#the moment i read heathcliff's story i was like

[to-hope-against-hope]

a toast

[cat-of-starlight]

tfw you are trying to Limbus Pull but the game's only Bonus Units™ are the ones that freak you out/irritate you lmao whoops

[picaroroboto]

in book Wuthering Heights almost everyone is against Heathcliff from the moment he's adopted into the Earnshaw family, insisting that he's "of the devil" because he has darker skin and that him being quiet and sullen is further proof of being evil by nature. When he's mistreated and abused by people who are convinced that he's awful it becomes like a self-fulfilling prophecy when he grows up into a mean and spiteful person, like how you can't be surprised when a kicked dog bites back. The novel is sympathetic to him at times, but it's also told from the perspective of an older Nelly who's grown to hate him as he's gotten worse, and it's also very Victorian, from a time period where it was believed that being in poverty was a sign of moral failing. If you read it in modern times you end up looking at it with knowledge of how cycles of abuse work, and see Heathcliff's character from a sort of nature vs nurture angle. The Limbus version of Heathcliff is basically plucked from the midpoint of the novel before this transformation is complete, his character is in thematic dialogue with that of the original.

In Canto 6 all of the antagonists - Linton, Hindley, Nelly, and the Erlking - all criticize Heathcliff by telling him in different ways that he hasn't changed at all, that he is incapable of changing, that he is and always will be a wretch. The abuse has seeped into the extreme of the Erlking's absolute self-destructiveness, where he's convinced that it would be better if every Heathcliff didn't exist. But he has changed, or at least started to, even the fact that he's returned to Wuthering Heights to confront his past and continues moving forward past everyone trying to tear him down counts for something. At the risk of sounding too sappy our Heathcliff has got something that the book version and seemingly every other Mirror World version doesn't, and that's friends - friends whom he can count on to bring him back when he's out of control, and who are still holding out hope for him.

Canto 6 is also the work of someone who very clearly read and loved the novel looking at the text and asking "Could anything change?". Say, if Heathcliff had stuck around eavesdropping for one second more to that one conversation and heard Cathy saying how much she loved him - well, I suppose things would have turned out better but there wouldn't have been a second half of the story then, but you want to ask this question anyways because you care about the characters. In some ways Canto 6 like a very good fanfiction and not just because it's a secondary work, but because it's striving for a better outcome for the pairing while also having a strong understanding and appreciation for the original, carrying through it's ideas, imagery, and themes while also looking at them differently. And because it takes the concept of AUs seriously.

[burningvelvet]

I finished Moby Dick. So, to continue my former post(s) documenting my thoughts, here we are (spoilers ahead):

captain ahab: i am once again asking hast thou seen the white whale

Narrator, for the 5 millionth time describing captain ahab: "MONOMANIACAL. MONOMANIAC. MONOMANIA."

I was thinking "the homosexual themes everyone talks about are really exaggerated apparently…" and then I got to the chapter about sperm squeezing

Stubb meeting with the French in chap 91 had the exact vibe of a filler episode on a comedy sitcom

there are a lot of moments that reminded me of The Office ngl like i could just imagine stubb in the little interview chair just talking. so much meme material. he's seriously just doing his own thing. the little random characters like the blacksmith and carpenter just talking shit and side-eyeing ahab in the background lmaoooo

Saint George didn't kill a dragon, it was a whale #THETRUTHREVEALED #WHALETRUTHERS

It would have been hilarious if the British people told Ahab that they already killed Moby Dick already before he could get to it. I was so hoping that would happen. Bonus points if it was the Rachel after he'd turned them away.

Ahab discusses the topic of madness a lot. It's almost like he's… mad...

I vote Ahab for the most Byronic hero to ever Byronic… Heathcliff and Rochester have nothing on him… The origin of the Byronic hero, Byron's titular character from the narrative poem Childe Harold, is literally mentioned by name in the novel and had to be a blatant inspiration - it could not be more obvious! (I have yet to encounter the famed Byronic heroes of Russian literature, most notably Eugene Onegin, a work where Byron is also blatantly name-dropped).

Everyone thinking Queequeg was dying and having a coffin made to his measurements and filled with grave goods at his direction and then him literally climbing into the coffin to test it out and then waiting silently to die…. then all of a sudden getting better and saying he chose to recover bc he remembered he had something on his to-do list….. iconic

Ishmael referring to Queequeg as "my Queequeg…" omg. Queerqueg

Queequeg drawing figures like the ones on his tattoos omg… au story where Queequeg is an artist/tattoo artist when???

I was literally saying "AWWWWW" out loud when Ahab and Pip were having their little moments

The irony of Ahab abandoning the Rachel then it coming back for Ishmael… the coffin lifeboat… etc… good stuff…

okay ahab is my man but yeah he was an asshole to the captain of rachel.

also feel bad for tashtego. he wanted that gold doubloon so bad and ahab was like SIKE, MOTHERFUCKER! umm tashtego did not get cut out of a whale by queequeg to deal with ur shit ahab!

Once again wanting a Black Sails/Moby Dick AU… I found this essay about the similarities between Flint/Ahab https://ijms.nmdl.org/article/view/22389/14361

They only have like 2-3 little moments together but like… Starbuck/Ahab kind of outdoing Ishmael/Queequeg there for a moment… chaps 132/134… oh my godddddddddddddd whyyyyyyy

Captain Ahab's moments in chapters 36/37 AAAAAHHHHH you will see me being normal about this

I noted some of my favorite Ahab moments/chapters and they are 36/37/41/70/99/108/109/113/115/116/119/125/129/132/134/135. Like I may seriously just re-read those chapters (no offense to Melville's whale facts, Stubb's jokes, & Pip's insanity)

the end is kind of similar to the great gatsby in the sense that you finally realize the entire novel was actually written for him to cope with his grief-related trauma & then suddenly it all makes sense. the lingering, the sentimentality regarding seemingly insignificant details or people, the meandering/digressing/procrastinating getting to the end, etc.

there are actually several moments -- i don't know if he actually referred to ahab or the others in past-tense specifically, but there were several moments where i felt like i kind of thought he was giving away the end before he did (it wasn't a shock to me bc i read about the end prior, but still)

[literallys-illiteracy]

PM What the fuck? Erlking Heathcliff Trailer Analysis:

So, lets start with what we already know from the Project Moon Stream a while back:

He has a mounted and demounted form, similar to the Philip EGO states, which changes his abilites. He has a counter akin to an LoR counter, which may be reuse seemingly. And he has some capability to resurrect dead allies.

now lets start with the trailer

Skill 1 looks like its 2 coins, the strikes look like he's slashing but dont be fooled, its probably a blunt skill somewhat akin to the Erlking boss's Smackdown, or Base Heathcliff's smackdown/Upheaval.

This skill also has the potential to be "Behead Heathcliffs" or "Hollow Coffin Mace"

Skill 2 appears to be 3 coins, im predicting this skill to be "Ride for Death, Dulluhan" as he summons a Wild Hunt Dulluhan even when demounted it seems.

Skill 3 has the potential to be so many things, i think its likely to be at least 2 coins, almost certainly blunt: This skill could be "the Wild hunt of Desolation", "You'll get shoved in this coffin too", "Sorrow and Lament in the Erlking's Wake" (my personal favourite option), "Fused Blade of Shattered Mirror Worlds", "Every Heathcliff must die".

The counter is almost certainly "Glass Shard of Wailing Sorrow", which was his counter in the combat stages. Alternatively it could be "Withstand" which was his Lust-Guard, or "Heed my Call, Wuthering Heights", however ill address that option in a moment.

it appears that whatever the case his counter is somehow linked to his Mounted form, as in the trailer, on the third activation he gets on the horsey.

Now, the skills dont seem to change too much in terms of the mounted form, other than skill 2 and 3 gaining an additional coin, however i am notably very wrong when counting coins sometimes so im not entirely sure.

The revive mechanic seems to be tied somewhat to his guard skill, which presumably changes to "Heed my call, wuthering Heights" when mounted, as he seems to have a guard animation in the section the revive is shown. another thing to note is how both revived allies seem to use their skill 2's, however im not sure if that's relevant at all.

And in the skill 3 animation the enemy seems to go inside the coffin, which is why im assuming that it will not in fact be "Sorrow and Lament" but rather "Get in the Coffin" on the skill 3.

