#✮ - CHARACTER STUDY (CHARLOTTE)

[vellialavellious]

her cunty witch hat and crippling sense of self-loathing have captivated me

[ophliee]

I couldn’t let my girl Charlie freezing in these cold days, so some autumn outfits for her

[violet-traitor]

more fates krita sketches bc I am ACTUALLY getting the hand of this program and life is good.

[illcitaffrs]

okay listen:

Henry’s “The View Between Villages”, “She Calls Me Back”, “Dial Drunk”, “Northen Attitude”, “Homesick” & “Orange Juice”

Charlotte’s “Call Your Mom”, “Dial Drunk” & “You’re Gonna Go Far”

Chenry as a couple are also “Call Your Mom” and “Dial Drunk”, but also “Stick Season” & “Everywhere Everything”

And then, the Danger Force kids (post-finale) are “The View Between Villages”

Bose is “She Calls Me Back” & “Homesick”

Mika is also “Call Your Mom” but she’s also “Forever” and “You’re Gonna Go Far”

and Bomika as a couple is just “Everywhere, Everything”

[chenziee]

I find it very fascinating that Streusen watched Linlin, exactly 6 years old, cannibalise a whole group of people in a food-induced trance, and immediately decided the smartest thing to do is to take that kid and have her follow him around everywhere.

[kabuunderscore]

Had this on my mind whilst I was revisiting the Whole Cake arc and reading up on the wiki on the Charlotte family- (may correct myself the more of it I watch since I'm still only up to the cracker fight right now) Also bit of a TW because I make a few touchy sort of theories, as well as SPOILERS!!!

Since Perospero is the eldest child son, it makes me wonder if he had to sacrifice alot of his childhood taking care of his other siblings? None of the Charlottes grew up with a father figure since Linlin basically dumps each one of her husbands once she gives birth to a new kid, and with the ever growing family there's definitely not much love and personal attention being shared around, so I wouldn't be surprised if Peros felt to take up that role at times?

The thought was born when I read on the wiki how Peros was good with kids, probably comes second nature to him with- once again, being the eldest child.

Right now, Pound is the only confirmed ex-husband of Linlin (I hope we get to meet more in the future, that'd be cool) and those brief interactions between Cracker, Brulee and him keep making me THINK like... It's so sad how much Pound still wants to be part of the family, even to the other children who he's not even related to by blood (adressing Cracker with a cutesy honorific "Cracker-kun", getting excited when at the idea that Linlin may still want something to do with him) Like brother STAYED ON THE ISLAND even after being forbidden from seeing his kids and apparently kept up with the Charlotte family affairs obviously- people don't give the guy the credit he deserves as a dad

Cracker seems to have inherited the whole hatred for father figures/only blood relatives having value mindset from Big Mom, but BRULEE accidentally slips up and calls Pound 'stepdad', which COMPLETELY caught me off gaurd. That read to me like she might have yearned for a father figure of some sort throughout her life? It definitely felt that way.

One thing I found super unnerving was during one of Linlin's hunger pangs in which she kills Moscato in a blind rage, when Jimbe finally calms her down (by the way, whatever happened to the croquembouche the chefs were making at the time as well? I hope it didn't go to waste) When Linlin comes back to herself, Jimbe doesn't attempt to explain what she'd just done- killed her own son.

Her hunger pangs are obviously a reoccuring incident, does nobody tell her about what she'd done when she comes out of it? Is it all swept under the rug each time?? There's obviously a reason why they let her stay unaware- probably to protect her from spiraling?

I'm instantly reminded of when she ate all her friends and mother Caramel at her birthday party. If she were to remember all the things she'd done during a hunger pang, she'd probably shut down or have a breakdown of some kind.

I can't help but feel bad for Linlin sometimes with her almost childish view on alot of things, like her skewed view on what a family should be (which is definitely due to her being basically groomed into becoming a pirate... A dark take but from what I've seen, as well as mother Caramel lowkey trafficking her can you blame me) or how Caesar thinks of her 'dream' as being impossible. She reallly does feel like a confused little girl who wants her mom sometimes.

