweat and covered in marks from the other's teeth and fingernails. He rolls over off of you and lays next to you, both of you breathing heavily. He picks up your hand and kisses your fingers.

"Oh, honey, I have missed you so much." He smiles at you and holds your hand on his chest. You get up and go to the bathroom, trying to forget that you just committed adultery with him. Again. When you come back, you get some panties out of your suitcase and put them on. Then, you climb back into bed, where he's arranged himself as if he's going to sleep there.

"Don't you... have to... go?" You ask tentatively. You think of his wife, probably pacing her room waiting for him to come home.

"No." He doesn't give any more detail and you don't ask. He puts his arm around you and pulls you close to him. "I'm staying here." He kisses the side of your head.

It feels so good to have him wrapped around you again. This won't be the last time you're together.

He waits until he thinks you're asleep, and you almost are, when he whispers,

"I love you, baby."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Taglist: @itlover8000 @deniseinmn @elvisalltheway101

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clanwarrior-tumbly · 10 months

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can we get a mark heathcliff X reader, where the reader, cesar and Sarah (little Sarah) give him a surprise birthday party and he gets all emotional about it because not only did his best friend, his sister and his lover all go out of their way to do this for him, but also because hes never had a birthday party because he had only 1 friend in school because everyone thought he was too weird to hang out with 😭 (mark gets tons of hugs and kisses from the reader! because he's the birthday boy and deserves it<3)

I know I'm waaaaaay late but here's something short and sweet for the birthday boy!

..........

"""Surprise!!!!"""

Mark didn't expect anything out of the ordinary when he walked out into the kitchen this morning. To him, it was just another day off of school.

But to see you, Cesar, and Sarah greet him with a "Happy Birthday" banner and kazoos indeed surprised him, making him freeze on the spot.

For a moment, he seemed utterly confused...

Then it finally hit him.

Today was his birthday.

"Oh, wow..I...is this really all for me?" Approaching the table, he saw several giftboxes for him, alongside the cards with each of your names on the envelopes.

"Of course, man! Who else?" Cesar laughed as he patted his best friend on the back, grinning from ear-to-ear. "I know you're not big on parties, but [y/n] wanted to make this one extra special..you're finally 18! Feel any older yet?"

".........."

Sarah was a huge help in picking out the ribbons." You chimed in, ruffling the younger Heathcliff's hair, to which she smiled bashfully and nodded. "We did our best to be quiet, so...."

However, you trailed off when you noticed Mark's gaze seemed vacant. He kept staring at the table, apparently lost in thought, and you and Cesar exchanged concerned glances.

Suddenly a very small part of you feared this was all too overwhelming for your boyfriend.

He did have a rough day at school yesterday and went to bed upset, so maybe this wasn't the best time for a-

"Y-You all did this...for me?"

"We did Mark, I hope it's not too much." You stepped forward, but stopped as he turned to you, eyes watery with the biggest smile on his face. It made your heart melt. "Oh, sweetheart..are you okay?"

"I'm great, [y/n]. I just..." He began to sob, trying yet failing to hide his tears. "Nobody's ever gave a single shit about my birthday..b-but now I have you guys. I'm so lucky..I'm so blessed. Thank you."

Relieved that none of this stressed him out, you smiled back and cupped his face in your hands, wiping away the tears for him. "Awh, you're welcome." You kissed him on the forehead before hugging him, rubbing gentle circles into his back. "You deserve this more than anyone."

Truer words have never been spoken.

He deserved to have a decent birthday..to make up for all the ones he's missed or neglected.

Because back in school, Mark never got any acknowledgement...nor was he invited to any parties. Every year there's always the kids who made plans right in front of him, the classmates who said he was too "weird" to hang around and would rather partner with anybody else, and the teachers who gave him birthday wishes that were either too early or too late, never on time.

It sucked, and he had to get used to that lonely feeling even with Cesar trying to cheer him up. He started caring less and less about his birthday over the years...until he forgot that he literally turned 18 today.

When you first realized it was coming up fast, you believed it was a milestone worth celebrating!

So you wanted to make this day a little extra special, although you didn't think he'd get this emotional about it.

Poor Sarah was flabbergasted when her older brother started crying out of nowhere, thinking he was upset for some reason and hated the surprise, though Cesar reassured her that he was happy.

After he calmed down, he opened the presents (one of which didn't totally include a marketable plushie) and dug into a small cake his best friend bought for all of you to share for breakfast.

Of course, it was his favorite flavor.

As for the remainder of the day, well, he had no plans to go out. But you were okay with that, and he was too.

Rather, you just stayed home and cuddled on the couch together, where you continued giving him a lot of kisses. You had homework, unfortunately, but elected to ignore that for today, instead putting on a movie he casually mentioned wanting to watch. And you let him rest his head on your shoulder while you both stared at the screen, perfectly content.

Mark expected nothing from you...yet you gave him everything.

And he loved you for that.

#clanask #anonymous #tmc x reader #mandela catalogue x reader #mark heathcliff x reader #fluff

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rose-tea-and-strawberries · 6 months

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Trey: *Trying to explain Riddle is that way because of his mom*

Me: Give me a minute as I pull up my ‘Trauma Doesn’t Excuse Sh*t Behavior’ PowerPoint.

Say it with me, everyone: an explanation is not an excuse 😊

You know, the other day I was watching one of Ryan George's Pitch Meetings and when Producer Guy asked Writer Guy how the audience would root for the villain of the franchise and the response was "he's handsome" which basically explains most people's reactions to fictional men.

Prepare for incoming rant that has little to do with the ask

This probably might come as a shock because one of the main appeal of twst would be the whole villainous aspect/Disney Villain fanbase but I don't really like villains that much, at least, not romantically. Like don't get me wrong, I think that they're incredible characters and it would be so fun to sit down with one and have a conversation with one. Villain songs are so fun (I was literally singing ‘This Day Aria’ to myself the other day I haven’t heard that song in like a decade) and you can tell that that characters like Scar or Hades or Shere Khan or Jafar or Maleficent are having so much fun being deliciously evil and even the more serious, complex ones like Loki or Frollo are fun to pick apart so yeah I understand the hype. I just always rooted for the heroes and I guess heroic characters have always been more my type.

My mother absolutely loves Erik Destler and is forever salty that Christine chose Raoul (despite my many many attempts at arguing why Raoulstine is the superior couple - smol primary school me could not understand why my mum liked the chandelier dropper and was deeply concerned), my best friend has been in love with Heathcliffe since we were eleven, and my little sister has literally told me that her type of fictional men are the toxic red flags (not exactly word for word but she did explain why she likes bad boys over good boys when I was complaining about how my type (wholesome soft boys) always get sidelined for the arrogant, snarky bad boys - we're also very diametrically opposed on our views of friends to lovers (my s++ tier all time favourite and her loathing) vs enemies to lovers (I can't really stand it - Pride and Prejudice is the only exception - and that's literally all she consumes) so that might also be a reason).

Like, I understand the appeal of a Byronic hero (Mr Darcy has far too much power) - a closed off, broody man that hates everything but you? And will burn down the world to keep you warm? I can respect that there are people who dig that. But their not really for me.

