𝓗𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒄𝒍𝒊𝒇𝒇.

His laughter is a barking thing. Had Heathcliff ever truly known gentleness? A humorous laugh, something carefree and lacking the salted wounds of life? Once, perhaps, when the old Mr. Earnshaw had still lived. When he and Cathy were still allowed to frolic in the moors, to

"It has been 𝘥𝘢𝘺𝘴!" The leathers whip against the ground as Heathcliff throws them away, turning in earnest to face Cathy. He looms over her, a monster fuming behind his teeth, fraught with unfulfilled passions and tender longings. Oh, would that he could devour her whole,

The infamous hurricane Cathy. Heathcliff's stomach clenches mid-smile, turning it into a near-grimace as he looks back down on his handiwork. Cathy interrupts all thought and action—suddenly he forgot how to function around this little ditty. "What do you want, Cathy?" Hardened

As if the earth itself shudders to announce her arrival: Cathy Earnshaw, one-woman cavalry. Heathcliff's hands still upon the leathers, pulled taut around the mighty pieces of wood, and he looks up, pushing stray curls off of his forehead. A wicked smile pulls at his lips.

"So you would have me unearth you again?" The rain falls harder. If Heathcliff laughs, the world will not hear it. If he cries, the world will not care. It never does. Fists dig deeper through dirt, through mud, displacing the weeds. "Shall I kiss your skull, Cathy? Make love