#but I liked the idea of him ending up into a mental asylum

[the-deranged-lunatic-askblog]

He is home, yes, but he got what he deserves

[drifloonz]

steven/mocha is canon

[kenwio]

Joker's kid! reader : how batfamily would react on them trying to end their life

Route : recovered dove

Please read warnings before reading this one!

If you do not feel like reading it, it's okay! (Spoilers will be at the end of this part) Please have tea or hot cocoa, and read relax 💖 and remember there are people who care and support you 💖 I'll be posting more fluff in future parts

Warnings : heavy topics, mentions of death, implications of self-destructive behavior and suicidal behavior, hurt/comfort, traumatized characters.

Idea for this part from this ask here . I also used this idea for comfort part form here

Author's note : I'm including this part in route: Recovered dove only because I want to show that mental healing of Joker's kid is a long way, it had ups and downs, but in the end they have family who acres about them now.

You don't know what exactly triggered it. Maybe it was the fact that everyone started discussing break out in Arkham asylum instead of the usual breakfast convention, maybe it was how Bruce said he didn't have time for you, maybe it was how Alfred was distant today, so you thought something wrong, maybe it was that Dick ignored you today, maybe it was that Jason's aggressive demeanor when you saw him, maybe it was Tim's comment when you brought him coffee, maybe it was Damian's harshness when you meet him near your room today.

That all made you feel so lost. To see them all being unwelcoming to you again was overwhelming. Is it because your father is free again, and they thought you'd be helping him? Wait if your father is free... he will want you back. You don't want back! No! You don't want to be with him again! You do not want to be experimented on again, be beaten up by him again. You thought it was finally over, that you were taken away from that life, never to return. You thought you found family! Why does he have to ruin your life again? He drove her away from you already, the only person who protected you before Batman and his birds, the only person who was your family before them, your mom ... and now he is doing it again; he is taking your family away again! But were they your family? You thought that Bruce was thinking about you as his own child, you thought that Alfred was proud of your progress, you thought that Dick was happy to spend time with you, you thought that Jason was enjoying your shared reading time, you thought that Tim liked to study with you, you thought that Damian finally accepted you. Were you wrong? Was it all a lie? Did they want to use you as bait for your father? Or did they think you would be able to tell them something about him? Was that a reason why they got close to you? But now that they see they were wrong, and after they made sure you didn't know anything, they decided to drop the act?

Was it all a happy dream that's just ended? If it was a dream, you don't want to wake up to the nightmare of your previous life. You can't take the suffering anymore. You need to make it stop to end it, to end it all.

You didn't know how long you were in you were in your thoughts, when you got up. You wanted to live. The room that became your own, became your safe space now felt like JOKE. You needed to get away from it. You struggled to open the window, as it required much strength from your shaking hands. But you were persistent in your efforts to open it, and in the end window opened. You looked down, it was quite high, and you knew that for your body, which was unlike theirs, weak and fragile, it would be enough. You've seen a grown man die when he fell from his high back in a crime alley, so for you, it will definitely be enough. Oh, crime alley, you don't want to go there. You don't want to return to life with Joker. You stood up on the windowsill, looking at the green grass down, feeling the cold night wind against your skin. Your head felt heavy, ringing in your ears just made it all worse. You took one step, and you felt incredibly calm. You took another step, only to be pulled away from the windowsill on the ground and held up. You didn't register the loud voice, the way someone was shaking you. You just sit there staring at nothing in particular, not even able to cry because of how tired you are.

In the meantime, Damian, the one who pulled you away from the window, had already called everyone and was trying hard to make you snap out of it. Yet it was not helping. When Bruce arrived, he moved Damian, who was looking at you with extreme worry, aside. Bruce recognized your expression; he had seen it before - thousand-yard stare - your own mind was protecting you from whatever you were feeling. As he was trying to help you, holding you against him, trying to soothe you, the rest of the family arrived in your room, seeing scared Damian, worried Bruce, and you... you looked so broken. It was too hard on them all

A few hours later, when you fell asleep after you came to your senses and cried for a while, Bruce and others started figuring out what made you feel this way. And it didn't take long; they are a family of detectives, after all. And this all made them feel really bad, guilty. As it turned out, on this day, you were too unlucky to notice only the bad sides of things.

There wasn't any breakout In Arkham asylum. Turns out, the lead they were investigating turned out to be false. Bruce, indeed, was busy, but he failed to communicate this in the normal way: he only added that he would try to make some only by the time you stepped away, which he didn't notice. Alfred was distant because he had a migraine today, but he still wanted to work around the house; there were too many chores to be done in the Wayne manor. Dick didn't mean to ignore you, he was too tired after his few nights of being up and he just failed to notice your quiet presence, being too busy thinking about his bed. Jason was behaving aggressively because of the lead about break out from Arkham asylum, which was the one that he followed for his case, and since it was false; it took the case he was working on back to square one. Tim actually was mumbling about his case, quietly cursing criminals, and not you; just like Jason, he had too much trouble because of that stupid lead. Damian stepped in at the last second to help you avoid stumbling and falling when you were waking in your room, which resulted in his harshness to you, but you were too deep in your panic to notice that his gaze was more worried than angry. If Damian wouldn't have been worried and decided to check up on you... non of them want to think about it.

They spend night in your room and in the morning, they talked to you, communicating how things actually were the previous day, and expressing how important you were to them.

It was a shock to everyone. Even Bruce thought it was going fine, that your session was working and helping you, that you were feeling safe, and that your relationships with the rest of the family were getting better. And he knew that what happened damaged the whole family because they almost lost you. He regretted that he didn't phrase his words correctly, feeling like he failed to show his care for you. He knew he should have been careful with words, he knows how impactful they can be. And since he said he hadn't got time for you he started making time for you. He wants you to know that he cares for you and he will make time for you wherever you need him. His one daily check-up became 2 check-ups, and when he had more free time, he checked up more. He pays extra attention to you. Even your little sneeze will make him worried to the point of examination in a medbay. He stays with you, and sometimes talks with you, encouraging you to open up and share your opinion and feelings. He tries to lessen the influence of "bad guidelines" (that were with you because of Joker) in your head. He helps you talk through your feelings, helps you show them and process them. He reminds you that you are cared for now. And he promises that he will protect you. After hearing you out, learning your fears and insecurities, and when he learned out that most of all you are afraid to go by your father's way, he promises you that he will do everything in his power to prevent you from taking this way. Bruce wants you to be happy, to make good memories. You already got unlucky with your father, who made you experience hell, but Bruce will try to be the best Dad he can for you.

