#if he would return heathcliff to her

[gachabastard]

*leans against the door frame, chugging a bottle of coke*

so we're all in agreement that the violet flowers, to catherine, are a symbol of heathcliff, right? and heathcliff knows this, right? and that's why he so vehemently denied the flowers have any meaning, because as far as he's concerned, catherine broke his heart and therefore he meant nothing to her, so ultimately the flowers were meaningless? right?

[lesbianredhoodedmercenary]

RATING THE SINNER'S ROOMS ON HOW INHOSPITABLE TO LIFE THEY ARE

DON QUIXOTE - 6/10 IT'S DOWNRIGHT OKAY IN HERE

Don is the only sinner who knows what "decorating" is. She's got a carpet or mat of some kind so sleeping here would not be absolutely dismal. And they let her keep her fixer figurines which is nice.

HONG LU - 5.5/10 MONEY CAN BE EXCHANGED FOR GOODS AND SERVICES

Having so much gold and treasure chests everywhere probably makes it a bit hard to move around the room. But at least his chair looks comfortable.

SINCLAIR - 5/10 CHAIR

Nice of them to give him a chair to Shinji pose in. Sucks that the chair will give him back pain at the tender age of 20.

MEURSAULT - 4/10 PAGE 77 LINES 12-15 ALBERT CAMUS' THE STRANGER (EN TRANSLATION BY MATTHEW WARD)

"There were others worse off than me. Anyway, it was one of Maman's ideas and she often repeated it, that after a while you could get used to anything."

FAUST - 3.5/10 INTJ ROOM

Well she was given a plain white tile room originally but she had to go and be an INTJ about it and now there's formulas on the wall.

YI SANG - 3/10 GLASS ON THE FLOOR

Similar to Faust, Yi Sang was given nothing but a white tiled room. But he got glass on the floor so it adds an element of danger. We are now entering the "Rooms with potential for bodily harm, be it illness or injury" zone.

RODYA - 2/10 A BIT CHILLY

No matter how cute your fur-trimmed pajamas are, they will not save you from frostbite. Sorry about your neighbors also. Mind the blood.

GREGOR - 1.5/10 TETANUS

While I understand the symbolism of him feeling like just another weapon of war, abandoned when the smoke war ended, there are just a lot of chances to get tetanus here. Not a good place to sleep.

HEATHCLIFF - 1/10 AND IS CATHERINE EARNSHAW IN THE ROOM WITH US NOW?

Not only does he have a roommate who's been festering for god knows how long, but due to being British he's discovered a way to make it rain INSIDE! He will be joining Rodya in the hypothermia club if he tries to sleep in these conditions.

RYOSHU - 0.5/10 FIRE SAFETY

Sorry about your daughter. We put a bunch of candles in a wooden room for you. You don't like the candles because they remind you of how your daughter died? Okay sorry. The room will catch fire any second now so you shouldn't have to worry about it.

OUTIS - 0/10 TETANUS, TRENCHFOOT, AND OTHER AILMENTS.

Not to be outdone by Heathcliff and Gregor, Outis has combined the worst of tetanus risks and dead bodies wrapped in barbed wire. Then turned it up orders of magnitude larger. It'll probably take her at least 10 years, experiencing many perils and losing all of her crewmates in the process, to return home. Sucks that they couldn't at least give her a chair in the meantime.

ISHMAEL - WATER/10

WATER.

[offshore-brinicle]

Little personal Limbus theory that I've been working on for some time is that the Limbus Sinners' inciting indicents that led them down the path of joining the company, being the moment when their wish was born, all happened at the same time 3 years before the current story.

Thanks to some old leaks where people managed to dig up three of the Sinners' unobstructed profiles, we know Yi Sang and Sinclair's official ages are 29 and 20 respectively. Remove 3 years from that:

Yi Sang would have been 26, which is the age the narrator of The Wings claims to be, after leaving his wife behind once and for all and pressumably commiting suicide by jumping off the rooftop of a department store. 26 is the real Yi Sang's age at the time of his death as well, after his tuberculosis worsened imprisioned by the Japanese forces, so this means most likely he's left N Corp behind 3 years prior, avoiding such a fate, be it either death by his own hands in despair or torment at the hands of Hermann since she seems to threaten him with torture.

Sinclair on the other hand would have been 17 which aligns with him still being in high school when the incident with Kromer happened and also mentions in his observation log for Kromer that she has grown slightly taller since the last time they met, however what was of him and how he had survived for so long taking in count he woke up in the Backstreets after his family's murder is still a mystery.

Now recently, not only the Pequod crew speculate that they have been trapped inside The Whale for 3 years, but we get direct confirmation that Limbus!Heathcliff is from the Wuthering Heights timeskip thanks to his Queequeg ID.

The first one is pretty self-explenatory, they say it themselves, though it's dubious how true this is since they have no way of tell the passage of time inside the whale and even the woman who says this sounds somewhat unsure, and Pip who was a young child in Ishmael's memory still looks the same when we see him again in the present and it's difficult to say if this is a side effect of the Pallidfication. (on the other hand I am impressed at the growth rate of Ishmael's hair for being only 3 years)

On the other hand, Heathcliff's Queequeg ID mentions the event that led him to run away from Wuthering Heights in the original novel; he overhears Catherine saying to Nelly that marrying him would be "a disgrace to her", so driven by his anger and heartbreak he ran away, making his own fortune elsewhere so that he would return to the state seeking vengeance and to become someone who Catherine would be willing to marry. This had been implied before through his general behavior and his mugshot showing him still shabby and bruised as well as his N Corp story, but this leaves no room for questioning.

All of this means that if we go by the book, at least 3 years have passed since he left Wuthering Heights and Canto VI which is next and dedicated to him would correspond with Heathcliff's return to Wuthering Heights both in Limbus' story and in the book, meaning Catherine is most likely still alive, yet Heathcliff as a Sinner in Limbus Company is a far cry from the newly powerful version of Heatchliff that returns to the state in the book, so it's likely things will play out not quite the same.

Faust's line in the Walpurgisnacht cutscene says that the standard extraction timeline range is limited to 3 years between the past and future.

In this cutscene she also says that the extractions are powered by possibility itself, and the IDs that become available are also influenced by the Sinners' experiences at the company and how they come to reconsider themselves and each other, that's how for example we get N Corp. Sinclair and Spicebush Yi Sang after being faced with Kromer digging at Sinclair and telling him about the world where they work together, and then Yi Sang being so strongly affected internally by Dongbaek's death and ultimate fate, which would be the most intense story-focused examples so far, and if we eventually get a Captain Ahab ID for Ishmael, they had already established she was down the path of becoming another Ahab, and she herself did not realize this until they met again.

If all of the Sinners' great choices that led them down the path they are currently all happened 3 years ago and the initial extraction range is 3 years, it would make sense, since these would be the moments that weight on their mind most strongly, though there's also the case of Outis who has been on her own journey for at least 10 years going by the original Odyssey and how long ago The Smoke War was, same case for Gregor who's specific motives for joining are still unknown.

