#mrs weston

[lady-arryn]

EMMA (2020) costume appreciation: 30/∞ (costume design by Alexandra Byrne)

[elmorinn]

Janeuary Day 10 - Wedding breakfast ⛅️

@janeuary-month

Miss Taylor's wedding that precedes the events of Emma and that the named Emma didn't enjoy very much D:

and in the background can be seen Mr Weston that's about to marry one of the sweetest women ever <3

[aria-baerose]

[didanagy]

EMMA (2009)

dir. jim o'hanlon

[wardrobeoftime]

Please do miss bates and mrs Weston’s wardrobes in Emma 2020

I'll see what I can do.

[firawren]

This is so sweet and sexy!

AO3 link

for dearest you will always be

If anyone observed that following his nuptials to Miss Woodhouse, Mr. Knightley, while in company, referred to his wife exclusively as Mrs. Knightley, it seemed no one was inclined to remark upon it, ascribing it to the gentleman’s well-known propriety and elegant manners, regarding it as yet another sign of the exemplary quality of the aristocracy in the neighborhood of Highbury, despite the frequent complaints of Mrs. Elton to the contrary.

No one, perhaps, except Mrs. Weston and only when she sat in her sunny morning room with her former charge, a plentiful array of cakes and biscuits accompanying the tea that had been brought in as Mrs. Knightley’s call was expected to far exceed the traditional quarter of an hour which those who were visited by Mrs. Elton often found themselves thanking the good Lord and good Ton for establishing.

“I admit I have noticed, dear Emma, that Mr. Knightley does not use your Christian name when you are among others, even those of us who are old and, I would venture to say, dear friends and have known you both under less formal appellation and situation,” Mrs. Weston said. Mr. Weston would have said when Emma was in leading strings and George was in short dresses, but Mrs. Weston was more delicate about these things.

Emma laughed and took a sip of her tea. It was prettily done, a reflection of Mrs. Weston’s tutelage.

“I’ve never heard Mr. Weston call my husband George, not once.”

“He would be more likely to say only Knightley, I agree,” Mrs. Weston said, which was a half-truth, as her husband referred to their neighbor as George when he felt the man was acting the sage before he’d acquired the years required for wisdom. “But Mr. Knightley himself had been wont to call you Emma, perhaps not at table, but in conversation that might be overheard. Especially if your sister and his brother were of the party. It does not trouble you, that he should be so formal?”

Emma thought back to the evening she had asked much the same question of her husband, when they had retired for the night and he was giving her hair the hundred strokes her lady’s maid ought, save that he’d begged the task the first morning she’d woken as Mrs. George Knightley and it had been her very great pleasure to accede. It had taken her a fortnight to be sure he was not calling her Emma outside of her bedchamber and she had been apprehensive when she inquired, so much so that he’d stroked her furrowed brow before he’d answered.

“I cannot call you Emma, my dear Emma, dearest Emma, when we are with others, for it recalls to me too intensely calling you so when you are in dishabille, in my arms. In my bed, naked,” he’d said softly, then leaned over to graze her temple with his, kissing her throat, his hand at her shoulder coaxing her to rise from her seat, to be turned and held in his embrace. 

“Emma, my dear Emma, you beguile me, bewitch me, beloved,” he muttered, his palm cupping the back of her head, the other possessive at her hip. “The scent of you, the taste of your lips, your skin, your desire—you make me dizzy, make me a fool—”

“Oh,” she’d gasped, only that, and then he’d lifted her in his arms and carried her to the bed, his body pressed hard against hers with an escalating carnal urgency it had taken a sacrament to make virtue and not the most delicious, salacious vice.

“Dearest, how could I let anyone hear me call you that when it means this,” he said, striving closer, a hand raising the hem of her night-rail, with a terrible, wonderful confidence pursuing those intimacies which left her overwhelmed and panting, her appetite tempted as it was sated. “Dearest Emma, when I call you that, I mean you are mine, body and soul, I mean I have run out of any other words, dearest, yes, like that, just like that—”

They had barely slept that night, by daybreak their voices hoarse, and when he’d called her dearest as the housemaid brought in her chocolate, Emma had blushed and shivered, making George chuckle and give her a most knowing look that had her diving beneath the coverlet, waiting for him to seek her out.

“I’m very content with Mr. Knightley,” Emma said to her former governess. “He is everything circumspect and proper and it is an honor to have the company reminded I am his wife, held in his highest esteem and respect.”