Alfred felt so guilty. He knew you needed care, but he was distracted. He feels like he let you down, by forgetting how fragile and sensitive you are. He knew you were struggling; he had seen it himself. If only he had paid you more attention. But Alfred, better than anyone else, knows that he shouldn't be focusing on the past; he needs to work on the present, and he needs to make sure you feel better. He makes sure to make you more happy while he can. It's always your favorite tea at the tea time you share, with his cookies, of course, which he bakes with you from time to time. It's always your comfort shows or documentaries on TV when you two watch something. He also makes sure no one dares to make you feel uncomfortable, even if it will make him look around like Hawk. But Alfred understands that he can't always be around; that's exactly why he makes sure that he teaches you at least a few techniques that would be able to help with worry and anxiety, and he practices them with you. You are his little star, who may be really quiet but still efficiently lights up his days, and he doesn't want to lose you. When you share that you are afraid your family will reject you, he personally goes to everyone, making sure that they won't be saying something that contains a message. He wants to see you all grown up and happy in the end; he will work hard to make sure your life in Manor will be good.

Even when Dick just heard how Damian called for help for you, he felt shocked, what to say when he saw and understood the situation. What do you mean his baby sibling tried to make their life end when he was blissfully unaware, sleeping in his old room? How? What he missed? Just a few days before, you seemed on your way to becoming the happy sunshine of a kid, and now that has happened? He is your older brother and he missed all the singes?! He needs to sit down. It's too hard to accept this version of reality for him. The reality is that he can lose another member of the family. He knows what it is like to lose a sibling, and he will never want to experience it or feel this pain again. And knowing that it's you who tried to end your life makes it all worse. He tries to understand what pushed you, trying to see what he can do to prevent this from happening. He also tries to distract you from all the negativity in your life with quality time and different activities. The incident shook him hard, and while he hoped to introduce you to cuddles differently, he had to do it now. He needs to make sure you are close, still warm, still safe, still alive. And it seemed like cuddling with him made you calmer; you didn't even realize how touch-starved you were until then. It became a sort of comforting ritual for both of you, cuddling, sometimes just cuddling, sometimes while watching something. While cuddling he often says sweet words of reassurance to you. And while he knows he can't stay in Manor forever, he makes sure you know that he is always here for you, just a call away.

Jason was mad at himself for allowing himself to snap at you earlier. He feels incredible guilt that he was the reason that you were in that state. For a few days after, he could only watch you in your room or living room until he talked about his feelings and the incident (how he calls it because he can't speak that out loud, it physically hurts him to admit it) with Bruce and Dick. He started slowly approaching you, continuing your reading sessions, but also, sometimes, he decided just to start talking with you. He shares with you his experiences in the crime alley, and you share yours; you both know that only you two in the whole family could understand the full horror of this place, and that's aside from the fact that both of you know the full horror of Joker. He says to you that you'll never become like him, because he sees you are different. Jason tries to comfort you, yet he knows he is not ideal in it, but he is willing to try as much as he can just for you. He can understand that you feel lonely; he can only imagine how lonely you get when all the family is busy with vigilante work. It got him thinking, remembering. He remembers times when he was still Robin, and sometimes, when he got hurt, he stayed in his room alone, and. he hated it. Back when Dick gifted him a plushie of a bat, and now, in another attempt to comfort you, he brings this old plushie to you. He tells you that this plushie kept him company and protected him from everything bad, and now it will protect you, and now you'll never be alone anymore; your family's love will be here for you.

Tim was second after Damian to arrive in your room. This sight horrified him. He just froze, in shock. For once, he didn't know how to act or what to do. After everyone made sure you were okay, and his brain began working again, he started to do what he knew best - investigating and researching to find ways of how to help you, trying them with you in the meantime. Art therapy? He tried to hold a few sessions with you. Special games? You both alredy beating third one. Special music? Here is his player, listen when you want. He becomes more attentive to you, noticing every little detail. He knows as a person who likes studies like him, you would want to learn more about your mental health and how to care about yours. He found a way to explain the basics of it all to you in a way that is easier for you to understand, and only when she reads articles (that he chose, of course) about mental health and coping mechanisms. You want to cuddle with him while reading? Good, he will do it (he is happy that Dick showed you how to cuddle and totally not jealous). You want to stay with him while he works? Okay, sure, he is here for you. He makes sure you can ask him anything; he reminds you that you are safe with him and with others. So when you ask about Arkham and your father there he makes sure to show you that Arkham is hard to get out (even if it's not true).

Damian didn't like how it felt to see you on the windowsill. He doesn't like how it feels to see you in this state. He doesn't like fear. But fear made one thing clear: he cares about you. He hadn't understood how important you became until that incident happened. You are his sibling, and even if he did not choose you, even if he was against the idea of you being in the family at first, now he knows you held a place in this family like everyone else. And now he knows that he will do everything in his power to make you safe; he will protect you even from yourself. He asked Bruce to install precautions in your room. He follows you like your shadow everywhere you go. He makes sure that there is no danger in your way. He checks up on how you sleep after patrols. He makes sure to be nicer when he is around you, and he heads to ask Father, Pennyworth, and Grayson how exactly to behave around you. He joins in Tim the research of ways for you to cope with traumas or ways to comfort you, and when he sees articles about how communicating with animals improves mental health, he brings Titus to you, and when he goes for walks with Titis he makes sure to take you on them too since he also found out that walks improve mental health, and since it's walking with Titus it's beneficial in double. He protects you and he cares for you even if he struggles with proving it

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Thank you for reading! Feel free to share your opinion and have a good day 💖

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Tag list :

@socially-embarrassing , @leovergurl , @deathbynarcisstick , @cryptic-arr0w , @lynns-cornerr , @cxcilla ,  @charlotteking23 , @ninihrtss , @lillycore , @pix-stuff , @tfamidoingwithmylife , @linoalwaysknows , @00hellohello00 , @lilithskywalker , @bagofrice , @lenaisaloser , @devilslittlehelper , @camilo-uwu , @l3v1us , @eyeless-kun , @stargazingbutgayer, @wpdarlingpan , @weirdothatreads , @maybea1 @lyla-viper-wayne @amber-content @lizzyzzn

if i forgot to add someone to the tag list, please let me know, and i will add you to the next part

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Spoiler:

Next chapter connected to this (click here) and after that I'll finally write about Joker's kid! reader hair dyeing adventures

[that-hazbin]

Sorta AU/story idea where Alastor's a serial killer but he doesn't... completely realize that he's a serial killer.

He's super mentally Not Okay with a whole load of traumatic baggage, and sometimes when he gets past a stress threshold, he sort of... blacks out. Not faint, exactly, but his body moves on autopilot while his consciousness is just. Not there.

The first time it happened, he was fourteen. His father had beaten him black and blue, and left him limp on the floor to go beat Alastor's mother. When Alastor came to the realization that his mother stopped moving, his vision went blurry.