[necronatural]

Limbus Company theory

Okay, I have absolutely no idea if anyone's noted this yet. Did anyone pick up that the Sinners are held down by a Sin, represented in their EGO, and their Canto are about their struggles against another sin entirely. The branch creates a space for 'penance'. When Rodya entered the field of effect of the branch, Baba Yaga went crazy, freezing the entire mine. There's clearly some paralleling at work here.

So let's go through.

Gregor, Canto 1: Sloth V Gluttony (survival); note that this expedition failed, and we later explore Sloth with Yi Sang

Rodion, Canto 2: Pride V Gloom; note that Rodya refused to actualize

Sinclair, Canto 3: Gluttony (Greed) V Lust

Yi Sang, Canto 4: Sloth V Gluttony (greed); Dante's resonance begins

Ishmael, Canto 5: Gloom V Envy; Dante's resonance progresses

When we look at the dominant sins of the remainder...

Heathcliff, Canto 6: Envy...

Don Quixote, Canto 7: Lust…

Hong Lu, Canto 8: Gloom…

Ryoshu, Canto 9: Wrath…

Meursault, Canto 10: Pride…

Outis, Canto 11: Pride…

Faust, Canto 12: Pride…

Dante, Canto ?: ????

Sins not confronted yet: Sloth, Pride, Wrath

Sinner sins left to explore: Envy, Wrath, Lust (If we're talking strictly what progressed Dante's clock, Gluttony & Pride)

Assuming Dante's doomsday clock setting is moving in 5 minute intervals, Dante currently has 2 positions left on their clock; 5 minutes to midnight and midnight itself. It's made almost explicit that their resonance with sinners is the tool with which they resonate with the branches. By obtaining each sin, they're building to some sort of complete whole.

Predictions based on this theory; Pride being so back-heavy probably means we're going to scramble for branches with Hermann. It gives the impression that for whatever reason Pride is necessary, which is interesting.

My own theory: Rodya says she'll settle in the cold [Gloom] for a little longer, and Sonya says she doesn't have the mark. I'd say this might mean Rodya hasn't sufficiently resonated. Sonya may have tried to bait her in hopes of getting better results in this regard.

This may mean ...

The last few Cantos will be a losing streak (LOL)

Someone who hasn't cleansed themselves of their opposing sin/formed the mark of cain will get the branch; I'd imagine this person shares sins with Dante, Vergilius, or Charon, who I believe are probably Envy, Wrath, and Lust respectively (OOP @ WHO WE'RE MISSING ⬆️)

In that respect Vergilius V Sloth, Charon V Pride, Dante V Wrath. I even think the wrath Dante is opposed to could be Vergilius

Very notable there's only 3 sins missing; it could be possible we already have Dante's branch; they were very obviously part of the group of Cain Marked, and again, their clock started at 25-to-midnight and just kind of sat there for a little while. It's also possible it didn't move until Yi Sang because their sin was Gluttony (ambiguous manifestation)? If Hermann also represents Lust ..... Think about it

Rodya's refusal of the call of Cain might become plot-relevant, just as our failure to observe what happened to Gregor on the myth arc timeline of 3 years ago and relationship with the Big Bad makes it obvious he's going to be a core character in the future. We can tell based on those who have the mark of Cain that he just doesn't have the chops, so mayhaps their mutual exclusion will be a surprise tool that will help us later.

And of course, my theories for the sins that weigh down our remaining Sinners: Heathcliff V Sloth, Don Quixote V Wrath, and Ryoshu V Pride. I predict all the Prides share Rodya's opposing force, which is Gloom; we see this in the books these characters are based on, with Meursault's despair of being sentenced to death being overcome by his Pride, Outis putting herself through grueling trials for the sake of returning to her family, and Faust beginning with suicidal depression leading to her pride creating(summoning) Mephistopheles.

I think it would be pretty funny if Dante was Gretchen's evil baby. Or that Gretchen might have been their previous self, manipulated into giving birth to Dante (extremely vulnerable and exploitable state), which they will be disgusted by and put to death. How many representations of the Divine Feminine in classic literature can Dante represent any% speedrun

[agender-witchery]

It hurts

After talking with people in discord for the week that this has been going on, I think my feelings on the Project Moon situation are just. Like, this was a company I felt was "safe". Obviously corporations are not your friends, but this was a studio that consistently pushed out games with progressive - and at times even radical - messaging. This was a studio that has consistently written solid characters with gender as an absolute afterthought. Emma is a boy! Harold is a girl! That's how little gender matters, which, ironically, is something that matters.

I can't think of another franchise I've engaged with that just... writes women as people. I've heard George R.R. Martin is like that, but I never engaged with the TV series that introduced the US to the concept of filler or the book series it was based on. I'm gonna gloss over Lobotomy Corporation a bit here because the story only has 13 characters, but 12 of them return for Library of Ruina. In Ruina you have Binah, Angela, Nikolai, and Elena as assertive women that take control of the situations they're in. You have passive uwu smol beans like Hod and Eileen! You have characters who are war criminals and that's not a mark of a villain, that's just a part of their backstory! Some of the women here have just Done Crimes! One of the women IS a crime! And men are treated the same! There are characters with traumas and behavioral disorders who act like real people would! Lesti saw the aftermath of Love Town and started talking about food! Beef intestine no less! Philip saw his colleagues get murdered and physically manifested a mental breakdown! Xiao saw her husband get murdered and physically manifested literal burning rage!

All of the writing has been good! All of it! And it has consistently written women in a way that is flat out rare, even in 2023. And Limbus has been doing the same! Outis is assertive! Ryoshu is assertive! Hermann is assertive! Don is an idiot and Faust refuses to talk half the time! Heathcliff is assertive! Meursault is assertive! Gubo is assertive! Hong Lu is an idiot and Sinclair is/was a pathetic sop! Across the board, the character writing is just GOOD. As Lobotomy Corporation progresses, Ayin's shitty behavior becomes more and more apparent! And that all culminates with Angela being tossed aside like garbage once she's no longer useful to him, as you hear her desperate wishes to just be seen!

All of that, or at least most of that, was Kim Ji-hoon. But Kim Ji-hoon is also the person who hastily fired VellMori at 11 PM, over the phone, while he was out of office in Japan, because some incels accused his company of being sympathetic to feminists in 2023.

And it fuckin hurts that the source of those stories, the stories that I just spent three paragraphs praising, the stories that are so important to me, could turn heel in half a second like that. As if he was writing completely different stories than the ones I've been reading. And I hate that? I hate that. Because there isn't a replacement! I don't get Grandma War Crimes and Dumbass Justice Enactor in other stories! Like, maybe some will come close, maybe some will have the same exact character somewhere, but never all of it together. Never written as amazingly as the City is.

So it hurts. And the silence is loud.

[clanwarrior-tumbly]

Ello! Remember Friendly Alternative Y/n? Can I maybe request Mark introducing them to Thatcher Headcanons? :0 atleast then maybe the police will have instead of a police dog a police alternative XD also the feeling of just imaging protecting Y/n at first from a shocked thatcher is so adorable :0

Thatcher visited the Heathcliff residence one evening under the guise of another "wellness check".

But in reality, he thought there was more to Mark's case than just the simple statement he provided.

Surviving not one but two Alternate attacks might sound like an act of pure luck or divine intervention, yet it didn't seem plausible that this kid could've taken all of them on by himself.

