#i prefer to be mysterious and ambiguous about it

[todayisafridaynight]

LISTEN I KNOW HOW IT SOUNDS BUT I SWEAR HE WAS DISTINCT FROM RGGJO STILL 😭😭😭 HIS DESIGN WAS LOUD IN A DIFFERENT WAY 😭😭😭😭😭 though As A Whole it was probably the result of someone saying he should go full RGGJo in 8 several months prior to when I had the dream, so not wrong. But it would be fun to see a shift from "Nothing in life matters...😞" to "Nothing in life matters! 😎" would it not...

I've always thought Drink Link was meant to evoke Social Link? Because in Japan it was called #DRAMA. I was never the biggest fan because it's one of many "translations" in Y7 that are just changing something that was already in English and doesn't require cultural context to understand. Like IMO whether it's seen as an improvement or not, it's just not the localizers' job to "improve on" the original; let them be cringe and let them be free...

And also it gave ammunition to Persona fans who refuse to experience anything but P5 and decided to go "wow! it's just like P5!" at every little thing Y7 did from the VERY FIRST trailers onward (including BE AN RPG) And That Shit Got Old Fast </3 Sorry </3 But I do think this one's very much on purpose, localization-wise. So I forgive you :)

RANTING ASIDE. OR. SEGUEING INTO MORE RANTING. Literally like I don't even care if it's as part of the Kasugang or Kiryu's Geezer Squad... Give Jo five minutes with Tendo or hand him over to me so I can make sure he's enriched and well-nourished... these are my demands... that man is my everything......

Because it would be SO funny both ways. We don't know who all will be in each party, so either he's stuck with Adachi (Definitely A Character) (Affectionate) (Also Has Already Told Him He'd Rather Kill Him Than Send Him To Jail So. Awkward) or maybe with Kiryu's he'd have more people around his agw, But if not, The Inherent Comedy of two bitches called Jo and Joryu who have almost the same haircut 💀💀

Exactly though, nobody in the Arakawa Family is neurotypical and I FULLY believe Jo would be at his best when put into Situations, like Mine is. It's something I reeeally miss from RGGO because of the pre-finale scene with RGGJo and Mitsu having a drink at their favorite bar... they haven't been there in a while, and RGGJo doesn't wanna spoil the mood, so he's not hostile in the slightest... and when he gets up to leave he says he "forgot his wallet" and makes Mitsu foot the bill (ICONIC for completely different reasons depending on whether he's telling the truth or not)... whereas in Y7 I DON'T EVEN KNOW IF THE ARAKAWAS HAVE A FAVORITE BAR

it could be funny- whiplash inducing, but that'd undoubtedly be why it'd be funny wouldn't it ♪(´▽｀) he could've been some sacred third thing- just more RGGJo influence injected in Y7Jo mayhaps..

anyhow it dont sound like you forgive me when you just got mad at persona players for makin comparisons and here ive gone and done such a thing LMAO（；´д｀）（；´д｀）in any case, i know how you feel about translations so i wont press the topic: if it aint broke etc etc, i understand how you feel so it's ok (❁´◡`❁;;)

double 'jo' def woulda been funny, if not has always been a small thing worth jokin bout that ive had in the back of my mind (though ive already said that: i have a broken record of a brain at this point, if not that it just points out how silly i find the idea) LMAO. i've always enjoyed antag-turned-party member anyhow, so it wouldve been fun to me regardless of what it brought ♪(´▽｀)

[matan4il]

Ahead of Eurovision 2024

I was listening to Eden Golan's song, Hurricane.

At first, it didn't seem to me like it stands out. I'm one of the people who prefers my Eurovision song less on the power ballad side of things, so this being in that genre...

But then I found myself haunted by the lyrics. By specific lines. Singing them to myself quietly, over and over again. I had to listen to the song again.

And it got to me, it really did, I haven't stopped listening to or singing it since, so I guess I needed to share a bit.

There's more than one hint that this is a song about mourning and survival. Lines like, "someone stole the moon tonight, took my light" can be interpreted in more than one way. But they become less ambiguous when combined with ones like, "holding on in this mysterious ride," when the mysterious ride we're all on is life itself. It makes it clearer that this isn't just a break up song. Then it becomes even more explicit with, "we shall pass, but love will never die."

The imagery in the videoclip is also telling, that ending when Eden is looking up, much like many do when talking to or thinking about a loved one that we have lost.

But the line that gets to me the most, the first one that took over my brain? "I'm still broken from this hurricane."

We all get what this song is about, in the wake of what happened here in October 2023, and since. And I am broken. So many Jews and Israelis are. As one survivor said (his words have haunted me first, then I heard them echoed in this song): "We are broken, but strong." That's exactly what the song is about, deeply feeling the pain and the tragedy, the loss, this impossible to accept grief, and still trying to find a way to live with it, to survive not just the horrors of a massacre, but the trauma that follows it as well.

The other line that affects me the most is directly related to this, "baby, promise me you'll hold me again." Because I have spent the last 5 months watching the news, seeing the funerals, and hearing people breaking down, as they say a variation of this to their loved ones, who are gone. Asking for a promise that can't be made, or fulfilled, and knowing that it can't, even as the request is being uttered. I hear their voices breaking around their words, whenever I listen to or sing this line.

The videoclip is also infused with imagery that's related to the massacre of over 360 people at the Nova music festival (and the kidnapping of 40 more from that scene), which is in a way very apt for music lovers. The images show dancers in what looks a lot like a nature party, just like Nova, and since the massacre happened when the music festival was meant to reach its peak, a long night of music and dancing climaxing around sunrise, that's exactly what we see, a move from the "moon light" throughout most of the videoclip, to the "sunrise" at the end.

But in the case of this "sunrise," Eden can smile, she can find comfort, she can sing a few words in Hebrew that reflect hope, about that little light that's left even when the moon's been stolen.

She's bringing the song to a beautiful, emotional closure.

Obviously, it can't be ignored that this is a re-write. The original song (which was called October Rain) was disqualified as "political."

You can read the original lyrics here. They're almost identical. I heard an interview with the song writers, who said they weren't even told what got their song disqualified, so they had to guess what the Eurovision Broadcasting Union had in mind, when they called an expression of our pain, and our strength at the face of that, "political."

I admit, I find it very hard to accept this disqualification. It's not like there isn't precendent for countries at the Eurovision expressing pain (including the kind originating from political circumstances) through their songs.

If you take the wildly popular Ukraine 2007 entry, the singer was quite obviously singing "Russia goodbye," with allusions to Russian interference in Ukrainian elections while wearing outfits reminiscent of Soviet uniforms. And that wasn't called political, because "Russia goodbye" was changed into gibberish that still sounds like it (and in recent performances, it was blatantly sang like that).

If you take the much talked about Croatia 2023 entry, it was about the Russian invasion of Ukraine in 2022, and also criticized Belarus' tyrant kissing Russia's tyrant's ass, by referencing the tractor that Lukashenko bought for Putin, while the band members played with military weapons and uniforms on stage. And that wasn't disqualified for being political.

If you take the Ukraine 2016 entry, that was explicitly singing about their pain over what the Russians did to the Tatar population in Crimea in 1944, with clear allusions to what Russians did when they invaded Ukraine's Crimean peninsula in 2014. And that wasn't called "political" either.

Even this year, we have the entry from The Netherlands being political, with both the lyrics and videoclip referencing the borderless Europe (which IS a political issue, as Brexit, if nothing else, had made clear). I've seen people pointing out online that the song isn't political, because the whole borderless Europe thing is a metaphor for the singer's grief for his father/parents. I have no problem with that reading, but let's acknowledge that there could have been many metaphors for that, and he chose a political one.

So why is Jewish pain treated differently? Why is our pain labeled "political," when the metaphors for it in the songs aren't that, there are no specific political mentions of people or organizations in the song (unlike the Georgia 2009 entry, which slipped Putin's name into the song's title) in either version, when there are no political statements being made in the song, there's just expressing our pain, and trying to find a way to cope with it?

This WAS the biggest massacre of Jews since the Holocaust, and expecting Jews not to write about it, not to sing about it, not to try to process it through art... Our pain is not political. It's human. When Ukraine won in 2022 with a song that wasn't originally political, but became one, as it was adopted by Ukrainians suffering from a war that they did not choose, but had to fight, singing it wherever they were displaced (I remember the winners, Kalush Orchestra, coming to Israel to sing it for and with Ukrainian refugees who found shelter here), I thought it was quite obvious, even for people who don't like politics at Eurovision, why the song won, and why everyone overlooked the fact that it was only partly based on its qualities as a Eurovision song. I don't expect Israel to win, I very much expect that, even as Israelis embrace this song about our pain during a war, that we didn't choose, but have to fight, and while hundreds of thousands of us are still displaced, we will get a lot of hatred, instead of understanding and sympathy. But I still have to speak up. I still have to point out that treating Israeli or Jewish pain differently is wrong.

(as a footnote, I wanna get ahead of the usual, "Why is Israel allowed to participate in Eurovision to begin with? It's not in Europe!" comments, while I haven't come across the same ritual for certain other Eurovision participants, like North African Morocco, just-as-Asian-as-Israel Lebanon, transcontinental {despite some of these countries only being considered European culturally, while geographically speaking, they're fully Asian} Georgia, Russia, Cyprus, Turkey, Azerbaijan and Armenia, and the one that's a continent all on its own, Australia. They all have the right to participate, because they all belong to the European Broadcasting Union. Just like Israel)

[chimaerakitten]

I’ve been thinking today about off ramps in long running stories, especially book series.

By that I mean like, places where a person could stop reading and have a satisfying ending even if they’re not yet at the actual ending. (Someone tell me if there’s an established Tvtropes name for this I’m missing.)

Now, a lot of book series will have an off ramp at the end of book 1, because many first books are written without promise of a sequel. Like sure, there might be a sequel hook, but the actual second book is still up to publisher whims in most cases. So you can read All Systems Red or The Thief or A Madness of Angels and have a perfectly satisfying ambiguous-end sci-fi story or middle grade fantasy romp or inverted murder mystery revenge quest without ever picking up book 2. This is definitely an off ramp but it’s not necessarily the interesting or revealing kind because again. Whims of the publisher.

There’s also stories that have an off ramp after every installment. Leverage is famous for this—they had a philosophy of having every season be a satisfying ending, which says a lot both about the writers and about the story they were trying to tell.

But I think the most interesting ramps are the ones where by design or by circumstance, there’s a single off-ramp somewhere in the middle. One spot where unless someone tells you there’s more, you’d never be unsatisfied with leaving halfway through.

Sometimes these will be signaled in some way, where there’s a big timeskip after the off-ramp, or the series changes names or has a spin-off, or the POV changes, or after book 3 the author publishes a short story collection before hopping back in to novels, or the series suddenly jumps from being only novellas to a chunky 120k novel. (The Raksura books, Percy Jackson/HoE, Matthew Swift/Magicals Anonymous, and Murderbot all do one or more of these)

But sometimes off ramps aren’t visible in series order or marketing. Sometimes they’re organic to where a story happens to leave off at the end of an installment.

The queen’s thief has one of these after King Of Attolia. I know this was a satisfying ending because for seven years I thought it was the end. My local library didn’t have A Conspiracy of Kings, so I thought it was a trilogy. And you really can leave it there! KoA ends with Gen back in his element and recognized as king, the main internal threat to Irene neutralized, and peace on the peninsula. The Mede aren’t yet the immediate threat they are in the back half of the series, since up through KoA they’re mainly represented by the magus’s vague warnings and Nahuseresh, whom Irene thinks circles around. There’s no real reason to assume the Mede are a threat within the scope of the series. Now I absolutely prefer getting the whole story, but KoA is a damn solid off-ramp for anyone who feels like exiting there.

And that’s one kind of off ramp where the end you get is pretty similar in tone (mostly happy) to the one you get if you go on to the rest of the series. I’ve also read books where you can off ramp successfully right at the lowest point in the series and get a tragedy out of a series that ultimately ends happy, or leave at a high point and get a happier end than the main one, or exit at an ambiguous point and continue on with ambiguity. The Giver sequels make it pretty clear what happened to Jonas and Gabe at the end of the book. but you don’t have to read them or have that question answered if you want to.

I don’t have a really solid conclusion to draw here except that I think the positioning of off ramps says a lot about authors and stories, and choosing whether or not to take an off ramp says a lot about readers.

[hxnguxng-jxn]

Hello, you can make a scenario 𝐗𝐢𝐞 𝐋𝐢𝐚𝐧 × 𝐌𝐚𝐥𝐞! 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 × 𝐇𝐮𝐚 𝐂𝐡𝐞𝐧𝐠 Reader has known them for years and always had the mania of eating the nails until he is hurt and they cured it and tried to take away that habit then the years pass they havent seen each other and meet again but reader pretends to be someone else but they know it is him because of his habit of biting his nails but he does not know that they know it he just thinks he is nice to him as he would to anyone

Writer's Note(s): I can do this for you! Also, since you didn't specify if Reader was a Ghost/Heavenly Official/Mystical Monster I kept it ambiguous!

Info on Reader: Reader is intended AMAB, and uses he/him. The Reader is an immortal of some kind and knows the two characters from long ago, but age is ambiguous.

Timeline: Post Book 1, and in Book 2. Is in that timeframe. Spoilers for Ke Mo and Ban Yue, and the Ghost City.

【🔴】 Reader takes part in the dice roller scene. If you know, you know. Also, Hua Cheng bites Readers finger.

Fujoshis and Fem Readers DNI || Please enjoy!

Everyone in the group Xie Lian accompanied had strange backgrounds, behaviors, limits, and actions. He's not naive enough to not see the evidence that San Lang might be the mysterious Hua Cheng, or how the two assistants sent to protect him knew just a little too much about him and had specific memories they did not like to recall.

He could see many things, and he could understand a lot more than he could, say, 350 years ago. His mind remembers what his body could not, he likes to believe.

Especially when the tensions were so high during his adventures after his third ascension. Being in the rotation of San Lang, Fu Yao, Nan Feng... and you.

He could see glimpses of you in your disguise throughout the time he's seen you; with your choice of weapons, the food you prefer and how you cooked it, what type of clothes you prefer on other's and yourself.

But his major sign about who you might be―like San Lang's knowledge, like My Qing's eye rolls and hatred for his memories―was you biting your nails till the tips of your fingers were raw during stressful moments.

Everyone had nervous habits, even the most stoic still would like to dodge questions they prefer not to answer. And Xie Lian liked to fiddle with his bamboo hat, or start moving immediately to fix the situation.

Like Mu Qing and Feng Xin again after so long, it was almost like a lightbulb went off in his head. But unlike the unease of nostalgia hitting him, it was something warm in his heart and he was tempted to ask how you've held up all this time.

He also might have leaned on you too much during the situation between Ke Mo and Ban Yue because he knew you and what you could do. You were reliable and he did adore you...

And before long, he noticed his feelings were off somewhere and it was getting far more intimate between you two. And then you three.

San Lang―Hua Cheng proven at this point―also seemed to slither into his heart and rightfully so. He was kind, he was open about what he was comfortable sharing, San Lang treats you right, and he's sweet on him as well.

The emotions of potentially falling in love with two people at once, and seeing San Lang kiss your bandaged fingers after you chewed them raw stirred something like... butterflies, for no better comparison.

And then, Hua Cheng disappeared and you left him in one night. No notes, but all the evidence you existed around him. Breakfast from you, chopped wood from Hua Cheng, carpets on the line like you do, leaves raked like Hua Cheng.

Xie Lian ran back inside. You're not leaving him behind. He'll follow you both, to any end.

The City of Ghost's is good at bringing people together...

Red, red, red. The den of Gamblers was always filled with such color except when the customers would come in wearing anything but that. The attendants rotated the ghosts and Hua Cheng took what was owed and distributed... what he owed. If he even did.

The curtains between him and the current obsessed customer were briefly interrupted by a Heavenly Official (Lang Qingqiu) and the sudden appearance of three more individuals of interest. Of course, Shi Qingxuan was of interest because that means he had more than just one Heavenly Official in the Ghost City.

But seeing the veiled bamboo hat and the man next to him wearing a white veil to obscure their identity from afar, he could practically feel his non-existent heart beat and his fingers twitch. Who was this man under the veil? Why was he next to his gege and whispering back and forth so swiftly?

Hua Cheng was about to call them up as they figured out who would roll for Lang Qingqiu's freedom, when the man passed the roller to Xie Lian and rushed to bring his hand under his veil. For a brief moment, he thought the man would lift the veil, but the hand simply rested under it as Xie Lian looked up at Hua Cheng behind the curtains.

And then he felt the need to have you both step forward and to come to him so he can see you closer and fully. The curtains may not help seeing past your Veil of Illusion from over your face, but he could get a read on your demeanor and how you fall in line with his gege.

Having you both step forward because of the feminine announcer requesting for him was easy. "Would the challenger and his assistant with the veil please step forward. The proprietor would like to correct your dice rolling technique. It is incorrect."

Of course, gege is baffled and confused there is a technique to this, and so are the useless dreg that are his customers. The man under the veil takes after gege and helps escort him up with you, mumbling one or two things back and forth, before they stepped up to him.

Looking down at gege and trying to search for any sign of identity on the other man, he takes the offered dice roller and shows gege how to... handle the elongated item, and how to shake it up and down in even strokes. Gege's hands are strong and grip the roller harshly, so he offers to perhaps soften his touch in case he... breaks the roller.

He's helping. Honest.

And of course, the gesture has gege blanking before accepting the help he gave. But Hua Cheng wasn't done. And you aren't getting out of this without him seeing if he perhaps can identify you.

"In case your luck is bad or you're unsure if the dice aren't enchanted, I will allow this man to roll with you. I can tell your companion would know how to read magic." Hua Cheng states, knowing no slacker would wear a Veil of Illusion to the Gambler's Den. This one was smart. "But you'll have to roll at the same time."

"The same... time? How would I do that when my companion is holding the cup?" Your voice is familiar and yet so far away from what he expected. It wasn't the voice he had been waiting for (the voice of your disguise), it was something that hit his nostalgia in many ways.

"Here, I will show you." Hua Cheng assured. "Hold up the cup."