When he regained consciousness, his father was on the floor, bleeding from the head, eyes glazed over. It looked like he fell and hit himself on the corner of the dining table. Alastor lost both his parents on the same day.

After that, Alastor started having "episodes" a bit more often. A majority of the time, he manages to get home, and when he wakes up, he's hiding under his bed or in his closet, confused as to how he even got home. He doesn't want to be admitted into an asylum, of course, so he keeps quiet about this.

Sometimes, though?

Sometimes, he'll wake up knee deep in water, staring into the dark of a bayou. Sometimes, he'll wake up half-submerged in his bath, red going down the drain, with no clue as to where he's injured. Sometimes, the person who was screaming at him before the episode hit just went... missing the next day.

Alastor keeps quiet.

Naturally, when Alastor dies, he goes to hell. He doesn't remember the crimes, but he did commit them regardless. Of course, when people ask him what he did to end up down there, he can't give a real answer. The truth of the matter is that he doesn't know. Sure, he has... suspicions. Theories. But he doesn't know.

Things happen. He has several black out episodes in Hell before they simply stop happening, because he's stressed all the time and he can't just block every single second of every day from memory. He learns how to consciously survive in hell. Makes a name for himself.

Things roughly stay truthful to canon from there.

Then, one day, Charlie has a brilliant idea for a hotel activity. Part of redemption means acknowledging what brought you to hell to begin with, and what you can do now to make up for those actions! They go around the room, talking about the sins they committed, and what they can do now to improve. Alastor fully intends to stay out of the activity, he's not working towards redemption after all, but... Of course, Lucifer has to taunt.

Lucifer: What, you're just gonna sit around judging us?

Charlie: Er, dad—

Alastor: Hilarious coming from you, your majesty, truly. In any case, your memory seems to be failing you, I'm not here for redemption. I have no reason to participate.

Lucifer: Uh huh, neither is the bartender or the maid, you think you can be exempt just because you're staff? I'm the King of Hell and you don't see me skipping out. And here I would've thought you would have taken the chance to brag about the fucked up shit you did up there.

Charlie: Hey, guys, I don't think—

Alastor: Husk and Nifty are grown adults who are perfectly capable of making their own decisions. I am also a grown adult, and my decisions don't need to reflect theirs.

Lucifer: Oh, I see, you're a coward then?

Alastor: Believe whatever you want to, it makes no difference to me.

Lucifer: Sure it doesn't. Why don't we make this a game, huh? I'll guess your sins, and you stop me when I get it right.

Charlie: Dad, Alastor—

Lucifer: Can't imagine you fucked before marriage or anything, I mean, you scream prude. Bet you died a virgin.

Alastor: Hah, I wouldn't know. Are you done with your childish taunts, or are you going to allow your daughter to continue?

Lucifer stops dead, both because of the reminder that he's interrupting Charlie's activity, and also because he's replaying Alastor sentence back in his head. And, as the father of lies himself, he realizes that Alastor... wasn't lying when he said he didn't know.

Charlie: Great, yes, thank you Alastor! So, anyways—

Lucifer: Wait.

Charlie: Dad!

Lucifer: Seriously, wait. Bellhop, what the fuck do you mean you wouldn't know?

Angel: ... Oh shit.

Alastor: ... Charlie, continue your activity.

Charlie: Uh.

Lucifer: Oh, FUCK YOU! No, what the fuck did you mean by that?! What, were you like, drugged or—

Angel: HEY LET'S TALK ABOUT MY DEEP DARK PAST AS A MEMBER OF A MAFIA FAMILY!

Charlie: YES THANK YOU ANGEL LET'S TALK ABOUT IT! I'M VERY PROUD OF YOU FOR VOLUNTEERING!

Alastor gets the fuck out of dodge, and Lucifer finally gets the hint that he definitely stepped on a landmine that he very much should have not touched. Unfortunately, Lucifer alongside everyone in the hotel are left with a misunderstanding regarding Alastor's history.

[g3llyfish]

"SIT RIGHT DOWN AND STAY A WHILE"

MK x GN!reader

Established relationship

Comfort and fluff<3, you both miss eachother :{, tired and overworked MK

   You stare at the text with a sigh when your boyfriend, MK, apologizes for not being able to spend some time with you again because he was busy training with the monkey king.

     Sometimes you would wish that he isn't the monkey king's prodigy, you're happy that you're with someone special like him but with all the training and working at pigsy's. He ends up overworking himself and risking his physical health and mental health and you're getting more and more worried for him.

     You understand why, ofcourse you're not one of those possessive partners that controls every decision your partner makes but you really miss him, you can't even remember when you two had a proper date or even a sleepover.

     You turn off your phone again and rose up from you bed, determined to think of a plan to spend some time with him, until you got an idea.

     You grabbed your phone again and starts to dial Mei.

     "Hey, I'm gonna do something for MK, do you think you have some time to help me real quick?"

✧˖*°࿐

     MK, the Monkey Kid, the great sage somewhat equal to heaven, the one who saved the city from damnation from several demons is currently driving in his delivery vehicle to pigsy's noodles to finish off his chores after the training he went through.

     He swears he could feel his bones breaking just from sitting down, his eye bags were deep and his skin became slightly pale from exhaustion.

     Wukong noticed this ofcourse and told him off to get some rest, the monkey king isn't that cruel to his successor, if he has to be honest, the monkey cares about MK so much more than himself.

     MK sighs as he remembers when he texted you that he was too busy to be with you, he missed seeing you, holding you, being with you, just you in general.

     He stops at a red light and decides to pull up his phone to see if he has any notification... Nothing, just the wallpaper of your first date together, he looked so tense and nervous in the photo making him scoff a laugh.

     The monkey man doesn't know why but you still make him nervous in some way, you're amazing as a friend and also as his partner, he still doesn't believe that you accepted him to be your boyfriend until this day.

     The brunette was too busy reminiscing the time when he was with you to the fact that didn't even notice the light turned green until a loud horn from behind took his attention away.

     "Hey kid! Get a move on!" "S-s-sorry!"

✧˖*°࿐

     MK walks inside the noodle shop with the neon light above the door off,—indicating that they're closing up, MK only sees Pigsy cleaning by himself with a mop at hand, roughly cleaning a stain on the floor.

     "MK, you're finally back!" The pig notices MK and stops mopping.

     "Hey, pigsy!" MK greeted his dad "here, I'll help you with cleaning the shop."

     He was about to grab the mop from Pigsy but the noodle shop owner stops him by grabbing his hand and puts it down as he shakes his head no.

     "You can get an early off, kid" Pigsy pats MK's arm "you've been hard on yourself, too hard if I have to be specific so go up and get some rest."

     MK looks at Pigsy flabbergasted and blinks a few times.