“I am quite convinced,” Mrs. Weston said, her brown eyes merry. “He shall not be distressed though if I call you my dear Emma, from time to time, as our long acquaintance supersedes the duration of your marriage and of course, having had the duty of educating you, I sometimes revert back to my old ways.”

“He shall not be distressed by that at all, Mrs. Weston,” Emma replied. “Though I think he derives nearly as great delight as I do in hearing me called Mrs. Knightley, unless John is doing it to tease Isabella and me to distraction!”

Written for Janeuary 2025 @janeuary-month Day 20, prompt: dearest

[haveyouseenthismovie-poll]

[chasingrabbits-art]

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Hurray, it’s finally done and it's super fucking ugly! /lh

I have no idea why it came out this bad but I swear that next updates won't be this ugly ever again LOL

I'll probably get around to redrawing it later, I can help but feel guilty about subjecting you guys to this mess 💀

[q-gorgeous]

Expose Danny Fenton Danny Phantom

ao3

ffn

word count: 1994

prompt: Wes dies as a result of being too close to a ghost fight (stray missile, building collapse, hostage situation, the actual manner of his death is up to the writer) and becomes a ghost himself. His ghostly obsession is to expose Danny Phantom's true identity (crucially he cannot succeed no matter what). In trying so much and so hard, he ends up counted among Danny's rogues. @raaorqtpbpdy

dfkhvbdjhfbvkdjnfv

It was bound to happen sooner or later. 

Wes tried to follow Danny to as many ghost fights as possible to catch him. To get videos, pictures, anything to prove to their classmates that he was really Phantom. No one believed him! It was so obvious but if he just had the proof-

But he’d gotten too close in this battle. Danny hadn’t been able to save him. And he was fighting the Box Ghost of all ghosts! 

What a lame battle to have died from. 

He’d been ghost hunting for your old school run of the mill ghosts. He’d brought an EMF reader and a spirit box. But of course, since the spirit box was a box in name, the Box Ghost could control it. 

All it took was a little spark. One thing led to another, and Wes was being electrocuted by the spirit box and then the next thing he knew he was a ghost.

And he couldn’t talk! 

Either nothing came out of his mouth or it was just filled with static. But he could hear his voice warbling from somewhere. Where was it?

He followed the sound and on the ground he found his spirit box. 

“Hello? Is that me?” 

Wes’s voice rang out from the device and he frowned at it. Was this the only way he could talk to anyone now? Through spirit boxes?

He picked it up off the ground and studied it. He supposed it wouldn’t be so bad if he always had his spirit box on him. 

He heard someone approaching from behind him. Danny softly spoke up. 

“Wes, I’m-”

He turned sharply and pointed a finger in Danny’s face.

“You!” He growled. His voice crackled through the spirit box with its intensity. “This is all your fault!”

“What?” Any sympathy Danny seemed to have had for Wes disappeared. “I’m not making you follow me around and into battles! You choose to do all of that on your own.” 

“I’ll expose you. I’ll prove to them all who you really are. That you let me die.” 

A pained expression appeared on Danny’s face and he clenched his hands into fists. “I would never have let you die.” 

“You wanted to get rid of me so I didn’t tell everyone your secret. You probably didn’t account for me becoming a ghost did you?”

Logically, Wes could feel his rationale fading away. He’d never thought about what it meant to be a ghost but they must have the one trackiest minds ever. All he could think of was exposing Danny. 

Expose Danny Fenton. Danny Phantom. 

Expose Danny Fenton. Danny Phantom. 

His mind was going in circles as he tried to keep it grounded for a few more seconds. Just a few more seconds before he lost himself to the cacophony in his mind. But then Danny grabbed the spirit box out of his hand and smashed it. 

“I can’t have you telling people my secret.”

That was it. The last thing that broke his willpower over his mind. 

He hissed and that same static sound spilled out of his mouth. He growled at the lack of words and instead threw a punch at Danny. 

Danny dodged and flipped Wes over his shoulder, throwing him across the warehouse. Wes smashed into a stack of boxes and it all fell on him. He went intangible and flew at Danny but he was gone by the time Wes was floating in the open air again. 

The coward. Wes growled. He’d get him. 

Expose Danny Fenton. Danny Phantom.