--

I want to also note the final line, which implies that EVERY heathcliff is dead??? im confused now, maybe we get some elaboration later but i cant be bothered to read most of the uptie stories in Limbus Company, last time i read one was last Walpurgis because i had a hunch it would be interesting.

[devil-doll13]

Wild Imagination

(Brahms x Nanny!Reader)

Tw: G/N reader, I just use ‘nanny’ as a catchall term, Angst, Typical Jealousy/Possessiveness, Stalking, a.k.a Brahms being Brahms, Alcohol Mention, also sort of a character study? Idk

So I remember I said something about writing for Brahms and this is sort of a warmup/experiment for him! This is fairly short too, so I may or may not make a followup but for now have this.

Dividers by delishlydelightfuldividers

Brahms is fascinated by you.

This is understandable; you are a kind, attractive person, and he has rarely seen those not only as fantasy manifested in the pages of a novel.

But it is also simply because you are you, and uniquely so. All of your preferences, habits, interests; every minute detail he commits to heart.

Brahms likes routine. Brahms likes structure. He watches closely and memorises you as if you are his favourite story; playing those special little moments over and over again in his head.

Only, in his make-believe world, he is right there with you. In spirit, he always is; the doll is by your side, therefore he is as well. He cherishes your presence within his home, he loves your cooking if only because it is made with genuine care, he enjoys your piano playing, whether masterful or amateurish. He falls asleep - however awkward his position behind the walls might be - to your soothing voice reciting poetry to the doll, as if those porcelain eyelids might be closed.

But that isn’t the same as being with you truly, really, physically. That doll; his child persona, is a barrier separating you from him, perhaps even more than his place between his walls. All his little games he likes to play, you assume to be nothing more than a figment of your wild imagination. He has become so attached to you, but you don’t even know he exists.

Sometimes Brahms wonders what it would be like to be with you as the man. To welcome you into his home, as he should have when you were hired. To play the violin or cello or piano for you and impress you with his musical virtuosity. To hold you in his arms - a real human being, not only a sub-par effigy of your likeness - and softly read along with you. To conceal a laugh at your momentary fright as his cold hands run goosebumps down your spine. To be your Darcy or Rochester or Heathcliff.

But… No. He must be good. He must stay hidden.

He reminds himself of this every passing day, but by every passing day his desire to have you see him, as Brahms, in the flesh and blood and sweat, grows stronger and stronger.

His need for this surges, rather violently, when he sees you smiling and laughing with that damn Malcolm - only at the door, because you are a good nanny and follow the rules as you should - for he is reminded so unpleasantly that you will never smile or laugh for him. Not for him, not for Brahms the man, flesh and blood and sweat.

Brahms’ resentment for this fact soon bubbles over, soon he feels a sort of hateful jealousy directed at that doll and how beloved it is; for he is not scarred or ‘odd’ or wrong, not a failure of a son or a disappointment. He is ‘Brahms,’ without flaws, without blemishes, without room to embarrass or bring shame. Silent and perfect forever.

Now he cocoons you in his wool knit cardigan, safe from the outside world. Although you might struggle, he knows you need him as much as he needs you; you must, for all the nights you have imbibed wine and spilled your deepest secrets to him. To the doll, to a figment of your imagination. But it was him the whole time, and now he has revealed himself to you for you to love as deeply as you did that broken bundle of porcelain.

He loves you. You do too, right?

I didn’t tag any of my usuals bc I didn’t know who would want it but lmk if you want to be on my slasher x list!

[throughpatchesofviolet]

A Night Out

Synopsis: Heathcliff and Sherry spend an evening out at a local tavern, taking advantage of a rare opportunity to relax.

Ship: The Adventure of Wuthering Heights

Words: 5,445

Warnings: alcohol, mentions of gambling, smoking, mentions of drugs, mentions of torture and death (no one is actually tortured/killed), mentions of food

Note: This fic is set in my Sherlock Holmes AU; Originally posted in June of 2023

A pleasant hush had descended on the Backstreets, and Heathcliff observed the evening routines of the local residents with a disinterested expression—here, on the outermost fringes of the Nest, the denizens of the District enjoyed a modicum of tranquility that stirred a bitter resentment in his heart.

Arrogant bastards, he thought, glaring at a pair of men as they lounged on the steps of their apartment, discussing whatever topic entertained those within the folds of high society—poetry, he supposed; those Odysseys and Iliads that only men and women of  ‘genteel breeding’ had the pleasure of reading.

Scoffing, Heathcliff leaned against the side of the alleyway, his gaze turning towards the building that formed the opposite wall—the Diogenes Club. It was a polite structure, constructed of ruddy bricks that had been glued together with thick globs of cement, and several windows adorned the frontside. The building possessed two stories, with the second floor rising from the first and shunted back a ways, and every single curtain was drawn, much to his consternation.

How much longer is this going to take? He thought, eyeing the nearest window warily. Every now and then, the drapes were drawn back, and someone would peek out before hastily drawing the curtains once more. He knew exactly who it was, and the game he played, but he wasn’t deterred. Does he just think he can keep her all night? That I’ll get fed up and leave?

Huffing, Heathcliff kicked the pavement, muttering a string of curses to himself. He’d been waiting since five, and, though there wasn’t a clock nearby, he knew it’d been a good three hours since his companion had vanished into the establishment—the surrounding apartments had been painted gold, then orange, and now a cool shade of indigo, and now the faintest lines of silver were beginning to dance through the streets, lending a soft, sparkling sheen to the pavement of the cul-de-sac.

What business is so important he has to keep her three hours? He glowered at the window, the curtains once again flickering as someone peered out at him. If I have to wait much longer, I’ll go mad.

Heathcliff had oft repeated that exact line to himself over the past three hours, yet he’d remained outside, patiently awaiting his companion’s return—such was the power of the vow between them.

“I shouldn’t have signed that lousy scrap of paper,” he grumbled. “I’d be off having a fine time with my mates at the pub if I hadn’t—I’d be starting scraps here and there, sure, but at least I’d be inside where it’s warm.”

But I wouldn’t be sitting half as pretty as I am, he reminded himself with a scowl.

His gaze returned to the window, but it was still. A moment later, the front door opened, and a woman dressed in a familiar coat of brown tweed stepped onto the street, her brow knit as she addressed someone behind her.

“—I won’t hear anymore of this, Mycroft. I have made my position on this matter perfectly clear—perhaps clearer than you would’ve liked. Now, if you’ll excuse me, my companion and I have another appointment, and I’ve wasted quite enough time entertaining your nonsense.”

“Sherlock, you cannot be serious about keeping this … engagement of yours. Your reputation will suffer for it—as will the family name!”

“Reputation means little to me, as you well know—besides, you’re the one the family name relies on, what with you being the eldest.” Tipping her cap, she offered the man a stiff bow. “Now, good evening.”

With that, she turned on her heel and set off at a brisk pace down the street, signaling for Heathcliff to join her with a wave of her hand. Glancing between her and the man still standing in the doorway, he shrugged, detaching himself from the shadows and hurrying after her.

“I take it things didn’t go well?” he asked, raising an eyebrow as she fished a pipe from one of her coat’s numerous pockets.

“It went as expected,” she replied crisply. “Things played out exactly as I told you they would, this morning: Mycroft begged me to drop my work as a Fixer, but he really dug in when it came to me keeping you around.”

“Ah … hence the ‘your reputation will suffer’ …” Heathcliff sighed. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone worried about me disgracing a lady.”

“And, as I’ve told you, not even my dear brother can undo the ties that bind you and I.” She smiled mischievously, lighting her pipe. “Imagine the look on his face if I were to produce the contract … he’d faint, I’m sure.”

“As would a good chunk of my mates,” Heathcliff muttered, shoving his hands in his pockets.

Though, they wouldn’t be as civil as Sherlock’s brother, he thought ruefully. No … they’d brand me a traitor, and then they’d exile me … but not until after they’ve tried to kill me.

He glanced at Sherlock—Sherry—hoping that he’d feel the familiar rush of rage towards her that he’d felt when they’d first started out on this private venture. But, try as he might, the flames of anger and resentment had long since abated when it came to Sherlock Holmes. After all, she’d opened her home to him, despite his untoward behavior, and had let him eat whatever leftovers remained when she finished eating—and, oftentimes, those leftovers were the entire feast.

She’d even enlisted her friend, Dr. John Watson, to tend his injuries whenever he returned to the Office covered in wounds from this or that clash between Syndicates, silencing Watson’s complaints with nothing more than a cold glare and a single, sharp word.