     "But what about the shop?" "Don't worry about it, Tang is here to help me out so it's fine"

     From afar MK could hear Tang shouting 'I did not agree to this!' in the kitchen then the sound of a bunch plates falling down was heard making Pigsy flinch.

     An early day off? And it doesn't cut off his salary? Is this a dream?

     "Don't worry about me pigsy! I'm okay, really..." MK yawns, not helping his excuse "I want to help you, four extra hands with your hands can close the shop up early."

     The brunette smiles cheerfully with dark eyebags making him look like some escaped patient in an asylum and reaches for the mop again but the pig sways the mop away from the man making MK pout.

     "You can help me out by going up to your room and not bother me cleaning, now go up and rest" Pigsy demanded.

     MK took a second to respond, his eyes squinting in suspicion.

     "Am I in a Kalabash again?" "It's an order, MK!" "sir yes, sir!"

     As MK walks up to his apartment or more to say room, he wondered why everyone was sending him home more early than usual. First it was Wukong and now Pigsy? Sure, he was tired and his body feels like it could sink to the ground but he can manage it!

     He's the monkey kid afterall, he can deal with anything! Right? 

     The man yawns again as he stumbled slightly and opens the door to his place,  his groggy and tired eyes lit up seeing a well made fort on his bed.

     MK walks forward and see how comfortable it is then noticed the Sun Wukong plushies in the fort and Monkey Cop could be heard on his TV.

     He pulls out a tired smile, it was like he already knew who made did this. The door behind him opens.

     "Awh dang it! You got here before me..." Your voice calls out making him turn around to see you, who was carrying arms full of snacks.

     "[Y/n]..." MK breathes out a hearty laugh.

     "I was just getting some food for us for incase you were hungry once you come home," You walk pass him and sets down the various of snacks on his bed "I wanted to surprise you but oh well..."

     You turn around to face him and does an awkward jazz hands.

     "Sur... prise? I guess?"

     This made MK laugh as he walks towards you and wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you closer to him, he buries his face on the crook of your neck as he lets out a delightful sigh.

     You were shocked about the sudden hug but you held him tightly anyways, missing his warm embrace for so long.

     This is what MK needs, you, the tenseness of his shoulder relaxes as he inhaled the smell of your shampoo, he loves your scent... It made him feel like he's at home weirdly enough...

     MK's eyes closes and cherished this moment with you for a brief moment, it was as if he never wants to let go.

     "You doing alright, MK?" you ask, as your hug tightens.

     "Hm," he nods "I just miss you."

     This made you smile, knowing that he misses you the same way that you miss him makes your heart giddy as you let out a giggle.

     "What?" "Nothing nothing, you're just cute... I miss you too"

     You pull away and grab both MK's cheek firmly before planting a kiss on his lips, he froze on the spot from shock of your bold action before melting into your lips.

     He places his hands on your hips and pulls you towards him as you both savor this short moment with eachother.

     MK starts to smile in the kiss. 

     You both pull away as the two of you look at eachother for a while before laughing at eachother like it was your first kiss all over again.

     "Come'on, let's watch some Monkey Cop together" "Yeah! haha... Can you stay a while even after the movie?" "Ofcourse..."

Requested from Quotev :3, it's really not that much but I tried TT

[fallendev0tionvn]

Im slow.. when it comes to lore of Clive lmao but hey its interesting, so may i ask what's Nietzsche philosophy.. so like i can watch his philosophy, so i can understand! :D

i've been stalking your account to understand Clive but I just realize i am slow when it comes to lore LMAOO, oneee... question that is a Slight NSFW (Maybe..?), is Clive gentle when it comes of Him and MC do it for a first time?

(i just realized i change topic to add one question which is not related to Clive's lore :P)

I'll answer the second question first, Clive is always gentle! He only wants to bring you pleasure, not pain. The only time he gets a little rough is when he's feeling jealous🏃‍♀️.

ANYWAY.

I'm SORRY for the person I'm about to become, but get ready for a LONG yapping session (I was Dostoevskij in my past life) that probably won't make sense (keep in mind that I wanted to be either a comic artist, a psychologist or a philosophy professor...explains a lot). Half of this is from my notes when I was studying for my graduation exam💀

First of all Nietzsche is one of the most misunderstood philosophers. Why? He's either "idolized" by those red pill/looksmaxxing guys without realizing that he actually goes against their morals, or edgy wannabe "nihilists" for the quote "God is dead." (Nihilism is a form of extreme pessimism, in simple terms, it's the belief that there's no true meaning in life, nothing can be known or communicated. But if Nietzsche is telling you to destroy the old meanings of life TO create your own instead of listening to what others say, would he still be considered a nihilist? Sure, active nihilism is a thing- but in my opinion he is NOT a nihilist).

His philosophy has also been used historically for the worst things that I won't even mention. Why? his sister edited some of his last unfinished works based on HER own beliefs when he ended up in the asylum. Many think he was a "....", when- let's be real and study a bit of history- if Nietzsche's mental health deteriorated the year THAT political figure was born (1889), how could he possibly be associated with him? Literally, tf.

The reason for this is because I think many don't read or study his philosophy in the correct order, nor do they know the timeline of his ideas.

To understand the concept of the "Übermensch", you have to start from the very beginning, when he first mentions the Dionysian and Apollonian spirits- the übermensch is supposed to bring back the rebirth of the "tragic spirit". (Übermensch= overman, the highest version of oneself a person can become, the "better" version of you, basically).

What key concepts did I take inspiration from? (I say inspiration because not everything is directly related to Nietzsche, I started from his main concepts to create characters, lore etc.)

ETERNAL RETURN:

(Bad ending: The cycle ends here)

See Clive's necklace? The symbol on his bicep and the main menu? The ouroboros.

It's such a deep concept and it asks: "What if every moment of your life had to repeat itself endlessly, in the exact same way, forever?"

This means everything, every pain, every joy, every regret, would return again and again and again. This NOT about whether it's scientifically true, we don't know if we're destined to relive the same life after death. It's a thought experiment, a way to ask yourself "would I still want to live my life if I knew I'd relive my worst moments forever? How would I act?"

If your answer is no, you're not affirming your existence. If yes, you're embracing life fully. In a way, you'd try to be more yourself and live with fewer regrets, right?

DIONYSIAN VS APOLLONIAN:

(The intro of the game, Silas and Clive's conversation)

To simplify it: Think of the two hemispheres of the brain.

Right brain = Dionysian (chaos, passion, music, imagination, intuition, emotion). This side is emotional, creative, raw, deeply human. It's the spirit Nietzsche believed humanity lost.

Left brain = Apollonian (logic, structure, rules, order). This side is rational, clear, less human.