The mild bout of insanity thirteen year old me had where I spent two months attracted to Edward Rochester is an outlier and should not have been counted (though that was during my wattpad phase so...)

But I can admit that I have yet to shake off my feelings for Dr Henry Jekyll, Victor Frankenstein and Dorian Gray (though to be fair, Mr Gabriel John Utterson the lawyer and cinnamon roll artist boy Basil Hallward do own my heart). And yes, Jeremy Jordan did make me question my morality as he did make my feelings for Light Yagami be too positive to be sane for a brief moment (Touta Matsuda is still my man, don't worry). But apart from them, literally all of my faves are what you'd call your traditional, morally upright heroes.

Basically what I'm saying is that my perception might be skewed because I've never had the whole 'villains are cooler' mindset when it came to stories. Yes, I love the villains as characters but I always liked their heroic foils more (goodness is just so attractive to me). You get lots of amazing heroic protagonists that have horribly tragic backstories and they're the ones I always fall for because the idea of being a kind sweetheart despite the world being anything but is just *chef's kiss* that's a kind of strength that's so swoon-worthy.

I guess that's why it's harder for me to look past the characters' actions in twst is because, well, they chose to do everything they did. They made a conscious choice to be terrible, despite understanding the consequences. Riddle may have been brainwashed into becoming a tyrant by his mother but he still admitted that he knew he was being horrible - he understands the concept of morality, of good and bad, and he willingly and deliberately did everything he did.

I suppose this text post I found on Pinterest would explain my point better:

#twisted wonderland #twst #asks

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incorrectwutheringheightsquotes · 5 months

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246 years ago today, in Yorkshire, in the house of “a little farmer”:

“In the morning he rose early; and, as it was a holiday, carried his ill-humour on to the moors; not re-appearing till the family were departed for church. Fasting and reflection seemed to have brought him to a better spirit. He hung about me for a while, and having screwed up his courage, exclaimed abruptly ‘Nelly, make me decent, I’m going to be good.’

‘High time, Heathcliff,’ I said; ‘you have grieved Catherine: she’s sorry she ever came home, I daresay! It looks as if you envied her, because she is more thought of than you.’

The notion of envying Catherine was incomprehensible to him, but the notion of grieving her he understood clearly enough.

‘Did she say she was grieved?’ he inquired, looking very serious.

‘She cried when I told her you were off again this morning.’

‘Well, I cried last night,’ he returned, ‘and I had more reason to cry than she.’

‘Yes: you had the reason of going to bed with a proud heart and an empty stomach,’ said I. ‘Proud people breed sad sorrows for themselves. But, if you be ashamed of your touchiness, you must ask pardon, mind, when she comes in. You must go up and offer to kiss her, and say—you know best what to say; only do it heartily, and not as if you thought her converted into a stranger by her grand dress. And now, though I have dinner to get ready, I’ll steal time to arrange you so that Edgar Linton shall look quite a doll beside you: and that he does. You are younger, and yet, I’ll be bound, you are taller and twice as broad across the shoulders; you could knock him down in a twinkling; don’t you feel that you could?’

Heathcliff’s face brightened a moment; then it was overcast afresh, and he sighed.

‘But, Nelly, if I knocked him down twenty times, that wouldn’t make him less handsome or me more so. I wish I had light hair and a fair skin, and was dressed and behaved as well, and had a chance of being as rich as he will be!’

‘And cried for mamma at every turn,’ I added, ‘and trembled if a country lad heaved his fist against you, and sat at home all day for a shower of rain. Oh, Heathcliff, you are showing a poor spirit! Come to the glass, and I’ll let you see what you should wish. Do you mark those two lines between your eyes; and those thick brows, that, instead of rising arched, sink in the middle; and that couple of black fiends, so deeply buried, who never open their windows boldly, but lurk glinting under them, like devil’s spies? Wish and learn to smooth away the surly wrinkles, to raise your lids frankly, and change the fiends to confident, innocent angels, suspecting and doubting nothing, and always seeing friends where they are not sure of foes. Don’t get the expression of a vicious cur that appears to know the kicks it gets are its desert, and yet hates all the world, as well as the kicker, for what it suffers.’

‘In other words, I must wish for Edgar Linton’s great blue eyes and even forehead,’ he replied. ‘I do—and that won’t help me to them.’

‘A good heart will help you to a bonny face, my lad,’ I continued, ‘if you were a regular black; and a bad one will turn the bonniest into something worse than ugly. And now that we’ve done washing, and combing, and sulking—tell me whether you don’t think yourself rather handsome? I’ll tell you, I do. You’re fit for a prince in disguise. Who knows but your father was Emperor of China, and your mother an Indian queen, each of them able to buy up, with one week’s income, Wuthering Heights and Thrushcross Grange together? And you were kidnapped by wicked sailors and brought to England. Were I in your place, I would frame high notions of my birth; and the thoughts of what I was should give me courage and dignity to support the oppressions of a little farmer!’

So I chattered on; and Heathcliff gradually lost his frown and began to look quite pleasant, when all at once our conversation was interrupted by a rumbling sound moving up the road and entering the court. He ran to the window and I to the door, just in time to behold the two Lintons descend from the family carriage, smothered in cloaks and furs, and the Earnshaws dismount from their horses: they often rode to church in winter. Catherine took a hand of each of the children, and brought them into the house and set them before the fire, which quickly put colour into their white faces.

I urged my companion to hasten now and show his amiable humour, and he willingly obeyed; but ill luck would have it that, as he opened the door leading from the kitchen on one side, Hindley opened it on the other. They met, and the master, irritated at seeing him clean and cheerful, or, perhaps, eager to keep his promise to Mrs. Linton, shoved him back with a sudden thrust, and angrily bade Joseph ‘keep the fellow out of the room—send him into the garret till dinner is over. He’ll be cramming his fingers in the tarts and stealing the fruit, if left alone with them a minute.’

‘Nay, sir,’ I could not avoid answering, ‘he’ll touch nothing, not he: and I suppose he must have his share of the dainties as well as we.’

‘He shall have his share of my hand, if I catch him downstairs till dark,’ cried Hindley. ‘Begone, you vagabond! What! you are attempting the coxcomb, are you? Wait till I get hold of those elegant locks—see if I won’t pull them a bit longer!’

‘They are long enough already,’ observed Master Linton, peeping from the doorway; ‘I wonder they don’t make his head ache. It’s like a colt’s mane over his eyes!’

He ventured this remark without any intention to insult; but Heathcliff’s violent nature was not prepared to endure the appearance of impertinence from one whom he seemed to hate, even then, as a rival. He seized a tureen of hot apple sauce (the first thing that came under his gripe) and dashed it full against the speaker’s face and neck; who instantly commenced a lament that brought Isabella and Catherine hurrying to the place. Mr. Earnshaw snatched up the culprit directly and conveyed him to his chamber; where, doubtless, he administered a rough remedy to cool the fit of passion, for he appeared red and breathless. I got the dishcloth, and rather spitefully scrubbed Edgar’s nose and mouth, affirming it served him right for meddling. His sister began weeping to go home, and Cathy stood by confounded, blushing for all.