Of course, gege had terrible luck and would take any measures to make sure they didn't mess up with Lang Qingqiu, and extended the cup for instructions. "Take hold of it with your dominant hand over his shaking hand." You hesitate before you put your hand over his gege's. Good, the Ghost King thought, your not someone who sees themselves above gege in his den.

But it was after the instruction to use your other hand to hold the middle, while gege held the top and bottom, that he noticed you weren't wearing gloves or any kind of hand covering. Your nails were non-existent and your fingers were basically chewed to pieces and raw in some places, obviously chewed recently. That, and there was a specific bite mark over your index finger much further down on your non-dominant hand...

... While fixing up your hand after you had caught a sword in it, San Lang managed to lightly scold you while he patched it up. He knew you could just heal it instantly, but your fake identity was not supposed to be powerful, and it had to suffer with this annoying wound for appearance sake. Of course, Hua Cheng felt something stir in his stomach at the sight of your lightly bleeding fingers, and had taken your index into his mouth on instinct to taste the red stained there. If he might have bitten you out of surprise he had let his composure go, only he had to know...

"... Hua Cheng, sir?" Your voice snaps him out of his memories. You, the immortal under the veil, and gege hadn't been given the next instructions yet, and you sounded even more weary of this.

If he was young and human again, he was sure his face would heat and his body would betray him as the sight of having you and gege before him again was... something invigorating. He controlled all of his impulses with one short mantra he could remember, before he laughs off the wait you endured.

"Apologies, my dearest guests." He didn't give any excuse, all he gave was a simple instruction as he watches the roller between you both like a hawk. "Shake in a rhythm, match with your partner and cover where he cannot hold. The dice can't roll with no momentum."

Small Thing:

The Windmaster and Xie Lian look on as you fix your veil and make sure your outfit hasn't burned from the many fires they've had to put out from under you. A few feminine ghosts with fire inclined spells had taken a liking to your physique and your posture, and had tried to lift your veil with no results as you turned them down. Of course, getting into a fight hadn't been what you wanted, but winning was no issue with your squad as stacked as it was.

The Windmaster, Shi Qingxuan, had helped put out the final fire under your boots before making jokes at your expense. "Oh, our blushing husband, wearing his veil and not allowing anyone to see! Could he be a Ghost King in disguise? Could he be a rebellious or mysterious Heavenly Official? Wow is me!"

Of course, the God had taken off faster than strong winds could after you started chasing him in his feminine form. The Heavenly Official wasn't about to lose Xie Lian's trust by fighting the man he had accepted into their party on the way here, but he sure can tease you.

Xie Lian, when you returned to him and assured him you hadn't hurt your supposed guide at all, almost reached for your veil slowly to lift it just slightly. A face, so far in his memories lit his body on fire with a need to see it again... but he stopped short of seeing your chin. You hadn't stopped him and your adam's apple bobbed in anticipation and nerves. Xie Lian simply let the veil fall back down as his mind settled on what he wanted.

"I won't pry, but I'd love to see your face sometime." Xie Lian soothes your nerves while putting his hands on your arms gently.

"What if I'm not who you're looking for?" You ask him after a brief pause, your voice full of something bitter.

"You and San Lang, asking the wrong questions..." Xie Lian chided. I'd like you both no matter who or what you looked like. "You are him. But we're missing Hua Cheng."

There was a brief pause before whatever caused you to hesitate lets you go. "... We are. Let me lead you into the city, then, your Highness."

[kittenofdoomage]

Obeying Temptation

Summary: She’s not a good Christian girl by any stretch, but he might still have some fun corrupting her.

Pairing: Alpha!Demon!Dean x Omega!female!reader

Word Count: 8481

Warnings: soooo much blasphemy, religious themes, smut (incl. fingering, full penetrative sex and oral sex), A/B/O (incl. scenting, knotting, marking, mentions of bodily fluids), angst, drama, demonic possession, mentions of breeding kink, dirty talk, derogatory names, hands on throats, biting, bruising, abandonment, slight dubcon and implied murder of religious clergymen, ambiguous ending

Ao3 Link

Author Note: Happy New Year everyone, enjoy some blasphemy before 2023 kicks in 😈

Church had always felt like a chore. In truth, it was more her mom’s thing than Y/N’s, but she obeyed the rules of her mother’s house, since she was stuck living there until she could find a job that paid better than minimum wage. Every Sunday, she put on one of the hideous Sears dresses her Aunt Margaret sent every birthday and followed her mother to church. Her mom didn’t make her sit at the front with the rest of the gossipy old ladies that liked to speculate on the love lives of the other attendees, at least.

It was hard not to zone out when Father Taggart droned on about the importance of community and keeping Jesus in your heart, and if she could have gotten away with it, she would have played on her phone until the service was done. She’d never understood the purpose of “God’s House”, preferring to believe His house was everywhere, seeing as he was supposed to be ubiquitous. 

Today’s sermon was more of the same. Y/N sat away from most of the other parishioners, listening as the greying vicar rambled through Matthew 22-something, her attention wandering around the stone archways of the old building. As her eyes drifted, she noticed someone in the darkness to the left near the confessionals, a good few meters away from the pews.

He stepped forward, white collar catching her gaze first. Another priest? she wondered, and his eyes met hers. A smile tugged at his lips but it was nothing like the smile she would expect to see on a vicar’s face. This smile was calculating, cunning… predatory. Despite the distance between them, she could tell he was an Alpha, unusual for a man of the cloth; she wished she could see him more clearly but he was almost entirely bathed in shadows.

“And now, I would like to invite a new voice to speak,” Father Taggart announced, and Y/N dragged her eyes from the shadowy priest to the front again, though she could feel him watching her still. “May I introduce Father Crowley, who will be standing in for Father Grayson now he has retired.”

She remembered Father Grayson, though she’d only met him a few times when she’d picked her mom up from her Wednesday night prayer group. He was at least a hundred years old, she was sure of it, bent double and hair as white as snow. Maybe he should have retired a few years earlier.

The man who stepped up with a polite nod at Father Taggart was in his late forties, or maybe early fifties - she was never very good at judging age. He had dark hair and a slightly unkempt beard, but she supposed he was attractive. For a priest.

“Thank you, Father Taggart,” the newcomer crooned, his British accent making a few of the older ladies whisper among themselves. “It is a pleasure to be speaking to you all today. As he explained, myself and Father Winchester will be standing in for Father Grayson until a suitable permanent replacement can be found.” He smiled, looking out upon his audience. “I’m sure we will feel right at home in your wonderful parish.”

Y/N glanced back to the shadows, wondering if the mysterious Alpha was Father Winchester, but he was gone. She shuddered, feeling a chill in the air as Father Taggart gave Father Crowley a further welcome, then called everyone to stand for the last hymn.

Hymns had always been the part of church she enjoyed. Singing in general was a hobby, one to be practised away from anyone who would hear her, so hymns offered her a way to sing without being singled out in a crowd. The church organ player situated herself, then began to play as Father Taggart instructed the mass to turn to Holy God, We Praise Thy Name.

The mysterious priest didn’t appear again.

It always took forever to get her mom in the car after services, usually because she was still chatting with her friends. Y/N hung around the grassy front, toying with her keys as she waited, listening to her mom pass comment on the “hot new priest”.

“You know he’s still twenty years younger than you, right?” she called out, making her mom glare in her direction.

Agnes, her mom’s best friend, prodded her. “Did you see that other one?”

“No?” Her mom frowned, glancing over at her daughter. “There was another one?”

“Mmhmm,” Agnes nodded. “Younger. Very handsome. Maybe Y/N…”

“Oh, god, Agnes, please,” Y/N interjected, holding a hand up to stop the older woman. “I’m not interested in any guys, priests or not. Besides, I thought they’re supposed to be celibate?”

Agnes and her mom chuckled. “That’s a common misconception,” her mom advised, with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. “Trust me.”

“I don’t wanna know,” she mumbled, scrunching up her face in disgust.

“Oh come now, dear,” Agnes chided softly, “you can’t expect to live at home forever. We all have a body clock, you know, Omegas most of all.”

It was difficult not to roll her eyes at the outdated opinion, so she decided not to engage in yet another discussion about how Omegas weren’t just breeding sows. Jingling the keys, she turned her attention to her mother, giving her a tight smile. “Can we get going, Mom? I wanna enjoy the rest of my weekend.”

Her mom rolled her eyes. “Okay, okay. I’ll see you tomorrow, Agnes.”

“Take care, Judith. Goodbye, Y/N!”

“Bye,” Y/N muttered, already marching towards the car. Judith followed at a leisurely pace, ignoring the impatience of her daughter as she climbed into the passenger seat. Turning the key in the engine, Y/N glanced back to check the rear of the vehicle, making sure she didn’t hit the black classic parked behind her.

“Agnes is only worried, you know,” her mom started.

“Mom -”

“I know, I know, none of my business. But I would like to see a grandchild…”

Y/N gritted her teeth. “Mom.”

Judith went quiet, clamping her mouth shut with a grin. Y/N pulled the car out of the spot and sped off, hoping that her stern tone was enough to put the subject to bed. They were silent the whole way home, and when they got inside, Y/N retreated to her room to lose herself in something distracting.

By Monday morning, she’d forgotten most of the encounter, and began her week at work with a smile. Her job kept her busy, and though she hated the majority of her duties, she liked that it occupied her mind and she never had to take it home with her.

Sunday rolled around with a storm, the second of the week. The weather had been all kinds of crazy since summer had hit, and when she arrived at church with her mother, they had to run in to avoid getting drenched. Judith toddled off to her usual spot, and Y/N, once again, found sanctuary at the back. It was emptier than usual, likely due to the rain, and she could hear it on the church roof above the crowd.

Father Crowley stood at the front, waiting for everyone to get settled, and when Y/N looked around, she couldn’t see Father Taggart. Her mom was sitting with Agnes, both of them whispering to each other, and they fell silent when Father Crowley called for quiet.

“I have some grave news to give you all today,” he began, and several parishioners sat up straighter. “Father Taggart has been taken ill, so he will not be conducting service today. I would like to ask you all to hold him in your prayers, and hope for a full recovery.”

Y/N tensed, a new scent tickling her nose. The pew she was sitting on was empty save for her, and she looked to either side, searching for the source of the smell. It was thick and rich, invading her senses, inexplicably Alpha.

Movement from the darkness at the left of the church caught her eye. She focused, seeing him standing in the shadows by the door that led out to the graveyard, and for a second, she could have sworn his eyes were black. Her hands shook as she clutched the church-copy of the bible, unable to take her eyes off of him.

Father Crowley was speaking again, delivering a sermon every inch as boring as Father Taggart’s, and Y/N wasn’t paying the slightest bit of attention. She stared at the mysterious priest in the shadows, feeling her heart rate speed up, and a light sweat broke out on her forehead. Her lips parted as she panted lightly, suddenly aware of what was happening.

She needed air.

Getting to her feet, she tried not to stumble, being as quiet as possible as she headed for the main entrance. No one seemed to pay her much attention, most of them listening to Father Crowley, so she escaped unnoticed, closing the door behind her.

It was still raining. The only thing that protected her was the awning over the doorway. She didn’t care, gulping down fresh air as she tried to control herself. “It’s too early,” she muttered, shaking her head.

The door opened behind her. “Is everything okay, sweetheart?” It was her mom, and Y/N turned, nodding.

“It’s fine, Mom, I’ll just go wait in the car.”

Judith didn’t look convinced. “Are you sure?” she whispered. “It’s Sunday, it might be a while.”

“Can I help you, ladies?”

The low rough voice made them both turn, and Y/N almost yelped at the sight of the mysterious priest. In the dull light of the storm, she could see every detail of his handsome features, and her mouth went dry as she drank in all six feet of him. “My daughter isn’t feeling well,” Judith explained before she could stop her.

“I’m fine, Mom,” Y/N insisted. “I can wait in the car.”

“If you’re feeling unwell, you can sit in the rectory until service is finished,” the priest offered.

Judith smiled, pressing a hand to her chest. “Oh, Father Winchester, that would put my mind at ease.” She glanced at her daughter. “I don’t think you’ve met yet. Y/N, this is -”

“Father Winchester,” Y/N whispered, staring at him. “I’d really be okay in my car.”

Her mom frowned then, reaching out to take her hand. “Please, Y/N, I’d be happier if you weren’t alone out here.”

She wanted to scream. Father Winchester was an Alpha, though her Beta mother wouldn’t scent it. He smiled at her, and she felt a thread of fear knot in her stomach. “It’s only next door,” he said smoothly, gesturing to the covered walkway that ran around the side of the old building. “Your mother can come and find you when she’s done.”

Her mother’s pleading gaze made her heart drop. She nodded reluctantly, and Judith beamed, clasping her hands over Y/N’s, tilting her head as she gazed at the priest gratefully.

“Thank you so much, Father,” she gushed, patting her daughter’s hand before scurrying back inside.

Father Winchester held out an arm, gesturing to the footpath. “It’s this way.” He stepped off, and Y/N followed. His scent filled her mouth and nose, making her stomach churn, and she couldn’t help staring at his muscular frame from behind him.

The rectory was a neat little house behind the church and the graveyard, far enough away from the other buildings that it was eerily silent. It was still raining, less enthusiastically than it had been before, but enough for her to feel her clothes getting wet as she followed the priest across the back of the graveyard. He paused after he’d opened the front door, holding it for her to slip past, and she felt a chill as she did. The door closed behind him, turning to face her as she hovered in the hallway.

“Would you like some tea?” he asked politely. It felt forced, and his intense stare made her insides quiver.

“Uh, sure.”

He smiled - the same predatory look he’d given her before. “The kitchen is through here.” Leading with his hand, he didn’t wait for her to follow, though she did, letting her gaze travel over the aged wallpaper and the few old pictures hanging on the walls. Most of them were religious or with the church itself as a subject, and for a moment, she wondered if Father Taggart was home, seeing as he was ill.

“How is Father Taggart?” she asked curiously. “Father Crowley said he was taken ill.”

Father Winchester barely spared her a glance as he filled the kettle with water, placing it on the stove top. “I’m sure he’ll be fine,” he muttered, his tone indicating a lack of regard for the man in question.

“Where is he?” she pushed, hoping that she wasn’t alone in the house with such an odd man.

He turned his head, grinning at her. “He left this morning. Staying with relatives in Florida. Warmer air.”

It sounded like he was mocking her, but she couldn’t see what the point would be, so she shrugged and let it go, looking around the kitchen for somewhere to sit. There was definitely space for a dining table and chairs in there but the space they could have occupied was empty.

“How are you feeling now?” the Father asked.

His question caught her off-guard. “Uh, okay, I guess,” she stammered, hugging herself for some small measure of comfort. “Probably allergies.” She was lying through her teeth; the gentle ache beginning in her belly told her exactly what was happening.

He hummed like he didn’t quite believe her. “Are you sure?” he pressed, turning to face her. “Lying is a sin, Y/N.”

Her eyes widened, and she shook her head hurriedly, fighting the urge to back up and show his intimidation of her. She dropped her hands to her sides, trying to appear casual. “Well, I mean, storms kick up all sorts of allergens,” she managed, shrugging.

Father Winchester sighed, shaking his head in disappointment. “You know, I gave you the chance there,” he scolded softly. “But I can see you’re going to be difficult about it.”

A lump formed in her throat. “About what?” she rasped, feigning innocence.

“I can smell you.”

The statement made her freeze, and she met his eyes like a frightened rabbit. He was facing her now, stalking her almost, and even though he was scaring the crap out of her, a tiny part of her was sending a thrill down her spine. His eyes shone as he stepped closer, and her knees trembled.

“Been able to smell you since you got out of your car,” he continued, coming closer still. “Sweet. Ripe. Just begging to be plucked.”

“Father Winchester, I -”

He scoffed, silencing her. “It’s Dean.”

She frowned at the odd correction, never knowing a priest to be so informal. But then, she’d never known one to be this inappropriate toward her. “This is wrong,” she whispered, finally backing away from him, only to find cupboards at her back two steps later. He was so close now, close enough to grab her, close enough that he was blocking any escape.

A smirk curled his lips, making him even more devastatingly handsome. “Then why can I smell how wet you are, sweetheart?”

Y/N whimpered, pressing herself into the cupboard door. “You shouldn’t be acting like this,” she denied. “You’re a priest, a man of the cloth -”

He was suddenly up against her, and she sucked in a breath, words fading as his scent overwhelmed her. “I’m an Alpha,” he murmured, reaching up to cup her face with one huge hand. “You’re an Omega. I know you feel it, I know you want it.”

She shook her head, her only struggle against his hold. He chuckled, leaning in like he was going to kiss her and she knew she should have resisted but she didn’t. His face got closer and right as he was about to brush his lips over hers, he went left, pressing his cheek to hers instead. The hand at her jaw tugged at her jacket, pulling it down until her bare shoulder and throat were exposed.

“I wouldn’t force myself on you, Y/N,” he crooned, mouth right against the shell of her ear. “It’s so much more satisfying to watch you try to fight it.” He chuckled, running the tips of his fingers up over her bare arm. “And you’re going to beg for my knot before long.” His fingers slid over her shoulder and up to her throat, stroking over the spot where an Alpha would lay his claim.

A shudder ran up her spine, and she could feel wetness in her panties. No doubt he could smell it, how aroused she was just from a few moments in his presence. “I don’t -” Her mouth was so dry, she couldn’t speak. Working some saliva up, she managed a tiny whine, and Dean pulled back to look her in the eye.

“Try again,” he ordered softly.

“I don’t think th-this is appropriate,” she stammered, too aware of the hand still lingering on her throat.

“Why not?” he teased, grinning at her. “Your body wants it. Every second, your scent’s gettin’ stronger, princess.”

This is wrong, this is wrong, she chanted in her mind but already she was imagining it, conjuring fantasies based on the hard lines of his body that held her against the cupboard. “Please,” she keened desperately.

“Please, what?”

The kettle began to shrill loudly, and the tension in the room snapped. Dean stepped away, leaving her to crumple in on herself, and she panted against the cupboard, watching him as he continued to make the tea.