He suspected a third party might've been involved--or something that Mark was unwilling to share with the authorities at the time.

The lieutenant figured he'll be able to answer the questions he didn't get to ask before.

However the "surprise visit" goes about as well as anyone would expect....with Mark panicking and you hiding in the shadows, watching and wondering what would happen.

He gets rid of any and all evidence of your presence, until Thatcher finds a drawing in the trash alluding to you, a Type 3 Alternate, being some sort of "guardian angel".

That didn't make any sense.

This kid must have a case of MAD that distorted his perception of Alternates as protectors.

But Mark gets extremely defensive when he suggested this.

"Listen, I know it sounds crazy. I never thought I'd consider one of them to be a friend, but I can prove it! I can bring [y/n]-"

"Wait...you gave that thing a name-?"

"No, lieutenant. I gave that name to myself."

Thatcher nearly jumps out of his skin as you appear from the shadows, instinctively reaching for his gun...but remembering Mark's words and seeing the terrified look on his face, he calms down a little, sitting back down.

Immediately he can tell you're nothing like the broadcasts said.

You aren't currently mimicking anybody, being a "pure form" similar to N/The Façade.

You're not hostile in the slightest, and he asks you why.

Long story short, you managed to gain his trust and he thinks you'd be helpful in his investigations.

You wind up going to the station as an "undercover" officer in-training, with him and Ruth (after convincing her that you're on humanity's side) showing you the ropes.

Ofc you're not a perfect copy of a human being, but the rest of the MCPD suspects nothing.

The 333 Alternate is less-than-pleased to see you prevent it from killing Ruth and Thatcher when you accompany them to the Murray residence, calling you a "traitor" to your kind.

You knew the risks of helping the organization Gabriel was trying to dismantle, but it's one worth taking if it means Mandela was a little bit safer, especially Mark.

At the end of the day, you'd always return to his home just to make sure he was alright.

And also to ramble about how much you liked having a "real human job".

[enkephallic]

Limbus Theory: S3 Lust, Why Hong Lu May Distort

This contains spoilers for the 2nd update of canto 6.

Please employ self-defense as needed.

---

I already touched upon this in another post, but I think there is a lot of meaning behind the sin types of each identity. But for each canto, I think what comes into play is the LCB Sinner ID.

...Which is why I think it's very fitting that Heathcliff is the first to feel the Carmen touch.

Heathcliff's skill set is S1 Envy, S2 Wrath, S3 Lust. The first two were fairly easy to figure out, because he's quite outwardly resentful of the rich and privileged. And this stems from the anger and unfairness at his abuse and mistreatment he faced.

But I was confused of S3 lust, until canto 6 rolled around.

I interpreted lust as the ultimate purpose to exist - they have something they believe in, something they love, something that is basically their whole reason to keep going.

And if that's taken away, they tumble into despair and mental ruin. Which is the case with Heathcliff after he hears of Cathy's death, and the events that followed. His own self coming to confirm that his purpose itself was his sin, that his existence at Wuthering Heights itself was a mistake.

He believed in this one purpose. To be the man Cathy would turn her head to. It's why he stayed in an awful environment for so long, and why he left. Why he joined Limbus and why he returned. His whole life had been rendered meaningless, according to this revelation.

Distort!

...Okay, what has this got to do with Hong Lu.

Hong Lu is the only other sinner ID with S3 lust - a strong belief in something, central to his very existence. He's a very mysterious and elusive sinner, but he has some uncommon and strange beliefs that tie into him as a person.

His sense of normal is insanely warped. The way he deals with pain almost seems like he's dissociating, like it's not himself experiencing it. He has showed a lack of understanding that his experiences are not universal. He doesn't seem to be upset about others being mean to him, or being in life or death situations.

My theory is that he's normalized some horrific things as a way to cope with his home environment, leading him to believe some extremely abnormal occurrences and abuse were completely fine.

And when that 'normal' is flipped on its head, it won't look pretty at all.

Moreover, a very interesting thing is that Faust uses Hong Lu as an example when explaining distortions. That if a firmly held belief or something else is taken away, a distortion may happen. To which Hong Lu replies that he may have such belief, but he's forgotten about what it was.

With Limbus being the way it is about foreshadowing, I will not be surprised at all if Hong Lu distorts in Canto 8.

[cinnamongorll]

a fragile line - chapter 11

read on ao3! (111k words) | previous chapter | next chapter | masterlist

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female OC

Tags: extreme slow burn, age gap, older man/younger woman, protective joel, jealous joel, hurt/comfort, pov third person, mutual pining, angst, sexual tension, friends to lovers, canon-typical violence, feral joel, parental abuse, eventual smut.

Fic synopsis: three years ago, Juliet escaped her father's religious survivor camp, ending up in the Boston QZ. Juliet created a life for herself in Boston, desperate to forget the trauma of her upbringing. One day, Juliet arrives home to find a mysterious letter which forces her to return to her home town. Juliet can't travel the harsh post-apocalyptic landscape alone, so she enlists the help of the grumpy and, at times, frightening man she works alongside: Joel Miller.

Word count: 1.8k

some more pieces of Juliet's backstory...

Chapter 11: 'Tulsa Jesus Freak'

Five years ago, Iowa. 

Juliet sat on her bed with her legs crossed, the mattress squeaking beneath her as she shifted forward to grab the book laid on the threadbare throw. Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë. Juliet’s fingers grazed over the cover, mystified by the rolling hills and ferocious dark blue sky painted on the front.

A smile overtook over her features as she flipped through the wrinkled pages and caught the name of the fictional man who often consumed her thoughts: Heathcliff. With his bad temper, quick wit, and undying love for Cathy, Juliet was captivated. She had found her copy behind a bookshelf in her town’s community centre, her hands had clutched around the scratched cover before she furiously stuffed it in her bag before anyone could see. Her father had ordered the burning of all books which did not follow his teachings a few years prior.

This would be her secret, she had thought, rebelliously.  

Every evening when her father bolted the lock on her bedroom door and Juliet was confined within the four walls of her bedroom, Juliet dug her copy of Wuthering Heights from beneath her mattress and read those same words over and over again: “He’s more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.”

The passion which passed between Cathy and Heathcliff only existed as words on yellowed paper. Juliet knew this, but she couldn’t help but feel like a knife had been plunged into her soul when she read about the devastation of their brutal longing. What it would feel like to share that connection with another human being, to wish the earth would swallow you whole so that you could remain forever with the one you love. Their hunger for each other was deadly, lethal.

Juliet knew that the love Cathy and Heathcliff shared could only exist in fiction, she was sure of it. A love like that could destroy someone. It didn’t exist in real life, especially in Juliet’s world.  

Reading Wuthering Heights by candlelight was a typical evening for Juliet. What wasn’t typical, however, was the tapping on her window.

Juliet froze, her hands stilled on the page she was reading and she slowly closed over her book. She waited and listened, sure that the noise she heard was really just the wind, nothing else.  

Another tap attacked her window and Juliet flew from her bed, almost tripping over the rug on her floor as she stumbled to the window and looked out. Her bedroom was on the second floor so her eyes dropped to the ground below for the source of the noise. A gasp left her lips when she saw who was waiting below with a bundle of stones in his hand: Ethan.  