And, if that weren’t enough, she’d promised him the one thing no one else could—information. Along with a forty percent cut of her earnings, so long as he agreed to help her on cases every now and then.

By all accounts, Heathcliff had landed himself a deal that others would’ve killed for. Free room and board, a doctor whenever he needed one, tidbits of information on the person he yearned for most, and a sizeable paycheck … to hate Sherlock Holmes after all she’d offered him would be to bite the hand that feeds—and she fed him well.

And all he had to do was swallow his pride and sign a fancy little contract.

Heathcliff sighed, abandoning his attempt at hating the woman beside him—it was impossible for him to harbor hatred toward her, given the circumstances. “You said we had another call, this evening?”

Sherry shook her head. “That was simply an excuse to get away from my brother,” she said, her smile fading. “I don’t like lying to him, but he’d exhausted my patience.”

“Then we’re returning to Baker Street?”

“If that’s what you wish.”

Heathcliff raised an eyebrow. What I wish?

That was the other thing that had stifled his frustrations shortly after they’d both signed that scrap of paper—Sherry always took interest in what he wanted. At first, this had only served to incense him further—he was already bound to aid her, and now she was trying to befriend him? It reeked of deception, the kind of trickery any Backstreets swindler would employ.

And yet … she’d met his gaze whenever he answered—she’d seen him, rather than straight through him, and committed his responses to memory. It’d been far too long since someone had wanted to know Heathcliff for who he was rather than for what he could do for them, and, despite reminding himself over and over that it was probably a clever ploy to win his trust, he’d developed a secret fondness for the detective—a fondness he both loathed and treasured.

“I didn’t have anything that I wanted to do,” he said finally, ignoring her piercing gaze as it settled on him—those sharp, sapphire eyes, sparkling with an intensity that made his insides squirm, were incapable of missing even the slightest of details. Heathcliff instinctively reached to adjust one of his suspenders, then froze.

Lass has me fretting about my appearance, now, he thought, gritting his teeth and forcing his hand back into his pocket as Sherry chuckled softly.

“You’ve been doing that more,” she said, closing her eyes.

“Doing what?” he asked, feigning ignorance.

“Straightening your clothes whenever I cast a glance your way,” Sherry replied, smiling. “There’s no need for it, you know—I’m not going to scold you for having a button undone.”

She cracked open an eyelid, her gaze hovering on the collar of his shirt, which, as usual, was unbuttoned.

Heathcliff muttered an oath, beginning to fumble with the buttons, which only made Sherry laugh more. After a moment, she tugged his arm, halting him so she could adjust his attire herself.

“I told you—I’ve no problem with how you dress.” She pulled his dusty, brown jacket so that it covered his shoulders properly, then fussed with his sleeves, picking off a few pieces of lint. “As long as you’re comfortable, I’ve no qualms about your clothing.”

Heathcliff grunted, waving her away. “If you didn’t care, then you wouldn’t be fussing.”

“I’m only fussing because watching you fumble with buttons and folds is as entertaining as watching rain trickle down a windowpane,” she retorted.

“Yet you were chuckling just a moment before,” he growled.

“Only because you fall for my teasing so easily—surely you know when I’m taking the piss, by now?”

Heathcliff bristled, but couldn’t think of a clever comeback. Instead, he settled for another curse, turning to follow Sherry as she continued down the street.

“If you don’t have anywhere you’d like to visit, then we can retire to Baker Street early—Victor did send me a letter, and I could spend the evening continuing my correspondence with him.”

At this, Heathcliff hissed. “Not that rich sod from the Nest, again … he isn’t insisting you return to that bloody estate of his, is he?”

Sherry’s eyes twinkled mischievously. “He is. I know how you feel about him, so you can look after the Office when I visit him, if you so choose.”

And let him flirt with you? I’d rather be shot! Heathcliff bit his tongue, barely stopping himself from listing the numerous reasons Sherry shouldn’t return to Victor Trevor’s estate—chief among them the jealousy surging through his veins.

“Victor informed me that a man by the name of Hudson has been working his father into quite a state, and wishes for me to look into him, and it wouldn’t do to turn down a friend after all he’s done for me.”

She turned her eyes toward Heathcliff, their mischievous twinkle growing brighter as she grinned.

“Unless, of course, something prevents me from writing back to him.”

Heathcliff returned her gaze coolly. He knew exactly what she was doing, and if he wasn’t so stung by her dragging Victor’s name into the conversation, he would’ve been flattered. To think, the great Sherlock Holmes was hinting at wanting to spend time with him … outside of the Office, no less!

Finally, he sighed. “I suppose … I might know a place we could go—but it’s not exactly the kind of establishment I should be taking a lady.”

“My dear Heathcliff, do you think I’m unfamiliar with the City’s dens of iniquity?”

“No, but still …” he avoided her gaze. There were places he frequented that he’d wanted to keep Sherry away from—the taverns were one thing, but the gambling dens and the underground fighting rings, thick with tobacco smoke, were places he didn’t want her to see, lest they spoil her opinion of him.

“I assure you, you shall receive no judgement from me—if that’s what you fear.” Sherry placed her finger over the end of her pipe, snuffing out the flame before pocketing it. “And if you’re concerned about my reputation … I made my stance quite clear, earlier.”

“That you did,” Heathcliff muttered. “Alright—perhaps I have a bit of unfinished business at a place nearby. But I don’t want to hear you complaining about the clientele, got it?”

The Rat’s Nest was an unassuming building upon first glance, with ashen brick walls and a number of freshly scrubbed windows, but locals knew better—though the establishment had a modest exterior, the inside was rank with illicit activity, from gambling to forgery to smuggling enkephalin.

Still, it was a place Heathcliff frequented—if nothing else, he could turn up a tidbit of info or two to run back to Sherry for her cases. And … well, the drinks were nice, too.

“The Rat’s Nest,” Sherry’s eyes glanced over the sign hanging above the door, and she sighed, clearly unamused. “How clever.”

“Careful there,” Heathcliff said, nodding at a crowd of thugs gathered outside the establishment, their eyes trained on the unusual duo. “This place is one of the most dangerous places in the District.”

“I’m familiar with its reputation,” she said softly. “Many of my clients have run into trouble with those who frequent this establishment … but it’s a wealth of information for any Fixer willing to step inside.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been here, then?”

“No—but I know a certain man with a rather unkempt appearance who has.” She shot him a sly grin, and he grit his teeth. “What’s your business, tonight?”

“Same as every night where you’re not demanding I go and dig up information—pool.”

Sherry raised an eyebrow, but said nothing as he opened the tavern door, a cloud of thick, blue tobacco smoke roiling forth and smothering them as they ducked inside.

The building was packed, with people from all corners of the Backstreets crowded around tables throughout the main floor. Many of them were speaking in hushed whispers, dark eyes glittering warily as they surveyed the room, watching for potential eavesdroppers. Most were smoking thick cigars, contributing to the hazy blue cloud drifting across the ceiling, while others had their fingers curled around neatly chiseled glasses filled with brandy, vodka, or gin—at least, that’s what Heathcliff supposed, having glanced over the bar menu briefly once or twice. He fancied the scotch, himself.

One quarter of the room had been lowered several yards, and a staircase had been installed for guests to travel down to the lowest point in the tavern—a space filled with dartboards, pool tables, and slot machines. Throngs of Rats had gathered around the slots, their dim eyes reflecting the dazzling colors as they watched the reels spin as if in a trance.

Sherry barely suppressed a soft cough, glaring at the indigo fog rolling overhead. “Would it kill them to crack open a window?”

“Don’t let ‘em hear you saying that,” Heathcliff whispered, nudging her towards the stairs. “Trust me—this crowd can sense disapproval, and they’re pretty quick to stamp it out.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You’ve upset them a few times, then?”

“And what would make you think I’m the one who upset ‘em? Perhaps I was just an innocent bystander who witnessed some poor sod getting thrashed for daring to tell one of ‘em off?”

Sherry grinned, shaking her head. “My dear Heathcliff … I’m sorry, but it sounds like you’re recounting one of your personal experiences.”

He muttered a curse, prodding her closer to the stairs. “Fine, I’ve been in a few scrapes with these lads in the past, but that’s all the more reason for you to keep your mouth shut.”