She wondered for a second if she’d imagined it but her jacket was still hanging halfway down her shoulder, and she could still feel his touch on her skin. Her panties were soaked through, and when she straightened, she felt the ache in her belly turning raw.

The front door opened, and she heard her mother’s voice. Relief swept through her, but Dean didn’t seem bothered in the slightest by the arrival of company.

“Oh, of course, Father, we understand,” Judith was practically swooning over him, “after all, safety comes first.”

“Absolutely, my child,” Father Crowley replied and the front door shut loudly. “Now let’s see where your daughter has gotten to.” His voice got louder as they approached the kitchen, and when he entered, he smiled at you. “Here she is.” He glanced at the other priest. “Safe and sound.”

Judith didn’t notice the odd tone he spoke with, but Y/N did. She stood still as her mother came closer and began to fuss, pressing one hand to her daughter’s forehead. “Oh dear,” she mumbled, flustering a little as she realized what was ailing the younger woman. “I suppose we should get you home.”

“That’s probably a good idea,” Father Crowley interjected, glaring at Father Winchester, who smirked back.

“Thank you for looking after her, Father,” Judith cooed, smiling at both men.

“Take good care of her, won’t you?” Dean requested, all charm as he stared right at Y/N. She swallowed down a whimper, ducking her head so her mother didn’t see her reaction to him. “She’s a very special girl.”

Her mother clutched her chest, giving him an adoring look. “I will, Father Winchester,” she promised, taking Y/N’s hand but her daughter was already moving, desperate to get away from the scent of him. “Aren’t you going to say goodbye?” Judith admonished, making her freeze in her tracks.

She turned back, stomach churning, palms getting sweaty. “Thank you, Father,” she mumbled, curtseying like she was a child at Sunday School.

“I’ll keep you in my prayers,” he replied, a filthy smirk on his lips.

Judith didn’t linger this time, following as her daughter dashed for the door and out into the fresh air. The door closed behind them, and Crowley turned to Dean, arching one eyebrow in his direction.

“Feeling a little more enthusiastic about this?” he taunted. “Though you’re behind. I’ve already got three in the bag, what’s so special about this one?”

Dean’s smirk grew. “Didn’t you smell her?”

Crowley hummed. “Not something I’d be attuned to,” he shrugged. “This meatsuit’s a Beta.”

“You’re missing out,” Dean chuckled. “All she needs is a little push and she’ll be begging.”

“Seems like a waste of time.”

The younger man growled. “I thought we were here to have fun.”

“We are,” Crowley confirmed hesitantly. “I just thought it was a little more damning of little old ladies and less chasing tail.”

Dean snorted, rolling his eyes. “Whatever floats your boat. We should get rid of Taggart. He’s gonna start stinking up the joint.”

She’d been mistaken in thinking getting away from Father Winchester would slow her predicament. If anything, by the time she arrived home, the heat was getting stronger. Her mother parked the car and ushered her out, ordering her to her room to rest while promising noodle soup.

Usually, she’d sleep through most of a heat, ensconced in her personal space, and it would be over within three or four days. Even at her age and unmated, she managed them easily, but this one was early, way off her regular cycle. It felt stronger too, crippling her in hours, and by the time her mom brought her soup, she was at the point of begging for unconsciousness. Judith was concerned - Y/N dismissed it, assuring her mother she only needed rest and sending her away.

Every time she closed her eyes, Dean’s face, his scent, tormented her.

Monday didn’t bring any improvement. She strayed from her nest only to use the bathroom, snacking on comfort foods and watching shows when she wasn’t sleeping. Her mom checked in before she went out, and while she was gone, Y/N used the private time to take the edge off, cursing herself when she imagined Dean being the one to satisfy her.

She fell short of satisfying herself, only succeeding making the longing worse.

On Tuesday, her mom was home, and expressed a desire to call the doctor, but Y/N waved her off again. Her fever was beginning to break, she just had to ride it out.

In the afternoon, someone knocked at the door, the noise disturbing her sleep. She laid in her bed, listening as her mother greeted whoever it was, and for a moment, the low voice that answered didn’t register. When she realized who it was, she bolted upright, staring at the door in horror as she heard them coming up the stairs.

Her mother knocked at her door seconds later, and Y/N snatched the covers, pulling them up to her chin. The door opened without her consent - nothing unusual for Judith - and she stepped in alone, even though Y/N could smell Dean just outside in the hall.

“Y/N,” she murmured, “Father Winchester has come to check in on you.”

“I’m fine, Mom,” Y/N grunted back. “I’d rather not -”

“Nonsense,” she insisted. “Maybe prayer will help take your mind off of it.”

The utter disregard the older woman suddenly had was alarming, but Y/N didn’t have a chance to question it as Father Winchester entered, smirking at her. Judith smiled, glancing over at her daughter as she wilted in the bed.

“I’ve got to run into town. Will you two be okay?” Judith asked, ignoring the horror on Y/N’s face.

“I’m sure I can assist Y/N with whatever she needs,” Dean drawled, still grinning, eyes locked on her. It didn’t appear that Judith caught his double meaning at all, as she quickly retreated, leaving her Omega daughter to the Alpha’s mercy. He waited until he heard her reach the bottom of the stairs, then he pushed the door almost closed, licking his lips. “Mmm,” he exhaled, “I can taste you in the air, pretty thing.”

“I could shout,” she threatened quietly. “Mom will -”

“Go ahead,” he dared. “But I already know, you won’t. Because you’ve been thinking about me for three days.”

Her cheeks flushed with fresh heat but she held his gaze in defiance. He tucked his tongue behind his teeth, his expression mocking her, and she scowled, hating the fact that he was having an effect on her.

Downstairs, the front door shut, leaving them alone.

Dean moved closer, lowering himself onto the bed by her thighs. He didn’t touch her, but his proximity was enough to make her tense, the desire in her belly growing stronger with every whiff of his scent. “Don’t worry,” he soothed, lifting his chin. “I won’t touch you unless you ask nicely.”

She ground her teeth together. That same tiny part of her that had sprung up back at the rectory, the Judas in her soul that made her quiver at just his voice; it was screaming now, pleading with her to give in. Keeping her mouth shut, she focused on remaining still, unreactive to his presence.

“Ooo, hard to get, huh?” he chuckled, shaking his head. “Your scent betrays what you’re craving, baby. I bet you’ve cum half a dozen times on those useless plastic knots.” He looked around the room, obviously looking for evidence. “Where do you hide them?”

Y/N kept her eyes on him, unwilling to give away her secret.

“Gotta be somewhere mommy won’t find,” he continued, getting to his feet again. “She’s so nice. I doubt she knows what a little cockslut her daughter truly is.”

Her stomach clenched, and she looked down at her knees underneath the quilt. Dean laughed again, wandering over to her dresser. He smoothed one long hand along the top of it, glancing back at her in amusement.

“No, not in here, too obvious,” he mused aloud, scanning the room. Spying her closet, he strode over to it, opening the doors. He inspected it without touching anything, looking back at her again to check her reaction. She continued to keep her eyes down, chewing her lip to silence herself. “Not even gonna give me a hint?”

The rise he wanted wasn’t forthcoming though he didn’t seem bothered by her refusal to play his game. He stalked closer, trying to get her to look at him. She kept her head down, resisting, but when his knee hit the bed, she couldn’t stop her eyes darting towards where her shoebox lay.

Dropping to one knee, he reached under the bed, finding the only thing that was under there. He pulled the box out, glancing up to see her shameful expression, and he knew he had his prize.

“Let’s see,” he hummed, tugging the lid off.

Y/N only owned two toys, a vibrating wand and a dildo. Dean went for the dildo first, holding it up in scrutiny as she tried to will her bed to swallow her whole.

“Oh, baby. You’re in for a treat.” He clicked his tongue, smirking at her. “This is tiny.” It hit the floor with a thud that made her flinch. “But this one might be useful.” He dropped the shoebox, throwing the wand onto the bed; it landed between her knees. “Which one do you like best?”

She hesitated. He waited patiently, staring at her, and she shivered, letting the covers fall to her shoulders. “I-if I tell you… you won’t hurt me, right?”

A frown dampened his smile. “Do you think I’m going to hurt you, Omega?”

The use of the title made her shiver again. Her whole body ached, the arousal becoming unbearable and only enhanced by the scent of a potent Alpha so close. “I don’t know,” she confessed.

“I told you - I won’t touch you until you ask me to,” he repeated.

“Th-the wand,” she rushed out, and his smile returned. “The kn - the other one feels too fake.”

He chuckled, tilting his head a little. “Tell me the truth, princess,” he moved closer, sitting on the bed again, this time on the opposite side, “have you ever taken a real Alpha knot in that sweet little cunt of yours?”

She couldn’t stop the whimper that escaped. “Yes,” she whispered. “Once.”

“Lemme guess,” he mused, tapping his chin with one finger. “Highschool sweetheart. Thought he was the one, only for him to pop your cherry and leave you high and dry, right?” Her gaze dropped, and he took it for confirmation, laughing lightly. “Oh, darlin’, I’m gonna blow your mind when I get inside you.”

His words were so crude, so unbecoming of a priest. No one had ever spoken to her like that and she was ashamed to find his filthy expressions arousing. “Y-you said you wouldn’t force me.”

“I won’t,” he assured her. “I told you, you’ll beg me for it.”

Faking bravado, she lifted her chin, staring at him. “How do you know?”

“Because you’ve got my scent now,” he breathed, “Omega.” She shuddered, unable to suppress it, and fresh warmth invaded the space between her thighs. “See? Just my voice makes your pussy clench, doesn’t it? How many times have you imagined me fucking you to get off?” She whimpered, breaking eye contact. “Honesty, Y/N.”

“A lot,” she rasped truthfully, because she hadn’t counted.

He grinned triumphantly. “You wanna cum right now, don’t you?” She nodded, clenching her hands in the covers. “Then pick up your little toy and make yourself cum.”

The idea of refusing floated in her mind but she was so aroused she could feel it soaking the sheets underneath her ass. Dean watched her, green eyes hungry as they fixed on her, and before she could contemplate what she was doing, she pulled one hand out from the quilt and grabbed the wand.

He sat back a little, hands in his lap. Swallowing hard, Y/N hid the wand under the covers, turning it on so he could hear it, sliding it between her thighs. It didn’t even occur to her to fake it, and when the vibrating head touched her clit through her thin panties, she whined loudly.

“That’s it,” he purred, rubbing his crotch through his black slacks. “Aren’t you warm under all that?”

Desire controlled her, overriding her common sense. She pushed the covers down, shifting so she was a little flatter before pressing the wand to her sex again. Dean was stroking himself through his pants now, watching her as she writhed against the stimulation.

“I think you’d cum quicker if you took your panties off,” he suggested.

She nodded, too lust-drunk to fight it anymore, and in a few seconds, her panties were off and across the room. Dean watched as she spread her legs, bringing the wand’s head to right where she needed it. The intense need in her core only got her to the edge quicker, and she shuddered through an orgasm under the priest’s stare, feeling shameful as the pleasure subsided.

“Did that feel good?” he asked.

“Yes,” she whimpered, legs still twitching as she pulled the wand away and turned it off. Her cunt clenched around nothing, and she squirmed, desperate to feel more friction. Dean’s gaze dropped to her slick pussy, and he bit his lip, obviously restraining himself. The realization dawned on her that she didn’t want him to show control… she wanted him to touch her. “Please,” she forced out, chest heaving and breath coming in short pants. “Touch me.”

His lips curled into a sly smile and he chuckled. “Told you so,” he murmured, reaching out to slide his hand over her knee and up her bare thigh. “But you need to be specific. Where should I touch you, Y/N?”

“M-my,” she hesitated, feeling the warmth of his hand so close to where she wanted it, “my pussy.”

He grinned. “You learn quick,” he muttered, finally cupping her sex with his hand. She groaned, unwittingly canting her hips into his palm. “Oh, you’re so wet and warm, little Omega.” A finger dipped inside her, making her mewl pitifully, but he only laughed, teasing her with a little more of it. “Tell me what you want now.”

“I want -” She stopped, licking her lips as her breathing got heavier. “I want you to make me cum.”

“Like this?” He thrust his finger into her up to the knuckle, and she cried out, clutching the sheets underneath her. “So tight too,” he groaned. “You’re going to burn me alive.”

She twisted, nodding desperately. “P-please, more.”

He fucked the single digit into her, letting her body adjust before he penetrated her with the second. Her voice became hoarse, and her cunt throbbed around him, slicking every stroke as he opened her up. His wrist twisted, allowing him to press his thumb to her clit, and her whole body trembled.

“Just opening up for me,” he praised, looking down at her hungrily as he kept his fingers moving at a steady pace. “I bet you’ll gush all over my hand, won’t you, dirty little whore Omega? Look at you, all ready to beg for what you really want.” She moaned and nodded, rocking her hips in time with his thrusts. “Wonder how hard you’ll cum with my knot stretching that perfect little cunt out? You wanna feel my seed in your belly?”

It was too much. With a hoarse shout, she came, clenching hard around his fingers as he held them deep, his thumb continuing to work at her clit until she was dripping down his wrist. She was crying with pleasure, unable to vocalize anything as she shuddered from head to toe, and when Dean pulled his hand away, her legs collapsed, leaving her in a messy heap, eyes closed and chest heaving.

She could hear him lick his fingers clean.

“What do you want now, Y/N?” he taunted, leaning over her. She whimpered, opening her eyes to look up at him.

“Want your knot, Alpha,” she keened, reaching for him.

He tisked, pulling away before she could touch him. “That’s not good enough,” he chided, shaking his head and smirking at her. “If you want it that bad, you’ll come and get it.”

“Wait,” she mumbled, pushing up onto weak arms as he walked around the bed. “Where are you going?”

“Not far,” he replied mockingly, pausing at the door. “Like I said, if you want it that bad…” He trailed off and shrugged, disappearing out of the door. Y/N scrambled to follow, reaching the doorway with only her t-shirt on, but as she stepped out into the hall, it was empty. Father Winchester was gone.

She stared, pouting at nothing. Had she imagined it in some sort of heat fever? No, she could smell him, feeling his lingering touch in her most intimate places - how could he leave her like that? He’d watched her get herself off, made her cum with the briefest of touches, and then he just… vanished?

With her climax, her heat was given a brief reprieve, and her judgment became a little less clouded. She knew what Father Winchester - Dean - was doing. It was immoral and wrong and why was she still craving him? She should have been disgusted with herself, she should have thrown him out, she should have -

But she hadn’t. She’d let him make her cum and she’d enjoyed every second of it.

Shame washed over her. She retreated back to her room, covering her face with her hands as she made a frustrated noise. All she could think about was him, all she wanted was him. It felt like he’d cursed her, when all he’d really done was talk dirty, and she’d broken like a twig.

Maybe she should let his superior know what he was doing. She was fairly certain priests weren’t supposed to seduce their parishioners, especially not with the ferocity Dean displayed. Except… except then he might be made to stop, and that tiny part of her from before was getting bigger and louder by the minute.

She dressed quickly, repeating the same cycle of thoughts in her head. They weren’t really doing anything wrong. He wasn’t the celibate kind of priest, and she was a single unmated Omega. Their only sin was sex before marriage, which she’d never exactly been big on, judging by the three guys she’d actually slept with in college.

By the time she was dressed, she almost had herself convinced. At the bottom of the stairs, she grabbed her coat and keys, pleased her mother hadn’t taken the car. When she opened the front door, she knew what she was going to do, and she was at peace with it.

The church was quiet when she pulled up, the windows sparkling in the afternoon sun. Y/N sat in her car, nibbling at her finger as she watched the door, concerned someone would see her. There didn’t seem to be any sign of life, so she climbed out, taking careful steps up to the door to try the handle. She wasn’t surprised when it opened, and she slipped inside, closing it behind her.

Inside was empty. At the far end by the altar, candles burned, and the smell of frankincense hung in the air. Moving forward, she listened out for anyone lurking, slowly heading for the front pews.

The door clicked loudly behind her. She turned, seeing Dean with his hand on the lock, and he turned his head, lips curled in another filthy smirk. His eyes were dark, almost black, she thought, but when she blinked they were normal. Dismissing it as a trick of the light, she turned to face him, unconsciously holding a breath.

“Well, well,” he chuckled, swiping a thumb across his full lower lip. “You didn’t waste any time.” He strolled towards her, bumping his hand off of each pew as he went. “It’s barely been an hour.”

She bit her lip, watching him draw closer. There was weakness in her knees, and her heart pounded in her chest so hard, she thought it might burst. Dean chuckled, slowing to a stop just within reach.

“Father Winchester,” she whispered, trying not to sink to her knees. He bared his teeth and she swallowed. “Dean.”

“Try again.”

A shuddering breath left her lips. “Alpha.”

He hummed, reaching out to grasp her chin in his fingers. “Yes?”

She knew what he wanted, what she had to say in order to get what she wanted, what her body was craving like an addict. Still, she struggled to get the words out, unused to expressing her sexual needs aloud. “I need... I need your knot,” she whimpered.

He tisked, releasing her. “Not good enough.”

Her legs gave out, and she dropped with a frustrated cry. “Please,” she wailed, “please, Alpha, I need it. Need you to knot me.” Dean groaned, palming his crotch, looking down at her hungrily. Y/N lifted her head, panting as she pleaded with him. “Need you to fuck me.”

His jaw hung half open as he tore at the buckle of his pants, pulling his half-hard cock free. Her eyes went wide at the sight of him, watching as his erection thickened and filled out, the bulge of his knot obvious at the base. “You’re learning,” he mumbled, stroking himself as he stepped closer. “Open up.”

She obeyed, kneeling a little straighter as he offered himself to her, tapping the heavy crown against her bottom lip.

“Wider.”

Her jaw ached already but she did as she was told, instinctively brushing her tongue across the weeping head. His taste was tangy on her tongue, and she swallowed it down, lifting one hand to touch him. He didn’t resist, watching with his chin tucked into his chest as she took the initiative and started to explore his shaft with her tongue.

“Keep going,” he murmured, stroking her face before cupping the side of her head. “That’s it. Good little cocksucker.”

She moaned around him, feeling her own body respond to what she was doing. Her pussy throbbed and her skin prickled with heat, and her movements became more enthusiastic, much to the Alpha’s delight.