Panic struck Juliet, fierce and hot. She whipped her head around, desperately listening for any sign that her father had heard the tapping or her hurried movements. When she turned around, Ethan was at her window. Juliet jumped back, signalling with her hands for Ethan to climb back down, tears burning in her eyes as her fear took over her whole body.  

Ethan used one hand to stabilise himself on the window ledge as he unlocked her window with the other. It was always locked from the outside, Juliet was not allowed access to fresh air.  

When the window was propped open by Ethan’s steady hands Juliet became paralysed with fear, there was no way her father hadn’t heard that. She glanced down at the radiator below the window and the chain which puddled on the floor, a phantom pain attacked her ankle as she remembered the feeling of the cold metal against her skin. She couldn’t go through that again so soon. Ethan had to leave.  

Her body kicked into action and she sprung forward, grabbing Ethan’s arms as he pulled himself through her window. Before she could beg him to leave, Ethan cradled her face within his warm hands, moving his fingers across her mouth to silence her protests.  

“He’s not here,” Ethan murmured, his mouth so close to her shocked eyes.  

Confusion must have been evident in her stare because Ethan clarified: “Your father, he’s not here. I spotted him at the mess hall only a couple minutes ago, he was giving a sermon.” His voice was slow and steady as he returned Juliet’s panicked glare with his reassuring smile.

Juliet’s eyelids closed, relief shuddering through her body. Ethan let go of her face and ran his hands down her shivering arms, tracing her elbows as he led her back over to her bed. They sat down together, Ethan’s leg pressed against her own.  

Juliet finally opened her eyes, nodding slowly as her heart slowed to a normal pace. She looked up at Ethan, noting the way his gaze roamed across her face.  

“What are you doing here?” she whispered, not fully trusting the idea that her father was not able to hear their conversation.  

“I had to see you,” he responded, his voice low. “I was so worried,” he added with a wince.  

“I’m fine, Ethan,” Juliet reassured him after a long pause.  

Ethan coughed out a cold laugh. “Fine,” he said mockingly, then turned away.  

“Nobody has seen you for days,” he continued. “Not after…” Ethan trailed off as he removed his arm from Juliet and wiped a hand down his face.  

“I know what happened,” Juliet snapped, then shook her head, regret churning in her stomach. She wasn’t angry at Ethan for bringing it up, it was just that she had spent the past several days locked within these four walls, desperately trying to forget the slap that her father had given her in front of a whole hall of people. A whole hall of people who did nothing but stand there in shock as Juliet was punished for taking another piece of bread from the table without asking her father for permission.  

Juliet reached down and rubbed her ankle without thinking, the redness had started to recede from her two day long extended punishment for ‘embarrassing’ her father in front of his followers, but it still stung.  

Ethan followed her movement with his wide eyes before glancing across at the chain beside the radiator. He went entirely still. Juliet closed her eyes, cursing herself for her stupidity.  

“What did he do to you?” Ethan asked and every word carved at another piece of Juliet’s remaining pride. She knew Ethan had already figured out her latest punishment, there was no point in denying it. So she responded with her usual silence. Ethan’s fists balled on his lap.  

Without warning Ethan turned back towards her, his arms latched on her shoulders as he turned her whole body towards his strong chest. Juliet’s chin tilted upwards and Ethan rested his forehead against hers, his hot breath mingling with her own.  

“We could leave right now,” he whispered against her mouth.  

A breath rushed from Juliet’s lips, the urge to agree with him, to grab his hand and run was overwhelming, her heart was thundering in her chest again. But this was not a fairytale, Ethan had promised her the same fantasy again and again but they both knew it was impossible. They both knew it was a pipe dream. Ethan was the son of another prominent man in their community, the only difference was that his father wasn’t a psychopath. Ethan’s father was the town’s doctor who was training Ethan to take over his practice one day. Ethan loved the work, he was born to save people, to heal wounds and soothe trauma.

Sometimes Juliet wondered if that was all Ethan saw when he looked at her: another broken thing to mend.  

Juliet shook her head in the tight space between them, her lips brushing Ethan’s. She didn’t need someone to save her, she didn’t need Ethan’s sorrow to mingle with her own.  

Juliet just needed a distraction.  

She moved forward, her chest pressing against Ethan’s as her lips crashed over his. She left no room for tenderness as her hands wrapped around his body and gripped the back of his t-shirt. Ethan responded immediately, his lips matching her brutal pace. Juliet could feel his heart hammering against her own. She parted her lips, her tongue met his and Ethan let out a shocked gasp, a moan rumbling in his chest.  

Juliet’s mind fell into a blissful numbness, a veil had dropped over the swirling mess that lived in her head. She could still feel the fear and regret but it was like her thoughts were floating around her in a dark muddy water, she could see them but she couldn’t get a good grip. Juliet barely felt Ethan’s lips on her own, she knew that her hands were running through his hair, clutching at the thick strands, but she felt nothing.  

Nothing was exactly what she wanted.  

Juliet felt her hand reach down and tug at Ethan’s belt and a second later he pulled away, his breathing rough as he gripped her hand, stilling her movements.  

“Juliet,” he breathed into her open mouth. “We need to slow down, I - I need you to slow down.”  

Juliet nodded and her gaze dropped to Ethan’s lap before she averted her eyes.  

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.  

Ethan laughed, reaching down to adjust his trousers. “Don’t be sorry,” he replied, his voice practically a growl. His stunned features twitched into warm amusement. “I just wasn’t expecting it.” 

Juliet rolled her eyes and looked away, her gaze fell on her worn copy of Wuthering Heights. She flinched. Brontë’s deathly romantic prose mocked her: “My love for Heathcliff resembles the eternal rocks beneath: a source of little visible delight, but necessary.” 

To Cathy, Heathcliff was the weight that dragged her soul back to earth, he grounded her in a passion so vicious it caused genuine pain.  

Juliet had just kissed Ethan and felt nothing at all.  

She knew she loved Ethan, their friendship was forged over years of stolen meetings and kind favours. But he wasn’t her Heathcliff, as much as he wanted to be. Ethan was the knight in shining armour. He was safe, he was easy to love. Juliet didn’t have to guess how he felt about her, she could feel it in every sad look he sent her way.  

Juliet’s heart was heavy as she lifted her faraway eyes to meet Ethan’s heated gaze. She forced a shy smile to slide across her face as her hand reached up and tugged Ethan’s chin down to meet her awaiting lips.  

Heathcliff was a dream anyways and Ethan was right in front of her, real and tangible. His body was warm and his lips were eager, Juliet’s eyes closed as the sweet numbness surrounded her once more. 

--------------------------------------

@ilovemybrown-eyedbabygirl @amyispxnk

[lu-is-not-ok]

HEATHCLIFF EGO JUMPSCARE.

Also his lines are VERY interesting. Never thought I’d see YSTR again, especially not on Heath

It's so exciting to see more Sinners get E.G.Os that we'd already seen, since it helps us understand them a little bit more.

I'm not going to go into a full analysis here (since we still don't know Heathcliff's Ya Śūnyatā Tad Rūpam's Sin Affinity or Cost), but I would like to point out a few things.