“Oh?” she raised an eyebrow, her eyes gleaming mischievously. “Is that why you’ve been coming back to the Office so ragged these past few weeks?”

“Mouth. Shut.” Heathcliff hissed, his eyes flicking towards the bar before scanning the nearby tables. “I don’t need you drawing more attention than you already have.”

Sherry huffed, folding her arms. “You’re not scared of them, are you?”

“What? No!” he scoffed. “Just get down the bloody stairs before I—”

He stopped midsentence, noticing a few people had turned to stare at them, and he felt his face flush. Grabbing Sherry by the elbow, he led her down the stairs, then towards a pool table in the bottom left corner of the room.

Releasing Sherry, he sighed, leaning against the pool table with his eyes closed. This woman is going to be the death of me.

“Eight-ball or one-pocket?” Sherry’s question, asked in a soft, gentle tone, made him open his eyes, and he was surprised to see her racking pool balls on the table behind him.

“Eight-ball,” he answered, and she nodded. “You … you’ve played before?”

“Once or twice,” she replied, shrugging. “Mycroft often lets the boys play at the Diogenes Club, and I picked it up from them—though, my dear brother was upset when he found out.”

“I can imagine.” Heathcliff couldn’t help but grin at the thought of Mycroft fuming because his precious little sister had learned how to play something as ‘scandalous’ as pool.

Sherry removed the rack from around the balls with a flourish, setting it to the side before placing the cue ball at the headstring. “Would you like to shoot first?”

“If it pleases the lady,” Heathcliff hummed, and Sherry scoffed. But she nodded, tossing him a cue stick from the set hanging on the wall beside the table.

“The floor’s yours.”

Without another word, Heathcliff moved himself behind the cue ball, leaning forward and placing his bridge hand on the table—open bridge, as always—and delivered a sharp prod to the cue ball, which collided with the pool balls at the opposite end of the table, sending them scattering in all directions. A solid blue ball rolled neatly into the top left pocket, and Heathcliff shot Sherry a smug grin.

“Seems I’ll be taking an early lead.”

“Don’t go getting cocky, now,” she warned, rubbing a chalk cube on the end of her cue stick. “You haven’t even seen me shoot.”

He shrugged, moving to the right side of the table to position himself behind the cue ball, eyes fixed on a solid red ball a few inches away from the leftmost pocket. As he settled down to shoot, though, he felt that familiar sensation of being watched by a sharp pair of eyes …

Sherlock, he thought, gritting his teeth as his heart skipped a beat. His gaze flicked up to meet hers, but he quickly focused his attention back on the cue ball, trying to ignore her. Just focus on the game, Heathcliff—don’t let her get in your head.

He poked the cue ball firmly, but it only rolled enough to nudge the red ball he’d aimed for, and he muttered a quiet curse as Sherry scooped up the cue ball and reset it behind the headstring.

“Allow me …” she said, settling into a striking position.

Heathcliff huffed, stepping back to lean against the wall, studying Sherry’s movements.

There were few moments where he had the opportunity to truly look at Sherlock Holmes—she was always bundled up in her brown trench coat, a short, tweed cape hanging about her shoulders, with a familiar cap perched atop her head.

 And that was usually all he noticed.

But here, in the dimly lit tavern, with her crouched low as she charted the course of the cue ball in front of her, Heathcliff had a rare opportunity to admire her face—it was surprisingly soft, with the faintest of wrinkles under her eyes denoting the many sleepless nights she’d spent in her favorite armchair, her deep blue eyes reflecting the leaping flame contained in the fireplace. He never really knew what she was thinking on those nights, but he knew one thing: Sherlock had some of the most piercing eyes he’d ever seen, and they expressed her thoughts more clearly than her own tongue.

Sherry narrowed her eyes, studying the cue ball with an intensity that she usually reserved for the morning papers, and she set her bridge hand flat on the table, running the edge of her cue stick back and forth along her thumb and index finger in quiet contemplation. A few locks of her warm, tawny hair brushed against the table as she leaned forward, delivering a firm strike to the cue ball that sent it shooting across the table, knocking a ball with a thick, yellow band into the top right pocket.

Wordlessly, Sherry straightened, moving around the table to prepare for another shot, this time her gaze set on a ball behind the headstring, sporting a band of indigo. And, again, she sank the ball.

Moving back around the table, she cast Heathcliff a sly glance, and he snorted. So, she’s got a little bit of skill—it’s nothing to be proud of. It’s not like we’re playing for money or anything.

Sherry sank yet another ball, and he sighed as she once again looped around the table.

Okay … maybe she’s got something to be proud of.

“I do hope I’m not boring you,” she said, flicking her eyes in his direction  as she settled down for her fourth shot. “I’m not familiar with the kind of conversation people have when they play pool.”

“They’re usually about topics that wouldn’t interest you, anyway,” Heathcliff replied.

“Try me.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, listening as the cue ball clattered against a trio of balls at the other end of the table. “When it’s me and my mates, the topic usually turns to who fancies who pretty quick.”

“Ah … you’re right. That isn’t something that interests me.”

“Not even if it’s about me?” he asked, opening his eyes to study her curiously.

“I was under the impression you were in love with that Earnshaw woman.” Sherry’s words were polite, but her eyes were dark. She gestured at the table. “It’s your shot.”

“So it is,” he murmured, detaching himself from the wall and plucking the cue ball from the table, once again resetting it behind the headstring. “Have you learned anything more about Cathy, by any chance?”

“Nothing that pleases me,” Sherry muttered bitterly, brow furrowed. “The more I learn of her, the more I dislike her—if you’ll pardon me saying so.”

Heathcliff hummed in response, taking his shot and sinking another ball in the rightmost pocket. “Wouldn’t happen to be because you’re … jealous, would it?”

“I have no reason to envy her,” Sherry said simply, but the storm in her eyes brought a smile to Heathcliff’s face.

Oh, she’s definitely jealous …

He missed his next shot, and Sherry took his place, resetting the cue ball and knocking two more balls into separate pockets. She really was quite good at the game—better than most.

“If I’d known you were this good, I would’ve made a bet with you.” Heathcliff sidled up beside her, earning an annoyed glare.

“And what would the stakes have been?”

“Nothing big—just a bet to see who’d be buying drinks.”

Sherry shrugged, jabbing the cue ball and sending another pool ball rattled into a pocket. “If you want a drink, I have no problem buying you one.”

“You, Miss Sherlock Holmes, are the complete opposite of a lady. Your brother would be horrified if he heard you were offering to buy a man a drink, you know.”

“There are more scandalous things,” she replied, rounding the table and sinking her seventh pool ball. “For example—I’m about to beat you at pool by knocking the eight ball into that pocket.”

She nodded at the hole closest to him, and he grinned.

“You’re just racking up your sins, tonight, aren’t you?”

“I never said I was a lady—you’re the one who assumed I was.”

With that, she sank the eight ball into the pocket beside Heathcliff, and the game was finished.

“Not bad,” Heathcliff mused, knocking the rest of the balls into the table’s pockets as Sherry hung up her cue stick. “Seems I owe you a drink.”

“If I drink, it’ll be back at Baker Street.” Sherry sighed, twirling her hair around her finger. “I don’t care to drink in public—and especially not in places like this.”

“What—you can’t hold your liquor?” Heathcliff teased.

“I hold my drink better than you,” she said sharply, and he winced—she had seen him in a drunken stupor once before, and though he couldn’t recall any of the things he’d said or done, the disapproving look in her eyes during the weeks following his intoxicated haze had hurt more than the initial hangover. “But … if you’d like, I can treat you to a glass of brandy.”

“Scotch would be nice,” he muttered, hanging up his cue stick.

“Scotch, then.” Sherry moved towards the stairs, and Heathcliff scrambled after her, catching up as she reached the main floor.

Before he could say anything, however, she’d vanished into the crowd, leaving him alone on the landing.

Shit, he thought, glancing around frantically for her. Really, Heathcliff—you bring a lass out with you for the first time in years, and you decide the ideal place to take her is a seedy little tavern packed full of the shadiest Syndicates in the Backstreets … and then you go and lose track of her. Sure, she’s Sherlock Holmes, but with a face as cute as hers, any drunk sod could fancy the idea to try and charm her—not that he’d succeed, because she is Sherlock Holmes and has no interest in romance, but …

He shook himself, muttering a quiet curse.