This is all over the place but I needed to get this off my chest because I've been cooking for DAYS I keep thinking of the funny pirate anime

[mortonmurphy]

When Louise received the letter from Mary, she only took note of it long enough to write an address for the envelope her reply would be sent in, before burning it. She didn’t read the letter, aside from the very bottom, letting her know who it was from.

Louise didn’t want to know the middle part. She didn’t want to know what had happened to Mary after Braxton’s. She didn’t want to know about Silas, about the Luckenbill heir he attached himself to, about any of it.

All Louise Hare wanted was to disappear, to bury herself in the core of the world and hide away in a shelter no one could find. She’d burrow, like a rabbit, finding safe haven from a wolf. It was all she ever wanted, really, to be left alone.

OR, After she escapes Braxton's, when she thinks everything is behind her, Louise gets a letter from Mary. She doesn't take it well.

[junknstufffiles]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Henry Danger (TV) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Characters: Henry Hart (Henry Danger), Ray Manchester (mentioned), Charlotte Page (mentioned), Jasper (mentioned), Missy Martin (Mentioned), Danger Force (Mentioned) Additional Tags: Fear, Angst, Introspection, Character Study, Hope, Protective Henry Hart (Henry Danger), Seaons 5 episode 26: Story Tank Series: Part 3 of The Adventures of Dystopia Summary:

Henry was almost never scared. Almost. Here are the times where he was.

or Henry's relationship with fear over the years and how it's changed

[immobiliter]

SONGS THAT I ASSOCIATE WITH MY MUSES

list 10 songs that you associate with your muse(s)

01. dancing on my own. robyn 02. venus. bananarama 03. can't speak french. girls aloud 04. the shoop shoop song. cher 05. praise you. fatboy slim 06. the loco-motion. kylie minogue 07. if u seek amy. britney spears 08. stop. spice girls 09. c'est la vie. b*witched 10. physical. olivia newton-john

01. love train. the o'jays 02. love really hurts without you. billy ocean 03. L-O-V-E. nat king cole 04. rock the boat. hues corporation 05. kiss. prince 06. sexual healing. marvin gaye 07. do you love me. the contours 08. save a prayer. duran duran 09. take care of business. nina simone 10. what is love. haddaway

01. bedroom hymns. florence and the machine 02. fucked my way up to the top. lana del ray 03. mayday. soho dolls 04. trouble. valerie broussard 05. that don't impress me much. shania twain 06. filthy/gorgeous. scissor sisters 07. cross my heart i hope u die. meg smith 08. devil's worst nightmare. fjøra 09. money. rael jones 10. savages. marina

01. to be brave. bryde 02. just a girl. florence and the machine 03. take us back. alena diane 04. she's a rainbow. the rolling stones 05. never my love. the association 06. here comes the sun. the beatles 07. wildflower and barley. hozier 08. daydream believer. the monkees 09. run. delta rae 10. all the king's horses. karmina

TAGGED BY: @villainmade <3 TAGGING : @anquenin, @sunscess, @wolfbluff & you reading this. yes you <3

[willryist]

☆ PSALM 34:18 ☆

“The LORD is close to the brokenhearted and rescues those who are crushed in spirit.”

WARNING: Suicide, Suicidal Ideation, Assisted Suicide

AO3 Post

PAIRING: Henry Emily & Charlie Emily

3,462 Words

“Daddy?” A voice echoes through the. . . honestly depressing, barren excuse of a workshop. Nothing as it was before, but then again, nothing in my life has been. No, not since that day. I can't find the energy within me to turn my head to face my. . . daughter. Should I call her my daughter? I fear that would be continuing to feed my disconcerting delusions. I'm not quite sure I even have the confidence to look her in the eye. All those eyes do is reflect my own grief. I cannot bear to stare into my own depression any longer. Those eyes. Eyes I made with my own hands. Charlotte—no, not Charlotte, the robot I crafted in the image of Charlotte—staring at me with those lifeless eyes. I can't look at those again. I can no longer take it, not once more.

Gently tugging at my brown canvas pants, Charlotte looks expectantly to me. I look back, as revolted as the action makes me. “Can you take me to the park, daddy? I know you've been busy with your work, but I miss going to the park with you.” She—it? No, that's too dehumanizing, even for her. She was made in the image of my daughter, after all. I shan't disrespect my Charlotte. This robot didn't ask for my own baggage, did she? No matter.