‘You should not have spoken to him!’ she expostulated with Master Linton. ‘He was in a bad temper, and now you’ve spoilt your visit; and he’ll be flogged: I hate him to be flogged! I can’t eat my dinner. Why did you speak to him, Edgar?’

‘I didn’t,’ sobbed the youth, escaping from my hands, and finishing the remainder of the purification with his cambric pocket-handkerchief. ‘I promised mamma that I wouldn’t say one word to him, and I didn’t.’

‘Well, don’t cry,’ replied Catherine, contemptuously; ‘you’re not killed. Don’t make more mischief; my brother is coming: be quiet! Hush, Isabella! Has anybody hurt you?’

‘There, there, children—to your seats!’ cried Hindley, bustling in. ‘That brute of a lad has warmed me nicely. Next time, Master Edgar, take the law into your own fists—it will give you an appetite!’

The little party recovered its equanimity at sight of the fragrant feast. They were hungry after their ride, and easily consoled, since no real harm had befallen them. Mr. Earnshaw carved bountiful platefuls, and the mistress made them merry with lively talk. I waited behind her chair, and was pained to behold Catherine, with dry eyes and an indifferent air, commence cutting up the wing of a goose before her. ‘An unfeeling child,’ I thought to myself; ‘how lightly she dismisses her old playmate’s troubles. I could not have imagined her to be so selfish.’ She lifted a mouthful to her lips: then she set it down again: her cheeks flushed, and the tears gushed over them. She slipped her fork to the floor, and hastily dived under the cloth to conceal her emotion. I did not call her unfeeling long; for I perceived she was in purgatory throughout the day, and wearying to find an opportunity of getting by herself, or paying a visit to Heathcliff, who had been locked up by the master: as I discovered, on endeavouring to introduce to him a private mess of victuals.

In the evening we had a dance. Cathy begged that he might be liberated then, as Isabella Linton had no partner: her entreaties were vain, and I was appointed to supply the deficiency. We got rid of all gloom in the excitement of the exercise, and our pleasure was increased by the arrival of the Gimmerton band, mustering fifteen strong: a trumpet, a trombone, clarionets, bassoons, French horns, and a bass viol, besides singers. They go the rounds of all the respectable houses, and receive contributions every Christmas, and we esteemed it a first-rate treat to hear them. After the usual carols had been sung, we set them to songs and glees. Mrs. Earnshaw loved the music, and so they gave us plenty.

Catherine loved it too: but she said it sounded sweetest at the top of the steps, and she went up in the dark: I followed. They shut the house door below, never noting our absence, it was so full of people. She made no stay at the stairs’-head, but mounted farther, to the garret where Heathcliff was confined, and called him. He stubbornly declined answering for a while: she persevered, and finally persuaded him to hold communion with her through the boards. I let the poor things converse unmolested, till I supposed the songs were going to cease, and the singers to get some refreshment: then I clambered up the ladder to warn her. Instead of finding her outside, I heard her voice within. The little monkey had crept by the skylight of one garret, along the roof, into the skylight of the other, and it was with the utmost difficulty I could coax her out again. When she did come, Heathcliff came with her, and she insisted that I should take him into the kitchen, as my fellow-servant had gone to a neighbour’s, to be removed from the sound of our ‘devil’s psalmody,’ as it pleased him to call it. I told them I intended by no means to encourage their tricks: but as the prisoner had never broken his fast since yesterday’s dinner, I would wink at his cheating Mr. Hindley that once. He went down: I set him a stool by the fire, and offered him a quantity of good things: but he was sick and could eat little, and my attempts to entertain him were thrown away. He leant his two elbows on his knees, and his chin on his hands and remained rapt in dumb meditation. On my inquiring the subject of his thoughts, he answered gravely ‘I’m trying to settle how I shall pay Hindley back. I don’t care how long I wait, if I can only do it at last. I hope he will not die before I do!’

‘For shame, Heathcliff!’ said I. ‘It is for God to punish wicked people; we should learn to forgive.’

‘No, God won’t have the satisfaction that I shall,’ he returned. ‘I only wish I knew the best way! Let me alone, and I’ll plan it out: while I’m thinking of that I don’t feel pain.’”

#wuthering heights #heathcliff #nelly dean #christmas

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faintingheroine · 3 months

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I don’t know. What do you think? Is he being a man who can’t handle romantic rejection?

“Heathcliff, what are you about, raising this stir? I said you must let Isabella alone!—I beg you will, unless you are tired of being received here, and wish Linton to draw the bolts against you!’

‘God forbid that he should try!’ answered the black villain. I detested him just then. ‘God keep him meek and patient! Every day I grow madder after sending him to heaven!’

‘Hush!’ said Catherine, shutting the inner door! ‘Don’t vex me. Why have you disregarded my request? Did she come across you on purpose?’

‘What is it to you?’ he growled. ‘I have a right to kiss her, if she chooses; and you have no right to object. I am not your husband: you needn’t be jealous of me!’

‘I’m not jealous of you,’ replied the mistress; ‘I’m jealous for you. Clear your face: you sha’n’t scowl at me! If you like Isabella, you shall marry her. But do you like her? Tell the truth, Heathcliff! There, you won’t answer. I’m certain you don’t.’

‘And would Mr. Linton approve of his sister marrying that man?’ I inquired.

‘Mr. Linton should approve,’ returned my lady, decisively.

‘He might spare himself the trouble,’ said Heathcliff: ‘I could do as well without his approbation. And as to you, Catherine, I have a mind to speak a few words now, while we are at it. I want you to be aware that I know you have treated me infernally—infernally! Do you hear? And if you flatter yourself that I don’t perceive it, you are a fool; and if you think I can be consoled by sweet words, you are an idiot: and if you fancy I’ll suffer unrevenged, I’ll convince you of the contrary, in a very little while! Meantime, thank you for telling me your sister-in-law’s secret: I swear I’ll make the most of it. And stand you aside!’

‘What new phase of his character is this?’ exclaimed Mrs. Linton, in amazement. ‘I’ve treated you infernally—and you’ll take your revenge! How will you take it, ungrateful brute? How have I treated you infernally?’

‘I seek no revenge on you,’ replied Heathcliff, less vehemently. ‘That’s not the plan. The tyrant grinds down his slaves and they don’t turn against him; they crush those beneath them. You are welcome to torture me to death for your amusement, only allow me to amuse myself a little in the same style, and refrain from insult as much as you are able. Having levelled my palace, don’t erect a hovel and complacently admire your own charity in giving me that for a home. If I imagined you really wished me to marry Isabel, I’d cut my throat!’”

(Chapter 11)

Edit: I guess here we see that he does blame Catherine for her rejection of him, but loves and respects her too much to seek revenge on her. So he directs his anger at other targets. This does seem to support the “misdirection of his anger onto other targets” interpretation.

#wuthering heights #heathcliff

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amphibimations · 4 months

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Oh my god I love your smart style so much it’s so cute but like djdhdjdhdjd I love it!!!