Pull yourself together, you stupid fool! It’s because she’s Sherlock Holmes that she’s in so much danger here—all sorts of Syndicates gather here, and none of ‘em are too keen on her after she broke up their enkephalin smuggling rings. If they cornered her, they’d do all manner of unthinkable things to her …

He shuddered, a cold, dark realization dawning on him.

… and it’d be my fault. I’d be the reason she got caught and tortured. His stomach twisted painfully at the thought, and his heartrate accelerated. They’d kill her and I’d be the one responsible for it, because I’m the bastard who brought her here in the first place.

He was about to dive into the crowd in search of her when he felt a gentle tug at his arm, and, glancing down, he saw that Sherry had returned, a glass of whiskey in her hand, which she offered to him.

“Sherlock!” he wheezed, relief washing over him. “You’re … safe.”

“Of course I am,” she replied, raising an eyebrow at his quivering frame. “Are you feeling alright? You’re shaking like a newborn calf …”

He blinked, then released a tired sigh. “Don’t go running off on me, love … you scared me half to death.”

“Ah …” Sherry glanced away, then took his elbow. “Let’s go over here—there’s a table in the corner that was unoccupied … you can rest there for a moment.”

Heathcliff allowed her to lead him through the crowd, and they settled down at a small booth in the farthest corner of the tavern, far away from the wary eyes of the ruffians clustered around the bar.

Sherry was silent, quietly observing the murmuring crowds, and Heathcliff took the opportunity to take a swig of his drink, sighing as the familiar warmth of alcohol spread through his limbs, filling him with renewed vigor.

Setting the now-empty glass down, he turned his gaze to Sherry, who was staring at her lap, her hat drawn low over her eyes.

“You doing alright?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I’m fine,” she replied curtly, lifting her head and staring out at the people milling about the tavern.

Heathcliff tried to read her eyes, but they weren’t the dazzling window to her thoughts that they usually were—instead, they were clouded with an emotion that was foreign to them … something different from the delight and anger that usually thundered through them.

“… can I ask you a question, Heathcliff?”

Sherry’s voice was soft, hesitant—so much less confident than usual.

“Of course,” he said, tilting his head. “What is it?”

“Do you still love Catherine Earnshaw?”

Heathcliff blinked, surprised by the question. “Of course I do—Cathy’s the only reason I’m doing all this, remember? You said that as long as I help you out here and there, and sometimes keep you company now that Watson’s left to focus on his practice, you’d tell me what you learned about her whereabouts.”

“I see. I suspected as much.” Sherry’s words were stiff, and that clouded emotion in her eyes thickened. “And what if she’s ceased to love you? Have you ever considered that possibility?”

“That ‘possibility’ is an impossibility,” Heathcliff hissed, bristling.

Sherry frowned. “Then you’re set on returning to her, once I discover where she’s decided to roost?”

“Naturally—once I get the information I want, our contract’s fulfilled. I’m free to go on my way, and you can find someone else to accompany you on your cases.”

“And what about everything we’ve been through? Is the friendship we share so trivial that you’ll just vanish without a word once you get what you want?”

Heathcliff hesitated at this—certainly, Sherlock meant something to him … she meant more to him than anyone else in the Backstreets. Hell—just a few moments ago, the thought of losing her had stricken him with terror, and that fear was rivaled only by the bitter thought that someone else would steal away her affections … but he knew that was impossible. Sherlock Holmes had no interest in winning a man’s heart—and besides, didn’t his love belong to Cathy?

Still, the idea of parting with Sherry once he finally learned of Catherine’s whereabouts left him feeling hollow. He did harbor a secret affection for her, after all … even if he refused to admit it.

“You’re … you’re not going to make me choose between the two of you, are you?”

“I’m not. But the fact that Catherine Earnshaw and I lead very different lives and desire very different things—save, perhaps, one thing—is undeniable. It’s not a matter of choosing between Catherine and I … it’s a matter of choosing between the life Catherine wants and the life you currently lead.”

He blinked—he’d never once considered how different his life would be once he was finally reunited with Cathy. He’d just assumed things would go back to how they were before he left—only this time, she would accept him. How could she not? He was returning to her a fairly wealthy man, after all …

But, life as it was before was … dull and uninteresting, now that he thought about it. He’d rise with the sun, eat breakfast, do whatever business required his attention, eat lunch, return to business, eat dinner, and then go to bed shortly after sunset. And there’d be balls, no doubt—and he loathed balls. Even with Cathy at his side, the drabness of it all would bore him to tears—especially in comparison to the fast paced life he led in the Backstreets working with Sherry.

At Baker Street Office, he had his three meals a day, a room for himself, and there was something new happening nearly every day—unearthing scandals, busting enkephalin smuggling rings, tearing down entire Syndicates, and learning the secrets of the Wings … plus, he still had the pleasures of gambling and drinking to pass the time whenever Sherry gave him leave. Though the consequences of those behaviors weren’t always the best, he at least enjoyed freedom when he was working for her … a freedom that he’d lose the moment he returned to Catherine.

“I’m close to figuring out where she is, Heathcliff,” Sherry said softly. “I just wanted to make you aware of how serious a choice awaits you. I won’t sway you one way or the other—but I will say that of all the men I’ve known, you certainly keep me the most entertained.”

She rose, brushing off her coat.

“I think I’ll return to Baker Street, now. All things considered, this was a lovely evening—it’s been a long time since I had this much fun.”

Heathcliff started. “Don’t you want company on the way home?”

“I’ll be alright on my own—I’ll leave the door unlocked for you. Just go easy on the whiskey, alright?”

With that, she swept out of the tavern, leaving Heathcliff to brood over the problem she’d unceremoniously dropped in his lap.

It was only a few minutes after she departed, however, that he realized something—Sherry had said there was one thing that both she and Catherine wanted. What that thing was remained a mystery to him, though his fluttering heart dared to hope that, perhaps, it was him.

[loving-family-poll]

For the love of God vote Catherine/Heathcliff you people!! They share such a transcendentally incestuous bond despite being adopted siblings, that Catherine literally fights for Heathcliff to be recognized as a member of the family as part of her expression of romantic love for him! Heathcliff approaches her as an adult by socially dominating and replacing her biological brother! Their incest-love is so powerful that their fucking children fall in love as a reflection of it!! (Also, Heathcliff bashing his head against a tree because he doesn't understand why society won't let him fuck his sister is such autistic representation)

"Wincest is the ultimate incest ship of all time"?? Fuck off!!! "There's nothing past or present that I would put in front of you" is a pretty enough expression of strong attachment, but Catherine's monologue is the quintessential expression of romanticized codependence!! "He’s always, always in my mind: not as a pleasure, any more than I am always a pleasure to myself, but as my own being." I get that tumblr users like their silly little shows--but if we take a step back, I don't see how this is even a question, especially imagining beyond our present moment. How could Kendall/Logan or Wincest or fucking Dave/Rose ever come close to the cultural power of Catherine/Heathcliff?? Our love for Kendall/Logan is like the foliage in the woods: time will change it, we are well aware, as winter changes the trees. Our love for Catherine/Heathcliff resembles the eternal rocks beneath: a source of little visible delight, but necessary.

The book itself came out of a game where a trio of horny sisters were daring each other to write dark romance stories!!!!

I'm sleepy and shant be reading all that but yeah so true I'm happy for you or sorry that happened <3

[lu-is-not-ok]

Hello. I would like to ask what you think of the fact that Rhino Meursault, unlike most identities, has an Uptie III story written in first person, whereas the others are implied to be narrated by Carmen (as implied by the way she refers to Lobotomy Corporation as a place where "My Children reside"? Why Rhino Meursault specifically, and do you know if there's any others?

It's not actually just Rhino Meursault! Sunshower Heathcliff, Seven Heathcliff, and W Corp Ryoshu all have first person narration in their Uptie Stories. There might be more, but I can't recall them at the moment.

In fact, W Corp Ryoshu's Uptie Story gives us a hint as to why these specific narrations could be in first person.

We might not be reading the Sinner's internal thoughts/narration. Instead, it's very possible we might just be reading what they have physically written down, as the "I don't think anyone else would care to look at this writing" implies.