I debate her question. I have been nothing short of neglectful, haven't I? A pang of guilt surges through me. We used to spend time often, no matter the occasion. A warmth akin to a content winter afternoon in front of a crackling fire, slowly sipping on a hot chocolate came to me in every action. Even through moments where I’d been too delved in my work to acknowledge her existence, her presence kept that nostalgic warmth alive within me. Seeing her cheerful face playing with her toys on my workshop’s floor infected my heart with love.

Now, I cannot stand her presence in a room. In fact, I'm not sure if I've spent more than twenty minutes with her before I couldn't stand it any longer. Sometimes I'm convinced she sucks the energy out of me when I draw near. Though she isn't doing so physically, my brain is shriveled and dried. When I look at her, I see nothing but what could have been, and what was taken from me. I've tried to push myself back into the delusion—it would have been easier. So, so much easier. However, every day I continue to be reminded more and more of the elaborate lie I've built for myself. I am too far gone to be brought back up, yet I have no will to draw out this lie.

I suppose I owe this last trip to the park to Charlotte, especially to make up for what is planned for today. “Of course, sweet cakes. We'll go to the park.” The smile I attempt to force is nigh impossible to give her.

Her excitement that would normally bring a smile—a real one—to my face, causes a suppressed frown. I can't seem to find joy in something I programmed her to do. “Get some shoes on, I'll go grab my keys.” I gently drift my hand around her scalp, her hair flowing around my fingers. Artificial hair, like the ones on those dolls she’d play with.

Charlotte swats my hand off of her head with a giggle, and runs out of the workshop. I'm almost—no, not almost. I'm definitely, without a shadow of a doubt, relieved to be alone. My hand reaches to rub my neck, it glides along the skin with ease, sweat wetting my skin enough to be a waterslide. I doubt I have the willpower to make it through today, not with how I acted just then.

Despite myself, I exit the workshop and into the main house where I see Charlotte pulling at the velcro straps on her Kinney sneakers. From what I can remember, those shoes don't fit her at all anymore. She has to fold her toes to fit into them. I've bought her new ones, though she still insists on those, and I've lost the energy to fight over it. I find my keys sitting on the side table next to the door. “Ready, pumpkin?”

“Yep!” Her shrill voice rang through the house. She stood on her feet, and I could hear the slightest wince slip from her throat. I fight the urge to shake my head in disapproval at her stubbornness. Such trivial things won't matter soon anyhow.

When I turn the door knob, Charlotte is already to my truck before I can get a foot out of the house. She repeatedly jerks the passenger side handle, a silent way to say “Hurry it up!”

Reaching and unlocking the driver’s side door, and then the passenger’s, I take a seat on the brown leather bench seat within the truck, then hold a hand out to Charlotte when she almost slips and falls on her ascension into the Chevrolet. “Careful, sweetie.”

“Not my fault your truck is so high up!”

Not quite as cute as it used to be. “Be sure to buckle-up, dear.”

“I know, Daddy.” While I don’t see her pull the seat belt over herself, the clicking noise assures me of her compliance. I bring my own seat belt over my body. I put pressure on the brake and insert the key’s car into the ignition switch. Turning the key twice to start the car, the engine whirs in response. Releasing the brake, I pull out of the driveway. “You ready to drive this thing yet?” Not that I would be there to see it. Perhaps this drive would be better if I keep my mouth shut.

“No! Driving is scary. Carlton told me about his dad being the lead on a case of a hit-and-run that killed somebody! I don’t wanna drive something that will kill other people.”

Driving into a tractor-trailer may be an easier way of doing this. At least Jenny won’t be faced with the embarrassment of a brother who killed himself in the manner a coward would, though everyone already knows me for one. “Well, you have a good eight years before you’re driving. You’ll get the hang of it, I’m sure. You’ll probably be learning in this very truck.”

“Nuh-uh! Not in a bajillion years.”

The car falls silent. All that remains is the engine’s low purring and the horrid screeching of the brakes. When was the last time I changed the brake pads? Or the oil? God, I’m not sure I’ve stepped foot in this thing in a while. To be fair, I only ever used it to go to Freddy’s and back with the occasional trip to the grocery store, or Charlotte’s school every so often. I’ve really ignored every aspect of social life since the incident. Then again, life hasn’t had much meaning since then.