“Take it deeper,” he instructed, and she complied, eager to please him. His cockhead nudged the back of her throat and she gagged, pulling away at the fear of throwing up. Dean stopped her going far, quickly tugging her back. “Keep trying,” he ordered. “You’ll get used to it.”

Cautiously, she opened her mouth again, feeling the weight of him on her tongue. He thrust forward a little, and she swallowed, concentrating hard to control her gag reflex. Dean moaned as she kept doing it, rocking his hips to keep up the pressure.

“Fuck, you got a sweet mouth,” he groaned. “But I bet your pussy feels even better.”

He pulled away without warning, and Y/N spluttered as she landed on her hands, gasping down air. Dean’s hand slipped around her upper arm, pulling her to her feet; she stumbled, grabbing onto him for stability. Without waiting, he tugged her toward the altar, roughly pushing her against it.

“A dress would have been better,” he commented, yanking her pants down to her ankles as she squeaked in alarm and grabbed the cloth-covered altar table. Two fingers quickly pressed against her sex, sinking into her without warning. She cried out, clutching the table, bending over without thinking. “Still so wet,” he muttered, fucking the two thick digits into her.

“Please,” she wailed, unable to take any more teasing.

“Impatient now,” he chuckled, pulling his fingers free. “Don’t worry, baby,” she heard his pants drop as the heavy belt buckle hit the floor, “gonna make you feel all better.”

He pressed in behind her, letting her feel the weight of his cock as he slid between her thighs. Holding it against her pussy, he reached around for her throat, pulling her up straight.

“Look up,” he commanded quietly. She obeyed, lifting her eyes to the wooden crucifix above them, the carved image of Christ staring back. “I want you to look at Him while you’re taking my knot.”

He pushed into her, and she cried out, digging her fingernails into her table underneath her, struggling to keep her gaze where he wanted it. His thick shaft settled deep in her warmth, creating a pressure in her belly that threatened to overwhelm her.

“Fuck,” he cursed, his grip on her throat loosening for a second. “Just as good as I imagined.”

Y/N whimpered, fighting to keep her head up as Dean started to fuck her with slow, purposeful strokes. Her hips dug into the altar with every thrust, and his hand kept a steady grip on her throat, forcing her to look into the eyes of the crucified messiah as he defiled her.

It felt too good to care.

Her first climax came quickly, and her cries bounced off of the stained glass windows, echoing around the old building. Dean didn’t slow or stop, grunting in time with the slap of his skin on hers. His other hand grabbed her breast through her shirt, squeezing without a care for how rough he was being but her only noises were of pleasure. She was getting off on the way he used her, the bruises he was bound to leave on her skin.

“You really are a sinner,” he groaned, feeling her pussy clench around him again. His hand dropped to her belly, the fingers at her throat forcing her up a little straighter. “Bet you’re ripe right now,” he murmured, close to her ear. “That empty little womb just begging to be filled.”

The thought of what he was suggesting shouldn’t have made her wetter, shouldn’t have had any effect on her at all, but she would be lying if it didn’t. Her whole body shuddered at the depravity of even thinking about carrying his spawn, and she let her eyes roll back and fall shut. Dean chuckled, slowing just a little to watch her slick cunt swallow him over and over.

“I’m gonna knot you,” he panted, palming her ass, releasing her throat as he kicked her feet apart a little wider. Her belly and breasts came flush with the altar, and he hummed when his cock stabbed a little deeper. “Oh, baby,” he purred, “you’re so ready to be filled up.” Y/N whined, pushing up onto tiptoes to stop from slipping. “I’ll give you exactly what you want.”

His hips snapped into her with more force, punching a cry from her lips. He started to fuck her hard, hard enough that she knew she’d have physical marks from the wood colliding with her hip, if not from his fingers gripping her flesh tightly. She couldn’t hope to stop herself from screaming, cumming hard as she felt his knot beginning to swell.

“That’s it, Omega,” Dean growled, slapping her ass as she clenched around him. “Fucking cum on my knot.”

With one last thrust, his knot popped, thickening inside her as warm spurts of cum filled her belly. His teeth found her throat, and in the throes of pleasure, she didn’t resist, crying out as he broke the skin and left a permanent reminder of his touch. She slumped forward when he released her, gasping through the last of her orgasm, going limp as he finished. He groaned with a low chuckle, squeezing her ass again, enjoying the last few squeezes of her warm walls around his cock.

“Wanna hear a secret?” he murmured, pulling her up and holding her there, practically impaling her on his knot. His lips brushed the shell of her ear and she shuddered, almost wheezing in his grip. “I’m no priest.”

Was he expecting her to be surprised? No priest acted the way he did.

“Then what are you?” she asked, expecting him to say anything but what came out of his mouth.

He chuckled. “I don’t think you’re ready for that, little Omega.”

How she had made it out of the church and home without anyone seeing her was a stroke of luck, and she managed to avoid her mother for the rest of the day. Her heat subsided quickly after her encounter with Dean, but she still wasn’t entirely satisfied. After their encounter, he’d disappeared without answering her questions, and every time she’d returned to the church later on in the week, there was no one there. The mark on her throat ached, and though it hadn’t been deep, she still kept it covered to avoid questions from anyone who might see it.

Shame kept her from attending church on the Sunday, having decided by that point that Dean had used her. She feigned a migraine, letting her mother take her car, and then she ate junk food in her room while watching reruns of old sitcoms on television. When her mom returned a few hours later, it was with surprising news.

“Father Taggart passed away,” Judith said after Y/N came down to see what had happened. “No one is sure what happened, only that the bishop is saying they didn’t send any replacement for Father Grayson, and no one knows what happened to Father Crowley or Father Winchester.”

“That’s strange,” Y/N mumbled, recalling Dean’s words while he’d been buried inside her. The majority of her soul was in pain at the abandonment of an Alpha - again - and that this time, he’d left something of himself inside her.

“Oh, and did I mention?” her mother continued. “Mrs. Whiting was found dead two days ago. Another mystery. Her husband is still missing.”

Judith carried on, musing over all the gossip she’d heard today, and Y/N tuned it out, trying not to pay any attention to the emotions crushing her chest. She should have been more careful, should have been wary of the handsome Alpha - she definitely shouldn’t have offered herself up to him like a brazen hussy.

She had to keep her involvement with him quiet. The last thing she wanted was attention from the police. It was easier to keep her head down and carry on, deal with her own stupidity and not let herself be fooled again.

When a few days passed, she let it sink in. A night of crying to the most tear-jerking movies she could think of, and she felt a little better. She kept going, and days turned into weeks, and Dean was a brief thought that flitted through her mind occasionally. His mark faded to an easily-disguisable scar, and she continued on with how her life had been before, ignoring the longing for excitement that he had brought her. The only change was church, despite her mother’s protests.

She never expected to see him again but she wasn’t sure she could walk back into the place where she’d let him own every part of her.

It was almost a relief when her period came. His comments about her fertility had lingered in her mind, burrowing deep until she was in a panic. But her cycle continued as it had before, and she thought she could finally forget him entirely.

She didn’t notice the black car parked along the street, didn’t recognize it at all, though she’d seen it before. She didn’t even pay attention when she saw it outside her office, or at the grocery store. It was only when she walked past it for the sixth time outside the pharmacy, and the door opened, that she finally saw who it was.

Dean stared at her over the top of the Impala, and Y/N froze on the sidewalk, feeling like time had slowed down. He smiled awkwardly, unlike the predatory smirk from before, and she frowned, tilting her head at him.

“You’re back,” she blurted out.

“Kind of,” he replied haltingly.

It had been about six weeks. She was due her heat again. “What do you want?” she asked.

“To talk.” He sounded sincere at least. “To explain.” There was something in his voice, something that tugged her forward. “You’re my Omega, Y/N.”

She took a breath, knowing without even thinking about it that she’d listen. “What if I don’t want to talk?” she challenged. “What if I don’t want an Alpha?”

Dean smiled again, but once more she noticed the difference in him. “Is that true?”

“No,” she confessed quietly.

He gestured to the passenger door. “You wanna get in?”

It felt like opening that door would lead her somewhere, and not just into this man’s arms. Whatever he had to say, she felt like she needed to hear it, that this was not only the door to his car, but the door to her future. She looked up, smiling at the bright sunny sky, then dropped her gaze back to him.

“Yeah.”

Feedback is appreciated!! Thanks for reading 😘

[aifsaath]

I am continuously perplexed at how a show as objectively bad and problematic as hotd keeps inspiring outstanding fanfics like yours and @gwenllian-in-the-abbey’s. Truly it’s a mystery to me, especially considering that the books covering the dance are supposed to be quite mediocre as well from what I’ve perceived. Just so you know,with that trailer out now I’m gonna completely blend out the events of the show and consider our fathers clad in red canon

@gwenllian-in-the-abbey AAAAAAAAAAAAAA, I think George's gonna order a hit on us:D

I'm glad you like our slightly destructive approach to teh canon. I'm mostly fueled by spite and my dislike for George's and HBO's complete disregard for the historical context of the stuff they draw their inspiration from (you can't do the Matilda vs Stephen showdown and expect the same sense of injustice, when your main conflict is about Viserys' imbecilic approach to rules, Rhaenyra's weak-ass claim and papa/dragons being her go-to solution to all her problems, Daemon being a chaos gremlin, Corlys' malignant ambition and the Hightowers being the only ones who actually care about the rule of law.)

A lesbian romance doesn't automatically turn a story into a feminist manifesto, nor does a girlboss who's treated by the narrative as the second coming of Christ. Context matters and it's a mistake to view the Dance through the lens of modern ideals about egalitarianism.

GRRM's hubris when it comes to "Aragorn's tax policies" is just another thing that enrages me and Gwenllian, because the man completely misunderstands the medieval legal codes. Just because they were complex that doesn't mean they were fucking contradictory on their own; no one wanted civil wars breaking out each time a monarch died.

Problems happened when two countries with generational beefs worked on two different principles of succession, ie. England (male-preference primogeniture) vs France (male-only primogeniture), or if there was some dynastic fuckery that completely messed up the clear-cut succession lines with usurpations and cousin marriages (Yorks vs Lancasters).

Had Richard II (the son of the Black Prince) died peacefully without issue, the succession would have followed through the line of the Duke of Clarence, with Edmund the Earl of March eventually becoming the king (and he was Richard's heir, btw).

But that's not what happened. The son of John of Gaunt usurped the throne and it was then passed down through his line, because he was the crowned king. Now, you can argue whether or not he had any right to do the usurpation in the first place and whether or not he was the legitimate king and you bet people back then argued about that too. This ambiguity is how you create a proper narrative about actually conflicting claims. The only thing propping up Rhaenyra against her brother is the fact that Viserys is a moron.

How the fuck can I take F&B seriously and without the Dead Sea's worth of salt, when it pretty much blows Jaehaerys' posthumous dick about his wisdom when he "let" the council of 101 decide the succession (while politely ignoring the fact that Jaehaerys' own claim is legit only in the cases of either full salic or semi-salic succession, ie male-only), while never once it calls out Viserys out on his extremely dangerous decision. He gets to die venerated as the peaceful grandpa and all the blame for his incompetence is piled on Aegon II and Alicent.

Let's go through the possible succession systems, shall we?

If we follow male-preference primogeniture, the legitimate line of kings ends with Aerea because she was the eldest child of Aegon the Uncrowned, Maegor's eldest nephew. Only after she and her sister die without issue, Jaehaerys can become the king. Jaehaerys' canon ascension works only because Rhaena gave up her daughters' claims. The next in line would be Aemon and after him Rhaenys. But that's not what happened.

If we follow the salic law (male only), the legitimate line of the kings goes Aegon I -> Aenys I -> Aegon Uncrowned -> Jaehaerys I -> Viserys I -> Aegon II. This is probably what Jaehaerys wanted to ensure, since he challenged Maegor's kingship in the first place.

If a crowned king can choose his heir, then Jaehaerys was never a legitimate king and Aerea was the true queen, because Maegor, who had won his crown in the trial by combat, chose her as his heir.

What about the principle of seniority? Cognatic seniority where men and women have equal claims is out of the question since Aegon I was the crowned king, not Visenya. Male-only seniority would go Aegon I -> Aenys I -> Maegor I (uncontested!) -> Aegon Crowned This Time -> Viserys the Not Tortured to Death -> Jaehaerys I -> Aemon (only if his uncle Viserys has no issue) -> Baelon -> Vaegon -> Viserys I -> Daemon (EW).

Notice the distinct lack of Rhaenyra.

Team Black keeps mentioning the widow's law, but that's a bulk of nonsense. I suppose the misunderstanding originates from a (willful) misinterpretation of this passage. The book says:

Now, I highly doubt Jaehaerys intended for the law to mean that a daughter from the first marriage should come before the sons from the second. The wording is a bit unlucky, but I suppose the intention was to establish the legal position of the second wife and her children as united with the position of her step-children - she has the same duties towards them as if they were own, and the same goes the other way. Which would make sense. Because otherwise, no one would be desperate enough to marry a widower with daughters. Since we know that title and land ownerships have remained in the same families without changing hands once or twice since the implementation of the law, I really doubt the team black's literal interpretation of the passage was the one intended. Ffs, Viserys was pushed to marry again because he had only one daughter, meaning, this law wasn't viewed the way the Team Black wishes for. And I'm not even delving into the fact that this would be a female inheritance hack penned by Jaehaerys, if that was the case. Talk about ooc.

So, yeah, we're taking Gyldayne's interpretation of the past with so much salt our hearts are gonna fail.

[rawliverandgoronspice]

behold: my second least favorite string of words in the entirety of Tears of the Kingdom.

(it's a little less transparent why this time so I'll explain my thoughts under the cut)

So why do I not like this?

In so many words: because if you remove it, the scene still works, but you lose the moral certainty of what is going on.

This single sentence does so much legwork for the entire game (the kind I dislike), to the point where I'm about 60% sure it's the product of a rework that realized how ambiguous Rauru's position was as the Good Rightful King and needed to nervously reassure the players that Ganondorf Is and Always Was the Invader, Actually.

(no matter that it leaves the gerudos in this awkward in-between state of both invaders and victims, while never dwelling in the specifics of their history and their own agency in the entire thing; brushed off as a sin they have to expiate through loyalty to the winners of that particular strife, but without explicitely blaming them either to avoid the implications of what that would have looked like)

If you remove it, not only do you lose a pretty clunky line that detracts from Ganondorf's intimidating presence (who is he even speaking to? who needs to hear this right now?) that honestly speaks for itself when it comes to his experience with warfare, but also you lose any tension and any mystery regarding why he is attacking in the first place.

You also... kind of rob Ganondorf's motivations of their meaning. "Hyrule will bow down before me" leads to asking... why? What does he want? What does he see in those lands? And what little we get with Rauru and then Link during the final fight begs more questions; why do you prefer hardship to peace? Why do you value strength? What leads you to want to rule a land devoid of survivors, become a king without a kingdom? I don't think we ever get satisfactory answers. If you remove this sentence, on the other hand... Subtextually, it becomes pretty clear that his motivations is that he felt threatened by Rauru's power, which is ripe with subtext and questions about whether this is a legitimate reaction, whether his "no survivor" stance is due to a feeling of betrayal when his own people turned against him post the Demon King shenanigans... I'm not saying it would fix the entire game's writing, far from it, but it would already do *so much more*.

(genuinely, I think he could have stayed completely silent during the Molduga Assault, speaking only in the Show of Fealty before going completely nuts after Sonia's murder, and it would have worked MUCH better in terms of characterization but anyway anyway

EDIT: ALSO!!! that way he wouldn't speak hylian to fellow gerudos, which is weird inherently)

Without this line, the core of the tension between the gerudos and Hyrule comes front in his conversation with Rauru; it allows the cause of his hostility to be Rauru's invitations, that he would have taken as a threat, and would have still made him warlike and domineering without making him cartoonishly flat, because, once again, Rauru is not acting in a particularly more legitimate way when Zelda arrives in Ancient Hyrule; and it would have been... fair to point that out. And make for better characterization for Rauru, and Sonia, and Mineru, and everybody. But the priority was for Hyrule to be pictured as unquestionably holy; always legitimate, always truthful, always beautiful, always just.

Also, and this is more of a nitpick but: why would Ganondorf want Hyrule, specifically, to bow down before him also? Was he at war with the rest of the disparate tribes before, and just carried on his ambitions to the very very newly-founded kingdom as they allied under a new banner? (though it seems to be implies the lands were crawling under monsters in a generic sense, and not Ganondorf's attacks in particular) Why would he even consider Hyrule a legitimate entity worth taking over then, if it is so new, born from the will of a powerful rival, founded by what is basically a stranger to these lands? Why would he covet something so young instead of destroying it and just calling the lands Gerudo Lands II or Grooseland or something?

I don't think any of that was even accounted for, because, beyond everything else: to me, this sentence is so clearly and painfully crammed in here to shield Hyrule from any potential blame and immediately characterize Ganondorf as Bad without having to remove any of the causes that could lead one to side-eye Rauru's little pet project as equally questionable.

Beyond the clumsiness, it is cowardly --and, I think, a little damning.

[ryuichirou]

Any particular headcanons sfw/nsfw for Fem!Kalim x Fem!Jamil?

For some reason I imagine that brushing and braiding each others hair is something they do.

Ohh, of course, I have headcanons about these two too!

Really loving the fact that we’ve been talking about the girlies a lot these past couple of weeks hehe, I’m glad you enjoy reading about these. For some reason, headcanons for these two ended up being more cute than spicy, I hope you don’t mind that… but still, there is some spiciness going on~

You’re absolutely right about Kalim and Jamil braiding each others, hair, and here are some thoughts about it (and other things):

Jamil braids Kalim’s hair more often though. She helps Kalim maintain her hair in general: washes it, combs it, braids it every morning and accessorizes it, takes everything down at the evening, combs it again and braids it again before going to sleep. Kalim knows how to do basic things like washing and combing her own hair of course, but it feels good when Jamil does it, so she prefers to leave it to her. She also likes to braid Jamil’s hair, but doesn’t do it often: Jamil doesn’t really like her hair being touched.