Why did Nietzsche use greek gods to describe this? Because he rejected the "classical and elegant" image of Greece we learn about in school. To him, archaic Greece was the perfect society because it embraced chaos, suffering, and the tragic. (That's why I added greek mythology :3)

He also saw greek tragedy (a form of ancient drama/theatre that expresses human suffering, fate, and moral conflict) as the perfect fusion of the Apollonian and Dionysian. This fusion created a form of art that embraced life in all its beauty and suffering.

With Socrates (ancient greek philosopher), the Dionysian spirit was killed. We began to exalt reason over everything, meaning everything had to be explained, justified, or made logical. This made humanity obsessed with truth and control, disconnecting us from the fullness of life.

"And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music."

Clive tried to force himself to lean more towards the Apollonian, he suppressed his emotions, tried to follow "moral rules", and tried to look "normal".

To explain the change between his younger self and current self there's an iconic quote:

"Become who you are" In the sense that in life, we constantly follow models that are necessary- because we grow through imitation. Children grow by watching, by imitating. But then, we must detach from this imitation and become who we truly are, a process of self reckoning.

After his "death", Clive starts being himself. There's a balance now, but you can still influence him to lean more towards his Dionysian or Apollonian side.

To live a full, healthy life, we need to embrace both sides:

"The tree that grows to heaven must send its roots to hell."

GOD IS DEAD:

(Who helped Clive?)

Nietzsche's most misunderstood quote.

Saying "God is dead", as he writes, implies that God once existed, or at least, that he was once central to the way humans explained the world. After all, only something that has existed can die; things that have never existed don't die. That's why Nietzsche has this declaration spoken not by an atheist, but by a madman. The atheist and the believer ARE part of the same system aren't they? One says "yes", the other says "no", but they're both within the same structure of thought, a world where God is STILL a reference point.

The madman on the other hand, speaks from outside that system. When he says "God is dead", he's not just denying the existence of God- he's saying that the world is no longer ORGANIZED around God. There was a time when everything was explained through God, when God gave order and meaning to existence. But today, that's no longer the case.

We must understand that Nietzsche, often read in an oracular and overly dramatic way, is actually a profundly coherent philosopher. His thinking is rigorous; If churches are now empty, if they became museums, tombs for god (visiting them for the "Affreschi", example: "La cappella sistina"), it's because he is dead. We killed him, or more precisely, we forgot him- because already with the scientific revolution, and even earlier with Renaissance, man placed himself at the center. We no longer live in a world explained through God, but through human reason, science and self determination. (That's why I chose literally the "forgotten God" from greek mythology. If you figure out who he is, you'll learn he actually died.)

Now if you want to learn more about Nietzsche:

His philosophy goes through THREE major phases;

- The youthful phase: Influenced by Schopenhauer (another amazing philosopher, highly recommend reading about him too), celebrated ancient greece, wrote "The Birth of Tragedy", Introduced the Apollonian and Dionysian spirits.

- Enlightment phase: Distanced himself from religion and idealism, embraced critical thinking, dismantled traditional values, wrote "Human, All Too Human".

- Mature phase: Developed his core concepts -> eternal return, übermensch, death of god, wrote "Thus Spoke Zarathustra" "On the genealogy of Morality" "Ecce Homo"

[thatoneautisticshark]

I've shamelessly scrolled very down but couldn't find any existing. I love them all together but what do you think of Gaz sitting on one of the other's face for a good eating out? 👀 I feel like one of them would see him so overwhelmed with something and have the perfect solution 🥰

-🗑️🗑️🗑️

this only took.... forever. So sorry. Take these stupid gays in denial being cute... and horny

A sigh escaped Gaz's lips as he finally stepped off that blasted heli. All he wanted to do was sleep.. or eat .. or maybe die.

Everything hurt, and the amount of shit he'd seen over the past week would have civvie in a mental asylum.

He'd never been so grateful to see his annoying best friend. He hadn't known he would choose to wait for him, but god, the sight of such a familiar safe face almost made him want to cry.

He didn't even hesitate, wrapping his arms around Johnny waist and burying his face in the Scots shoulder. Johnny didn't really question it, why would he? They both were close and had no fear about being touchy.

Men could hug without being gay, no matter what the base teased.

Kyle went mildly limp as a hand pulled his helmet off, gently dragging through his hair. “Ye ‘right ky?”

The question came soft and close to his ear. Kyle really didn't want to have to speak, however he knew should he not answer, Johnny would likely get worried he was injured. “ ‘m fine, Johnny … just… tired”

The other man hummed, pressing a gentle kiss to Kyle's head. “Come o’ then, let's get ye back an shower”

Kyle let himself be led, happy with the arm remaining round his waist, it was grounding and warm. He felt he might fall apart without it.

He was infinitely grateful that Price had managed to get them their own room, so they weren't in a barracks. The idea of sitting in a noisy crowded barracks where everyone is pushing and wanting to hear about the mission was horrid.

The door shut, and he felt his tac, boots and belt being pulled off. Thorough old Johnny. Those warm hands them began tugging his shirt overhead.

He didn't fight it, but a questioning noise escaped his lips as Johnny continued to strip him.

“Well no way are ye getting in bed all filthy. c’mon”

Kyle hummed, he didn't want to have to shower, but he knew he should. Johnny started the shower, allowing steam to fill the room, pulling out two towels and setting them up.

Kyle gave a groan as he was pulled under the warm water. It felt heavenly on his muscles, his body loosening under the spray “Oh fuckk”

A slight chuckle came from behind him. Johnny had moved to hold him up from behind. Warm arms wrapped gently around his waist, rubbing his torso.

Kyle vaugly registered Johnny's dick ended up pressed against his arse, but he wasn't fussed. It happened, besides, they were best friends, cuddling wasn't gay.

The passage of time seemed wonky as the shower continued, he couldn't quite place any particular events. But Johnny had washed his hair… really well.

Kyle had only mentioned the differences in washing textured hair like.. once? And Johnny remembered and used it to wash Kyle up properly.

The sweetness made Kyle's heart swell, as he was guided out of the shower and toweled off. A gentle kiss was pressed to his nose as Johnny pushed him into one of the beds, before climbing in after.

Kyle could feel his whole body relaxing to limp in the arms of his best friend, so warm and safe and comfortable.

Johnny was coaxing giggles out of him by kissing everywhere he could reach, on his face, hair, neck, shoulders.

Kyle huffed a laugh, but moved a bit to get more comfortable.

Johnny failed to see the movement, and the next kiss landed on Kyle's lips. Kyle froze.

He didn't pull back but didn't move closer either. He.. was kissing his best friend, and he didn't hate it he wanted more he wanted to feel every inch of johnny.

Luckily the scot was on the same wavelength slowly beginning to move his lips, sucking at Kyle's.

He felt his hips jerk as Johnnys hand wandered. Fuck.