I think I was completely right about connecting Outis's weapon being a blade to the Sword of Damocles, considering that unlike her Heathcliff still uses My Form Empties's khakkhara. Which makes sense when it comes to Heathcliff, he's the one seeking revenge, unlike Outis who's awaiting it.

Also, while I can't see any false idol-esque themes in Heathcliff's version of the E.G.O, the retribution and impermanence of existence themes are potent here.

His awakening quote very firmly establishes that first theme. Considering how his attacks cause karmic shockwaves, "The weight of your Karma returns with each rumbling of the earth." could effectively mean something along the lines of "every time I strike you, it's in retribution of something you've done to me", which is very fitting for Heathcliff. Both with his whole revenge theme, but also with his general behavior, as much of his violence and aggression is in response to others slighting him (in his eyes).

The corrosion is where that second theme comes up. His quote there effectively describes how a certain you (potentially Cathy?) disappeared the instant they finished their single cycle of life and death. Despite the word samsara being used (which, according to my brief look at wikipedia, describes the Buddhist idea of cycles of rebirth), it's clear that no actual rebirth took place. Once you die, you're at once gone. The follow-up of "For that is existence. For that is I." feels like him comparing both to that temporary nature of human life. Existence is impermanent. Heathcliff is impermanent.

Something is going on here, and I am very excited to see the Sins related to this E.G.O once it releases.

[hollerite]

Wurthering Heights thoughts for canto 6

In preparation for the canto, I have read Wurthering Heights. Here is some analysis for those who haven't read it.

It's pretty clear that this Canto cannot be set after the end of the story, since by that point Heathcliff has owned the heights for years, and almost all the rest of the cast is dead. However, theres a pretty obvious point to toss us into the story, and thats the period in which Heathcliff returns to the heights after three years of absence, at which point hes a lot richer. However, in this version of the story it seems like hes only pretending to be that rich, hence him wanting the hair coupons and nice clothing. this is also interesting because cathy is still alive, but is about to die, so we'd get some interaction with her. Its also at this point that Heathcliff goes from being more or less a victim in the novel, to being the full on main antagonist, so combined with it being an even-numbered canto I believe we are going to be truly awful.

as for the funeral we saw so long ago, theres one person who it could be. Earnshaw, Heathcliff's adopted father, as his death was the turning point for heathcliffs life, where he went from having status and a good relationship with Cathy into misery and depression, it would make sense that we'd see it.

However, with how much of the story happens after Heathcliff takes over the Heights, I think via either mirror shenanigans or T corp tech we will see that as a possible future, one where Heathcliff fails to move on and instead obsesses over torturing the people of the heights for the rest of his life, and its that universe that we will get his main ID from, similar to how Nclair comes from a different universe and has no equivalent in ours.

Also, while I don't know exactly what that factory in the trailer is, it would not surprise me if its name was Threshcross Grange, or something similar to it, simply because that is the only other named location in the book. It was just another house, but if they're not including that place then it'd make sense to recycle the name, or else have the people who live there own the factory, as they're much richer than the Heights residents.

I'd also like to argue against the idea that this canto will be set after the book, and we'll get the twist that our Heathcliff is actually book Heathcliff son. Linton Heathcliff is extremely different from his father, and would have no motivation to look nice upon his return to the heights, whereas that was an explicit goal of book Heathcliff. In addition, the heights after the events of the book is described as a very nice place to live, which would not fit what we've seen of the location thus far.

[evorathesylvurr]

i cant believe no one else in the limbus fandom is also into neopets.

"evora what does this mean" it means i know too much god damn neopets lore.

spoilers that go up to violet dawn walpurgis! you have been warned.

yi sang seems like the type who would have a kacheek or two

kacheeks are known for their friendly disposition. theyre also one of my favorites but thats unrelated. he'd also probably have a eyrie.

he'd be the type who has done all the plots. even the ones before he joined. (how? don't ask.)

faust is a crazy aisha lady. look. look. as an aisha enjoyer, i get to claim this one as one of us. aishas whole thing is being really smart.

faust strikes me as the type who would enjoy the battledome honestly. theres so much strategy that she probably cant have the faust hivemind tell her what to do.

don quixote spends neocash to have extra slots so she can dress up all her little guys. she chooses team altador every single time and also her favorite is a gelert.

don probably has event exclusive items but she probably got them off of her friends. also she has every limited time pet.

ryoshu would probably have a WONDERFUL time on neopets so long as she doesnt get her account frozen lmao. girl do not post your art. girl the neoboards arent ready for it. girl your spyders.

yeah all of her neopets are spooky themed or red/phantom/halloween depending on what they can be painted. you will never get her to admit it but her favorite neo is her jetsam.

meursault would play if only because he is autistic and so am i. maybe a shoryu (takes a second for info to load)

meursault knows the ins and outs of the neoconomy. like, jellyneo is in his head.

hong lu has a uni. i was going to give a uni to yi sang for the whole wings thing but unis fit hong lu so much better. this man spends so much money on neocash i do not care if hes actually been cut off from his rich family funds. he is using his salary for his silly little digital unicorns.

he shares don's enthusiasm for the game because i said so :) no i think this small little thing might be really healing for him if his family is shit. neopets makes me cry every now and then like for real because its so warm.

heathcliff picked neopets up because of ▢▢▢▢▢. his favorite is the lupe but he also quite likes acaras.

he takes SUCH good care of his neopets. he doesnt even put them in the lodge. he does his daily games to get his neopoints, goes to buy them food, feeds them, grooms them, plays with them, etc. they have perfect stats but theyve never seen a day in the battledome.

ishmael has a flotsam and thats it. no but she actually mostly has maraquan neos which means shes limited to customizing them :( her favorite is her maraquan vandagyre.

ishmael customizes her neos as best she can. they have the best enrichment tanks. ishmael is also insane at destruct-o-match. do not competitive 1v1 her in destruct-o-match you WILL lose.

rodya has a kyrii and a ruki. she has extensive lore for her neos and you should NOT ask her about it.

rodya is active as hell in the neoboards and she helps everyone with their fairie quests so much. rodya shop wizard extrodinaire. we love you.

sinclair is a pound adopter. his lore is his bruce came from the pound and now they go around adopting pound neopets. every single neo aside form his bruce was a pound adopt.

sinclair does those pound rescue touchups you see every now and then where they take a pet in the pound, give it a new paint job and/or lab zap, and return them to the pound so they have a better chance at getting a forever home.

outis plays neopets too because i said so. average scorchio and grarrl enjoyer though.

enjoys a good chia flouring. she uses her fucking paycheck to chia flour small kid's neopets (she doesnt do it to the other sinners she might be mean but she knows for a FACT she will not hear the end of it for MONTHS)

gregor's main neo is a blumaroo actually :3 i could have given him a buzz or a ruki but that is a cheap blow and i actually think it's cuter to give him the little bouncy guy :3

he enjoys playing the minigames and he leaves his pets in the lodge :( but its ok theyre having fun at the lodge.

[honeybeezgobzzzzz]

Ψ M is for Maraclea: Chapter Six

M is for Maraclea: Following an accident you had over summer break, you find yourself in limbo after being legally dead for several minutes. Now an outcast at boarding school, you end up finding comfort in a strange boy named Nigel. As winter draws near and tragedy strikes, your only reprieve from madness comes from a mind much like your own.