He had to.

~~~~~~~

He listened to the whispers as he walked down the hall in Casper High.

“Is that Wes?”

“What happened to him?” 

“Is he dead?” 

“Should we be scared?”

Wes huffed. He didn’t want to hurt anyone. That much he had clarity on. No, what he wanted was to expose Danny. 

Expose Danny Fenton. Danny Phantom.

He shook his head. He also wanted to quiet the obsessive sounds in his mind. Exposing Danny would help with that. 

He walked to his first period english class. When he walked into the room Mr. Lancer was already there. He was standing in front of the chalkboard, holding the eraser up to erase something off the board. At the sound of Wes walking into the classroom, Lancer turned to look at him. His eyes widened and his jaw dropped. The eraser fell from his hand and hit the ground. 

“Mr. Weston?” 

Wes waved Mr. Lancer off and walked over to his seat. He sat down and slumped in the chair, a grumpy expression on his face. 

“Will.. you still be attending class?” Lancer asked him, obviously unsure about what was going on. 

Wes thought about it. He really didn’t want to be here everyday. He didn’t have to be. Not unless he wanted to convince everyone that Danny was Phantom.

He waved his hand in a so so motion. Lancer nodded. 

“Is there anything I need to know about your… Condition? Before we start class today?”

Wes pointed at his throat and opened his mouth. This time nothing came out, not even static.

Lancer frowned at him. “You can’t talk?”

Wes shook his head. Then thought about it, and made another so so motion.

“Alright.” Lancer bent over to pick the eraser up off the floor. “Let me know what accommodations we can get you to help you get around that.” 

Wes sat up in his seat. Could Lancer just get him another spirit box? He supposed he could go and find another one. 

He pulled out a notebook from his backpack and tore out a piece of paper and started writing on it. He held it up for Lancer to see and shook the paper so he’d turn around. But before Lancer saw it, it was being hit and burnt to a crisp by an ectoblast. 

He whipped his head towards the classroom door to see Danny still pointing a smoking finger at him. Wes hissed. 

He leapt out of his seat at Danny and Danny ran out of the room.

“Lord of the flies!” 

He ignored Lancer’s shout as he followed Danny out of the room. The students in the halls backed away from them. Some of them shouted and ran when they saw Wes charging through the hallway. 

He turned around a corner and skidded across the floor and slammed into the lockers. 

What was he doing? He could fly now.

He jumped into the air and continued chasing after Danny, but he was nowhere to be seen now. Where did he go?

“Hey!” 

Wes turned around and saw Danny floating in front of him. Damn it! He already transformed. 

He launched himself at Danny and made contact, sending them flying down the hallway to the next turn. More screams and shouts could be heard when they collided with the wall. 

Wes struggled to untangle himself from Danny and by the time he did and he looked up Danny was already staring down at him. 

Danny pulled his thermos out and Wes’s eyes widened. He shook his head.

Danny nodded. 

Wes tried to fly away but Danny was too quick in activating the thermos and soon he was being sucked into it by that blue beam. He tried to fly out of it but it was to no avail.

The inside felt weird. It was dark. It felt cramped but also spacious. Then he fell back and forth. That asshole was probably shaking the thermos. 

He’d just have to try again when he went to school tomorrow. 

~~~~~~~

He couldn’t believe he was banned from Casper High! 

So what if he disrupted class! They had ghosts disrupting their classes all the time before! What was the difference now that he was the ghost? 

He grumbled as he walked down the street but no sound came out. He hissed. Someone walking down the street next to him jumped at the sound. He glared at them and continued walking. 

Being a ghost was the worst.

He looked up and saw the electronics store he would occasionally go into. He bought his last spirit box. 

He smiled. Just what he was looking for. 

Wes walked into the electronics store and looked around. They had to have a spirit box in here somewhere. They were in a haunted city. Surely they’d have some. 

He looked around and saw that they still had their spirit box display up. He cleared his throat and it rang out through the speaker in the device.

“Excuse me.” He walked up to the counter. “Can I buy a spirit box?” 

The worker pointed to a sign behind the counter and Wes gaped at it.

One sign was a “we do not serve ghosts sign” and then the other was a picture with his face crossed out! Why was he banned from shopping here? 

His voice crackled over the spirit box display they had on the shelf. “Why?”

The shop worker shrugged and moved to go back to what he was doing before Wes started talking to him. 

“No, I need-“ Wes could feel his anger rising and his voice grew louder in the spirit box and reverberated around the room. “I need the spirit box!”

The locked cases in the store started rattling and one by one the glass doors shattered. Wes bent down and pulled a spirit box out of their case and opened the box. He pressed the power button and groaned when it didn’t turn on. 

“Where are the batteries?” 