Also your little wuthering heights comics are SO good just, chefs kiss!! Also poor poor Nelly… I love her so much

Thank you!!!!! 😄😄😁 I’m so glad. I draw stuff that i think is silly or cute or makes me laugh so im glad it makes OTHER people happy too. Also YEAH… poor Nelly 😔. She’s probably tied with Heathcliff for being my 2nd favorite character in the book. (Cathy1 taking first place).

#ask #asks

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throughpatchesofviolet · 1 day

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Okay ... putting it under a cut, because I am, of course, long-winded. And also still very shy. /lh

The one thing I tend to think of a lot with Pequod!Heathcliff is him and Sherry sharing a bed. At some point, they get comfortable enough that this happens regularly--whenever Heathcliff is back from a voyage and rents a room at the inn.

I imagine that Heathcliff prefers to sleep without a shirt (this applies to all IDs, except for Öufi, Seven, and Sunshower), and with Pequod AU, specifically, Heathcliff will gently insist Sherry sleep on his chest, because he feels more comfortable with her doing so--he gets to hold her close, playing with her hair while they both drift off. But another thing that happens is Sherry will quietly trace his scars and tattoos when they're snuggled up together (and even when he's asleep, sometimes).

For Pequod!Heathcliff, his tattoos are a mark of shame, but Sherry doesn't treat him any different for them ... she's determined to help him find a way to remove them (since that's what he wants), but she's also going to make him feel loved whether he has them or not. I like to think she kisses them, too ... which maybe flusters Heathcliff a little ... also he looks at her with such pure, unadulterated affection in my mind's eye and it makes me feel all giddy ...

The laat thing is that Heathcliff makes soft grunts and sighs whenever he's laying down or relaxing. He's usually pretty on edge, since he's on lookout for the Middle almost constantly (since they want to make him pay for leaving them), so when he finally lays down to rest, all that tension is released in a sigh or grunt of relief. And him humming whenever he feels Sherry's touch is so cute ...

#he makes me feel like the 'giddy leg wiggle' reaction image okay--#he's so handsome ... and I like to think he's very physically affectionate too ...#AU: I Love to Sail Forbidden Seas 🔱#r: remind my heart to beat 💢#si: to a great mind‚ nothing is little 🤎#scattered pages

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oh-hush-its-perfect · 9 months

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okay guys so there's this tv show i started watching recently and it kind of feels like it's queerbaiting but i'm not sure because it's a reality show, so, like, these are real people I'm talking about. the show is called "Make It Big," and it's about aspiring artists. let me describe the parts i think are queerbait-y and y'all can give me your thoughts.

so one of the guys on MIB is named taylor, right? taylor is an author and poet, and sometimes his work is featured on the show. the thing is that he writes a lot of love poems but the gender of the person it's addressed to is usually ambiguous. and taylor has had plenty of female love interests and written stuff about those relationships, but there are other works that almost seem to be about his (ex) friends???

for example, he's got this one former friend— and they had a falling-out, but it happened off-screen so no one's really sure what happened— who is obsessed with Wuthering Heights. Like, he has a tattoo of Catherine and Heathcliff, and his social media accounts have some reference to Wuthering Heights in the url. After the two had their falling out, taylor wrote a poem using Wuthering Heights as a metaphor for a failing relationship?? and like. he even mentions "green eyes" in the poem, and this friend has green eyes? like i know it's nothing solid, but it's just a little suspicious.

but even more, taylor used to have this friend named charlie, and the two of them were SUPER close. like they were roommates at one point. and they too had a falling out (again, off-screen). then taylor wrote a poem that specifically mentioned something that the two did together: "I drew a heart on your wrist in Sharpie." and i'm sitting here like, taylor literally drew a heart on charlie's wrist, like, three episodes ago. there are other things, too, like how the two of them were photographed kissing at a concert?? but the show never brought this up, and never clarified one way or another if they were in a relationship??? there are a bunch of other things in taylor's love poetry and short stories that seem to allude to charlie, too, but nothing is ever direct.

then, like a long time later, taylor performed a slam poem about gay rights while dressed in the bisexual colors (blue jacket, purple shirt, pink pants), but when asked why he chose to do that, he said that he just "respect[ed] the community a lot" without saying whether he was part of it or not. btw, a bunch of the proceeds from that episode went to the Trevor Project.

not long after that episode aired, it was time for a pride episode, and this one famous designer posted a picture of a rainbow suit and captioned the picture something like "you'll never guess who on Make It Big is going to be wearing this in the new episode!" then, when the episode aired, this other character Lainey, who we HAVE KNOWN WAS A LESBIAN SINCE THE EPISODE IN WHICH SHE FIRST APPEARED, was wearing the suit. The problem was that part of the suit was body-colored mesh that would only work with someone who had fair skin. Lainey is black, and the suit didn't fit her properly. Somebody posted a tiktok about the situation a while ago theorizing the outfit had been made for taylor instead, and the guy who designed the suit dueted the tiktok drinking a cup of tea.

there has also been some gender stuff in taylor's poetry? like, for example, he wrote a poem called "The Two of Us are Maidens," in which the speaker was presumably himself. He's also written "from the perspective of women," like in the poem "Tommy," where he waxes poetic about kissing a man.

the nail in the coffin for me was him writing in a poem that he "used to love a friend of Dorothy." for anyone who doesn't know, "friend of Dorothy" is a queer dog whistle meaning "queer person."

but there's been even more questionable stuff. these are just some examples. so, like, I assume he's bi.

Meanwhile, other people in the (small) fandom get really upset at people who think taylor might like guys, saying that it's an invasion of his privacy and assuming anyone's sexuality is weird— even though they all assume he's straight.

what do y'all think? is this queerbaiting?

#so for those of you who didn't catch on #the whole 'reality television' thing?#it's a metaphor #but just as in reality tv #the public narrative around celebrities is one that is carefully constructed #this post was made in part to explain why some people think TS is bisexual #because when i put it in these terms #it doesn't sound so outlandish does it?#gaylor swift #lgbetty

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hecatemoon87 · 1 year

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Summary: Heathcliff is a complicated man. And being in a relationship with him has its challenges, especially for the kind hearted, innocent Freya. She cares for him and wants to adapt to his lifestyle, but she’s having a little trouble doing so.

If you'd like to start from the top - Ch. 1 -12

Warnings: Smut. Pegging. 18+

Chapter Thirteen:

Freya returned to the bedroom to find that Heathcliff had already changed. He was wearing a tight white t-shirt and black shorts and was sitting up in bed scrolling through his mobile.

“I swear, I take a few hours off work and it all goes to shit,” he muttered as he read through his emails.

“Heathcliff, put away your mobile. No work, remember?” she said, walking over to his side of the bed.

“I know, I know. Let me just reply to this idiot,” Heathcliff said, his fingers typing frantically, eyes glued to the phone.

Freya knew exactly how to get his attention. She allowed the top portion of her silk robe to slip over her shoulders. Her ample, round breasts were now on full display. Heathcliff’s eyes flashed from the phone to her nakedness. He paused for a moment, staring intently at her breasts.

“Ah, I see,” he said, placing his mobile on the nightstand next to the bed. Pleased she now had his full attention, Freya let the rest of the robe fall to the floor. She watched as his gorgeous blue eyes took in the sight of the strap on.