Cruising down the familiar path towards the park continued my mind wandering. I never took the real Charlotte to this playground. All the fond memories there were all my own mechanical prowess and delusions in a dreadful conglomeration. My face scrunches in on itself thinking of the way parents looked at me with pity and disgust as they watched me push that doll that I convinced myself was my daughter on the swings. No wonder the whole town is convinced I was the murderer of those poor children, I’ve already proven I’m nigh insane.

“Daddy!” Small hands grip my right arm and shake it fiercely. “You’re gonna hit the tree!”

Jostled out of my head-in-the-clouds state, I slam my foot on the brake on instinct. Fully coming to my senses after a few moments, I see the large tree trunk in front of the truck, maybe a half-inch away from the grille. “Jesus pumpkin, I’m sorry. My mind just. . .flew off, I guess.” I put the truck in reverse and slowly pulled back into a parking spot, jolting upward as the wheels fall from the curb.

Charlotte leaps out of the truck before I can even put it in park. I follow reluctantly. Weights must have been placed within my shoes, for I slog as if I were walking through mud. More realistically, these “weights” were brought upon by my own mind’s resistance. A waterfall of memories flow directly into my mind, meandering through the lobes of my brain while a heavy storm rages on. This is the last place I would have chosen to go. What did David Wojnarowicz say? “Hell is a place on Earth. Heaven is a place in your head,” I believe. I fear he was right, at least in my case. However my Heaven has been one built off agony, sorrow, and delusions. Now that I have rid myself of the delusion, I see that it is really just a second Hell I have forged for myself.

Charlotte skips through the playground and to the swings cheerfully, unaware of the mental ball and chain I drag. “Could you push me on the swings? Please?”

“. . .Sure. Sure, dear.”

Charlotte springs onto the swing’s seat, waiting for me with enraptured delight. I plodded my way around to stand behind her, pushing her back lightly to hoist her into the air, and repeating the act when gravity tugs her to the ground. I just have to get through this. It will only be a few hours. Only. I am not sure if I can hold out that long.

The rest of the park visit was an obfuscated amalgam of short snippets of memory. I had functioned on “autopilot,” for lack of a better word. From what I gathered with the little I was conscious of, there was not much to be missed. Swings, seesaw, slide, merry-go-round, repeat. We have made our. . . fifth? Trip to the swings, and my wrists begin to ache from repetition. You know, perhaps I had been nutty, but at least I still found it in me to enjoy the park. I know I cannot say the same now.

While I shove Charlotte into the air, I catch a glimpse of my watch. Five-twenty-six. At that moment, I freeze. I can see Charlotte turning to look at me with a puzzled expression in my peripheral vision. “We have to get back home. It’s, uh, getting late.”

A frown pulls at Charlotte’s face. “Five more minutes? Pleaseee?”

Why must you make this more difficult than need be? “Sorry, sweets. Sun’s gonna be going down soon. Let’s get back to the truck.” She slides off the swing with her head hung low. “Oh, don’t be like that. I can take you tomorrow. I can even call that John boy’s parents and set up a playdate.”

“Really?”

“Really.” With the lie I told to this poor girl came a scorching fire that burned my heart from the inside out, engulfing my insides with flames that could rival even the strongest forest fires. As hard as I try, I can never completely view this child as one who is not my daughter. I am well aware that she is not, and that I have believed such for way, way too long. However, when you convince yourself of the opposite for seven years, it is hellish to bring yourself out of that thinking.

We walk to the truck and get situated in our seats inside. This time there is no need for any reminders of seat belts, as I can hear the faint clicking of the seat belt into the buckle.

During the entire ride home I could not stop myself from taking glances at my watch at every chance I had. I watched the minutes change fearfully, the pit in my stomach that began to fester back at the playground only growing larger in size. I’m losing time.

The sun has set over the horizon, making way for the warm and inviting array of colors splattered in the sky. A vibrant pink and pallid orange interlace, forming a peachy midtone between them. It would have been wonderfully serene if I were not in the predicament that I am. I eventually am able to see the driveway to my house in the close distance, and I release a breath I did not realize I held.