They sleep in the same bed more often than the original Kalim and Jamil. Jamil considers this to be one of Kalim’s many whims, but doesn’t mind it too much: it’s easier to ensure that she is safe that way, I guess. The problem is that whenever they sleep together, Kalim doesn’t want to go to sleep and starts talking until she’s so exhausted that she falls asleep mid-sentence with her mouth open. And sometimes instead of falling asleep, she climbs onto Jamil, clings to her, hugs her tightly and kisses her cheek. She is probably even more touchy than boy!Kalim…

Kalim gets excited when Jamil and her get their period at the same time lol Whenever she mentions it, Jamil usually rolls her eyes, because this is a) kind of a dumb thing to get so happy about; b) nothing special because of course they’ll coincide once in like 4-6 months; c) not something that the older daughter of the Asim family should yell about in front of the entire dorm???

They’re pretty comfortable being naked around each other, because they pretty much always wash together. It’s a pretty natural thing for them, but sometimes the atmosphere gets weirdly intimate, especially when Kalim rests her head on Jamil’s lap, rubs her cheek on her thigh, looks at her and says that Jamil is very beautiful and attractive. Yeah right, from that angle she’s certainly very beautiful and attractive 🙄 Also, after saying that and maybe even kissing Jamil’s stomach, she starts fooling around again and playing with water and bubbles, giggling like a Disney princess. Jamil just can’t understand her sometimes. She’s so oblivious and childish, but there is obvious _intent_ behind her actions whenever she rubs Jamil’s body, and it’s not her passionate desire to rub the soap in.

But not everything about these two together is so ambiguous and mysterious: despite being seemingly innocent, Kalim has sexual desires and expresses them. But in a weird way: Jamil would expect Kalim to ask Jamil to pleasure her or something, but instead Kalim either asks Jamil to undress in front of her and sit on her lap like that (in a reverse cowgirl position), or simply asks Jamil to lie down in her bed so Kalim could undress her herself. At first it was the only thing Kalim asked for, but then she started kissing Jamil’s body, and at some point she started kissing her _down there_, and Jamil felt like an idiot because she didn’t see it coming. Long story short, after that they started to have sex. Jamil is 100% sure that Kalim is just toying with her servant girl’s sexy (“I guess”) body, but for Kalim it’s very serious: she is certain that they are in love.

[sixty-silver-wishes]

The Repugnant Retrospective: Reading A Series of Unfortunate Events, over ten years later

(Note: For the sake of clarity, "Daniel Handler" will here be used to refer to the author of the books, while "Lemony Snicket" will be used to refer to the narrator character.)

I must have been in fourth or fifth grade the first time I picked up The Bad Beginning, the first book in A Series of Unfortunate Events, which contains thirteen books in all. In those days, I was a big fan of Guardians of Ga'Hoole and Percy Jackson, and read voraciously- to the delight of some of my teachers, and to the chagrin of others, who would prefer I not be reading a book for my own amusement during a lesson on mathematics. All thirteen books were in the school library, which I still look back on with fondness. It was a cozy little place- as libraries often are- that left me with plenty of memories, from going with my friends to the annual Scholastic book fair, to the unshakeable guilt of having to purchase a book on prehistoric animals because I'd checked it out and lost it, only to find it at home after the fact. I think I began reading A Series of Unfortunate Events after I finished the Ga'Hoole series, and although it was nothing like anything I had read before, I was hooked.

The phrase on paper here refers to an explanation of the basic concept of something, as opposed to experiencing it in practice. To witness an idea on paper does not necessarily mean it must be written on paper, as it could be written on the internet, or tapped out in Morse code, or spray-painted on the back of an unsuspecting associate while he waits in an abandoned bounce house for a secret message via carrier pigeon. However, it is true that reading an idea on paper may produce a very different effect than reading it in practice, whether or not paper is involved at all.

On paper, A Series of Unfortunate Events is about three children experiencing miserable things, over and over again, and ultimately culminates in an ending that is left ambiguous- a word which here means that the fates of the main characters are left unclear. When I first read them, I was used to stories involving magic, and enormous battles, and falling in love, mostly clear lines between good and evil, and an ending where there are no more secrets, because everything gets resolved. None of these things are bad to have in a story, of course, but a story does not need to have all- or any- of them to be good. Such is the case with A Series of Unfortunate Events. On paper, the series may not have appealed to me, due to the things I was used to reading at that age. But in practice, I couldn't put them down. I can remember feeling a sense of pride at figuring out the mysteries and understanding the literary references I could glean at my tender age. I can remember laughing uproariously at some parts (especially the Volunteers Fighting Disease song and the antics of Carmelita Spats), as well as feeling a dreadful pit grow in my stomach at others- which, of course, is a feeling that is typically better avoided than not. A pit in your stomach, after all, may mean you have uncovered a devastating secret, or had your heart broken, or have a nasty parasite gnawing at the lining of your digestive organs, and will need to see a doctor to extract it and seal the pit back up. Or, as was my case, it may mean an honest exploration of a truth about the world that you, at your young age, had some idea about, but had been sheltered from, and were finally seeing it laid out in a way that was simple and profound and shattering and enlightening all at once.

All that being said, I couldn't stop reading them, despite the warnings not to read them on the back of every book. The only one I didn't finish was The End, because I had to return it to the library before I could reach the end of The End, although this was not the end of my experiences with A Series of Unfortunate Events, and just a few days ago, I had reached the beginning of The End once again, and finally read The End from beginning to end. As the years went by, I completely forgot some parts of A Series of Unfortunate Events, and others refused to leave my mind. But while I would not experience another word of an Unfortunate Events book for over ten years, A Series of Unfortunate Events was constantly following me in some way or another, like three mysterious initials, or an unblinking pair of eyes in the night, or a particularly pesky neighbor I have had to move across the sea three times to get away from, but still keeps sending me telegrams in code. I was not done with the series, nor was it done with me.

When I was in middle school, through a completely different set of events altogether that would take another long post to chronicle, I decided I wanted to be a writer. I took to keeping notebooks where I wrote down my own stories, and even managed to finish a few. By the time I reached college, I was equipped with a love of history and classic literature, and majored in Creative Writing. I continued to read, and took a course on Arthurian literature- taught by a brilliant scholar whose work, I would find out a few years later, is cited on the Unfortunate Events Wikipedia page. (I also took a miserable course on English grammar that would have made even Aunt Josephine weep, and is better not elaborated on.) But also while in college, I began intensively researching a certain historical figure whose name you may already know. Like the fictional Snicket, I was researching someone whose life was full of mysteries, many of which have still gone unsolved. This person, like all people, made a number of morally ambiguous decisions, although whether or not some of these decisions were made for good reason is up for debate. One could even say that his life could also be summarized as "a series of unfortunate events," despite how prodigious, erudite, and altruistic he was- words which here mean the Soviet composer and pianist Dmitri Dmitriyevich Shostakovich- whose work, I would later learn, Daniel Handler listened to while writing A Series of Unfortunate Events. I became acquainted with, among other authors, the works of Nikolai Gogol, Franz Kafka, Kurt Vonnegut, and J.D. Salinger- whose writing styles echo in both Handler's work and my own. And of course, while I did not pick up on the reference in the books and forgot about it entirely, last year, I had been introduced to a little German flick called The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, which of course, had absolutely no impact on me whatsoever. (If you know anything about me, you will immediately be aware that this is a blatant lie, and that nothing I say should ever be trusted.) I began working at a store that sells Puttanesca sauce and a great variety of horseradish condiments. And all the while, I, like everyone else in the world, was experiencing my own series of unfortunate events, both personal and political.

All that is to say, if I enjoyed A Series of Unfortunate Events as a young child, you can imagine what I thought of it as an adult- older, wiser, and more well-versed in things like classic literature and world politics. Most nights, I listened to the books on audio while drawing- because just as Violet needs to tie her hair up in a ribbon and Klaus needs to polish his glasses to focus on their areas of expertise, I must have something long and often thought-provoking to listen to. As I said, there was a lot I didn't remember about the books- and it wasn't just plot details and characters.

For instance, while I can’t say I remembered it the first time, when I read the first book, it really left an impression on me when Count Olaf slapped Klaus across the face, and how much the book dwelt on it. From a narrative perspective, that slap was a threshold being crossed- a sign that the Baudelaires were no longer in a safe and predictable environment, and were living with someone actively hostile towards them. But from an emotional perspective, it really struck a chord to see Klaus continue to think about it throughout the first book, processing his first encounter with abuse. There was a bittersweetness to watching the orphans grow up and learn self-reliance, and the cynicism and misfortune of the books was well-balanced with witty humor, satirical commentary, and a constant sense of hope- something, of course, that I also appreciate about Shostakovich's works.

A Series of Unfortunate Events has a great deal to say about evil, and the nature of oppression. As a kid, I don't think I realized just how awful Count Olaf was. Of course, I knew he was a terrible villain trying to make these kids miserable in any way he could, but as an adult, I could see that Count Olaf was more than that. He harassed Violet in a borderline sexual manner, just to make her and her siblings feel weak. He delighted in burning books and murdering brilliant people, so there would be less knowledge and nobility in the world. And perhaps most impactfully, we see his rise and fall over the course of the series, as for all his treachery and the pain he brings the orphans, he ultimately finds himself powerless due to his own actions, as well as the inevitable dissolution of his own troupe.

Seeing Olaf's theatre troupe gradually leave him one by one, along with the various schisms that shape the series, brought a distinctly political understanding to A Series of Unfortunate Events that I did not have as a child. It brought to mind real-life tools of oppression and ignorance, and how they are doomed to fail because of their tendencies to devour themselves in their desire to harm and ostracize others. There's an interesting situation with the carnival "freaks," who demonstrate how the oppressed can become oppressors themselves through a desire for power over their situations- and how quickly oppression turns on itself, as Olaf's troupe finds themselves being called "freaks" as they seek to exploit the carnival freaks for their own gain. The audience just wants violence, and it doesn't matter who it's against, as long as they have someone to ridicule. We also see how inaction is just as harmful as active oppression- Mr. Poe is just as responsible for putting the Baudelaires in bad situations as Olaf, and even well-meaning adults like Aunt Josephine, Hector, and Jerome Squalor endanger the orphans because they're too scared or too content in their ignorance to protect them. The colony of islanders put themselves and the entire world at risk because they refuse the apples that would have easily cured them of the fungus they were infected with, too content to follow their leader instead of "rocking the boat." With all the ignorance and malice surrounding them, the orphans instead must learn self-reliance, even with the few allies they do have.

A Series of Unfortunate Events is especially mature when it handles the topic of morality. Characters are often shown to be morally gray, even those who are initially introduced as "good" or "evil." I found Fiona to be an especially fascinating character, as she exemplifies this moral struggle, although I feel the way she's described in the narration unfairly contradicts her character. On one hand, it acknowledges that she makes similar decisions to the Baudelaires as a foil to them- both have had to make morally dubious decisions on account of their siblings- but the narration will repeatedly refer to her as "treacherous" or blame her for "breaking Klaus' heart," although we find out she regretted her actions and, if anything, betrayed Count Olaf more than she did the Baudelaires. But regarding gray areas, Count Olaf, by the end, performs an act of nobility out of love, and the Baudelaires are constantly shown coming to terms with their own moral struggles as they fight to survive and find justice- although as the series progresses, "justice" becomes more and more of an absurd concept as corruption is found everywhere- although justice still persists, and as long as there is evil in the world, there will always be people "noble enough" to fight it. It was especially gratifying to see Justice Strauss and Jerome Squalor come back in book 12 to apologize for their inaction, and to help the Baudelaires against Count Olaf, in a moment that, however brief, challenged the previously-established cynicism of the series and demonstrated that people don't have to stay complacent, and that it's never too late to take action against ignorance.

Handler masterfully presents the plethora of philosophical and harrowing concepts that the series deals with to his young audience through his storytelling, which- like Salinger- sometimes distances itself tangentially to allow the audience to process the heavier moments, relating the Baudelaires' experiences to things the readers may have experienced or read in order to help them understand them. It's an incredibly adult way of delivering a children's story, particularly one that's more mature than most. As I first read the books as a child, and then read them as an adult, I can appreciate this maturity more, although being older than the characters allows me to look at the books from a different perspective. Violet and Klaus, from the beginning to the end of the series, are respectively 14-16 and 12-14, and while as a kid, I admired them and thought they were so brilliant and mature, as an adult, there's a sort of horror in realizing just how young they are. Sunny goes from being an infant to a toddler, but her extreme intelligence and emotional maturity for her age still makes her character more fantastical and less grounded than her siblings at times.

I found the series to hold up remarkably well for the most part, except for in a few areas. The most glaring issue, although I won't dwell too much on it, is the transphobia regarding the "henchperson of indeterminate gender." While, to my understanding, this is remedied in the Netflix series (which I have not seen), it was still uncomfortable to see this character frequently dehumanized by both the story and the other characters, even if they played a relatively minor role. At times, it felt contradictory to the story's themes, as the narrative would explicitly discourage discrimination against people who are "different" (book six even defines the word "xenophobia"), but also portrays an androgynous character as inhuman. It's entirely possible that Handler was not aware of trans issues at the time he wrote the books, but this element nonetheless prevents them from aging as well as they could have.

The other issue I had with the series is that sometimes, plot elements almost seem forced within the narrative. While the orphans, of course, face plenty of misfortune, the solutions to many of their problems are often practically handed to them by the narrative. For example, when Klaus and Sunny need to figure out an anagram, they just so happen to be hiding in a closet full of alphabet soup, which they conveniently use to solve it. The wasabi that Sunny finds in the Gorgonian Grotto just so happens to be the cure to the medusoid mycelium, and it works instantly. Klaus, in an especially infuriating moment, cracks a code with an elaborately-worded phrase summarizing the central theme of Anna Karenina, and the specific words that he uses just so happen to be correct, despite the fact that there are countless ways the same idea could potentially be phrased. While the orphans all have their own specific interests- Klaus likes to read, Violet likes to invent, and Sunny likes to bite things, and later cook- they can seem underdeveloped at times because they're so heavily characterized by these interests, which they very frequently rely on. There's a moment in book four where Violet has to research hypnosis in order to save Klaus, and I really liked the idea of them having to take on each other's interests to help each other. However, for the most part, the Baudelaires tend to stick to their specific strengths, which usually allow them to solve any problem, so they don't often need to branch out.

Overall, despite its few faults, I enjoyed A Series of Unfortunate Events, probably even more now than I did when I was a kid. Each book was beautifully written, and I loved the slow reveal of plot elements, as well as the gradual descent into its philosophical themes. Being more well-read and experienced at my age than I was at nine or ten, I was able to appreciate the books far more. The humor, storytelling, and themes still largely hold up, and it was fascinating to return to a piece of media that left such a strong impression on me at a young age, and would continue to leave an impression on me the older I got. I would definitely encourage anyone to read them, especially if, like me, you also read them as a child. Perhaps you may not want to read such a long tale of misery and woe being inflicted time and again on three (mostly) innocent children, and as Ishmael would say, I won't force you to. These books, while written for a young audience, can be very emotionally heavy, and may not be for everyone. But there's a lot of truth to them, and like the most miserable late quartets of Dmitri Shostakovich, I found them a great comfort because of just how real they are thematically. Perhaps later on in life, I'll encounter even more experiences that will make me appreciate the series even more than I do now, just as I did growing up long after I first read them. Maybe then, I'll have to read them again, and as I'll watch the Baudelaires grow for the third time, reflect on how much I've grown as well. But for the time being, I'll conclude this retrospective, which has already dragged on for long enough, as I've finally reached the end- at least for now.

[clairdelunelove]

sole recognition

könig x reader

genre: fluff! (sticker drabble!)

warnings: slightly suggestive, cursing, brief mentions of violence/blood, smug!könig

synopsis: the rumors that könig is a menace on the battlefield are all seemingly true but could the same be said behind closed doors?

a.n. luv reading all the reblogs! so I knew I had to write one about this man since the idea was so cute to me! I mayhaps over-indulged in aggressive and cocky könig in battle. I couldn't help it! (｡･･｡)

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currently thinking about the absolute mad lad that könig is on the battlefield but when he’s got you gently pressing stickers onto his makeshift sniper hood– it’s a completely different story.  