Heathcliff moved to sit on the edge of the bed, his hands resting on her hips. He looked up at her, his eyes darkened by lust.

“Now, what is my darling little church mouse up to? Does she even know how to use such a thing?” he said, playfully. His thumbs smoothed over her naked hips causing a spark of passion to pulsate through Freya.

“As it so happens, she does,” she said with an air of confidence. “Now, get undressed like a good boy. This little church mouse is going to turn you into a dirty little slut.”

Heathcliff growled with arousal. He stood up and tore away his t-shirt, revealing his well toned arms and chest. Freya grabbed his muscular bicep and turned him to face the bed. She tucked her fingers into the band of his underwear and shorts and pulled them down.

He was now fully naked and Freya wrapped her arms around him, her front pressing into his back. Her dainty hands danced over his chest and seductively glided down to his cock. She gently kissed his neck and firm shoulders.

All the while, the strap on grinded against his ass, the length of the dildo slipping between his powerful legs and pleasurably rubbing over his taint.

A very deep, gravelly moan escaped Heathcliff’s perfect lips. He inhaled sharply when Freya’s soft hand locked around his throbbing erection. Her other hand rested on his lower abdomen as he playfully stroked him. She purposefully didn't give him enough pressure with her tiny fist, she wanted to toy with him first.

“You ready to take some thick cock, baby?” she whispered in his ear. Heathcliff could only nod dumbly, his focus solely on the sensations Freya’s hand was delivering and the anticipation of the dildo sliding into his bum.

Freya held back a little giggle, finding it cute that he had no words at the moment. She gently pushed him forward onto the bed. He then adjusted himself so that his knees rested on the edge of the bed, while his hands supported him on the mattress.

His creamy white skin was deliciously tantalizing, a contrast to Freya’s milk chocolate skin tone. Back in London, Heathcliff had a mirror in his room. She enjoyed watching their bodies blend into one, their skin color creating a yin and yang of duality.

As she glanced up now, she was happy to see a mirror across the room. A very good vantage point to watch Heathcliff squirm.

His head was low, his dark, almost black hair was covering a portion of his face. He had let it grow out a bit these past few weeks. Freya smoothed her hands over his muscular ass, her hands reaching forward to trace the outline of his v-cut around his hips. As he felt him up, she edged the tip of the dildo over his vulnerable star.

“Fuck, Freya,” Heathcliff whimpered. “Shove it up my ass, fucking ruin me.”

She smiled at his needy behavior and bent down to pick up the lube from her robe on the floor. Taking the cap off, she squeezed the lube over his star. She then recapped the tube and tossed it to the floor.

Repositioning herself, she returned the dildo's tip to the center of his star, applying barely enough pressure to open his void, but just enough to cause him to moan with want.

“Freya, please…” he whispered, softly.

“Hush. You’re a little brat when it comes to cock, huh, baby?” she purred, rotating her hips slightly, the movement slowly pushing the dildo up his ass.

“Oh, god, yes,” Heathcliff moaned, spreading his legs just a bit more, eager for the dildo to consume his core. His cock throbbed with terrible desire, his balls tingling with an arousal so powerful that he was certain when he ejaculated it would something he had never experienced before.

“You like that, baby? You like having your sweet little ass filled up with cock?” she said, pushing even deeper into his depths. As Freya pushed into him, the small grooves in the material meant to stimulate her clit began massaging her bud. The smaller dildo that was snugly tucked inside her own little cunt caused her to moan out with a little pleasure herself.

Heathcliff was breathing heavily and making delightful grunting sounds. She loved his manly noises of pure bliss, it made her even more aroused.

Once she completed her entrance, she patted his bottom and said, “You’re all filled up now, baby boy. Want mama to rail you good?”

“Yes! Fucking destroy me!” he growled, clutching the bed sheet tightly in his fists.

Freya did not hesitate, but at first started out with a slow and controlled thrusts. Since she had never done this before, she needed to get a feel of the rhythm before she could really give it to him. It didn’t take long, however, to build up the speed and power that Heathcliff desperately craved.

As she pounded his ass, the tip of the dildo would kiss his prostate in the most delicious way, before rudely abandoning him causing Heathcliff to groan out in frustration.

But it was all part of the fun. He liked to be edged toward the orgasm, then be brutally denied it. In a way, he supposed he was a masochist.

“God, yes! Talk to me. Tell me I’m trash, that I’m a fucking piece of shit!” Heathcliff cried out.

Freya had no issue with dirty talk. But she didn’t like that type of degradation. Heathcliff had an underlying self-depreciation problem that she didn’t want to exacerbate. She wanted to satisfy his kink, but she’d do it in a sexy, fun way.

“You’re not a piece of shit, baby. You’re a pouty little prince who needs his slutty ass pounded. You like your mama drilling your naughty ass, don’t you baby boy?” she cooed, and then slapped his left ass cheek.

“I do, fuck, yes, I do,” he said, breathlessly. “Make me your fuck toy, mama.”

“I intend to, my slutty prince,” she said, pushing the dildo as deep as possible then rotating her hips, twisting the dildo against his prostate causing him to moan loudly. His cock ached so badly that the tip was almost purple. He attempted to reach for his cock, to stroke himself for a bit of reprieve, but Freya pushed his hand away.

“Just what do you think you are doing? This cock is my property, just like your tight little ass. You’ll cum when I allow it,” she said, sternly.

Heathcliff’s cock spasmed, he was incredibly turned on. All his senses were aflame with sinful passion.

“As you wish, mistress. I am your fuck toy after all,” he said, resting both hands on the mattress once again.

“Mhmmm, yes you are. My dirty, slutty, fuck toy. I think I’ll give you a fuck toy name,” she said, pulling out and then slamming hard into him again.

“Jesus! Fuck…oh, fuck. Do that again,” he moaned.

“Sure, baby. Just say, give it to me, mama. I’m your dirty little Heathy cakes,” she said, smiling.

Just as she thought, Heathcliff tensed up and growled, “Fuck no. I hate that fucking name!”

“Such a brat. Disobeying,” she said, tisking him. “I guess you don’t want to cum tonight do you?”

“No, I do…I do, just…oh, fuck,” Heathcliff said, whimpering. He took a moment before he finally said it. “Give it to me, mama. I’m your dirty little Heathy cakes.”

“Good boy,” she praised, then gave him what he needed. She proceeded to give him the hardest pounding her dainty little hips could offer.

The sounds that she was able to pull out of Heathcliff echoed through the room. He was a man who was clearly enjoying himself thoroughly. She wanted to continue, but she was growing tired. Her brain raced to find a way to continue his pleasure, so she slowed down, filled his ass once again with the thick dildo and pulled him back against her chest.

The palm of her hand wrapped around his cock and she started to milk him. The dildo was pressed against his prostate, so as she stroked him rapidly Heathcliff moaned like a proper sexy man whore.

Freya’s heart was racing from the pressure of the straps against her delicate flower, her little nub throbbing with need and her tight, wet walls clenched around the dildo inside her. And with the beautiful sounds her lover was making caused her to spontaneously cum.