The truck rides over the bumpy gravel driveway to the house with ease. Tires roll over the mass of tiny rocks and pebbles, creating constant crunching noises. I slam on the brakes abruptly and it jostles me and Charlotte forward. I check my watch. Five-forty-two. How did it get so late? I hop out of the truck and rush to the door, Charlotte following close behind me.

I swing open the door with a sense of urgency and throw my keys to the side table. “Go play in your room, honey.” I mutter. More like a croak, in all honesty. “I must speak to your Aunt Jen.”

“. . .Okay.” The slight creaks that shadow her steps as she climbs the stairs drive me to near madness. God, just get to your room already. Where is that robot? I believe I left it on the table of my workshop. Christ.

Paper. I need paper. A pen, as well. I can rip a piece from my sketchbooks in the workshop. What time is it? I try to bring my wrist to my face to gaze at my watch, but my arm feels frozen in place. Instead, I squint to view the distant wall clock within the living room. Five-forty-four . I won’t have enough time to go down there. Lord, why must all my creations work against my favor? I just had to program that thing to a specific time.

Hastening through the house and to the kitchen, I rummage through the counter drawers for something that may service me. In my search, I hear a creak from the back door.

There it is. Just on time. It slowly opens until the door hits a cabinet with a thump. In a silent house, the turning of gears and clicking of servos has the volume of a symphony. A constant whir bringing me back to today’s earlier events. The thing’s lifeless eyes do the same. I find myself back in my workshop, Charlotte’s eyes staring deep into mine while she fights with my current project —my final project— for my attention. God, those eyes. My eyelids clamp down as hard as they possibly can, and I hope, even though I have not felt hope in a long, long time, that it will make everything just. . .go away.

A childish belief, of course. The thought that pulling your blanket over your head might just save you from the monster hiding within your closet. The only difference is that I have created my own monster, and I cannot be saved by concerned parents hearing my screams in the night. Do I really want to die like this? Well, no, but what else is there for me? My passions have been ruined multiple times, by the same man no less. My remaining family outside of my dear Jenny either hates me or is dead, and everyone in this town believes me to be a murderer. There is nothing left for me on this Earth. I have wasted my chances, and all that is left is that I join my daughter in Heaven. That is if Satan does not await my presence in his realm.

Loud, heavy clanks ring on the linoleum floor. It’s moving. Allowing my eyes to open, I see the thing making a slow but steady approach towards me. I’ll have to do this quickly.

I go back to the drawers, picking out a stray ballpoint pen with almost no ink. Searching through old discarded mail for something blank enough to write on, I finally notice an empty piece of laminated paper. Flipping it over, there’s a picture of a politician with a name I couldn’t care enough to remember. It will work.

Slamming the empty side of the paper to the wooden countertop, I click the cam of the pen and scribble lightly on the paper to ensure that it works.

And for the last time, I write a letter to my sister.

My dearest Jenny, it begins, as all letters to her do. Tears prick my eyes like thorns. My heart pours into every word that I rush onto the paper, cloudy eyes causing the letters to look as if they are dancing along the empty space. They are dancing to mock me, to cheer for my demise. They are giddy to form the words that are admittance of my pathetic life and end, one that is long overdue.

. . .I now only see loss, endless, debilitating loss. My writing hand quivers horribly, penmanship worsening to the point of childlike scribbles, though the rest of my body feels as if it is going through rigor mortis. I fear it is not quite time for that yet.

My heart pounds expeditiously in my chest. The constant pumping reminds me of blowing up a balloon. Pump, pump, pump, inflating until. . . Pop. My heart may pop at this rate, with the pieces splattering all over my ribcage. Faster. I must write faster. The slow and methodical stomps behind me are like a timer, however I would have hoped for the timer to be an actual one, and not the noises that my large and clumsy suicide machine make. God, what does it matter? I would be dead either way.

I feel its presence behind me. It looms over my body, casting a shadow onto the counter and my pitiful letter. At any moment it will strike, and I will bleed out on this floor. Charlotte will come down and see my limp body. She will stare into my lifeless eyes in horror, and her artificial tears will stain her porcelain cheeks. Long streaks of water dragging ever so slowly to her chin.