He needed this. It was so good and warm. Johnny gripped his hips, moving Kyle up to sit on his chest. “Fook… sit… sit on me face”

Kyle felt his whole face burn bright red. “I.. Johnny you won't be able to breath.”

The scot blinked blankly “Cool, I dun care. Sit ye arse down”

Kyle's hand braced uncertainty on his best friends shoulders. “You'll suffocate, Johnny”

A very exasperated groan sounded from underneath him “Fer fecks sake, Then I'll die happy! Sit.”

Muscled arms gripped Kyle's thighs tugging him down, and oh god. He knew the flush of his face was spreading to his chest already, especially given the noise that was tugged out of him.

The feeling was odd, but so so fucking good. He could feel Johnny's tougue running over his arse, and near his dick.

Kyle groaned grinding his hips down uncontrollably as Johnny continued to lick like a fucking pro.

He couldn't help it, all concern regarding Johnny's ability to breathe was out the window, and he couldn't think of anything but the feeling of the tougue slowly pressing up his arse.

It stretched a little, maybe burned, he didn't really know. But it was good.

Small red scratches were appearing on Johnny's chest as he tried to control himself, hips bucking. He didn't want to cum so soon, but it was so so amazingly good and he could feel the pressure building.

“Fuck… fuck. Fuck fuck ffffuckkk”

His vision went white, head almost clunking the head board.

When he blinked back to himself, Johnny was curled up beside him again. “okay. Go ta sleep now”

Kyle almost got whiplash from the sudden change, especially when Johnny had been to one insisting

. But who cares. Johnny was such a good mate to help his friend like that.

[drac-kool-aid]

Seward's bone deep desire to run away from the asylum is not exactly surprising. There have been a lot of really good meta posts about how the return of Van Helsing into his life is the turning point where we see the caring and good side of him and how we can interpret his life as a student in Amersterdam as one of freedom and happiness. How he is part of the tragedy of manners, how strict social expectations allow Dracula to persist, and how they only exacerbate the unhappiness of the characters.

And I think the tragedy of Seward is that, really, he should not be the head of an asylum. It's a job that brings him no joy, and he's BAD at it. We can all recognize that if your first reaction to going back to work is "What if I just leave it all." That isn't a healthy work environment.

Now, in the modern day, the ability to pick and choose a work environment, even to leave one that is damaging your mental health, is a privilege. (IT SHOULDNT BE, but it is). And, although it is definitely reaching crisis levels in modern times, major changes in your career have almost always been difficult (unless you are really rich, or a particular brand of academic in the 17th-18th century, or both).

Seward can't just leave and become a surgeon. To give up the lofty position of "Head of an Asylum" would be unthinkable in the 1890s, especially for a reason like "Being here is basically turning me into the Joker." Like, how would Seward explain that in polite society? Would they accept that reasoning? Would they create salacious gossip if they didn't? Can Seward leave his position without losing a great amount of social capital?

Probably not.

His rise to head of an asylum, as many have pointed out, was meteoric, to say the least. It has afforded him status and respect and also left him deeply, deeply fucked up. And he can't leave!

I think his desperate attempts to quantify Renfield's behaviors into a new mental illness are telling in this regard. Maybe he is too used to having to meet some sort of expectation, and now he thinks this is the logical next step (It's NOT, but I digress). The feeling of having to keep performing above expectations, grasping at straws to do so, and subsequently burning oneself out (as well as others around you) and engaging in unethical practices? Idk. It sounds like something that would happen today. (tbh there are probably a ton of Sewards out there today, as there are still systemic problems within the mental health system that allow for the dehumanizing and abuse of patients).

It doesn't excuse his behavior. Nothing he does to Renfield is excusable, but I think it does explain some of the *why*. He isn't just cruel for cruelty's sake.

So, tldr I guess: I think reading Seward as someone who got stuck on a career path that he realized was unfufilling and that he ends up hating. Social conventions restrict him from just quitting without and a (socially acceptable) good reason to do so, and a lifetime of being regarded as one of the smartest people in the room means he can not allow himself to fail. Unfortunately, this also means he can not admit when his actions or his ideas are wrong when it comes to his job.

(But he can show that uncertainty FOR Lucy, and TO Arthur and Van Helsing, which speaks his trust and love for them)

[red-doll-face]

Snow Angel 11

Chapter 11: fevered Series Masterlist

low - medium honor Arthur Morgan x fem. Reader

Arthur has been living by himself, laying low (for real this time) somewhere in the Pacific Northwest. After the whole Pinkerton and Micah debacle, he has been hiding away, waiting for it all to blow over, occasionally getting letters from the people who still know that he’s alive. He’s been alone awhile and at first, he thought he could handle a little loneliness. He has been wrong before. Lucky for him, you look like the perfect thing to break up the monotony.

Warnings: dubious consent, arthur’s mental health is kind of not so good…VERY low honor Arthur, darkish fic, a bit of naive reader. Reader has dated and period typical ideals, not very good ideas about men and marriage… if you want reader to be strong and a fighter… this is not for you sorry. suggestive themes. Huge HUGe Voyeurism bit, arthur being a perv 🤨👀 huge weirdo energy LMAO small mention of wanting death, WC: 7780 Hello snow angels : ) here is chapter 11!!! this chapter will be from arthurs perspective so very exciting 😳 i had a ton of fun just getting nasty with him and writing his fucked up little thoughts 😈 arthur inner monologue was a bit weird at first but im sure ill get better at it by actually attempting to do it LMAO i hope you guys enjoy and pls let me know what you think!!! i wanna thank everyone who has left replies and asks about this series, all of you have been so supportive and amazing, couldnt do it without you guys 🥹🥹💖💖💖 also this ended up way too long so sorry Tags: lots of angst todayyy, no TB, weird but not that toxic relationship, Arthur being a menace.Arthur being rude as always just… low honor arthur as a warning lol - What does it matter if the man who saved your life is a little strange?

It must be dusk falling too soon. Slow deprivation of heat and light; does things to his head, as if that wasn’t half screwed off already. Arthur’s fingers clutch the dusty curtain in front of one of two main windows at the front of his cabin; his eyes swear they can see…something out in the treeline. At first he thought of Pinkertons; to collect that bounty they were on about. Why they would follow him to the ends of the earth for that would be beyond him but Arthur had been known to do stupid things for a big payout. And of course, he hadn’t lived this long without a healthy amount of paranoia. Or what he called caution. Or perhaps Charles should have left his ass at the nearest asylum.

But he can sense that he’s wrong when nothing comes of it. No gunshots, no desperate shoot out for his life. Just the quiet again. In a minute, he’ll look out the window and watch the figure disappear. And he’ll shake his head, rub his calloused fingers over his tired eyes. He drops the curtain, pouring another cup of coffee at the silver percolator in the kitchen. He is not losing his grip; he isn’t. He’d leave that to Dutch. 