[wayfinderships]

I have arrived at last to give you a brief attempt at a gush about Hea.thcl.iff--that fictional man is the love of my life, I swear--

I can't even really tell you what drew me to him? I had a few friends who had him on their crush list when the game first released, and I knew someone who liked him up until they saw his teaser trailer mention Ca.ther.ine ... then they dropped him immediately. I went into the game expecting to like Gr.egor or Meu.rsau.lt, but no ... Hea.thcl.iff completely took me by surprise--although I did read his source novel before the game dropped, and I had a moment where I thought, "I really hope this doesn't awaken anything in me," because I thought he'd be a platonic--as you can see from the state of my blog, that was absolutely not what happened. /lh

I know a lot of people perceive him as "dumb" and "violent," but if you read the story--yes, even the early chapters--that really isn't the case. In the first Ca.nto, he actually picks up on a scheme some enemies are hatching: to let the Sinners through and then immediately attack them when they come back around to the exit. And the one time in Ca.nto II where he seems like he's being a problem, he actually gets the enemy to break something valuable, allowing the Sinners to advance a bit easier. Also, in Ca.nto IV, the enemy actually acknowledges Hea.thcl.iff's words as being wise, to the point he makes a point of hoping to avoid choosing people for his little band based solely on their education--in the future, that is.

He's also such a sweetheart--in Ca.nto IV the Sinners took a heavy blow from an explosive, and even though Hea.thcl.iff was hurt, he was more worried about Don Qu.ixo.te ... he tells Da.nte to turn back the clock because "the blonde lass is dying"--not because he's hurt. He also expresses concern for Is.hma.el in that Ca.nto that I feel a lot of people overlook because of how often they're at each other's throats--and even in the more recent update he's been telling people to leave Don Qu.ixo.te be because ... she's just being herself and there's nothing they can do to change her.

I said above I read his book before the game released, and I do feel that was part of why I immediately liked him so much. He's been through so damn much--you've seen me talk about the racism he's dealt with in canon--and I want the best for him. And Sherry's the same way--I think it's amusing I created her before Limbus released, but she happens to also be from a British series ... it's as if she and Hea.thcl.iff were meant to be ... and if I hadn't fallen for Hea.thcl.iff, I wouldn't be friends with a good chunk of my current Li.mbus mutuals, either! He's just incredibly dear to me ... he's made my life so much better, and I just like to imagine a universe (or multiple) where Sherry does the same for him.

This is not brief, my goodness--you let me talk about this man and I won't shut up--

~ 🪻

Hiiii Sarah!! :D First off I just wanted to say I was smiling the whole time reading this-akgnskf I can just feel how much you love Hea.thcl.iff and it's so sweet <3 So fun how he took you by surprise and now he's the love of your life!!

He sounds like such a cool and amazing guy!🥺 Acjsnfksjfjd I want to be his friend maybe even sibling so hard now!!!

Also awwww! You two were certainly meant to be if you ask me! Anytime I see Heathcliff I immediately go "omg that's Sarah's beloved!!" I'm sure that you've made his life so much better, just as he's done for you! He loves you sooo much! And thank you for telling me about him! :>

[muse-write]

Verlady Week Day 5

Prompt: “Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.”

@verladyweek

I see a Wuthering Heights quote, I use it. This turned into a little bit of a character study and a reflection of one of my favorite books, but still heavily focused on Vergil and Lady’s dynamic. It was so fun to write!

Lady had never had much use for reading. She had enjoyed it occasionally in school, but most of her time and focus had been on her gymnastics program. Reading, even for school, had been reserved for car rides shuttling her to and from competitions or when she couldn’t sleep before a big day.

Wuthering Heights had always been a secret favorite, and even now, she kept a battered copy of it on the stand by her bed. It was a secondhand copy bought for a dollar at a thrift store years ago and had an awful pink cover and no margins, but she flipped through it and read her favorite parts every now and then. Reading now was reserved for slow moments in Nico’s van on the way to and from missions, or rare moments of peace and quiet before she went to bed.

One line had struck her on her first read as a 16 year old—only months before her mother would be found dead in their living room, when Lady had been Mary, a student reading Wuthering Heights for her sophomore English class. “Whatever our souls are made of,” Catherine Earnshaw had claimed, “his and mine are the same.” Wuthering Heights had enchanted her then, the story of generations impacted by one man’s lust for vengeance, by one woman’s insane love for someone who didn’t deserve it. And then months later that enchantment was utterly destroyed, when Mary’s mother died at her father’s hands and a tower rose from hell and destroyed thousands of lives and she threw herself into the world of demons and devils and one particular tormented, depressed, charming demon-hunter.

And now his brother had joined that group, and it had been 20 years since Mary Arkham had picked up Wuthering Heights, and she was a very different person than she had been then. Lady—for she would never go by Mary again—did not think of that quote with the childish naivety of a student, but with a jaded edge of derision: toward Catherine Earnshaw and the terrible thing she had called love, toward Heathcliff and his obsession, and toward herself, who had had no idea what was to come.

But something made her think of it now, as she marched beside Vergil up the isolated hiking trail, following the last of their quarry. The escaped demon wasn’t a real threat, more of a nuisance, but it was best not to leave it to make trouble. In the lack of conversation and with no need to make a plan for finding what they were hunting (the broken branches, crater-like prints, and demonic slime were quite enough to tell exactly where it had gone), Lady’s mind wandered. Perhaps it was the landscape around them—the bleak plains stretching out below the edge of the mountain range, the overcast sky heavy with dark clouds, the chill autumn wind whisking across her cheeks—that put her in mind of her old favorite book. “Whatever our souls are made of,” she murmured, partly to savor the taste of the prose on her tongue, partly to fill the silence that had fallen between her and Vergil. They didn’t go on hunts often together without Dante or Nero or Trish as a buffer, though they were perfectly capable of remaining professional on jobs. At least, Lady was.

“His and mine are the same,” spoke up Vergil from beside her.

Lady glanced at him, a little surprised, but on further reflection, she supposed it made sense that he would recognize the line. “Have I found another fan of Wuthering Heights in the wild?” she asked him.

“I read it when I was a child,” he said. “I don’t know that I can say I was a fan. But I liked Bronte’s prose.” He lifted his eyes to their surroundings, and she wondered if he had noticed the similarities that she had. “I’m sure much of it was above my ability to comprehend then, and I haven’t revisited it since.”

“I have a copy of it,” she found herself saying. “If you ever want to borrow it.”

His eyes lighted on her, a little surprised. “Perhaps one day. Thank you.” They walked along in silence until he continued. “What made you think of that line?”

Lady shrugged. “The landscape, probably. I read that book back in high school, and that line stuck out to me then. I think I enjoyed the drama of it. The tragedy.”

Something close to a smile played around the corner of Vergil’s mouth. Lady almost laughed; if she had realized sooner that discussing literature with Vergil was one of the few things that didn’t end in threats of death—not yet, anyway—she would have brought it up sooner. “That’s why I enjoyed William Blake as much as I did,” Vergil mused. “The drama of it. I remember Wuthering Heights primarily for the setting, the Yorkshire moorlands rolling out beneath a dark sky, ghosts haunting old houses.”

“Maybe the ghosts aren’t really there,” Lady suggested, her high school English class coming back to her. “Maybe they’re simply psychological manifestations of trauma.”

Vergil grunted noncommittally, and Lady winced, remembering too late what she had heard about V’s familiars. Perhaps the ghosts of Wuthering Heights should be just that—ghosts, to plead with and die with and be done with, instead of memories of trauma and abuse and other things that were altogether too real, and far too recent in both their minds.

Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.

It struck her then, as it never had before, how different Vergil was now to who he had been in any of his other versions. This was not the power-hungry teenage Vergil who had raised a tower from hell. Neither was it V, the crumbling shell holding together the dregs of his humanity with sheer willpower. And, most importantly, neither was he Urizen, who had imprisoned her in armor not so very differently than Nero Angelo himself had been. This Vergil fought with his brother and killed demons at his side and sat through awkward dinners with Nero and his fiance and discussed a book he had not read in 30 years with someone he seemed to hate.

Lady was not a foolish girl like Catherine Earnshaw, but neither was Vergil a Heathcliff. He was working—however falteringly—to make amends with his family and to right his old wrongs. And Lady could respect that, because even if it was the bare minimum, it was more than he had done decades ago.

There was a flicker up ahead, and she put thoughts of books and change and decades of simmering resentment out of her mind for now. They had a job to do. But when the job was over, maybe she could give a little more thought to this new Vergil.