“Heathcliff….oh! I’m…ah!” she moaned against his neck, her hand falling away from his cock. She held him tight as she came, her body trembling and causing her hips to shake. The dildo in Heathcliff’s ass vibrated and then he too was cumming.

“Freya, fuck. Grab my cock!” he groaned, and she managed to do so. She stroked him again, spreading his thick, hot seed over his cock.

“Good boy, Heathy cakes, cum all over your cock like a good slut,” she said, breathlessly.

Heathcliff thought he was finishing his orgasm when another took hold as she whispered into his ear, nibbling on his earlobe stroking him until he came again.

“Yes, mama. Yes!!” he shouted into the room, his deep voice echoing off the cottage walls.

Freya felt his erection turn from rock hard back to its normal state. She rested against him exhausted, but quickly realized the dildo was still firmly planted in his ass. She pulled out of him, and he moaned from its removal.

He then fell to the bed onto his back, staring at the ceiling, his chest heaving from the multiple orgasms. Freya tiredly slipped off the bed and removed the strap on. She let it fall to the floor and then she too fell back on the bed next to Heathcliff.

They laid there without words, their breathing filling in the silence for a few minutes. Then Freya rolled onto her side.

“Was that okay? Did I do it right?” she asked.

Heathcliff, still on his back, turned his head to look at her. “Uh, yeah. I wasn’t expecting that, but fuck. You did it right. What on earth inspired you to do that?”

“Um, well, Melanie helped me out,” she said, guiltily.

“You tried it with her first?” Heathcliff said, his eyes growing wide.

“What? Oh my god, no. She just sent me some links,” she said, laughing.

“I mean, if you ever wanted to fuck her with a strap on, I’d watch,” he said, only half teasingly.

“Shut up!” she said, playfully hitting his shoulder.

They were silent again, simply enjoying each other’s company, but Freya wanted to add something.

“So, you remember that recording we accidentally took of you?” she said.

“Yeah?” Heathcliff said, arching an eyebrow.

“She still has it and she sent it to me,” Freya said, cringing a little, thinking he’d be angry.

“And, pray tell, why does she still have it?” he asked.

“I dunno,” she said, innocently.

“She watches it, Freya. That’s why. Tell her any time she sees it, she owes me a hundred quid. I don’t do porn for free,” Heathcliff said.

Freya laughed and snuggled into him. “I rewatched it recently,” she said, her voice muffled against his skin.

“You did?” he said.

“I might have used it to pleasure myself while you were away,” she said, bashfully.

“You little minx,” Heathcliff said, grinning.

“What? I missed you and I badly needed some Heathy cakes cock,” she said, giggling.

“God, I really hate that name,” Heathcliff said, but he brushed it off. “You should have let me watch. Actually, since you have a recording of me…can I have a recording of you?”

“I suppose," she said, uncertainly.

“Mhmmm, I’d like that. When I travel it would be nice to have,” he said, stroking her hair.

“I want you to tell me the truth, does the strap on help?” Freya said.

Heathcliff looked her deeply in the eyes. "Yes."

"Are you being honest?" she said, dubiously.

"I am, it was incredibly hot," he said.

“Are you still...are you still unhappy about Alex?" she asked, trying not to stir up an argument, but she had to know.

He held her in his arms and breathed in deeply. "Freya, you are my first and only priority. If you ever did want to do the threesome, it wouldn't be with him," Heathcliff said.

��Good. I am still interested in it, you know that, don't you?"

"I do. But what about another woman instead of a man?" he asked.

"Another woman?" she asked, a little nervously.

"I don't really care, I'm just suggesting," Heathcliff said.

"It isn't going to be Melanie, Heathcliff," she said, pinching his side.

"Ow! I didn't suggest that! But...I mean, I bet she knows how to eat pussy, that's all I'm saying," Heathcliff said.

"You're incorrigible," she said, shaking her head and smiling. "Let's get cleaned up and get something to eat, pounding your ass was hard work."

Freya jumped off the bed and headed to the bathroom on the other side of the hall.

"Hey! How do you think I feel, hmmm? Miss Fuck Me Harder, Daddy? I get tired too you know," he said, trailing behind her and smacking her ass.

She giggled and turned on the shower. "Well, after we get our strength back, that's exactly what you'll do to me. So, no complaining."

#tom hardy #tom hardy fanfic #tom hardy fanfiction #tom hardy fan fic #heathcliff #heathcliff au #heathcliff smut #wuthering heights

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drinksglue · 1 year

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Chapters: 1/1 Words: 2,275 Fandom: The Mandela Catalogue (Web Series) Rating: Mature Warnings: Underage Relationships: Mark Heathcliff/Sarah Heathcliff, Mark Heathcliff/Cesar Torres Characters: Mark Heathcliff, Sarah Heathcliff, Cesar Torres Additional Tags: Incest, Sibling Incest, Practice Kissing, Awkward Kissing, Making Out, Brother/Sister Incest, Unrequited Crush, Suggestive Themes, Groping

Summary: Sarah loves her brother a little too much.

Turns out she's not the only one with eyes for him. - Third prompt for @proshipapril 2023. I accidentally did both "Siblings" and "Kissing Practice" in the same one lol we out here being unhinged I guess

#mandela catalogue #proship april #proship april 2023 #fanfic #peddling my garbage #writing #my writing

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anemic-comedienne · 2 years

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Twirling

The person I love most said they thought coming to Italy might cure me, and they were right (as usual.) I am full now. I think when I am empty it is not planned. I am learning not to plan, and I am learning to let myself plan. I am learning how to betray myself in ways that don’t matter, and how to keep my promises to myself when they do. I kiss a girl I like who likes me back part time. I hold her hand and she always lets go first. I ache in a plain way and the next morning I feel perfectly fine. It’s fun to hit water and spin when the water is no deeper than a puddle. I guess I’m lucky. I guess I’m finally lucky. I guess I found my luck at the bottom of a bowl, in the last bite. On the steps of a church, even though I didn’t grow up believing in god. I still don’t, but the pictures inside make me cry anyway. I’ve always described being sick as living in a completely different world. Looking around and seeing a completely different world. But I’m somewhere new now, with new friends, and for once I’m entirely certain that I’m seeing the same twirling city everyone else is. I wonder how people leave this place. I wonder if it’ll break me. I wonder how long it’ll take to learn that the best part about loving things is me. To make it muscle memory. My first week here I found an old copy of Wuthering Heights and I’ve been thinking about that Cathy quote: “he’s more myself than I am... Nelly, I am Heathcliff.” I love it here, and by that I mean I am here. Because I’m a little better here and a little better is all the way better. Is better enough to know that I can be better. To remember what it feels like to be better. I’m not the prettiest I’ve ever been, or the smartest, or the funniest, or even the kindest. But I am better. A little better, which is all the way better. There’s no more anything between me and everything. I’m here. I’m here. I’m here. I am here. It’s a beautiful here to be.

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whileiamdying · 7 years

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Emily Brontë’s WUTHERING HEIGHTS; Chapter XV

Another week over—and I am so many days nearer health, and spring! I have now heard all my neighbour’s history, at different sittings, as the housekeeper could spare time from more important occupations. I’ll continue it in her own words, only a little condensed. She is, on the whole, a very fair narrator, and I don’t think I could improve her style.