It’s gotten worse with the winter; those strange things he sees from time to time. They make him feel more out of place than he already does. As if there’s something wrong with him, wrong with this moment. The frost grows over the windows like mold.

The summer sun kept the darkness from slipping in and leaking into his vision. But that’s long gone, been gone for a month. Shit weather up here, long dragging winters. Summers that were too short for his liking and an autumn that was beautiful but also short lived. The winter is too heavy now to do much of anything but loop out to the stable and back. Not much sightseeing to do, the same shock white landscape to see everyday. 

In spite of how beautiful the mountain is; with its sprawling forest, creeks like liquid glass, the fresh winter air… Arthur finds it arduous to see it. Closing himself inside his cabin is easier. He could go and hunt something, draw the scenery. But was that any better than the fireplace? The comfort and simultaneous unease of staying inside the confines of his new home drag him in opposite directions. And even if his paranoid visions are just residue from another time in his life; he knows there are people who could be still searching, who might remember his face. Bad things had a way of following Arthur wherever he went. 

Even more loathsome is the lack of sunlight. The sun disappears around 4 or 5 and it feels like it was midnight by 6. The windows of his wooden cabin blacken like soot, leaving him tired and groggy. 

Arthur tries to keep himself going with bitterness like always. Coffee, cigarettes, and alcohol. He thinks the lack of light plays with his head. It’s easy to mistake shadows for ghosts, trusting himself was hard as it was. 

Damn snow, cuts to the bone.

The stunning silence surprises him still at these odd moments in the day. Arthur thought that maybe the peace would do him some good. But there was a need that scratched incessantly at the front of his skull. Over and over and over. 

He spent a long time being needed by other people. Dutch made him feel needed at the very least. Like he was part of something that symbolized how free a man could be. And he had devoted every shred of himself to the vision that Dutch had for the world. It was all that mattered to Arthur. His fealty was really all he had to give and so he gave it. 

God, had he felt the fool on the last day he saw him, when Dutch walked away, as if everything Arthur had ever done was nothing to him. Twenty goddamn years of his life. If he was being honest, he knew that his loyalty was wasted before that day but he had waited to see if the man he knew would emerge. If he could kill that gutless rat and show Dutch the truth but he refused, leaving Arthur with nothing to show for it. Helping John, Abigail and Jack to safety was barely a comfort when he thought of all that he wasted. All he did was hand another man a chance at the life that he wanted. 

But it was too late. As always with Arthur. (Everything was always too little; too late) Providing for others was embedded deeply in his being. It was something he had done for years, especially when he decided to get his shit together. He might have dallied, thoroughly enjoying his youth. But he learned (through several extremely painful lessons) why it was important that he pick up the slack. Loyalty isn’t represented by inaction. He hadn’t been all too kind to people but he had kept his comfort that in some part, his work was what kept that camp running. And when that fell apart; he really did try to help the less fortunate.

Really, he was making up for his failures to the people he cared about most. Arthur questioned if he had cared enough. If he did, maybe things would have ended differently between him and the people he harmed by being selfish.

Maybe Dutch put some modicum of power in his hands and Arthur had wielded it badly, went around acting like the cesspool he felt like most of the time. But at the end of the day, the camp ate because of him, they had medicine because of him, hell, they even drank because it was him that brought back more money than anyone else. 

There is no one who needs him now. Arthur scrubs his hand over his face then down to rub over his shoulders. Leans his head back. At first it was nice. The independence. No more debt collecting for Strauss, no more worrying if there’s enough food for Pearson, no more looking out for O’Driscolls. He thought he would like only having one person to worry about; he had been lying to himself. Although he still had other things missing from him. They’re like phantom limbs. He can feel where they were supposed to be but when he looks down they’re gone. Hosea’s guidance was missing from him. Even if he was terrible at following it. The sound of the girl’s giggling and gossiping. Even Uncle and Swanson ambling around, drunker than he thought was possible. Dutch looming, watching through his haze of maduro sweetened smoke. He keeps looking down but they’re gone.  

The fire crackles and the wind howls; picks up the silence. Sometimes the wind from the flue sounds like the breeze over Flat Iron Lake. The fire doesn’t sound any different than it did when it crackled warmly around a circle of a mismatched band of criminals singing songs together, alongside the chatter and the drunken crooning. When it was the background noise to thick Irish blabbering. The poor kid. He was going places, as most of the younger ones were, he and Lenny would have run that gang when they got past their growing pains. He could have told them that when they were living, that sentiment would have meant something then. 

It’s been a year or two, the days sort of connect like train cars and chug along, not because he wants them to but because that’s how life goes. It’s an endless drag, an endless struggle. He can’t see how this is much better than being dead. Arthur Morgan is one of the few people who knows how precious life can be, he spent a lifetime taking it away from people as he pleased. 

He tries to savor this peace (as if he knows how to). Tries to remember what it was like, not having any time to himself, always at Dutch’s beck and call. Barely any time to take a piss, let alone really rest, really give himself room to be anything but what others wanted. How he loathes those memories. The years he spent dedicating himself to another man's dreams. Watched all those years slip away, ashes in a smoke stack, rising forever upwards until they’re forgotten. 

Arthur refuses to recall how many things he gave up for that life; down to the simple pleasures. Love, privacy, a family. He convinced himself that anything else wasn’t living, that he couldn’t ever be tied down. That old life was just… what he had. There was nowhere else to go and when he was old enough to go his own way, there were kids like him with nothing left; nothing to return to, no one to look after them. He might not have been anyone to look up to. Maybe he was a shining example of what not to be. It was Arthur who was there to keep people in line, to show them how to be killers for Dutch’s aspirations. He’s sure he ruined lives more than he taught them anything useful.

Nothing about that life was rooted in anything real, substantial to the world. Pipe dreams. Vague imaginings of living free in the west or some such tropical paradise. What a waste. Just the thought of a secluded island with palm trees on it summons a bitter laugh. 

He sits and watches the fire. Tries to ignore the shadow in the corner. It's thin and wavering. Today, it looks a bit too much like Hosea for his taste. Especially when the log on the hearth cracks, it sounds like that ominous cough that followed the graying conniver everywhere he went. 

Arthur lights another cigarette. He’s been making (quite frankly, just awful) attempts at rationing and this is his allotted second cigarette of the day. He’s two for five. He curses himself every time he forgets to take the drags and it crumbles to ash too quickly, landing on the rug beneath his boots. He hisses, a singe on his fingers snaps him back to the present moment. It burns his fingers when he forgets that he’s holding one entirely, too busy drilling holes in the walls with his eyes. He can’t stand it but he doesn’t have another choice. The silence has the mysterious property of making Arthur lose track of himself. He should have listened but he never learns. 