[alexilulu]

Books I Read in 2024 #7: Wuthering Heights (Emily Brontë under the pen name Ellis Bell, Thomas Newby, 1847)

In a story related to the narrator by a maid intimately involved in its events, we see the life of Catherine Earnshaw and Heathcliff, the fallout of their doomed love and the decades following it, in which Heathcliff exacts a petty, cruel revenge upon the descendants of those who wronged him in his youth.

This one is technically a reread, but removed by over 20 years from my first exposure to it, so I'm allowing it.

This book is a fucking trip, y'all. Scarcely a conversation goes by without the threat of bodily harm upon the speaker or others around them. Early on, Catherine wishes she'd kill herself to make someone else kill themselves out of grief. Heathcliff, the lout-turned-mannered monster of the novel, is brutally physical with everyone around him both in his youth and later. Joseph, the poor god-fearing Yorkshire servant whose accent is transcribed beautifully (though at times unintelligibly without some careful rereading, given the length of time since it was published), damns everyone around him to hell for their various crimes but takes little action besides poisoning the brain of everyone around him with his hatred.

I think the thing I enjoy most about it is how deftly it turns the story of English manners on itself. People not familiar with the genre should know the English manners story to be one of refined men and women dueling in the battlefield of words and ideas, carefully cutting one another to shreds with a simple sentence that shows how déclassé they really are, and when that breaks down. Here, the jumped up brown boy (Heathcliff is unambiguously racialized in the story as probably being Romani or mixed heritage, a foundling that Hareton Earnshaw brought home) is the picture of manners with the Earnshaws and Lintons until his temper gets the better of him and he leaps to physical violence to signify his rule over others. Nearly every character is barely clinging to life as a proper Englishman or woman, confounded by the malicious haze that has descended over these entwined families, screaming epithets or bemoaning their wish to die rather than yield to their counterpart.

Heathcliff is a marvel. Brought into a country manor as a child and made into the favored son of his adoptive father over the parent's own blood, he is consumed by a rivalry between him and Hindley, the first son. He's beautifully human and delightfully monstrous, having lost the only love of his life to another man and then her death in childbirth, Heathcliff is consumed by a malignant hatred for the Earnshaws and Lintons both, and desires only to take everything from them to show his superiority. He uses everyone adroitly, moving people like pieces into his preferred configuration, even using his ailing son to ensure his capture of the Thrushcross Grove property by his marriage to Cathy and his subsequent death from wasting disease.

The novel sparkles with the sort of cruelty that true tragedy heads will enjoy. Hareton is a whipping boy from the moment Heathcliff has control of his life, a brilliant young man forced to work menially by his adoptive father and denied education, poisoned by Joseph into a manner of pride of his origin that does not reflect his upbringing and by Heathcliff into a debased, cursing cur. Despite this, he feels care for Cathy, but lashes out viciously when prompted. Everyone in the novel, generally, is insulted once and immediately and perfectly transitions into screamed invective at the other, threats and oaths sworn back and forth. It fucking rules.

[queenlucythevaliant]

In Defense of Wuthering Heights

This is not an “I can make him worse” book. It’s a “we can make each other better in the face of tremendous pressure to do otherwise” book. I promise. 

I’ve already written extensively about my love for Charlotte Brontë’s Villette and while I love lots of other Brontë books with all my heart, what I really want to do tonight is try to make you fall in love with Emily’s Wuthering Heights (generally the most divisive Brontë novel among modern readers) the way that I did.

The thing that a lot of people don’t know which I really think ought to be printed on all the dust jackets is that the Brontë sisters were the daughters of a revered. They were PKs and it totally shows.  

So Wuthering Heights is not a romance; it’s a family tragedy. Specifically, it’s an astonishingly hopeful book about generational trauma. 

Heathcliff is Mr. Earnshaw’s bastard son. This is never explicitly stated, but it is implied so heavily that it might as well be. To boot, Mr. Earnshaw favors Heathcliff over his legitimate son, Hindley. When Mr. Earnshaw dies, Heathcliff is immediately and violently cast out of the family and forced into servitude. Mr. Earnshaw’s hidden infidelity is Wuthering Heights’s original sin.

Of course, Cathy and Heathcliff love each other, but it’s a violent and destructive like-recognizes-like kind of love between two people who, on the one hand, absolutely should not be together and, on the other, totally deserve each other. They’re capital T Tragic and capital R romantic: co-dependent, sharp-toothed sibling-lovers who don’t understand their own relationship as kids because their father lied to them. That lack of understanding follows them into adulthood; they don’t really know how to make sense of what they feel for one another, but boy do they feel it. 

Cathy tells Nellie “I am Heathcliff” and “He’s more myself than I am” and “whatever souls are made of, his and mine are the same,” and it’s half a reaction to the fact that one of her brothers (Hindley) has cast her other brother (Heathcliff) out of the family with a vengeance and half a statement of the fact that although she doesn’t know what Heathcliff is to her, she doesn’t know how to live without him. And while Cathy’s love for Heathcliff definitely fills romantic roles once they’re adults, it’s doesn’t really read as sexual. To use Lewis’s parlance: it’s not eros/gift-love, but rather need-love in the most emphatic sense. It’s storge. Actually, it’s really posessive storge that thinks it’s eros. Hence the problem. 

From the other side, Heathcliff is an outsider from the moment he enters the story. He’s an intruder and a presumed bastard. He’s coded as non-white, maybe Romani or similar. (Probably not actually African-black, but kudos to that one movie for at least making the attempt.) He’s… probably kind of a psychopath in that he displays cruelty to animals and then later on becomes a charismatic, manipulative monster. You can make a nature vs. nurture argument—Heathcliff is definitely on the receiving end of a lot of cruelty—but there’s also something Off about him and that too is othering. And after Mr. Earnshaw dies, Cathy is the one person who still loves him.

But of course, they can’t actually marry. On and off the page, that simply cannot be. Heathcliff runs away, Cathy marries Edgar Linton. They hurt each other badly in the process. Neither Heathcliff nor Cathy can escape the harm that Mr. Earnshaw began and Hindley perpetuated. Cathy dies, Heathcliff marries Isabella, and then things get really interesting.

Because the beating heart of Wuthering Heights, the place where you can profoundly see the fingerprints of the reverend’s daughter, is in the third generation. Cathy and Heathcliff devour each other in life and in death, but the children survive. They forgive. The patriarch died without knowing what he had wrought on his children, the second generation died in anguish, but the third makes it out. Or at least Hareton and Cathy II do.

Cathy’s daughter is named for her mother. Heathcliff’s son by Isabella Linton is named Linton Heathcliff. Heathcliff forces Hareton, Hindley’s son and the only one among the third generation not named for his parents, to live in the same debasement that Hindley once forced on him: he denies Hareton any education and forces him into servitude while simultaneously courting his admiration. In essence, Cathy and Heathcliff implore the next generation to go on living their parents’ tragedy and it. Doesn’t. Work.

Heathcliff tries to force them both into awful situations in which they must act out his trauma, his revenge, to go on perpetuating the pain and bitterness. And at first, it looks like they’re going to play their parts. For a time, they’re as awful to each other as everyone else is.

But then they change. Hareton tries to stand up for Cathy II while she’s essentially being held captive as part of Heathcliff’s 12-Step Revenge Plot. Cathy teaches Hareton to read. She laughs at him, but when she realizes that she’s hurting his pride she apologizes and learns to be patient.  

“I didn’t know you took my part,” she answered, drying her eyes; “and I was miserable and bitter at everybody; but now I thank you, and beg you to forgive me: what can I do besides?”

And after this, they both stand up to Heathcliff. They say, “This ends here. This far and no farther.” Heathcliff is their dragon and they face him together. And when everyone else is dead in grand, tragic fashion, Cathy II and Hareton are left living.

But it’s not just that Hareton and Cathy II survive. They specifically un-do the failings of the previous generations. There’s a kind of atonement to it. They’re honest with each other, unlike Mr. Earnshaw. Cathy recognizes Hareton’s humanity, something Hindley never did for Heathcliff. Hareton lets go of his bitterness and resentment, while Heathcliff let his fester into cruelty and Elaborate Revenge. Cathy II is willful, like her mother, but she is also kind. Hareton is proud, like his father, but he is also compassionate. They forgive each other, while Cathy and Heathcliff only ever held grudges.

At the beginning of the book, Cathy is dead and has explicitly not gone to heaven; with the Brontës, you’ve gotta take these things seriously. Cathy is not in heaven and Heathcliff is a monster and they both seem to be damned, but they do not succeed in damning their children. And in that (I would say because of that), even Cathy and Heathcliff find peace after death.