I shake my head in attempt to rid myself of this thought. I must cease from humanizing her. It brings the overwhelming burden of guilt, something I already contain in abundance. I am getting too sidetracked. I must finish this letter before it brings my miserable life to an end. I lick my lips. They are cracked, pallid, and unbelievably dry. Comparable to the texture of sandpaper. I just have to finish this. It is almost done. I wipe the tears from my eyes with the heel of my palm.

. . . I am going to be with my daughter. There. Almost done. My hand grips the pencil intensely, the tips of my fingers turning white in color.

Suddenly, a tingling sensation rattles my bones, and a hot and piercing pain follows soon after. A large mechanical hand holds onto my shoulder to keep me in place. It has plunged its knife into my back, right into the spine. It seems my time is over. Blood flows down my backside, hitting the hardwood floor with soft drips. Accompanying blood loss was a loss in body temperature and energy at almost double the speed. I felt as if I were to turn to ice in any second, and I shrunk into myself, huddling for some kind of warmth.

I fought my weakening legs that yelled for me to collapse with what little might I had left. My pen drags slowly and rigidly on the paper. Almost completely out of ink, the letters begin to look incomplete. Finally, I sign the letter off with Love always & to the end, Henry.

I give into my legs’ pleas and plummet to the floor, the impact blurring my vision. It has backed away from me. The floor vibrates as its heavy steps move it away. My breaths are shallow, the whistles of air shaking my frame like a dead leaf on a November maple. I can feel my blood spreading, dampening my clothes, hair, and skin with its crimson color. It soaks into the wood panels, infesting itself between splinters. I am sitting there, laying in my own pain and agony for long, long minutes.

I expected some. . .light at the end of the tunnel. To see my daughter, or perhaps an angel waiting for me. Instead, I feel a constant nothingness. I do not feel any of the emotional motley that I had moments before. I am all too aware of my death. The eternal slumber calls to me, and I long for it more and more with each passing second.

I will see you soon, my daughter. May we be together in Heaven for all of eternity.

[a-sin-to-be-rin]

Ode to a Clown

It, like all good things, started with a fall.

The fall of Rome. The dizzying crash of the Heisenberg. The beautiful final act of the Flying Graysons.

And, of course, the fall of the Red Hood. And from the ashes, a phoenix arose. A flaming, ethereal creature, its methods and motives unknown to the average man. Unknown to the exceptional man. Even, occasionally, unknown to the phoenix himself.

This was the birth of Gotham’s most feared name:

The Joker.

At the beginning, before the Joker was the Joker, he was the Red Hood. And then, before that, no one. He had a name. The Joker no longer recalls it, nor does he care to. He doesn’t know if he had a family or a home or a job. He doesn’t even know what color his hair had been, and the Joker prefers it this way. Who he was is hardly important. Who can worry about the past when there’s so much to do?

After this no-name man was the Red Hood. He ran a gang, whose goals elude the leader to this day. He doesn’t remember why he did what he did. He doesn’t know what exactly he did or who was involved.

Well… He does remember someone who was involved, but he wasn’t a gang member.

He was the Batman.

Like the Red Hood, the Batman was a maniac. Someone who decided to wear a mask and traipse about the city at night. Someone who coped with his traumas through violence and anonymity.

The Batman was insane. And he was perfect. The yin to the Red Hood’s yang. The missing puzzle piece. The Red Hood’s better half.

The Joker doesn’t remember much about his time as the Red Hood, but he does remember the Batman and their highly-calculated dance. He remembers robbing and poisoning and maiming all for the attention of the Batman. And then, once the Red Hood had his attention, he had to find more and more elaborate ruses. Ways to keep things fresh. The Batman was the cool constant, and the Red Hood was the fiery wildcard.

But one night, their game came to an end. The Batman went too far. The Red Hood fell.

Down.

Down.

Down.

He hit the chemical bath like a glass on the kitchen tile, shattering on impact. And the pieces of the Red Hood sunk deeper, deeper, deeper. The Red Hood took on water, dropped to the bottom. He never came up for air.