Warnings: Murder.

To Note: Nigel Colbie x Fem!Reader, NAMED Reader for Plot Reasons, There Are A Lot of DARK Themes.

Word Count: ~2.5k

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You sit at the long wooden table, the clatter of cutlery and the low murmur of conversation blending into a constant hum that fills the dining hall. Your tray holds a bowl of oatmeal and a slice of toast, but you barely touch either. The chatter around you feels like static, distant and unimportant, as if it belongs to another world you no longer inhabit. You focus on the sensation of the cold metal spoon in your hand, letting it anchor you, its chill a small comfort that distracts you from the emptiness gnawing at your insides. The oatmeal congeals slowly, untouched, while your toast grows cold and hard, much like the emotions you keep locked away.

Whispers swirl around you like leaves caught in a windstorm. "Zombie fish girl probably did it," someone mutters, their voice tinged with cruel amusement. You don't look up; you don't need to see their faces to know they are sneering. "Who else would be weird enough to kill a bird?"

You reach into your bag and pull out a battered copy of "Wuthering Heights." The book’s spine is creased from countless readings. Flipping open to where you left off, you lose yourself in the moors of Brontë’s world. The words pull you in, offering an escape from your own thoughts and the harsh reality around you.

"Heathcliff is such a monster," someone nearby says. You glance up briefly to see a group of girls discussing the same book.

"Yeah, but I kind of get him," another replies. "It's like he's so broken that he can't help himself."

You immerse yourself deeper into your book, resonating with Heathcliff’s torment more than you'd like to admit. His rage, his despair—these emotions echo within you as if they are your own.

The whispers around you continue, ebbing and flowing like an insidious tide. Each murmur stings less than the last; they blur into a meaningless buzz. The story in your hands provides a barrier between you and them, an armor made of ink and paper.

"Mary," someone calls out suddenly. You don’t look up; instead, your eyes scan over Catherine's lamentations on love and loss.

"Hey! Mary!" The voice is closer now. A hand taps your shoulder lightly. It's one of your classmates, Emma. She was decent enough, also a victim of bullying due to her eating habits. "Are you going to finish that oatmeal? If not—"

You shake your head without meeting her eyes and push the tray toward her. Emma grabs it with a quick thanks before returning to her own group.

You return to 'Wuthering Heights' turning each page methodically. The world around fades away until it’s just you and Brontë's tortured souls on those desolate moors.

The room suddenly falls silent, an unnatural hush that draws your attention. You look up to see a nun, the headmistress, and a man in a dark suit with a stern face striding into the hall. They move with purpose, their eyes scanning the room until they lock onto you.

The headmistress stops in front of your table, her expression unreadable. "Mary," she begins, her voice cutting through the silence like a knife. "This is Senior Detective Martin McKenzie from the local police. Detective, this is Mary Forbes, Susan's roommate."

The detective gives you a curt nod, his eyes sharp and assessing. You straighten up, feeling the weight of everyone's gaze on you.

"Good morning," you say, your voice steady despite the sudden tension in the room. Your apathetic eyes meet those of the head mistress', "is there a problem ma'am?"

The headmistress sighs wearily continues, "Detective McKenzie would like to speak with you about Susan Mueller. Collect your things, this conversation is best continued within my office."

You walk through the corridors, your footsteps echoing in the silence. The headmistress leads the way, her heels clicking against the polished floor. Detective McKenzie follows closely behind you, his presence looming like a shadow. The walls seem to close in, the air growing colder with each step. Cold. That relaxes your shoulders.

The headmistress’s office is a somber room filled with heavy wooden furniture and religious icons. You’re guided to a chair in front of her massive desk. You sit down, your hands resting on your lap, fingers intertwined. The headmistress takes her seat behind the desk, while Detective McKenzie remains standing, his eyes never leaving you.

"Mary," the headmistress begins, her voice softer now but still authoritative, "Detective McKenzie has some questions for you regarding Susan Mueller."

You nod slightly, waiting for whatever comes next.

The detective steps forward, pulling out a small notepad and a pen. "Mary," he starts, his tone firm yet not unkind, "I need you to tell me what you were doing last night."

You blink, momentarily disoriented by the directness of the question. "I was at rehearsal for the play," you say plainly. "After that, I went back to my room to complete my math homework."

"And what time was that?" he presses.

"Around eight-thirty," you reply, your voice steady but devoid of emotion.

"Did you see Susan at all last night?" His eyes narrow slightly as he watches your reaction.

You shake your head slowly. "Not after rehearsal, she stayed behind to speak with Ethel about the bird incident. Susan didn’t come home last night." Your words are factual, devoid of concern or curiosity. "Rather unusual I might say, Susan is always prompt and on time."

Detective McKenzie raises an eyebrow, his gaze sharpening as it locks onto yours. "You don’t seem very concerned about your roommate," he remarks, his voice edged with suspicion. "Most people would be worried if someone they live with goes missing."

You stare back at him, unflinching. The cold detachment in your eyes speaks volumes, but you know it doesn’t answer his unspoken question. "Susan is capable of taking care of herself," you respond evenly. "She does not need me to watch her every move."

The detective's eyes narrow further. "Still, it’s odd, don’t you think? You haven’t asked where she might be or shown any sign of worry."

The headmistress clears her throat, drawing the detective's attention. Her expression softens as she looks at you before turning to the detective. "Detective McKenzie," she begins gently, "there’s something you need to understand about Mary."

You feel that longing numbness crawl up your spine, a familiar sensation that never quite leaves you.

"Mary had a very traumatic experience over the summer," the headmistress continues. "She was in a terrible accident and is still recovering mentally," the headmistress says softly. "Her emotional responses are... affected. She doesn’t process things the way most people do anymore."

You sit there quietly, letting her words wash over you like a distant echo. You know they are true; the numbness that envelops you is both a shield and a prison. But a wonderful prison to be embraced.

"She’s in a frail state," the headmistress adds, her voice full of concern and authority. "We are doing our best to support her through this difficult time."

The detective nods slowly, digesting this new information. His expression softens as he looks back at you. The harsh lines around his mouth ease slightly.

"I see," he says finally, his tone more measured now. He scribbles something in his notepad before looking up again. "Thank you for explaining that."

You meet his gaze without flinching, but the numbness remains, an unyielding constant that keeps the world at arm’s length. But not Nigel.

"She told me she was going on a date," You inform him, "after rehearsal. I expected her to return to our dorm and change. She never did. I assumed that she was caught up with something. Susan is a very sensible girl."

"Well your sensible roommate was found dead this morning," the detective says. "Who was she going on a date with?"

You sit there, the detective's words hanging in the air like a heavy fog. Susan is dead. The thought barely registers, slipping through the cracks of your numb mind. You tilt your head slightly.

"My brother."

Detective McKenzie jots down a note, his pen scratching against the paper. "And where can we find him?" he asks, his voice gentler now.

"That shouldn't be too hard," you reply blandly. "He goes to the boys academy across the pond."