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an upcoming mission, without exception, has the ability of striking fear in even the most veteran of soldiers. the ones that have raged on in countless operations. whether that was being assigned to tasks such as bombing or reconnaissance; there was the potential for mistakes to happen. didn’t matter if it was a simple rescue operation. life on the front lines is ambiguous. the awareness of the unknown– the uncertainty– served to be the greatest fear factor for all. humans dread what they’re unfamiliar with. most sought comfort in recognizing their six is covered by their fellow squadmates. grasping onto the ideal that one’s miscommunication through coms isn’t entirely a single person’s fault. others take it upon themselves to be hyper-vigilant and prepared to avoid any misunderstandings. properly cleaning their weapons, packing extra rations, or ensuring the coast was clear before moving in the environment. prior planning to combat the uncharted. not könig, however. the man that conceals his identity with a sniper hood and layers of darkened clothing. a mystery, really. blends into the background when he’s not equipped with a weapon. the scariest part is that he’s unsuspecting. a mountain of a man that towers amongst the largest soldiers from the opposing side. resembling a jostling, clamorous silhouette that raced onto the battlefield before anyone else did. an enthusiast for violence. a fanatic for the chaos.

könig who isn’t typically found conversing with the others before a mission. jitters were pretty common prior to jumping off the aircraft and small talk was habitual to take the edge off. collective mutters of the appalling food ration that was eaten earlier or teasing remarks on who’ll heave up the aforementioned meal filtered through the air. light jabs alleviated some of the nervousness. he, however, sits tucked in the farthest corner of the space. his head is lowered while his gloved fingers rhythmically thrum against his khaki canvas pants. he’s talking too– just not with the others. prefers to murmur insensible comments to himself. if one listens carefully then it’s apparent that he’s hyping himself up. intensifying his need to have strength. to do well in battle. though, the consonants in his words reverberate and shake like broken chalk against a chalkboard. his mumblings bordering eerie by how expressive he is. how heated he’s become at the mere idea that he’ll be fighting. there’s not enough time to dwell on it because he’s hopping off the platform and plunging into where his expertise lies at. 

könig who brazenly shouts, “that’s our fucking juggernaut!” the holler is arrogant, presumptuous and entirely too eccentric to merge with the agonizing cries on the battlefield. his eyes skip to the soldier that hurls themself into the crowd with the sole purpose of massacre. it’s an insane sight. debris littering the place, bullets fizzing through the air, and medics dropping in to tend to the wounded. but he’s undeterred by the free-for-all. thrives in it. a pitched laugh leaves his lips at the familiarity before he’s bounding up the steps of an abandoned building. higher ground could be an advantage. he slips in, strangely quiet despite his size, before ambushing an off-guard sniper that was holed up in the room. throws his massive weight onto the rival’s back, before delivering a series of frenzied stabs with his pocket knife. splatters of blood coat his covered face and he uses the back of his arm to wipe it. smears the maroon liquid to mix with the red paint adorning his sniper hood. “got that bastard,” he huffs, victorious. 

könig who shines in close combat. granted, the title of colonel gets into his head sometimes. his uncontrolled, rabid, and quick movements are deranged. makes it impossible to counter him. the opposing side definitely attempts to but they’re instantly mauled by his attacks. his blue eyes are electric when he’s in control of being the hunter- not the prey. gaze darted to every crevice and corner to swiftly spot any spare weapons he could use. he picks up a riot shield. “the big fella is mine!” he bellows and races over to his acquired target. there’s a heavy thud as könig rams into the soldier. a curse spews out of his lips due to the strain, “scheiße!” yet, his arm whips around so his combat knife finds itself in the side of the other soldier. the fact that his body consists of long limbs and a toned physique aids in his skill. unbeknownst to others, a triumphant grin spreads across his face as he brags, “they are no match for me.” whispers of his ruthlessness follow him when his team secures the mission’s objective. he’s not listening though. his chest shakily rises to compensate for the hollow breaths he’s taking and his gloved hand grips at his chestplate. the objective was complete. gulps mouthfuls of air to keep him from becoming lightheaded at the adrenaline that fuels him– the rush unnecessary now. the back of his head smacks against the wall, a sensation he doesn’t feel, as he awaits landing back on base. 

könig who overlooks fully shutting the door to his office and will possibly (surely) regret it. he enters the room to gather paperwork. he stays for you. there’s a tiny crack that unveils the truth of how the colonel is utterly enamored by you. and if his comrades caught him in the position he was currently in– his superiority over them would be nonexistent. he’d just gotten back from the mission when you breathlessly threw your arms around him. “koni! how was it?” you ask as he steps into the small secluded room. there’s a giddy bounce in your step and a glimpse at his desk indicates that you’ve spent the time cleaning his office. his gloved hands instinctively find purchase on your waist as he mumbles that it went well. sweet touches reserved only for you. “maus,” he gestures to what you’ve done and his voice is so tender that you inwardly swoon, “there was no need to.” he wishes to chide you, in hopes of deterring your need to help him, but then your lower lip juts out into a pout, “I wanted to though. plus, look what I found!” and he ultimately abandons his initial thought because your glossy lips curl into a delighted smile when you present him with a sticker sheet. “found it in your desk while I was cleaning. how come you never told me they gave you stuff like this?” 

könig who breathily inquires, “did I do good?” while you’re seated on his lap. the contact serves to ground him but it only causes his heart to thrum faster against his ribcage. he recalls the events of his previous mission (albeit in a sputter of strung together words). doesn’t even know what’s happening before you’re crawling on his lap and whispering compliments. he startles, initially, because it’s virtually impossible to properly function around you. your beauty is almost blinding when he’s this close. his palms are sweaty underneath his tactical gloves. ears tinged red when you drag an experimental hand on his chest. the gaze he fixates on you is magnetic and his heady eyes regard you with clear devotion. you smell so delightful too. a sugary, delectable scent that has him preening for you. it’s quiet within the room, his jittery mannerisms and rapid inhales are the only audible noises. you don’t seem bothered by it, however. your tongue darts out in concentration as your fingers pry at the selection of stickers. “tell me I did good,” he essentially pleads and shuffles to push his face closer to yours, “please.” his eyes are so blue that you’re afraid of drowning in them. you let out a honeyed coo while placing a glittery star on his cheek, “you always do, koni.” a prize. for him. the colonel. the silly sticker blatantly contrasts with his disguise but it doesn’t trouble him because you’re moving to cup the side of his face in order to litter his face in colorful adhesives. light lashes fluttering, he presses himself into your touch and fondly confesses, “did it all for you, mein engel.” 

könig who barely heeds your playful scolding when you hum, “patience, koni,” but he’s anything but calm. you can’t apprise him when your plush lips are on his forehead. he stills. like a deer caught in the blaring headlights coming down a highway. such an affectionate kiss for a monstrous man. his stomach flips, a sensation he assumed only happened out on the battlefield, and an objection escapes his mouth. requests for another. his eagerness knocks a soft laugh out of you but the pretty noise is interrupted by könig chasing after your lips. a grumble of wanting– no– needing more. one would conclude that he was deprived of you. “I am, maus,” the giant male reasons as his forehead gently bumps against yours, “I’ll be patient for you.” and goodness do you reward him; sharp nails prodding underneath the piece of cloth that hangs from his head. upon uncovering the enticing stretch of skin, you press an open-mouthed kiss to the juncture of his neck. the pressure causes his head to abruptly jerk back as he hoarsely groans, “oh, süßi.” voice sticky and edging into desperation. his bony knees knock against your thighs as he readjusts himself in his seat which inadvertently drives you closer. his wandering hands settle on the curve of your hips, unintentionally shoving your hips to his. he mumbles quick apologies for his roughness. is unashamed about it, though. the disparity in his personality is alarming. but he can’t help it. not when he’s with you. puffs hot, needy breaths into your ear when you softly croon, “you’re so sweet to me, koni. the sweetest ever.” 

[burningvelvet]

A very long analysis on Heathcliff, his relationships, and his origins: or, how Wuthering Heights drove me insane :)

Links to my previous WH analysis (which aren't required to read this post!): 1) my post analyzing heathcliff & his relationships with cathy2.0/isabella/hareton / 2) smaller post analyzing heathcliff & the earnshaws in relation to theories about his parentage / 3) misc. heathcliff/cathy analysis

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On Heathcliff's origins, his mysteriousness, and his arrival to Wuthering Heights:

As I mention in that 2nd link, I think the theory of Heathcliff being Mr. Earnshaw's son is an interesting theory of conjecture because even if not true (and it probably isn't) it allows us to more deeply explore the generally accepted basis of the canon, which is that Heathcliff is not related to them, but nevertheless is still caught between the labels of "family" and "outsider," just like he would have been if he had indeed been a bastard, a step-child, or even more formally adopted. Under Mr. Earnshaw's wishes Heathcliff shares a room with the children, he is given equal gifts and clothes as them, and he is preferred over Hindley. And while he may not be in line to inherit legally, he ends up inheriting anyway, an idea which lends itself to the novels Joseph-approved theme of predeterminism/fate.

So I'm not dead-set on any singular interpretation or theory as to Heathcliff's role in the story or the details of his background. Much of his character is inherently mysterious: his race and age are unknown, his family history and origins are unknown, what he was doing for 3 years of Cathy's marriage and how he acquired his wealth are unknown, some of his feelings and motives are highly debatable (as I discussed in my post about his odd dynamics with Cathy 2.0, Isabella, & Hareton: https://www.tumblr.com/burningvelvet/738901817580290048/my-analysis-on-heathcliff-and-his-relationships), & whether English was his first language is also questioned (many people including myself have wondered at the line where we're told he "repeated over and over again some gibberish that nobody could understand," though it could have just been panicked child's speech).

Many academics have noted how Wuthering Heights follows various testaments of the Gothic literary tradition, not only by the involvement of death, violence, ghosts, etc., but also in the use of incestuous themes (whether literal or metaphorical) and the use of the Other in Heathcliff, aided by the mysteries of his origins and his racial ambiguity.

As for Heathcliff not revealing much about his childhood, I believe this part of it could be due to trauma as well as regular childhood amnesia. He may not remember anything. A lot of people don't have many memories from before the age of ~6 anyway — and I just looked it up— his real age is never given but he is believed to be around the same age than Cathy who was described as "hardly six years old." I had thought they were a little older for some reason. He's also said to have been "speaking gibberish" which I once considered may have been indicative of a foreign language and/or accent but now, because of his age and probable low background, it may have been due to his just being very young and maybe unsocialized and shy. It actually makes my heart ache when Nelly describes him :(

Here's an excerpt from chapter 3 describing Heathcliff's childhood:

"He threw himself into a chair, laughing and groaning, and bid them all stand off, for he was nearly killed—he would not have such another walk for the three kingdoms.

'And at the end of it to be flighted to death!' he said, opening his great-coat, which he held bundled up in his arms. 'See here, wife! I was never so beaten with anything in my life: but you must 'en take it as a gift of God; though it's as dark almost as if it came from the devil.'"

We crowded round, and over Miss Cathy's head I had d peep at a dirty, ragged, black-haired child; big enough both to walk and talk: indeed, its face looked older than Catherine's; yet when it was set on its feet, it only stared round, and repeated over and over again some gibberish that nobody could understand. I was frightened, and Mrs. Earnshaw was ready to fling it out of doors: she did fly up, asking how he could fashion to bring that gipsy brat into the house, when they had their own bairns to feed and fend for? What he meant to do with it, and whether he were mad? The master tried to explain the matter; but he was really half dead with fatigue, and all that I could make out, amongst her scolding, was a tale of his seeing it starving, and houseless, and as good as dumb, in the streets of Liverpool, where he picked it up and inquired for its owner. Not a soul knew to whom it belonged, he said; and his money and time being both limited, he thought it better to take it home with him at once, than run into vain expenses there: because he was determined he would not leave it as he found it. Well, the conclusion was, that my mistress grumbled herself calm; and Mr. Earnshaw told me to wash it, and give it clean things, and let it sleep with the children.

Hindley and Cathy contented themselves with looking and listening till peace was restored: then, both began searching their father's pockets for the presents he had promised them. The former was a boy of fourteen, but when he drew out what had been a fiddle, erushed to morsels in the great-coat, he blubbered aloud; and Cathy, when she learned the master had lost her whip in attending on the stranger, showed her humour by grinning and spitting at the stupid little thing; earning for her pains a sound blow from her father, to teach her cleaner manners. They entirely refused to have it in bed with them, or even in their room; and I had no more sense, so I put it on the landing of the stairs, hoping it might be gone on the morrow. By chance, or else attracted by hearing his voice, it crept to Mr. Earnshaw's door, and there he found it on quitting his chamber. Inquiries were made as to how it got there; I was obliged to confess, and in recompense for my cowardice and inhumanity was sent out of the house.

This was Heathcliff's first introduction to the family. On coming back a few days afterwards (for I did not consider my banishment perpetual), I found they had christened him 'Heathcliff': it was the name of a son who died in child-hood, and it has served him ever since, both for Christian and surname. Miss Cathy and he were now very thick; but Hindley hated him: and to say the truth I did the same; and we plagued and went on with him shamefully: for I wasn't reasonable enough to feel my injustice, and the mistress never put in a word on his behalf when she saw him wronged.

He seemed a sullen, patient child; hardened, perhaps, to ill-treatment: he would stand Hindley's blows without winking or shedding a tear, and my pinches moved him only to draw in a breath and open his eyes, as if he had hurt himself by accident, and nobody was to blame. This endurance made old Earnshaw furious, when he discovered his son persecuting the poor fatherless child, as he called him. He took to Heathcliff strangely, believing all he said (for that matter, he said precious little, and generally the truth), and petting him up far above Cathy, who was too mischievous and wayward for a favourite.

So, from the very beginning, he bred bad feeling in the house; and at Mrs. Earnshaw's death, which happened in less than two years after, the young master had learned to regard his father as an oppressor rather than a friend, and Heathcliff as a usurper of his paren's affections and his privileges; and he grew bitter with brooding over these injuries. I sympathised a while; but when the children fell ill of the measles, and I had to tend them, and take on me the cares of a woman at once, I changed my idea. Heathcliff was dangerously sick; and while he lay at the worst he would have me constantly by his pillow: I suppose he felt I did a good deal for him, and he hadn't wit to guess that I was compelled to do it. However, I will say this, he was the quietest child that ever nurse watched over. The difference between him and the others forced me to be less partial. Cathy and her brother harassed me terribly: he was as uncomplaining as a lamb; though hardness, not gentleness, made him give little trouble."

From this excerpt we see that Earnshaw 1) despite being racist toward Heathcliff, is also wildly protective of him - so much so that he kicks Nelly out of the house FOR DAYS for initially not allowing Heathcliff to sleep in his childrens room 2) Earnshaw doesn't like Cathy that much, and prefers Heathcliff over her; later when he dies he has a nice moment with her, but still asks her why she can't be a better child (lol) 3) Earnshaw did not name Heathcliff on his own accord but Heathcliff is named after Earnshaw's own son that died!!! And that says a lot; we're also never really told how Mrs. Earnshaw felt about him being named after her dead kid, or if she had a part in it or not, or if she grew to like Heathcliff too — she just dies soon after - however, I think we can all assume she always favored Hindley over Heathcliff, since we're told Hindley's jealousy grew after her death 4) Heathcliff is described by Earnshaw as a "gift from God" which I find kind of suspicious because Earnshaw struggled so much just to get him home... um, God had no part in that, Mr. - unless he's referring to the kids existence imo. At any rate, if Heathcliff isn't biologically related to Earnshaw, we're still led to have the sense that Heathcliff is sort of predestined to be there 5) Heathcliff was indeed a bit scraggly/unkempt when he arrived, but imo that doesn't mean he was necessarily a homeless orphan; if he did have a mother/family, they probably would have been living in harsh conditions anyway just by being impoverished, and if not, maybe he was just a bit dirty from wandering outside like normal kids do, and like he's so fond of doing anyway on the Moors later on - he could have just been playing outside when this white guy comes along and takes him under his coat! 6) Earnshaw says he asked around for the kids parents and felt obligated to take him on, though the kid was struggling... so yeah, regardless of if he's omitting other info or if he's his father or not, we can infer that he essentially kidnapped Heathcliff.

After re-reading this excerpt, I don't think it's as likely that Earnshaw had seen/known Heathcliff personally prior to his taking him home, but I still don't think any of this totally disproves the theory that Earnshaw could have been lying to Mrs. Earnshaw/omitting certain information.

Why was Mr. Earnshaw in Liverpool to begin with? I and many others often assume it was some sort of a business trip, and it probably was, but after re-reading the part where he leaves, I can't actually find anything to definitively confirm what he was actually there for. He could have been in Liverpool specifically to take Heathcliff with him. Another thing that doesn't make any sense is the fact that he walked all the way there alone: "I’m going to Liverpool today, what shall I bring you? You may choose what you like: only let it be little, for I shall walk there and back: sixty miles each way, that is a long spell!’"

He's then gone for 3 whole days. Meaning according to him, he walked 120 miles in 3 days, half of that while carrying/dragging a struggling small child, who he says he took because it would be his easiest option: "his money and time being both limited, he thought it better to take it home with him at once, than run into vain expenses there."

He's contradicting himself, because if he was so concerned about finances then he never would have taken on another child, as Mrs. Earnshaw immediately supplies (meaning if he was on a mission to retrieve Heathcliff, he didn't tell her): "Mrs. Earnshaw was ready to fling it out of doors: she did fly up, asking how he could fashion to bring that gipsy brat into the house, when they had their own bairns to feed and fend for? What he meant to do with it, and whether he were mad?" Ummmm you're telling me there isn't something a little suspicious or weird about any of this?!

And why would he be walking in the first place when he has horses — was he really so tight on money as to not want to support/feed them on a journey, or did he just not want to be recognized or attract attention, or did he not want to deal with a child riding on a horse for the first time? I assume carriages/wagons were out of the question for costs, and I know people walked a lot back then, especially in rural farmlands, but that is a very long journey as he himself says. What was so important? Did he even go to Liverpool at all? And why did he bundle Heathcliff up as if to hide him? To avoid suspicions about having a bastard child, etc.? And we're told Mrs. Earnshaw was expecting him home earlier, and we get no indication if she knew Mr. Earnshaw's plans or whereabouts.

And why does Mr. Earnshaw act so upbeat and nonchalant about all of this, when we're told he's usually really stern? Ie he supposedly treats Nelly well eg, telling her he'll bring her back fruits on his journey, but then he LOCKS HER OUT OF THE HOUSE FOR MULTIPLE DAYS for not following his orders about putting Heathcliff in the children's room on his first night there.

Where tf did she even go lol? Am I forgetting some part about her family having a nearby house? How far did she have to walk to get there, alone and unaccompanied as a young woman? Probably less than 120 miles in 3 days, but still! He's known Nelly her whole life, and he's supposedly known Heathcliff for a day (in which time Heathcliff has already led him into physical exhaustion), and yet he already prefers Heathcliff over her as well as his own children.

Even excusing Nelly being a narrator of debatable reliability, and being sometimes contradictory & biased against Heathcliff, Mr. Earnshaw's behavior still seems a bit outlandish and it makes sense that Mrs. Earnshaw would ask him if he had gone mad. I course, I may be looking too far into this, but how can I not?

Heathcliff's trauma, his relationship with Mr. Earnshaw, Earnshaw as kidnapper, and race:

I think Heathcliff is certainly severely traumatized. I'm not a psychologist but Nelly's line "hardness, not gentleness, made him give little trouble" is textbook childhood CPTSD, and it is partly due to Earnshaw indeed being a kidnapper with a white saviour/"white man's burden" complex.

I think the following quote by Nelly supports this kidnap view, in that she actually refers to him being kidnapped; Emily may also be encouraging us to speculate on even the most outlandish theories of his origins like Nelly does:

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

Like in Charlotte's Jane Eyre, Emily also borrows taboo Romantic and Orientalist imagery and racializes the gothic Other figure, because this idea of the foreign/non-white body was a source of anxiety to a lot of white British Victorian readers. This is a popular concept in Gothic literary studies & a lot has been written on it, so I won't go into it too much.