The shop worker was ducked behind the counter, shaking. He pointed across the store.

Wes took a step and floated through the air the rest of the way. He was looking for the ones he needed when he was hit with a blast from behind. He turned and hissed.

Danny was floating behind him, hands glowing. 

“Terrorizing people now, Wes?”

“I was going to pay him for it but he doesn’t serve ghosts, and, for some reason, me specifically!”

Danny shrugged. “Most people don’t want to deal with ghosts.”

“I’m not like other ghosts!”

Danny leveled him with a look. “What do you think you’re doing here?”

“I can’t talk without a spirit box! You already know that!”

“But why do you need a spirit box? Why are you so hell bent on it that you had to destroy this guy's shop?” 

Expose Danny Fenton. Danny Phantom. 

“To prove that you’re a ghost! That you’re Phantom! No one believes me!”

Danny just stared at him but Wes didn’t understand. He wasn’t like all the other ghosts. 

“I don’t obsess over boxes or wanting friends or being famous! I don’t have unfinished business! I-“

“Am obsessed with exposing my identity.”

As Danny said that Wes had a moment of clarity before his world shifted again. He squeezed his eyes shut.

“I have to!” 

His voice reverberated through the spirit box again, shaking the room. This time the shaking didn’t stop. 

“It’s the only thought going through my head! I have to! I need to quiet them! I have to!” 

Expose Danny Fenton. Danny Phantom.

Expose Danny Fenton. Danny PhanTOM.

EXPOSE DANNY FENTON. DANNY PHANTOM.

Wes leapt at Danny and grabbed onto the front of his jumpsuit. He pulled him down and slammed him against the floor. 

“I died! You didn’t save me! I’m going to expose you if it’s the last thing I do. Reap the consequences of your actions.”

Danny looked up at him and Wes felt something press into his side. He looked down and saw the thermos.

“I’m sorry, Wes. I really am.”

Then he was being sucked up into the thermos for the second time.

This time felt longer than the last. It was hard to measure time in a black void. But it felt like his thoughts were bouncing off the walls of the thermos back at him.

Expose Danny Fenton. Danny Phantom.

Expose Danny Fenton. Danny Phantom.

Expose Danny Fenton. Danny Phantom. 

[lady-arryn]

EMMA (2020) costume appreciation: 22/∞ (costume design by Alexandra Byrne)

[hotjaneaustenmenpoll]

Propaganda...

Sir Thomas Bertram (2007): NIce big house, curly hair

Mr Weston (2020) : Mr Weston is a family man, he’s a committed husband. He’ll set you up with his son, he’ll personally apologise when his son blows you off. He uses humour to diffuse awkward situations. He’ll throw a ball in your honour. He loves dancing. Truly just the loveliest dilf in all of Jane Austen.

He's gorgeous in an unintimidating way, without being snobbish or vain. He's super friendly and likeable and welcoming to everyone.

[bethanydelleman]

I find it funny when Mr. Weston is assuring Emma that his secret (Jane & Frank being engaged) doesn't have anything to do with Knightleys:

“Upon my honour,” said he very seriously, “it does not. It is not in the smallest degree connected with any human being of the name of Knightley.”

Except it will have a massive effect on Mr. Knightley, who will come back riding in the rain all gallantly to make sure Emma is okay. The engagement of Jane and Frank is the catalyst for these two people finally declaring their feelings. It results in a person becoming a Knightley!

Love the irony.

(Also, as someone with a similar personality to Mr. Weston, kudos to him for holding in a secret for an entire half hour. I know it was hard, buddy.)

[mollywog]

Quick!

Who are the Weston’s in an THGxEmma AU? Given that Frank/Jane are Finnick/Annie and Haymitch is Mr. Woodhouse

[camyfilms]

THE TALENTED MR RIPLEY 1999

The thing with Dickie... it's like the sun shines on you, and it's glorious. And then he forgets you and it's very, very cold. When you have his attention, you feel like you're the only person in the world, that's why everybody loves him so much.

[bennetsbonnet]

RIP Emma Woodhouse you would've loved RPF

[jomiddlemarch]

Badly done, Emma

“Do you think, my dear, that little Emma lacked aptitude or determination?” Mr. Weston said. They had been wed for well over two years and Anne still found it hard to think of him as John outside their bedchamber. Married life was an endlessly fascinating mixture of the incongruous and the familiar, any awkwardness in address balanced by the tremendous ease she had in his embrace, the peace of his heartbeat lulling her to sleep as she of the narrow, spinster’s bed found her rest nestled in his arms.