The dormitory hallways are quiet, a stark contrast to the chaos that’s been your mind. The wooden floor creaks under your careful steps as you slip past sleeping rooms and darkened corridors. Each breath you take is deliberate, controlled, blending into the night’s stillness. The air is crisp and cool, an embrace you welcome. It helps numb the incessant thoughts that swirl in your head.

You push open the heavy door leading outside. The chill night air rushes to greet you, wrapping around your body like an old friend. The moon hangs low in the sky, casting silvery light over the school grounds. Shadows dance around you as you make your way to the gate, their silent movements echoing the turmoil within.

You keep your pace steady, avoiding the pools of light from the sporadic lampposts. Each step brings a strange comfort, a sense of purpose in an otherwise directionless existence. Your hands are buried deep in the pockets of your coat, fingers grazing the cool metal of a train ticket you keep there—one that Nigel had given you.

The gravel crunches beneath your shoes as you approach the train station. The old building looms ahead, its silhouette outlined against the star-studded sky. The platform is deserted, a place forgotten by time and people alike.

You find solace in its emptiness. The bench near the platform offers a seat, its wooden surface cold against your legs as you sit down. You pull your coat tighter around yourself, savoring the chill that seeps through.

A distant rumble catches your attention. The sound grows louder, accompanied by a low hum that vibrates through the air. A train approaches, its headlights piercing through the darkness like twin beacons.

You stand up as it arrives, its brakes hissing softly as it comes to a stop before you. The doors slide open with a mechanical whir, revealing an empty carriage bathed in dim light.

You step inside without hesitation, finding a seat by a window. The doors close behind you with a soft thud, sealing you inside this cocoon of metal and glass.

The train begins to move again, gliding along the tracks with a rhythmic clatter. You lean back in your seat and watch as the landscape outside blurs into shadows and streaks of light. When Nigel takes a seat next to you, you are not surprised.

He doesn’t speak immediately. The silence stretches between you, filled only with the soft rumble of the train and the occasional creak of its wheels. You close your eyes, savoring the moment of quiet before the inevitable conversation.

“I heard about Susan,” he finally says, his voice low and cautious.

You nod slightly, eyes still closed. The words are there, waiting to be spoken, but they feel heavy on your tongue. Finally, you force them out. For him. “I feel nothing.”

Nigel shifts beside you, but he says nothing, waiting for you to continue.

“I should be sad or angry,” you say slowly, each word measured and deliberate. “But there’s just... nothing.” You open your eyes and turn to look at him. His face is etched with concern, but he remains silent.

“I’m broken,” you admit. “Whatever happened over the summer... it took something from me.” You glance away, staring out at the darkened landscape once more.

Nigel reaches out and his fingers slip through yours. The warmth of his touch contrasts sharply with the coldness inside you. Only he chases away your desire for cold numbness.

“Maybe that’s why I can’t feel anything,” you say softly. “I’m just... numb.”

Nigel’s gaze never wavers. “You’re not broken,” he insists quietly. “You have transitioned into living eternity." He believes those words, knows it deep within himself. You are a living Maraclea and of holy blood. My lovely living Maraclea."

"I thought I crave the cold, but it is your warmth that I now desire," you whisper, a hint of resignation in your voice. Perhaps fear of loss.

Nigel's fingers hold your own tighter, and his other hand comes up to grasp your jaw. "Embrace it," he murmurs. "Feel the warmth within you. It’s not just mine; it’s yours too. You have it, even if you can't sense it yet."

You look into his eyes, feeling a flicker of something deep inside. "But what if I can't find it?" you ask, a trace of fear in your voice.

He bends his face to yours, warm lips hovering over your chronically cold ones. "You will," he speaks with subtle confidence before closing the gap between your lips.

The moment his mouth meets yours, the coldness that has defined your existence since the accident, that clings to your skin like morning dew to a leaf, begins to melt away. His kiss is fervent, filled with a passion that you didn’t know you craved. It consumes you, igniting a fire deep within your chest.

Your hand finds itself gripping his jacket tightly as if to anchor yourself to this moment. The sensation of his warmth spreads through you like a fever, banishing the numbness that has haunted you for so long. You lean into him, desperate for more of his heat, his touch.

Nigel’s hands move to cup your face, holding you gently but firmly. He deepens the kiss, his lips moving with a purpose that leaves you breathless. The train's rhythmic clatter fades into the background and you tighten the fingers he holds, begging him not to leave you chilled.

You pull back slightly, gasping for air. Your eyes meet his, and you see a reflection of your own longing and need. "Nigel," you whisper, your voice trembling with emotion you can’t quite name.

He smiles softly, his thumb brushing against your cheek. "My beautiful Maraclea," he murmurs, his words like a caress against your skin. "You’re so much more than you know."

His declaration sends a shiver down your spine, but it’s not the icy cold you're used to—it's something else entirely. It’s a thrill, an awakening. You are addicted. You close the distance between you once more, pressing your lips to his with renewed urgency.

Every kiss feels like a lifeline, pulling you further from the darkness and into the light of his warmth. You lose yourself in him, in the way he makes you feel alive again. Each touch is electric; each moment is a revelation.

Nigel's hands slide down your neck and to your waist, drawing you closer until there’s no space left between you. His body radiates heat, and you drink it in greedily, reveling in the sensation of being truly warm for the first time in months.

When he finally pulls away, both of you are breathless and flushed. He looks at you with such intensity that it takes your breath away all over again.

"You are my beautiful Maraclea," he repeats softly, his eyes never leaving yours. "And I will always keep you warm."

In that moment, wrapped in Nigel's warmth and words, something inside you shifts. You do not desire that cold numbness that brings you such desolate peace. All your mind thinks about is Nigel, Nigel and his warmth.

Date Published: 6/23/24

Last Edit: 6/23/24

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[ratlesshonret]

I've said this before but one of the things I don't like about Canto VI is how little involvement Ishmael has. And it's not just because I like her.

In Canto V, Heathcliff was so important to Ishmael and her story. He literally and metaphorically saves her. And they were even building the two up as a pair, with stuff like him getting the Queequeg ID, the person most important to Ishmael's past, and just generally having narrative parallels to her in the story.

In general, they seemed to be pushing Heathcliff and Ishmael as some kind of duo. And more broadly, Heathcliff + Ishmael + Don as some kind of trio who interact a lot.

And then we get to Canto VI. I was so excited to see how Ishmael would "return the favor" and reveal how much she actually does care about Heathcliff, just like Heathcliff did for her last Canto. Would she save his life? Would she snap him out of blind reverence for Catherine? Would she just straight up tell him that he isn't that bad during his moment of crisis?

Nope. Nothing. She's practically an irrelevant background character.

They do feed us a little. She has a couple lines during some of the more scary Heathcliff moments where she does seem concerned about him and his safety. But a few scattered lines does not a solid narrative make.

I honestly don't know if I would've preferred the mindless ship-bait approach to what we actually got. At least that one would provide some conclusion to what Canto V's ending started between the two.

And personally, I don't even ship them. I see them as close friends at most, maybe friends with benefits. But I also see the pair as a very important duo in the story, and their relationship as one of the most interesting and dynamic relationships between maybe any of the Sinners.

So it's a shame that they, at least for now, seem to have dropped it.