But a new man emerged. A new game began. This was faster. More dangerous. More intimate. The Red Hood knew the Batman like a teacher knows a student. The Joker knows the Batman like a mother knows her child. Everything the Batman does, the Joker understands. But that trust just doesn't go both ways. And though the Joker understands this too, it still hurts.

“I’m hurt.”

Batman grunts.

It isn't enough. “I trusted you. I’ve always trusted you, and what do you do?” The Joker kicks Batman in the teeth. It does nothing but make Joker’s toe ache, but he keeps doing it. The drugs have slowed Batman down. The restraints keep him still and perfectly accessible to the Joker’s shoes. “You failed.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.” His voice is wheezy. The Joker holds no sympathy.

“You were Mr. Reliable! Good ol’ Batman, never kill a fly! And then, what? Did your butler die or something? Did you realize that I never really killed little JT? What was it? It's like I don't even know you anymore.” He kicks Batman once and then gives him a moment to reply.

“I didn't mean to.”

“Liar,” the Joker hisses. “You don't do anything on accident. So why?”

“I told you. It was a mistake.”

Kick. Kick, kick, kick, kick, kick.

Batman spits blood.

“We’re both mad, but I’m the one who kills people. You aren't. That’s what makes us work! That’s our zing!” He kicks Batman again. “And now? Now, there’s no zing. What am I supposed to do, Bruce? Your little bird’s nest isn’t nearly as fun. Nightwing always cracks jokes before I can. Robin’s so invested in your tech girl that I’d never get his full attention. And Todders is… Well, you know.”

Batman knows. The Joker knows that Batman knows. But there’s an itch in his skull that he needs to scratch. Everything should be laid out on the table. Nothing should be left unsaid.

“Little Jay’s a killer now too. Guess the robin doesn’t fall far from the belfry, huh?”

“Enough,” Batman growls. He jumps to his feet, hands free as frayed ropes fall away. But it doesn’t matter.

Batman grabs the Joker by the throat. Slams him against the wall.

“Go ahead, Batsy,” the Joker goads. “Go ahead and kill me. Again.”

Batman’s scowl doesn’t change, but the grip on the Joker’s throat relaxes a bit.

“Betray me all over again.” The Joker watches Batman carefully, the smile never truly fading from his lips. “I trusted you to play your part. I have always trusted you, no matter what. And now you’ve finally done it, and all you got was a slap on the wrist. You got away with the crime, but it’s your knife in my back.

“Whatever happens next, Bats, is your fault.”

Bruce wakes up with a gasp. He falls back on his pillow and cringes at the way his sweat-soaked shirt sticks to his chest.

“You didn't kill him,” Bruce tells himself. “You didn't kill him.”

But he didn't save him either. And if he was capable of saving him and he failed to…

Well, there's a fine line between failure to save and murder. Bruce isn't sure which side he falls on.

(But the Joker knows. And Batman will pay for his crime.)

[oplishin]

hate to go back to an abandoned wip and realize i actually did a good job. bc now i have to go back to it at *some* point, ugh!!

[amatchmadeindisaster]

[tvintedspvrkmoving]

@razorfst

his big dumb puppy dog eyes have captivated me

[happy2bmyownboss]

Our 2025-2026 Homeschool Curriculum, Schedule Plans, Resource Links, and Daily Routine - Tons of FREE resources!

It’s that time of year again for us… time to get the next school year planned out. We technically finished up our 2024-2025 school year before Easter but I’ve been busy with the garden and such so I am just now getting around to making our new schedule. It is always SO TEMPTING to take a few months off to just focus on this house but I know from past experience that this doesn’t go well and that…

[immobiliter]

something that makes me feel some kinda way: charlotte resenting her mother, particularly early on in the show, for the way that she favoured lucy growing up and was much more protective of her instead of "having her out at twelve" like she did with charlotte as the eldest, and the way that she is a lil jealous of the more secure/happy life lucy has early on within the safety of the family unit at greek street with margaret & william ( even though, don't get me wrong, she loves her sister dearly ), contrasted to lucy who struggles early on with living up to the wells woman reputation that charlotte has trailblazed as a courtesan and very much imitating her or at least using her as a frame of reference for the sort of woman she needs to be to endure the world later down the line once we get to s3