“She is Mrs. Knightley,” she corrected, her satisfaction in Emma’s marriage still coloring her tone, curving her lips into a smile. Emma had found such happiness in the match Anne could hardly recall the days when she herself had hoped her charge would become Mrs. Churchill.

“I know I ought to call her that but I can’t forget what a sprite she was with those bright curls and dainty bows, that little voice piping up, cossetting her Papa, the most managing miss Highbury has ever seen,” Mr. Weston said.

“I believe she’d forgive you, though George mayn’t,” Anne said, lifting her brush and gazing at the canvas before her. It was not quite right, not yet, but she’d gotten closer.

“It’s a curious pleasure, to find a way to make cool, steady George fierce,” Mr. Weston said.

“It is for you, as you delight in teasing him,” Anne replied.

“He’s got to refine his sense of humor. Or enlarge it,” Mr. Weston said.

“You’ll have to enlighten me, Mr. Weston, for I cannot fathom your meaning,” Anne said, daubing a bit more paint, nodding at the effect, and then glancing up at her husband, who stood just behind her, with a clear view of her work and its subject.

“I mean to cast no aspersions, for I always thought you were the finest, most accomplished governess in Surrey, but Mrs. Knightley’s portraits leave something to be desired, in a manner of speaking,” Mr. Weston said.

“In a manner of speaking? It isn’t like you to be so indirect,” Anne replied.

“I believe Mr. Knightley’s Praxidike could render a more accurate likeness than his wife’s work in watercolors,” Mr. Weston said. “A likeness less likely to make the viewer seasick, though I admit that is primarily caused by her landscapes.”

“Praxidike is a horse,” Anne said.

“Exactly,” Mr. Weston smiled. “So I return to my initial query—did little Emma lack talent or did she not attend to your wise and skilled instruction, my love? For your portraits are most apt and hers are most…appalling. That she thought to secure Mr. Elton for Mrs. Martin with her painting makes one question her vision if not her sanity—"

“You are too harsh, sir!” Anne said.

“Only if one believes Mrs. Martin bears a strong resemblance to Prinny in his cups,” Mr. Weston replied. “Though was that perhaps Mrs. Knightley’s intention? I know it’s been said the lady is the by-blow of an aristocrat, but surely the portrait would suggest Mrs. Martin is Prinny’s very twin, if one imagines him with his hair dressed à la grecque, with quite a quantity of rice-powder on his nose, in Highbury’s very best Indian muslin.”

Anne laughed, almost in spite of herself, for her husband was droll if not entirely polite, but while her laughter made him smile, it caused her subject to frown and then howl most piteously.

“You’ve woken Sophia,” Anne said.

“You were done painting in any case,” he said, walking over to pick up their squalling infant daughter from the basket she’d been sleeping in, leaving the snowy lace-trimmed blankets in such disarray it was a blessing Anne had finished rendering them.

“You sound quite certain,” Anne said, raising her voice slightly to be heard above the crying baby. Sophia settled to some hiccoughs as her father patted her back and murmured some nonsense to her. Shortly after her birth, he had confessed that he intended to dote upon her and it would be up to Anne to make sure the little girl was not spoilt, that he would not waste his chance to be a papa a second time, after letting Frank be raised by the Churchills. He made good upon his promise every day, with such fond affection Anne could not bring herself to scold him for it, nor castigate him for declaring she must play the villain in their daughter’s life; they would simply need to hire an excellent governess to correct Sophia’s mischief.

“I am. You were about to ruin her cheek. I cannot paint myself, but I can tell when you’ve achieved perfection, my dear,” he said. “It is a skill I do not expect Mr. Knightley will ever be required to master.”

“He will not,” Anne said. “To answer your query, Emma applied herself assiduously to her artistic endeavors, so much so that she could not see to what degree her hand and eye failed her. When it comes to portraiture, it must be said that she lacks all talent.”

“I cannot imagine Mr. Knightley will fret much over it. It is any guest to Donwell Abbey who must prepare some delicate compliments in advance, for surely they would be struck dumb when touring the gallery,” Mr. Weston said.

“Perhaps not. Emma should take their silence as awe and quite prettily accept their reaction as unutterable praise and then invite them to tour the gardens,” Anne said. “She knows how Mr. Knightley delights in his roses.”

Posted for Day 4 of Janeauary 2025 @janeuary-month prompt: portraiture