[laufire]

This is redhoodinternaldialectical from the "main" blog, returning fire with the character ask game :3

For Jason: 23. Fav picture of this character 24. What character from another fandom reminds you of them? 26. Freebie question! What do you think his complicated opinions about Heathclif would be? (Saw ur tags about that hehehe)

I might come back with other characters, but just Jason for now cause it's WAY passed my bedtime

Fav picture of this character

there are so many options... (see: my header of his hamlet moment). but I'm going to go with this one, from batman annual #25.

I fucking love a character climbing out of his own grave. and that lightning bolt is so frankenstein of him <3

What character from another fandom reminds you of them?

my mind is wired to draw parallels and comparisons, and I happen to be rewatching a tv show (the 100, one of those "it could be so good if it was good" things xD) where sometimes it seems that all my favourite characters have some jason-coded moments and traits lol.

BUT. among all of them, we definitely need to talk about john murphy!!! he's my #1 in that show (with some strong competition), because I love his journey. he really started being... well, what dc regularly tries to convince us robin!jason was: a mean, angry teen, product of his society, who lashed out at people once he could, because he had been wronged himself. this show gave him far more grace about it (even during his messy revenge quest lol), and in season 2 they landed on a really potent love story with him and another character, emori (another outcast in her own society, this time because she was born with a mutation, that survived by stealing from others) that ended up catapulting him to Romantic Hero status in a way s1!murphy couldn't have dreamed of lmao. it was great.

even his backstory (which he's given in the first episode of s2) is. very jason añdslkfjasf. two important things about this gifset is a) the girl here, raven (another favourite), has a similar backstory (alcoholic mother who failed to take care of her, raven would've starved if not for the kindness of her neightbour & childhood sweetheart). she's taunting murphy because a few episodes before murphy shot her in the spine (he didn't intend to hurt her but it wasn't exactly an accident. part of his messy revenge quest against a -barely- adult who failed him lol). she hates him, and yet she clearly can't help but empathise </3. a few episodes later she tries to get him killed to save her ex <3. in a few seasons they'll become best friends <3. as far as I'm concerned she's memori's third <333

a few other things in favour of "jason-coded murphy" are this post, or the fact that at one point murphy had to use sex to survive in a way I personally headcanon jason doing (I've actually drawn some comparisons between that plot and nightwing/tarantula but only stylistic ones; plot-wise it's a very different situation where he displays an attitude closer to what I imagine jason doing).

What do you think his complicated opinions about Heathclif would be?

alñsdkfjasdf I can't believe I'm going to talk more about other characters than about jason but here we are lol.

anyway first of all, unlike many people in this fandom, jason is a smart cookie capable of differentiating fact from fiction, who could recognise heathcliff did some really fucked shit against undeserving people and still appreciate the hell out of him as the fascinating character he is. tyvm. that said, he's also someone who gets very personal about literature xD

one thing about heathcliff is that he does what some people argue jason is doing when he "targets" tim or mia (or damian, but that's bftc and fandom has more or less accepted that it's a mess, and also damian isn't white :))). aka, he's (a grown man!!) viciously, hatefully going after innocent children for the sins of their fathers!! for shame. sorry but that's not even true in bftc or hush (the situations there were very messy and the writers desperately needed medical consultants to make them make any sense, get off his dick xD), but definitely not true for titans tower or seeing red. jason was NOT trying to kill these teens (a few years younger than him at most), he's never wanted them death, and he's never even aimed to caused grievious, irreparable damage. again, get off his dick :P

but it's interesting to me thinking about jason reading the book for the very first time during the lost days era, in particular. he would empathise with heathcliff's desire for revenge, but I don't think he'd ~relate as strongly to him as some people think. yes, there is mistreatment in their youths and the revenge plot (after heathcliff does whateve he does in his own lost days period lol); there's even possible racial ambiguity in common, if we take into account the shiva thing. and he'd half-mindedly draw some links between bruce and earnshaw senior and, if he's feeling ungenerous lol, between dick and hindley, but nothing particularly strong, imo.

but I can see even this faint link being enough to have him pondering his own lines, what he's willing to do once he returns and what he isn't. and it's a fact that jason crossed some of his own purported lines, because he was too in his head about bruce or because they were convenient at the moment or because of all other reasons. and I picture him rereading the book years down the road, and grappling with that fact. wondering if heathcliff had drawn his own lines beforehand or gone all in from the beginning, wondering if he had any regrets.

otherwise, he would appreciate heathcliff as the force he is in the narrative, while being utterly disgusted by some of his actions. at the same time he'd be really wary of the unreliable narration (I imagine him thinking nelly gives all the lintons too much grace, even if he obviously would think heathcliff's actions towards isabella and cathy are undefensible). I also believe he's ready to fist-fight anyone that supported the "monstrous" readings of heathcliff as something inhuman, as some supernatural force of nature. heathcliff, to him, is utterly human.

ALSO. jason is definitely that bitch who reads the FUCKING UNHINGED SHIT (x, x, x, x, x) catherine and heathcliff say about each other and be like. why can't that be me 😭. he's fucking unwell.

(and feel free to ask me about any other character you want! or any extra questions about jason lol)

[texasthoughtsaboutnothing]

Canto VI P1 Thoughts - Spoilers

Head full. Thoughts. Catherine. AGHGHHG

Ok, so firstly they are giving us even more Sinner shenanigans and found family vibes, love that, yes sir may I have some more. More characters are allowed to speak as we move closer to their Cantos, notably Hong Lu who has revealed himself as wise and thoughtful when he isn't deliberately being a chaos goblin. Vergilius is opening up and even treating Don better. Not my ship, but congrats to Verg/Dante people for the food.

It's been forever since I actually read Wuthering Heights, but the parts I do remember seem represented here; the childhood seems to be largely the same. The return has wildly diverged as many expected but the idea of Cathy haunting the estate has been emphasized. Considering the name of the season, I'm wondering if she digitized herself somehow? Or did something with the Mirrors? Excited to find out.

Nelly is suspicious as hell, I expect to get her revealed as an ID tomorrow with her as the boss of part 2.

If I had to offer any critiques at this point its that they took the story of an abused man becoming abusive in turn and concentrated most of the crazy in the female lead. However, I also think that was somewhat inevitable as Heathcliff in Limbus is such a different person than Bookcliff because of his support network. He became rich in friends rather than money, and if all else remained the same the story would kinda fall flat as he just wouldn't do his revenge in the same way without significant character regression. In addition, Cathy isn't (as of yet) being portrayed as the "villain" of the story in the same way Kromer, Dongrang, or Ahab obviously were from the very beginning. So far, it works well and makes sense for these characters.

[throughpatchesofviolet]

A Night Out

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

Ship: The Adventure of Wuthering Heights

Words: 5,445

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then we’re returning to Baker Street?”

“If that’s what you wish.”

Heathcliff raised an eyebrow. What I wish?

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

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

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

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

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

“Doing what?” he asked, feigning ignorance.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The floor’s yours.”

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

“Seems I’ll be taking an early lead.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 And that was usually all he noticed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Try me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, she’s definitely jealous …

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

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

“And what would the stakes have been?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He shook himself, muttering a quiet curse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you still love Catherine Earnshaw?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She rose, brushing off her coat.

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

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

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

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

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