I also do think that the fact that the story is narrated by Lockwood (weirded out by all of this) and Nellie (unreliable, cares deeply about everyone involved) can make it difficult to see the redemptive arc in the story as clearly as we might if it had an omniscient narrator, or if, say Cathy II was narrating. We're presented the Cathy and Heathcliff love story as this great, horrible, compelling saga (and it absolutely is), but then the following generation can almost seem like a footnote. They're adapted out of most of the film adaptations. But they're the whole point!

I do get why Wuthering Heights just isn’t to some people’s taste. Really. Some people just don’t go for Big Romantic Family Tragedy and that’s fine. But too many people come to the Brontës looking for Jane Austen or Elizabeth Gaskell and that’s just. Wrong. You’ve gotta at least read Wuthering Heights on its own terms before deciding that you hate it (not directed at anyone specific on here, but I do know people irl...). And you really ought to read it with an eye towards Emily’s faith. It makes a world of difference.

TL;DR- There’s a beautiful, very Christian center to Wuthering Heights and it’s one of forgiveness instead of revenge and kindness instead of cruelty. It’s a book about people who are destroyed by the sins of their fathers and those that manage not to be. In a way, it’s almost a fairytale.

[burningvelvet]

more rambling thoughts about wuthering heights now that i've finished my re-read

1 wuthering heights is basically the looney tunes if the looney tunes were goth. 90% of the novel is people arguing, dying, and running around threatening to kill each other, and often all three of those at once.

2 love how it's filled with dark humor. "he's such a cobweb, a pinch would annihilate him" is such a camp thing to say about the terminally ill child you abhor and who you spend weeks trying to set up on dates with your dead lover's child so you can steal her property when your son finally dies. heathcliff lecturing his son on Seduction 101 right in front of cathy 2.0, trying ridiculously to play cupid and compel them to fall in love with each other before giving up and just kidnapping her instead... surely he's the most insane brontë man?

3 i can't remember what i had for dinner last night but nelly dean can remember what the weather was like on any given friday twenty years ago (love her and her snarky comments)

4 love how after nelly finishes telling the story to lockwood she's like "any way. so you know cathy 2.0 is single right ;)))" and then cathy 2.0 shows zero interest in him. so then he's like "oh i just remembered i have somewhere to be :/" then fucks off to london for nearly a year then when he comes back nelly is like "nvm as it turns out cathy and hareton are actually soulmates lol who knew! gee, it's a good thing she didn't like you!" and he's just silently suffering. emily was just fucking around here. hindley was the only linton/earnshaw/heathcliff who was wild enough to marry someone who didn't share either his gene pool or his neighborhood.

5 i imagine joseph to look like smeagol from the lotr films but taller

6 [heathcliff, after stabbing his alcoholic arch nemesis and then pushing his servant into the puddle of the blood] "Wash that stuff away; and mind the sparks of your candle—it is more than half brandy!” LMAO

7 this opinion list is just turning out to be a list of the most insane heathcliff moments but truly the novel should've just been called "heathcliff"

8 heathcliff's weird paternal feelings for hareton, saving hareton's life, him saying he would truly love him if only he wasn't hindley's child, basically giving hareton his blessing to love cathy 2.0 toward the end... so oddly endearing

9 heathcliff walking out just before the "i am heathcliff" part of her speech. why WHY

10 hindley protecting isabella from heathcliff before she flees was nice and i wish we saw more of their dynamic around the heights. honestly aside from the child neglect (which is par for the course in wuthering heights) hindley is a pretty sympathetic character; his rivalry with heathcliff was fueled by both sides and truly the fault of their father for pitting them against each other by letting heathcliff usurp hindley's place of favoritism as a boy. hindley's gambling and drinking, his general dissipation and failure to secure his son's future, are all tragic.

11 i think hindley/edgar/heathcliff are all interesting foils for each other; they each lose the women they love and are left to be single fathers, and each responds to the task totally differently. if we include mr. earnshaw, all the fathers in the story essentially fail their children after all the mothers die. hindley and heathcliff have a special parallel through their lifelong brotherly competition, the women they love both dying in childbirth, and in their own deaths. hindley slowly kills himself while ignoring everyone around him; heathcliff also kills himself, but only after trying to systematically ruin the lives of everyone around him. they also say that they want to kill each other but fail when they try; heathcliff nearly kills hindley but ends up saving his life at the last minute.

12 heathcliff jr. is so terrified of heathcliff sr. and so traumatized and petrified by fear and he doesn't deserve the hate he gets for being annoying. he's been sheltered his whole life, his mother just died, he was sent to his uncle/cousin only to be immediately torn away from them to be abused by a stranger who treats him horribly, he's terminally ill, he's still a kid, he's threatened into marrying someone he barely knows, etc.

13 if any of you have seen the british comedy show "the young ones" that's literally hindley's household in wuthering heights when joseph/hareton/hindley/heathcliff/isabella all live together. the filth, the slop for dinner, the petty games, the violence, the fierce hatred yet weird loyalty to each other, etc.

14 i really wonder how cathy would have reacted to heathcliff's treatment of everyone else if only she had known the full details (ie his harsh abuse of isabella, his son, cathy 2.0, etc.)

15 heights was my first brontë novel but i think i like jane eyre and tenant better now that i've read them all back to back! next on the list is likely agnes gray. anne, my underrated queen!

[eggsploded]

awright how about don quixote for the character thing

telegram for a mr felix 'lemonmuncher' xboxhatewater

first impression: this is so fucking mean but considering shes popular meme character from a gacha game i initially thought insufferable mascot that has smug anime girl edits - after canto 1 i did like don but also in a snide way that wanted to see her humbled

current impression: don is like if some overzealous disney actor employee fought for their life to keep huffing the corporate magic fumes and in every universe except this one fails to keep it up needless to say she is fascinating and because i havent read don quixote i DONT know why shes like that (current limbus lit score: i read the wings at 3 am and hated yi sang real so fucking much for 12 hours before feeling bad about the guy and i read about 15 pages of l'etranger before wanting to die because reading french is Difficile)

favorite moment: her strongarming gregors angels during hells chicken was funny but also i like her blatant out loud musing to force heathcliff into fixer cosplay because his scars are photogenic

story idea: Can This Bitch Swim? is the question the masses are asking this fine summer event. stay tuned in 2 weeks

fav relationship: rosespanner rodyas favoritist specialist little henchman (romantic) is sooo interesting meurdon is a classic but TBH i dont think about them that much non romantically her and sinclair sticking together to stack and create one tall person is super powerful

fav headcanon: regarding her mentally ill compatriots sinclair and yi sang i think that shes like 30 or pushing it and they dont know that shes playing down her age to idk make her memoir have a plot twist

[cursedxwt]

Underrated aspect of Heathsang I feel is that even in the actual story Heathcliff is the one who consistently stands up for Yi Sang. Like that little bit in Canto 2 where he tries to hype him up because Faust was the only one getting recognition and then in 4 where he's the only one who comforts him about his guilt over the factories even though Heathcliff is usually spiteful towards these things and then in the Intervallos you have Yi Sang looking out for him too....if these interactions don't get expanded on more I'll be so so sad

Sorry for taking so long to reply to this one but I really wanted to take some time to replay the story and check those moments for a specific thing you said.

I really didn't care about Yi Sang when I started playing so now I'm dying at the amount of silly moments he had and I ignored lol, but that's not the important thing here.

While I love to see them together, the fact that these two had story with T corp (or district 20 in general) it makes me think if they were connected at some point.

it might be a stupid theory since we don't have Heathcliff's story yet, but it makes me wonder if he was a worker in any of the factories Yi Sang designed. If I remember correctly, in Wuthering Heights, Heathcliff was forced by Hindley to do heavy work on the fields before he ran away. Considering the way Yi Sang described those factories, I wonder if that is the way Project Moon will translate Heathcliff's abuse into their world.

So, if this ends up being right (which I doubt) it hurts even more to know Heathcliff was the actor who had to comfort Yi Sang's guilt (yeah, Heathcliff was just reading Yi Sang's script at that part :') )

ANYWAY

Sorry for turning this ask into a possibly painful one but I wanted to say it before Heathcliff's canto lol

That being said, HEATHSANG'S INTERACTIONS ARE SO CUTE AND FUNNY AND WE NEED MORE