* * * * *

In the evening, she said, the evening of my visit to the Heights, I knew, as well as if I saw him, that Mr. Heathcliff was about the place; and I shunned going out, because I still carried his letter in my pocket, and didn’t want to be threatened or teased any more. I had made up my mind not to give it till my master went somewhere, as I could not guess how its receipt would affect Catherine. The consequence was, that it did not reach her before the lapse of three days. The fourth was Sunday, and I brought it into her room after the family were gone to church. There was a man servant left to keep the house with me, and we generally made a practice of locking the doors during the hours of service; but on that occasion the weather was so warm and pleasant that I set them wide open, and, to fulfil my engagement, as I knew who would be coming, I told my companion that the mistress wished very much for some oranges, and he must run over to the village and get a few, to be paid for on the morrow. He departed, and I went upstairs.

Mrs. Linton sat in a loose white dress, with a light shawl over her shoulders, in the recess of the open window, as usual. Her thick, long hair had been partly removed at the beginning of her illness, and now she wore it simply combed in its natural tresses over her temples and neck. Her appearance was altered, as I had told Heathcliff; but when she was calm, there seemed unearthly beauty in the change. The flash of her eyes had been succeeded by a dreamy and melancholy softness; they no longer gave the impression of looking at the objects around her: they appeared always to gaze beyond, and far beyond—you would have said out of this world. Then, the paleness of her face—its haggard aspect having vanished as she recovered flesh—and the peculiar expression arising from her mental state, though painfully suggestive of their causes, added to the touching interest which she awakened; and—invariably to me, I know, and to any person who saw her, I should think—refuted more tangible proofs of convalescence, and stamped her as one doomed to decay.

A book lay spread on the sill before her, and the scarcely perceptible wind fluttered its leaves at intervals. I believe Linton had laid it there: for she never endeavoured to divert herself with reading, or occupation of any kind, and he would spend many an hour in trying to entice her attention to some subject which had formerly been her amusement. She was conscious of his aim, and in her better moods endured his efforts placidly, only showing their uselessness by now and then suppressing a wearied sigh, and checking him at last with the saddest of smiles and kisses. At other times, she would turn petulantly away, and hide her face in her hands, or even push him off angrily; and then he took care to let her alone, for he was certain of doing no good.

Gimmerton chapel bells were still ringing; and the full, mellow flow of the beck in the valley came soothingly on the ear. It was a sweet substitute for the yet absent murmur of the summer foliage, which drowned that music about the Grange when the trees were in leaf. At Wuthering Heights it always sounded on quiet days following a great thaw or a season of steady rain. And of Wuthering Heights Catherine was thinking as she listened: that is, if she thought or listened at all; but she had the vague, distant look I mentioned before, which expressed no recognition of material things either by ear or eye.

“There’s a letter for you, Mrs. Linton,” I said, gently inserting it in one hand that rested on her knee. “You must read it immediately, because it wants an answer. Shall I break the seal?” “Yes,” she answered, without altering the direction of her eyes. I opened it—it was very short. “Now,” I continued, “read it.” She drew away her hand, and let it fall. I replaced it in her lap, and stood waiting till it should please her to glance down; but that movement was so long delayed that at last I resumed—“Must I read it, ma’am? It is from Mr. Heathcliff.”

There was a start and a troubled gleam of recollection, and a struggle to arrange her ideas. She lifted the letter, and seemed to peruse it; and when she came to the signature she sighed: yet still I found she had not gathered its import, for, upon my desiring to hear her reply, she merely pointed to the name, and gazed at me with mournful and questioning eagerness.

“Well, he wishes to see you,” said I, guessing her need of an interpreter. “He’s in the garden by this time, and impatient to know what answer I shall bring.”

As I spoke, I observed a large dog lying on the sunny grass beneath raise its ears as if about to bark, and then smoothing them back, announce, by a wag of the tail, that some one approached whom it did not consider a stranger. Mrs. Linton bent forward, and listened breathlessly. The minute after a step traversed the hall; the open house was too tempting for Heathcliff to resist walking in: most likely he supposed that I was inclined to shirk my promise, and so resolved to trust to his own audacity. With straining eagerness Catherine gazed towards the entrance of her chamber. He did not hit the right room directly: she motioned me to admit him, but he found it out ere I could reach the door, and in a stride or two was at her side, and had her grasped in his arms.

He neither spoke nor loosed his hold for some five minutes, during which period he bestowed more kisses than ever he gave in his life before, I daresay: but then my mistress had kissed him first, and I plainly saw that he could hardly bear, for downright agony, to look into her face! The same conviction had stricken him as me, from the instant he beheld her, that there was no prospect of ultimate recovery there—she was fated, sure to die.

“Oh, Cathy! Oh, my life! how can I bear it?” was the first sentence he uttered, in a tone that did not seek to disguise his despair. And now he stared at her so earnestly that I thought the very intensity of his gaze would bring tears into his eyes; but they burned with anguish: they did not melt.

“What now?” said Catherine, leaning back, and returning his look with a suddenly clouded brow: her humour was a mere vane for constantly varying caprices. “You and Edgar have broken my heart, Heathcliff! And you both come to bewail the deed to me, as if you were the people to be pitied! I shall not pity you, not I. You have killed me—and thriven on it, I think. How strong you are! How many years do you mean to live after I am gone?”

Heathcliff had knelt on one knee to embrace her; he attempted to rise, but she seized his hair, and kept him down.

“I wish I could hold you,” she continued, bitterly, “till we were both dead! I shouldn’t care what you suffered. I care nothing for your sufferings. Why shouldn’t you suffer? I do! Will you forget me? Will you be happy when I am in the earth? Will you say twenty years hence, ‘That’s the grave of Catherine Earnshaw? I loved her long ago, and was wretched to lose her; but it is past. I’ve loved many others since: my children are dearer to me than she was; and, at death, I shall not rejoice that I am going to her: I shall be sorry that I must leave them!’ Will you say so, Heathcliff?”

“Don’t torture me till I’m as mad as yourself,” cried he, wrenching his head free, and grinding his teeth.

The two, to a cool spectator, made a strange and fearful picture. Well might Catherine deem that heaven would be a land of exile to her, unless with her mortal body she cast away her moral character also. Her present countenance had a wild vindictiveness in its white cheek, and a bloodless lip and scintillating eye; and she retained in her closed fingers a portion of the locks she had been grasping. As to her companion, while raising himself with one hand, he had taken her arm with the other; and so inadequate was his stock of gentleness to the requirements of her condition, that on his letting go I saw four distinct impressions left blue in the colourless skin.

“Are you possessed with a devil,” he pursued, savagely, “to talk in that manner to me when you are dying? Do you reflect that all those words will be branded in my memory, and eating deeper eternally after you have left me? You know you lie to say I have killed you: and, Catherine, you know that I could as soon forget you as my existence! Is it not sufficient for your infernal selfishness, that while you are at peace I shall writhe in the torments of hell?”