Like Charlotte's Bertha Mason, Linton Heathcliff's identity as being mixed race is essential to his character — in the narrative, him being white-passing is supposed to relate to his identity being more Isabella/Linton (as also evidenced by his name) and less Heathcliff's, who is disappointed not to see his own resemblance in his son.

Since we seriously don't know Heathcliff's true origins, we can't ascertain his ethnicity (given his descriptions/epithets/Nelly's speculations, he is likely fully or part Roma, South-Asian, or African), and we can't tell if he or his family/mother were highborn, enslaved, or simply free, but we do know that slavery was still very active in England in the late 1700s when Heathcliff is a child, and his hometown Liverpool was the center of the slave trade, so connections to slavery either ancestrally or during his hiatus (a popular theory, explored in the book Heathcliff: the Lost Years by David Drum) are possible.

More evidence for the theory of Heathcliff having a previous history of child abuse and unknown early trauma, possibly relating to the slave trade (which doesn't necessarily discount the Earnshaw parentage theory either imo, and if anything may make it more likely if his reasoning for taking Heathcliff was that he wouldn't want his biological son enslaved) — is the portion where Nelly describes Heathcliff and how he initially took Hindley's abuse stoically:

". . . a sullen, patient child; hardened, perhaps, to ill-treatment: he would stand Hindley's blows without winking or shedding a tear, and my pinches moved him only to draw in a breath and open his eyes, as if he had hurt himself by accident, and nobody was to blame. This endurance made old Earnshaw furious, when he discovered his son persecuting the poor fatherless child, as he called him. He took to Heathcliff strangely . . ."

When Nelly adds that Earnshaw called Heathcliff "poor fatherless child," I see this as ironic whether Earnshaw is his biological father or not, since he is still the closest thing he has to any sort of "father figure" nominally, and symbolically in line with the view of Earnshaw as flawed micro-colonizer. In the act of standing up for Heathcliff over his own teenage son and future master of the house, he is basically acting as a pseudo-father preferring one son over another; for Hindley, the blow is deepened by Heathcliff not being Earnshaw's son in name.

For clarity's sake, whenever I refer to Mr. Earnshaw as Heathcliff's unofficially adoptive father or father figre, I do so sort of hesitatingly. Mr. Earnshaw/Heathcliff do not have a regular father/son dynamic; we're told that Heathcliff did not embrace but rather fought Mr. Earnshaw the entire 60 miles back to the Heights.

Surely the above may be hyperbole, but we must keep in mind that Mr. Earnshaw's gifts for Cathy/Hindley/Nelly were lost or destroyed in the process: most symbolically, Mr. Earnshaw's struggle to obtain Heathcliff led to Hindley's fiddle being broken, Cathy's whip being lost, and we're never told what happened to Nelly's gift of fruit, but we can assume it was lost or never got to be obtained as a result of his preoccupation.

Heathcliff's relationship with Mr. Earnshaw is complicated because of the racial power imbalance & as I said, Earnshaw having a white saviour complex & basically kidnapping Heathcliff despite (or so we're told) not fully knowing if Heathcliff had a family or not. Most important are Heathcliff's own feelings about the situation; Earnshaw's wild affection is clear.

We're told by Nelly's observations that Heathcliff clearly did not have a great love for Earnshaw: "I wondered often what my master saw to admire so much in the sullen boy; who never, to my recollection, repaid his indulgence by any sign of gratitude. He was not insolent to his benefactor, he was simply insensible; though knowing perfectly the hold he had on his heart, and conscious he had only to speak and all the house would be obliged to bend to his wishes."

When Mr. Earnshaw was dying, Heathcliff was sitting with Cathy who was singing to Earnshaw. When they realize Earnshaw has finally passed, Heathcliff seems to genuinely grieve as equally as Cathy (Hindley is at college at this time):

"The poor thing discovered her loss directly — she screamed out — 'Oh, he's dead, Heathcliff! he's dead!' And they both set up a heart-breaking cry." Later when Nelly returns from getting help: "I ran to the children's room: their door was ajar, I saw they had never lain down, though it was past midnight; but they were calmer, and did not need me to console them. The little souls were comforting each other with better thoughts than I could have hit on: no parson in the world ever pictured heaven so beautifully as they did, in their innocent talk . . ."

Yet we also know by Heathcliff's odd dynamics with Nelly and Hareton, and even by some of his behavior around Catherine I (who is the only person that most of us can agree he really loves), we can see that, probably due to trauma, Heathcliff does not know how to show affection "normally."

By his earlier disconnected reactions to Hindley's abuse, we can see that early on he had trouble reacting to negative emotions as well, which probably led him to his later emotional dysregulation & bursts of rage/frustration, which make complete sense in his situation and are why we can still often sympathize with him in his path of vengeance, even despite his abusiveness.

So we do not know the full extent of Heathcliff's feelings toward Mr. Earnshaw, and whether he truly had deep affection for him or somewhat resented him, but whatever his feelings were, they were clearly complex. As we all know, Heathcliff is capable of feeling very strongly, and when he does, he is usually vocal about it (see: literally most of his dialogue). He can't go 30 seconds without roasting someone lol. But he is oddly ambivalent and quiet about Earnshaw.

You could also (& countless academics have) argue that Earnshaw/the Earnshaw family is essentially a microcosm of colonization, Heathcliff is symbolically captured/enslaved by Mr. Earnshaw (which highlights how white saviourism is oxymoronic), and then actually becomes almost literally enslaved by Hindley later on.

On Heathcliff and Hindley:

Both are extremely flawed. Both are wildly in love with women who die from labor, both become abusive single fathers, both are defined by their grief and feelings of revenge, both want to kill each other all throughout the story, both actually try to do so to varying extents. Heathcliff saves Hareton from Hindley's negligence by catching him, Hindley saves Isabella from Heathcliff's abuse by tackling the latter (in what I think is one of the novels best sequences, Isabella's narration of the period of Heathcliff and Hindley's fighting and her escape). Heathcliff's bond with Hareton, like Hindley's bond with Isabella, is both manipulative and touching in turns. Ditto for their bonds to Nelly.

Many people believe Heathcliff had a role to play, directly or indirectly, in Hindley's death. Evidence for this: 1) teen Heathcliff wishes Hindley could drink himself to death but acknowledges doctor Kenneth says he won't: "‘It’s a pity he cannot kill himself with drink,’ observed Heathcliff, muttering an echo of curses back when the door was shut. ‘He’s doing his very utmost; but his constitution defies him. Mr. Kenneth says he would wager his mare that he’ll outlive any man on this side Gimmerton, and go to the grave a hoary sinner; unless some happy chance out of the common course befall him.’" 2) later, Kenneth remarks to Nelly that "He's barely twenty-seven, it seems; that's your own age: who would have thought you were born in one year?'" 3) Joseph once accused Heathcliff of attempting to murder Hindley during their fight ("And so ye've been murthering on him?") - in which Isabella said Heathcliff had to barely restrain himself from not killing Hindley. Joseph later adds suspicion to Hindley's death when, after Heathcliff explains to Nelly how Hindley had been suffering from the effects of alcoholism but died suddenly in the morning, Joseph "confirmed this statement, but muttered: "I'd rayther he'd goan hisseln for t' doctor! I sud ha' taen tent o' t' maister better nor him—and he warn't deead when I left, naught o' t' soart!'" (trans. from WH Reader's Guide site: "'I'd rather he'd gone himself for the doctor! I would have taken care of the master better than him—and he wasn't dead when I left, nothing of the sort!'"). So Heathcliff told Joseph to fetch Kenneth which left Heathcliff alone with Hindley, who was then dead when Joseph/Kenneth arrived.

My own theory is that Hindley probably choked on his own vomit (a common form of death by addiction) because of Heathcliff's description of he and Joseph finding Hindley "snorting like a horse; and there he was, laid over the settle: flaying and scalping would not have wakened him." It is after this that Heathcliff is alone with Hindley and he dies. Heathcliff can be seen as guilty through inaction imo, though he would justify it by saying he was letting nature take its course.

Heathcliff and Hindley take turns enslaving each other throughout the story. Hindley's seniority, legitimacy, and race give him advantages, while Heathcliff's early favoritism by Mr. Earnshaw and his later accrual of wealth, wit, and strength give him some advantages. We're told by Nelly (and she's biased, but she's the main source we have) that Hindley bullied Heathcliff immediately, to which Heathcliff weaponized Mr. Earnshaw in his favor, as evidenced by the horse scene.

If, when Hindley returned to become master of Wuthering Heights after Mr. Earnshaw's death, his wife Frances had taken a liking to Heathcliff, or if Hindley had simply matured in his time away — in other words, if Hindley had decided to grow up and let bygones be bygones — I wonder if Heathcliff would have done the same, and decided to be peaceful & not to continue their childhood rivalry.

The bulk of Heathcliff's lust for revenge really stems from Hindley's treatment of him after Mr. Earnshaw's death, when Hindley, as the new Mr. Earnshaw, really does follow through on that childhood promise during the horse scene to use his wealth/power/independence to render Heathcliff miserable, and to turn him out or keep him enslaved. Possibly at the beckoning of Frances (which I mention later,) Hindley succeeds in fulfilling this childish power fantasy, and this is partly what inspires Heathcliff to obtain the means of flipping the script and later rendering Hindley a weakened dependent.

Although Hindley is racist/absorbed his parents racism, note that Catherine was not/did not, and so Hindley's true hatred of Heathcliff imo is more motivated by jealousy/envy for his father's affection than it is anything else, & his own feelings of inadequacy & self-hatred which likely would have existed anyway & were just fuelled by being "usurped" in his father's affection.

I really blame Mr. (& Mrs., though we sadly have so little insight into her character) Earnshaw for Hindley/Heathcliff's rivalry, because I feel like we can assume Mrs. Earnshaw must have favored Hindley more when Mr. Earnshaw started favoring Heathcliff, considering Hindley's hatred increased after the grief from his mother's death, — and this favoritism & parental split is bound to deepen the split between their favorites.

Hindley's hatred of Heathcliff really increased after his father & then his wife's deaths (meaning he had prolonged complex grief), which I'm assuming compounded & brought back his feelings of his original grief for his mother, resulting in further hatred of Heathcliff who had nothing to do with any of it but whose arrival Hindley just subconsciously associated with his mother's illness/death & his father's emotional abandonment (which we could consider a mental death which took place before his physical death; imo Hindley's whole character is defined by grief).

To enhance their pseudo-brotherly rivalry, which some may say is reminiscent of Abel/Cain (especially if you believe the theory/opinion that Heathcliff murdered Hindley or was otherwise in any part to blame for his death), we again have the fact that Heathcliff was named after Hindley's dead brother.

Heathcliff is actually Heathcliff 2.0, and maybe it was Mr. Earnshaw's grief that led him to use Heathcliff 2.0 as a replacement child the way Hindley uses Mrs. Earnshaw 2.0 as a replacement mother.

All throughout the story we have people being named after each other and taking on each other's roles, ie the whole 1st/2nd generation parallels (we could extend it to be 1st/2nd/3rd since I've highlighted the narrative importance of Mr./Mrs. Earnshaw), Linton Heathcliff, Cathy 1.0/2.0. — but we know nothing about Heathcliff 1.0 other than that he died in childhood.

Was he Catherine's age, younger, or older? Did Catherine see Heathcliff as a replacement brother? Did Heathcliff 1.0 die before Catherine was born? Was he Hindley's age? Did Hindley already have grief/trauma from Heathcliff 1.0's death and resent Heathcliff 2.0 for usurping not only him, but his dead brother's place?

We're told that "the family" gave Heathcliff 2.0 his name, but I assume Mrs. Earnshaw and Hindley may not have been involved due to us never seeing that they care for him — and Joseph may have had a role in it, but he's also rarely thoughtful, and Nelly was gone — so could Cathy have suggested the name Heathcliff? (which brings to my mind Edward Rochester telling Jane Eyre to "give him his name" when he proposes to her, asking her to call him "Edward" — this would be poetic of Catherine/Heathcliff's relationship).

The meaning of the names Heathcliff/Hindley are very similar; they also share the same initials, syllable count, and the "ee" sound. Heathcliff is a combination of "heath" (a synonym for "moor"; what he and Cathy love to roave on) and "cliff." In meaning, apparently (according to some sources on Ancestry.com) Hindley is a habitational name from hind 'hind, female deer' and lēah 'woodland clearing' — which is basically another way of saying heath/moor. So there is a lot of similarity in their names, and this tainted brotherly theme, both of which must have been intentional.

Regardless of whether Heathcliff & Hindley are foster brothers or half-brothers, this naming choice is still a sign that Heathcliff was predestined to be part of the family, and lends itself to the other themes of predeterminism in that Heathcliff ends up becoming the master of the Heights after Hindley the way he would have if he were his biological brother.

Mr. Earnshaw telling Hindley he'd bring him back any gift he chose, and then returning with that gift having been broken by Heathcliff, are ample reasons to explain the hatred that moody 14-year-old Hindley immediately feels for him, who was about half his age and therefore an impractical playmate. He is more like a new sibling, and like an older sibling, Hindley is horrified at being overshadowed by the family's new addition. Since we don't know whether Hindley knew or was close to Heathcliff 1.0, we can hesitantly assume he may have been upset by the naming.

On Heathcliff, Hindley, and Frances:

I would like to briefly touch more on Hindley's wife's death (so closely followed by his fathers death) bringing up feelings of his mothers death. Hindley's wife Frances Earnshaw is the second Mrs. Earnshaw and she only comes to the house right after Mr. Earnshaw dies. I believe Hindley parallels his father, Frances parallels his mother (so like many men, he metaphorically "married his mother"), and that Frances also has some similarities to Heathcliff.

Frances has an unknown origin story and Hindley keeps her background from his father on purpose, and this could have been intended to parallel the first Mr. Earnshaw from possibly keeping Heathcliff's origins vague: "What she was, and where she was born, he never informed us: probably, she had neither money nor name to recommend her, or he would scarcely have kept the union from his father."

Frances also immediately dislikes Heathcliff... just like Hindley's mother, the first Mrs. Earnshaw, did: "Mrs. Earnshaw was ready to fling it out of doors: she did fly up, asking how he could fashion to bring that gipsy brat into the house, when they had their own bairns to feed and fend for? What he meant to do with it, and whether he were mad?"

We don't know why Frances dislikes Heathcliff, but it wouldn't be a stretch to assume it has to do with his race & status, because it is only after her disapproval that Hindley banishes Heathcliff to the role of a servant/slave, we can assume. We can also assume Frances disliked Heathcliff from the beginning, since we're never told that she took a liking to him like she initially does with Catherine; we are only ever told she dislikes him:

"She expressed pleasure, too, at finding a sister among her new acquaintance; and she prattled to Catherine, and kissed her, and ran about with her, and gave her quantities of presents, at the beginning. Her affection tired very soon, however, and when she grew peevish, Hindley became tyrannical. A few words from her, evincing a dislike to Heathcliff, were enough to rouse in him all his old hatred of the boy. He drove him from their company to the servants, deprived him of the instructions of the curate, and insisted that he should labour out of doors instead; compelling him to do so as hard as any other lad on the farm."

It is after the last quote that we learn Cathy and Heathcliff become increasingly "feral" outdoors, as Heathcliff is forced to toil in outdoor labor, and Cathy insists on keeping him company while he's at it. At this point they are both essentially orphaned, and then neglected and abandoned by Hindley and Frances, the new Mr. and Mrs. Earnshaw, who take on the roles of the former Mr. and Mrs. Earnshaw, who were similarly neglectful and emotionally abandoning to their children.

On Cathy and Heathcliff:

In the beginning, Lockwood reads this diary entry from Catherine I which proves the prior analysis in that she compares Mr. Earnshaw 1.0 to Mr. Earnshaw 2.0 (Hindley):

""An awful Sunday,' commenced the paragraph beneath. 'I wish my father were back again. Hindley is a detestable substitute — his conduct to Heathcliff is atrocious – H. and I are going to rebel — we took our initiatory step this evening."

Notice how in the death of Mr. Earnshaw and then under the tyranny of Hindley (Mr. Earnshaw 2.0), Cathy and Heathcliff are often sharing each other's emotions, and their bond is very twin-like. They both cry & grieve in their room in unison after Earnshaw dies, and although Heathcliff is the one primarily sentenced to torment by Hindley, Cathy doesn't abandon him to it and instead often keeps him company in his punishment, recalling when she was younger and her father would try to keep Heathcliff away from her to punish her.

Even when Cathy does sort of abandon Heathcliff to marry Edgar, in her speech after Heathcliff leaves, she says that her plan was to use her control over Edgar to benefit Heathcliff, so she really never intended to abandon him at all. Abandonment, attachment issues, separation, loss, grief, being torn away from someone/somewhere/something, are all major themes in this story, often expressed by familial and more often filial experiences.

Cathy and Heathcliff's relationship basically embodies all these themes the most poignantly, in that Heathcliff abandons her because he thinks she's abandoning him and he can't bear it and would rather leave than be left; then as soon as he returns, Cathy ends up actually physically abandoning him by dying! And later on, her ghost taunts him (I believe most of us can take the ghost plot as canon & not hallucinatory considering how many characters attest to it), and he once again returns to her like he did before.

Their whole relationship is about overcoming obstacles to separation, and being determined to retain their attachment as an act of defiance (even if it means defying life, death, physics, etc.) — this is why they're considered the most romantic couple in literature even despite their awful behavior most of the time, because in writing/literary pedagogy as a general rule it is almost always the goal of romantic leads to overcome obstacles which separate them from their lover, – and Heathcliff and Cathy take this goal to a new level by overcoming not only their childhood punishments of separation from one another, but overcoming the impossible obstacles of LIFE AND DEATH to reunite in the spirit realm where no one can separate them again — not even God.

Both Catherine and Heathcliff say that they know they won't go to heaven; God literally doesn't want them, and he has abandoned them, and this is the ultimate abandonment/seperation. Thus, all they have in the universe is each other — and if their relationship didn't work in life, they're determined to make it work in death!