“I shall not be at peace,” moaned Catherine, recalled to a sense of physical weakness by the violent, unequal throbbing of her heart, which beat visibly and audibly under this excess of agitation. She said nothing further till the paroxysm was over; then she continued, more kindly—

“I’m not wishing you greater torment than I have, Heathcliff. I only wish us never to be parted: and should a word of mine distress you hereafter, think I feel the same distress underground, and for my own sake, forgive me! Come here and kneel down again! You never harmed me in your life. Nay, if you nurse anger, that will be worse to remember than my harsh words! Won’t you come here again? Do!”

Heathcliff went to the back of her chair, and leant over, but not so far as to let her see his face, which was livid with emotion. She bent round to look at him; he would not permit it: turning abruptly, he walked to the fireplace, where he stood, silent, with his back towards us. Mrs. Linton’s glance followed him suspiciously: every movement woke a new sentiment in her. After a pause and a prolonged gaze, she resumed; addressing me in accents of indignant disappointment:—

“Oh, you see, Nelly, he would not relent a moment to keep me out of the grave. That is how I’m loved! Well, never mind. That is not my Heathcliff. I shall love mine yet; and take him with me: he’s in my soul. And,” added she musingly, “the thing that irks me most is this shattered prison, after all. I’m tired of being enclosed here. I’m wearying to escape into that glorious world, and to be always there: not seeing it dimly through tears, and yearning for it through the walls of an aching heart: but really with it, and in it. Nelly, you think you are better and more fortunate than I; in full health and strength: you are sorry for me—very soon that will be altered. I shall be sorry for you. I shall be incomparably beyond and above you all. I wonder he won’t be near me!” She went on to herself. “I thought he wished it. Heathcliff, dear! you should not be sullen now. Do come to me, Heathcliff.”

In her eagerness she rose and supported herself on the arm of the chair. At that earnest appeal he turned to her, looking absolutely desperate. His eyes, wide and wet, at last flashed fiercely on her; his breast heaved convulsively. An instant they held asunder, and then how they met I hardly saw, but Catherine made a spring, and he caught her, and they were locked in an embrace from which I thought my mistress would never be released alive: in fact, to my eyes, she seemed directly insensible. He flung himself into the nearest seat, and on my approaching hurriedly to ascertain if she had fainted, he gnashed at me, and foamed like a mad dog, and gathered her to him with greedy jealousy. I did not feel as if I were in the company of a creature of my own species: it appeared that he would not understand, though I spoke to him; so I stood off, and held my tongue, in great perplexity.

A movement of Catherine’s relieved me a little presently: she put up her hand to clasp his neck, and bring her cheek to his as he held her; while he, in return, covering her with frantic caresses, said wildly—

“You teach me now how cruel you’ve been—cruel and false. Why did you despise me? Why did you betray your own heart, Cathy? I have not one word of comfort. You deserve this. You have killed yourself. Yes, you may kiss me, and cry; and wring out my kisses and tears: they’ll blight you—they’ll damn you. You loved me—then what right had you to leave me? What right—answer me—for the poor fancy you felt for Linton? Because misery and degradation, and death, and nothing that God or Satan could inflict would have parted us, you, of your own will, did it. I have not broken your heart—you have broken it; and in breaking it, you have broken mine. So much the worse for me that I am strong. Do I want to live? What kind of living will it be when you—oh, God! would you like to live with your soul in the grave?”

“Let me alone. Let me alone,” sobbed Catherine. “If I’ve done wrong, I’m dying for it. It is enough! You left me too: but I won’t upbraid you! I forgive you. Forgive me!”

“It is hard to forgive, and to look at those eyes, and feel those wasted hands,” he answered. “Kiss me again; and don’t let me see your eyes! I forgive what you have done to me. I love my murderer—but yours! How can I?”

They were silent—their faces hid against each other, and washed by each other’s tears. At least, I suppose the weeping was on both sides; as it seemed Heathcliff could weep on a great occasion like this.

I grew very uncomfortable, meanwhile; for the afternoon wore fast away, the man whom I had sent off returned from his errand, and I could distinguish, by the shine of the western sun up the valley, a concourse thickening outside Gimmerton chapel porch.

“Service is over,” I announced. “My master will be here in half an hour.”

Heathcliff groaned a curse, and strained Catherine closer: she never moved.

Ere long I perceived a group of the servants passing up the road towards the kitchen wing. Mr. Linton was not far behind; he opened the gate himself and sauntered slowly up, probably enjoying the lovely afternoon that breathed as soft as summer.

“Now he is here,” I exclaimed. “For heaven’s sake, hurry down! You’ll not meet any one on the front stairs. Do be quick; and stay among the trees till he is fairly in.”

“I must go, Cathy,” said Heathcliff, seeking to extricate himself from his companion’s arms. “But if I live, I’ll see you again before you are asleep. I won’t stray five yards from your window.”

“You must not go!” she answered, holding him as firmly as her strength allowed. “You shall not, I tell you.”

“For one hour,” he pleaded earnestly.

“Not for one minute,” she replied.

“I must—Linton will be up immediately,” persisted the alarmed intruder.

He would have risen, and unfixed her fingers by the act—she clung fast, gasping: there was mad resolution in her face.

“No!” she shrieked. “Oh, don’t, don’t go. It is the last time! Edgar will not hurt us. Heathcliff, I shall die! I shall die!”

“Damn the fool! There he is,” cried Heathcliff, sinking back into his seat. “Hush, my darling! Hush, hush, Catherine! I’ll stay. If he shot me so, I’d expire with a blessing on my lips.”

And there they were fast again. I heard my master mounting the stairs—the cold sweat ran from my forehead: I was horrified.

“Are you going to listen to her ravings?” I said, passionately. “She does not know what she says. Will you ruin her, because she has not wit to help herself? Get up! You could be free instantly. That is the most diabolical deed that ever you did. We are all done for—master, mistress, and servant.”

I wrung my hands, and cried out; and Mr. Linton hastened his step at the noise. In the midst of my agitation, I was sincerely glad to observe that Catherine’s arms had fallen relaxed, and her head hung down.

“She’s fainted, or dead,” I thought: “so much the better. Far better that she should be dead, than lingering a burden and a misery-maker to all about her.”

Edgar sprang to his unbidden guest, blanched with astonishment and rage. What he meant to do I cannot tell; however, the other stopped all demonstrations, at once, by placing the lifeless-looking form in his arms.

“Look there!” he said. “Unless you be a fiend, help her first—then you shall speak to me!”

He walked into the parlour, and sat down. Mr. Linton summoned me, and with great difficulty, and after resorting to many means, we managed to restore her to sensation; but she was all bewildered; she sighed, and moaned, and knew nobody. Edgar, in his anxiety for her, forgot her hated friend. I did not. I went, at the earliest opportunity, and besought him to depart; affirming that Catherine was better, and he should hear from me in the morning how she passed the night.

“I shall not refuse to go out of doors,” he answered; “but I shall stay in the garden: and, Nelly, mind you keep your word to-morrow. I shall be under those larch-trees. Mind! or I pay another visit, whether Linton be in or not.”

He sent a rapid glance through the half-open door of the chamber, and, ascertaining that what I stated was apparently true, delivered the house of his luckless presence.

#Wuthering Heights #Emily Brontë #Gutenberg Project

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