Some final thoughts on Mr. Earnshaw and the making of Heathcliff:

Due to all of my previous explanations, I consider Mr. Earnshaw a possibly well-intentioned man but who ultimately failed all of his children (along with Mrs. Earnshaw) by 1) emotionally neglecting/abandoning Catherine because she was a "bad child" & acted more boyish than Hindley, 2) emotionally neglecting/abandoning Hindley in favor of Heathcliff (and maybe it was partly because Hindley was becoming a moody teenager and Heathcliff was comparatively younger/easier to handle bc of his trauma-induced subdued nature, but whatever his reasoning, it had disastrous consequences), 3) emotionally neglecting Heathcliff too by not being involved enough in his integration with the family & not checking in on him and Hindley, 4) straight up just not being that involved to begin with and not seeming to teach his children anything, hence why they're all bratty and grow up to be deeply maladjusted.

Notice how Nelly's motivational speeches to Heathcliff, and her taking care of him when he was sick, have an extraordinary affect on him, meaning Mr. and Mrs. Earnshaw probably didn't show him even half as much attention or real affection. Like most English fathers at the time, Earnshaw thought his job as father/master was to merely provide provisions, leave the children with the women to be actually raised, and be done with it. The most unique thing he does in his life, and indeed his whole role in the story, is bringing home Heathcliff.

Maybe most importantly, I also just realized that Earnshaw kidnapping Heathcliff parallels Heathcliff kidnapping his own son after Isabella dies (and also him kidnapping his daughter-in-law Cathy II), and while this narrative parallel works if Earnshaw is merely Heathcliff's adoptive father, it also could be working to suggest that Earnshaw was his biological father, knew Heathcliff's mother had died, and so went back for him and took him by force. If Heathcliff's mother had recently died (or been separated from him), this would have compounded his trauma of being taken by Earnshaw, and this would have furthered his childhood memory loss, which could be another reason why I don't think Heathcliff remembers very much about his origins.

Heathcliff has much in common with Frankenstein's creaure. Yet, he is essentially a self-made man, his own creator and creature. We are even led to think of him as inhuman, as Isabella suggests with her referring to him as such and even calling him vampiric. And he does bear a lot of similarity to John Polidori's Lord Ruthven, from the first vampire novel The Vampyre (a Byronic tale, based on Byron's short story Augustus Darvell). Heathcliff's canonically mysterious origins and mysterious hiatus are necessary to his character; like Isabella and Nelly, we're supposed to question him and form our own opinions on the matter.

[laufire]

I watched under the red hood recently so maybe 🔥 + Jason in it?

nice 😃

first of all, in order to discuse this, I need to establish the Really Big Changes between that movie and comics canon because... yeah, they're huge lol.

in the comics, Bruce and Jason's relationship had been fracturing in his last days as robin, because Bruce suspect Jason of pushing a rapist with diplomatic immunity from a balcony (the comic leaves this ambiguous. I prefer it this way). with terrible timing, Jason finds out that the mother that raised him wasn't his biological mother, so he sets out on a search for new family. after a whole international quest, he finds her... and she gives him up to the Joker in order to cover her *check's notes* embezzling crimes. the rest is history.

Jason is not brought back by the Lazarus Pit (and Ra's certainly wanted nothing to do with him lol). he awakes one day on his coffin because of comic-typical nonsense (alternate version of superman punched the world?? and it "set things right" because Jason was never "meant" to die). he digs his way out, gets hit by a car, gets taken to a hospital, stays in a comma, awakens but ~catatonic, escapes and wanders the streets stealing and sharing food with the homeless... then a league ally finds him, Talia al Ghul is informed, and takes Jason under her wing. when he's not healing fast enough for Ra's tastes and he wants to take Jason a way to the farm, Talia throws him into the Pit without Ra's permision.

in their final confrontation, Bruce is far less calm and doesn't throw the batarang to Jason's hand: he throws it to his neck, with potential lethal force, to fully stop him. then the Joker blows things up. it's kind of implied that Jason dies, but maybe the same magic (there's a purple light thingy?) took effect, so he eventually returns to annoy Dick in New York and briefly turn into a tentacled monster. that's not relevant here though.

oh, and Black Mask didn't need to free the Joker. he was already chilling in some amusement park, as he does. while Batman did... eh. who knows.

there are other, less important changes. because comics are weird and quirky and inherently hard to adapt in a way general audiences will take seriously. a very funny one is that the assassin Jason kills when he and Bruce are fighting side by side calls himself Captain Nazi.

okay so. I have MIXED FEELINGS about the film, precisely because of these changes (well, minus the Captain Nazi one, but that is REALLY funny of Jason, imo). I like it a lot... but I'm also bummed it removes Talia's importance... and that it backs the post-death narrative pushed by DC that Jason died because he was "reckless"/eagerly violent as Robin... the changes pertaining Bruce... and most of all, Jason's resurrection (again, I get it's comics-weird. But I really like the digging-out-of-one's-grave's motif!! and it could've easily been left ambiguous - the characters in the comics have no idea of why Jason came back, so. it could remain a mystery!).

and as I said, re: Bruce. sometimes I'm annoyed because the changes seem designed to make Bruce seem less... objectionable lol. other times I'm curious because the changes because they suggest a very different person in some key ways that spark my imagination in fic-related ways. depends on the day!

but overall it's a good film and a more than competent adaptation, that REALLY showcases my perfect son who never did anything wrong in his life xD, that portrays him as competent (very important to me), and that hits just the right spot when it comes to all my Jason and Bruce-Jason FEELS. and teeny tiny robin!Jason was adorable.

(I'm very happy the fandom outgrew its phase of fancasting Jensen Ackles as Jason though. what a travesty).

Send Me a 🔥+ a Topic, and I’ll Tell You My Honest Opinion About It

[faithlesbian]

ive been holding off on posting this bc ive been formulating my thoughts (also i never post) but since it seems we're having a racism in the buffyverse/fandom moment (should be every moment!) I figured now would be a good time to vent my feelings on the first slayer.

I do a lot of hobbyist research into the stone age its a long running special interest of mine, and ive just finished writing my dissertation on a number of things including primitivism in contemporary culture. so drawing from that i wanted to expand on the tags I left on the previous post, with the clarification that i am white and european and therefore am speaking from that perspective on this subject.

as far as I can remember, the original Buffy movie had flashbacks to the medieval period, with a white medieval woman in these flashbacks implied to be the first slayer. if that's right and I'm not just misremembering, this would tie in to the pop culture associations of this era with catholicism, witch hunts, gothic castles; all of which further ties into popular vampire lore. however, the tv show leans away from this, with vampires being the only demons vulnerable to christian iconography and most of the worldbuilding drawing from multitheistic (not sure if this is the right word) traditions, preferring pantheons of minor gods, demons as folkloric monsters rather than fallen angels, and the existence of multiple hell dimensions.

the way the show does this is often very primitivist, primitivism here meaning the (often harmful) romanticisation of cultures and eras considered "less advanced", interpreting them as therefore more exotic, interesting, or just plain better than modern western society and in doing so flattening them into solely an appealing primitive fantasy.

examples of this can be seen in the foreign and/or dead languages used in magic and demon research, the appropriated eastern and African imagery used in weapons and costumes, the writing of characters like kendra (who's "people" seem to know a lot about the supernatural but are never actually named), jenny calendar (who carries plot-relevant cultural knowledge from her mysticised "people"), and nikki wood, through whose son buffy learns the ancient - primitive - origins of the first slayer.

the choice to relocate the origins of the slayer from medieval europe to (im assuming, since they never specify) paleolithic africa make a lot of sense in context of the shows de-emphasing of christianity in their vampire lore. this would change the slayer from a warrior chosen by the church to fight unholy creatures, to a defender of humanity at large from folkloric monsters. it also makes the slayer line a lot longer, extending far back into human history.

you'd think.

because the problem is im not honestly convinced anyone writing these episodes knows or cares about the accepted findings that show homo sapiens originated in africa, I can't honestly say it comes across that they were trying to imply that the slayer existed before the first waves of human migration by depicting her as they did. i dont actually know if these characters are intended to come from the stone age or just an ambiguous pre-colonial africa and im being very generous by writing this post the way i have. I think they made the very simple connection of "primitive = cool and mysterious" to "black = primitive". the depictions of the first slayer and first watchers are tangibly racist. their treatment by the narrative is tangibly racist.

the first slayer is depicted as animalistic, brutal, and vengeful, but rather than have buffy empathise with her over their shared experience of being used as a tool of violence, the episode has buffy mock and belittle her down to making a joke about her unprofessional hair. the first watchers are set up as the backward patriarchal villains for buffy and willow to overcome by rewriting the terms of the slayer lineage, in both cases black characters are vilified to make white women seem cooler, more self-possessed, more powerful.

it's not just the treatment of individual characters. its fundamental pillars of the lore. non-european (and some minority european) cultures are consistently used to be spooky, occult, and exotic set dressing, while two whole season finales hinge on abject primitivism and antiblackness.

to clarify, i think in another show with a different writing team, the depiction of scientifically accurate (i.e. dark-skinned) early homo sapiens could be achieved in a wholly inoffensive way if these characters were simply written as people. removing the layers of primitivism from the first slayer reveals a traumatised girl who was forced to fight, just like fandom-beloved characters buffy and faith, albeit from a very different time period. but the layers of primitivism are the reason why she was written in the first place. the "primal" is mysterious, spooky, powerful, and therefore makes for good writing without ever having to clarify what it is you mean when you say "primal".

stone age people were not animalistic manifestations of modern-day people's repressed subconscious. they were people. the refusal to see this is another branch from the same root - that the writers see cultures and people outside of the modern west as less-than. but if their language sounds cool for a summoning chant, then they get to be less-than in a ~cool and mysterious~ way, i guess.

[aziraphales-library]

Hey!

I greatly appreciate this blog and was wondering if you could help me!

You know the trope where there are two married teachers and one overshares and one is super secretive and no one knows they’re married?? Thank you so so much <3

Hi. Yes, I do know that trope. I assume you want some recommendations?...

That of the Obvious by KaytheJay (G)

No one would have suspected the two of them. Not in a million years. The two were just so different from one another that it didn’t make sense for them to be together. Dr. Crowley was too open with his emotions. He was open enough that the students thought that he might scare off Dr. Fell if they were to ever have a conversation with each other. Dr. Fell had a metaphorical stick shoved so far up his ass that his students would not be surprised to find out that Dr. Fell had a perpetual taste of wood in his mouth.

Office Hours by winter_scldier (T)

Dr. Crowley was one of the most loved professors in the University. His students loved taking his class so much, he had to extend his office hours. All his students can't wait to hear more stories of his loving mystery husband.

Dr. Fell wasn't one of the more popular professors, but his literature students love him to death. He's very quiet about his home life, careful about how much information he gives away to his students.

At night, after a hard day of teaching, the two go home and deal with modern married life.

The Benefit Of Not Making Assumptions by teardrops_on_ghostly_wings (T)

Based on the tumblr prompt "Okay which one of you is going to write the Ineffable Husbands college professor AU with the extremely sweet and over-sharing professor fawning over their spouse and the standoff-ish secretive professor who reveals absolutely nothing about their private life who turned out to be married?"

what their students don't know by thing1_mea (T)

Crowley and Aziraphale have begun teaching classes at a nearby college. While Crowley openly shares about his relationship Aziraphale prefers to keep his private life private... for as long as he can

Something Wanting in My Nature by Mugatu (T)

I saw this tumblr prompt and my hand slipped.

"Okay which one of you is going to write the Ineffable Husbands college professor AU with the extremely sweet and over-sharing professor fawning over their spouse and the standoff-ish secretive professor who reveals absolutely nothing about their private life who turned out to be married?"

It’s Always Been You by renjunsrey (T)

It's no secret that the photography professor, Mr Anthony J Crowley absolutely adores his husband Zira, who he gushes about at the start of all his classes, his intimidating demeanor means nothing when he speaks with the love for his husband every given moment. On the other hand, next to no one knows anything about Mr Aziraphale (first name unknown to anyone except maybe his husband), the only thing about the Literature Professor that anyone knows, is that he loves the instagram for an iridescent python called Adam.

It's the ineffable husbands' wedding anniversary, and they are both very bad at hiding gifts, making Aziraphale think that Crowley is unwell, and making Crowley think that Aziraphale forgot their anniversary, fluff ensues.

Demons and Angel Professors by Ghostinthehouse (G-T) (Series)

They're professors. They're married. Their students don't realise. Cue shenanigans.

Multiple short arcs with one-shots (and often pauses) between them. Characters continue from one arc to the next.

Any ambiguity between being human and being occult/ethereal is entirely deliberate.

- Mod D

[nyaagolor]

I originally was going to make this a comic, but then realized I don't have the skill, time, nor motivation to execute it so it's a textpost now. Anyway.

I was thinking about Dual Destinies (again) and about what would happen if Clay were the defendant rather than the victim-- but the more I started playing around with this tweak the more things got out of hand and now I'm effectively looking at a rewrite

The first change is in the setting: Aura / Simon / Metis / Athena / Clay were all working / living at a rehabilitation center connected to the prison system. Thematically I prefer it to the space theme, it puts a lot more ambiguity on the situation with Metis and Athena (since raising ur child in a correctional facility is. Questionable.), and imo psychologists make more sense working at a prison than like. Nasa.

Clay isn't an astronaut in this AU, but instead some kind of guard / bailiff. This gives us a chance to interact with him in the game itself (he's the one bringing witnesses from the courthouse and he's at the detention center) so we get to actually see him and care about him a little bit more. I'm imagining he gets the job as the guard in the corner of the room in the detention center and if you "examine" that spot as Apollo you'll get some flavor text about him waving to you or smth. Either way, the last case starts with Clay getting a promotion and being responsible for some of their more dangerous / high profile criminals

He calls Apollo shortly after in a complete panic, saying he's been accused of murdering his charge and that he's so so so sorry because he knows how personal this is, but he needs Apollo's help. Apollo immediately agrees to defend him, trying to get him to calm down and just explain. Clay finally admits that the reason he was so nervous about calling Apollo specifically is because the victim of this case is Kristoph Gavin

Apollo decides to set off on his own immediately, because while he does trust Phoenix way more now, the subject of Kristoph is a really sore point for him and he doesn't want Phoenix involved. Klavier, who was banned from prosecuting the case for Conflict of Interest reasons, joins him because he is also extremely invested in this case For Reasons and he has trust issues about it For Reasons. They end up getting Clay declared innocent and in the process of investigating find the lighter, which basically shatters Apollo's already fragile trust in Phoenix because What Do You MEAN the random girl you mysteriously hired is related to the Kristoph case What Are You Hiding Now. The hostage situation with Aura happens in the same way, but this time Klavier forces his way onto the prosecution with Apollo as his co-counsel because the two of them are PISSED

The idea is for Athena to be her own defense, but she's so emotionally rattled that she needs a co-counsel. To Aura's shock and horror, Simon says he'll do it. When she says he's a prosecutor and he can't, he counters that this is a fake trial anyway so the rules don't really apply. The trial is extremely emotionally driven because it's super personal for everyone involved and is just an absolute goddamn disaster. I haven't figured out anything with the phantom yet or how all this ties together, but that's a problem for later

[danpuff-ao3]

Snarry-a-Thon 2023

Snarry-a-Thon is an annual fest of Snarry goodness that always brings so much creativity and joy in the Snarry community. I am forever blown away by how much talent and passion Snarry-lovers have. With that in mind, I wanted to create some special recs for a fest near and dear to my heart.

With that, here are my Top 5 picks for the 2010 fest! But first...

Disclaimer: my rec lists are created based on my personal experiences and preferences. There are plenty of other stories and authors who are quite good and deserve just as much love. This is not meant to be an objective “best of the best” list, but the subjective opinion of a longtime reader and fangirl.

Loose Ends

by Arrisha (@arrisha-ao3). Rated: E. Words: 9,856. Heavy angst. Dark. Psychological horror. Unhealthy relationships. Trauma. Mystery. Angst and Romance.

I love you, Severus wants to say. But the timing is never right.

The Want of You

by Ephemeral (@fleetingdesires). Rated: E. Words: 7,377. Hogwarts 8th Year. POV Severus Snape. Clubbing. Virginity loss.

On his night off, Severus unexpectedly realises that Harry has grown into quite an attractive man. He's just not going to think too hard about it. No, he's not going to think about him at all. It's fine. He's fine. Everything is fine.

Nocturne

by Necromanticnoir (@necromanticnoir). Rated: E. Words: 54,090. Fairiytale retellings. Creature fic. Dual POV. Horror. Heartache. Mutual pining. Angst and feels. Self-hatred. Dark magic. Dreams and nightmares.

A Gothic Snarry version of ‘Beauty and the Beast’, inspired by the dark and sensual tale from the Czech film version, ‘Panna a Netvor’. I follow some of the plot, but then diverge and do my own thing. Got to make it even weirder, right? An eerie, erotic, brooding, bloody, batty, haunting fairytale. ‘Underneath my skin there’s a human. Buried deep within there’s a human. Despite everything, I’m still human.’ - ‘Human’ by Daughter

Line by Line

by SerenaEW (@serenaew). Rated: T. Words: 7,836. Romance. Poetry. Librarian Harry. Artist Harry. Calligraphy. Light angst.

After an involuntary exile from the Wizarding World, Harry is now Assistant Librarian at Hogwarts and part-time artist. Who is the poet of the Hogwarts-inspired verses he is creating art for?

Luck of the Draw

by Writcraft (@writcraft). Rated: E. Words: 11,857. Romance. Getting together. Minor injuries. Auror Harry Potter. Humor.

Severus is enjoying the quiet life when his participation in a Ministry raffle forces him to go on a date with Harry Potter. During a weekend filled with drag queens, hiking, a twisted ankle and a dog named Paddington, Severus begins to wonder if the quiet life is really all it’s cracked up to be.

Bonus: Shameless Self Rec

Devotion

by danpuff. Rated: E. Words: 25,843. Enemies to lovers. Cheating. Unhealthy relationships. Self-hatred. Mental health issues. POV Severus Snape. Open/ambiguous ending.

Is there anything more undignified than needing someone so much? Sequel to Contempt

Snarry-a-Thon 2023 Masterlist