This deep into winter, not too far from the base of Mt. Pàtu, he can’t just head out on the road and get more cigarettes. The nearest town is a six or seven hour ride and that isn’t happening, not in this weather. He might take Currant out for a light trot so he can get some exercise but he can tell something big is coming soon. The bellows of air from the west have him readying for storm weather. Best to get a move on now if he were to be going out. 

It’s dinner now. He’s not sure where the time went but he doesn’t mind too much. He’s got coffee and he’s got hot food. Salt pork with potatoes, boiled in the salt water from soaking the corns of salt off the meat. He’s gotten better at cooking at least. Arthur scoffs at the thought of the slop he used to be eating. He takes a glass out and sets it on the counter, along with his fifth bottle of Kentucky bourbon. He’s allowed 6 bottles a month. By anyone else’s standards it might be a lot but where he spent most of his time; around other drunkards and degenerates, it’s not enough. 

The storm hits full force now, there’s gonna be snow all the way up to the porch by tomorrow morning. But the air inside of his cabin is still and smoky. From the window, he checks the stable to see if the doors stay closed. It’s well insulated so Currant should be fine. The storm will have scared most of the game into hiding away, he contemplates when he’ll head back out for hunting. He takes a seat at his plain dining table, spends a while on the same glass of bourbon. The smell of cedar and salt is nice.  So is the warmth of his cabin but it’s all lost to him. His sense for how fortunate he is to be here and not dead in a ditch is dull. Only he could be the man to crave chaos and blood and the sound of gunshots while sitting on his ass all day, sipping bourbon. 

He thinks he’ll read a boring book or pretend to keep busy by stoking the fire. Arthur listens to the silence, waiting to hear something but the crackling and the draft from a small crack in the wall. But there’s nothing. He should have listened to Charles. But he insisted that he would be fine. He can’t go back on that now, he’s always been fine by himself. He’ll just wear the groove into his leather chair even further like the sorry bastard he is, trying to ignore how small and stiflingly warm the room feels.  

The blizzard gets louder and louder. Dozing off on the sofa or in his chair sounds like as good a time as any. But he isn’t exhausted, just annoyingly groggy. Bouncing his knee does not count as activity. Neither does all the fidgeting he does, twitching his fingers, putting his legs up and bringing them back down. He tries to pace a little but wearing treads on the floorboards isn’t doing any good either. He puts his hands on his hips. 

 He grabs his journal but he doesn’t have much to write. What would he write about? Surely, the exciting things he experiences everyday. Waking up feeling like hot shit on a platter after having too much whiskey was not the kind of thing worth memorializing in his journal anymore. He’s a little past the shame now too, the embarrassment. He lets his fingers feel the blank page, the tooth of the paper. 

He lets his hand form images of spring, the point of his pencil worn into a dull tip, recollected as best as possible. It’s nothing but a pale comparison. 

There’s a pat on the door. It’s soft and weak. And just as softly, there’s a voice pleading for help, asking if anyone is inside. A light shining in through the cracks of his world. 

He pushes himself up. He knows he hasn’t had that much to drink tonight. The worst possible outcomes play in his head. A ruse from bounty hunters, a local gang taking advantage (not a whole lot better than he would have done only 3 years ago), or another ghost from his past (the ones that play at the corner of his eye). His chest gets a little tight but he’s been good at keeping unease from holding him back. Arthur shakes his hand out, placing the book on the mantle of the fireplace.

“Who’s out there?” It’s an oddity. To hear another voice. One that isn’t his own. It’s a beautiful noise, a pleasing beckon. But he’s no fool. He doesn’t even particularly want to be here, why would anyone be here if they didn’t have to be? He grabs his revolver from the small table next to the entrance, one of the only loaded guns in the house. “Please, sir, I promise it’s just me,” and the earnestness in that voice, he has to believe that promise is true. He has to open the door. With a deep sigh, he stuffs the gun away after a second thought. 

The figure is much too bundled up to gather any immediate details. She’s not very much, standing there out in the cold icy fluff. It isn’t until he nods his head to direct her does she realize she should probably come in. He peeks out at the tracks, just one long line of horse tracks in the process of getting blown over by the harsh wind and the lashing ice. Her struggle up to the porch marked in snow. Arthur scans the tree line for any of those dark silhouettes but they’ve blown away in the wind, they’re pushed from his mind when he turns back and closes the door shut behind the both of them. 

He turns to her, he doesn’t mind the way she shrinks away from his body, skittish and slight. Such a small girl, alone in a snowstorm. He can’t think of a single good reason why she would be going it alone and what she could possibly need more than a night in. She should be warming her hands next to a fire. He could do it for her, could gather them and breathe on them. He tosses that behind him like an empty tin can. He has other things to focus on, mostly trying to get a better look at her and prying an answer out of her as to why she’s out here like this. 

He’s more rude than he intended to be but a little rudeness is nothing new to him. “What the hell were you doin’ out there?” He has been described as coarse. Intentionally and unintentionally. He’s a little bit like a puffed up rooster when he catches her looking him over, marveling at the size of him. But he lets that fall away, surely she needed no old man assuming things on her part. He knows he ain’t much to look at. At his gruff tone, she has no response. The poor thing is so cold, her teeth chatter, whatever she mustered up to yell at him over the storm has run out. Arthur feels a little of his hard veneer chip away. 

He thinks to take her coat, covered in frost and not nearly as insulated as he had hoped, it’s damp with melting ice now that she’s inside. But he feels like he’s dreaming again, peeling her coat off and hanging it on the rack, a faux gentleman. He doesn't know why he’s trying to impress but there’s a chance that she’d like a man like that. So he plays, pretends. He’s surely done that before.

When her coat is shed, all of those visions he’s been having must have caught up to him. 

Jesus, Morgan. You’ve really lost it now. 

This disease of loneliness he’s been given has surely destroyed the vestiges of his sanity. He must be imagining some young soft handed girl with warm bright eyes and vibrant, shiny hair. Face of an angel, looking hopeful; grateful. Her eyes on him burn like hellfire. He feels strange, watching much too close at how her tongue wets her lips; chapped from the cold. Beautiful; she must be someone’s girl, he hopes for a widow who had lost her husband to the winter frost. He’d gladly pick up where the fucker left off. Pry her from his cold hands. Could just be the loneliness talking. He can’t bring himself to care all that much about it. 

Arthur can feel shame eating away at him, like ants at the corners of a scrap fallen off the table. He could have found himself sick to his stomach not too short a time ago. A girl as young as her and he, an old dog with even older tricks have no business together. He knows it too. But he was done with that crushing feeling of dread that ate away at his very soul some days. He had enough of his life to feel awful about. Blood on the floorboards, forgotten promises, disregarded words of affection. Just these moments, where he can hoard the vision that is this girl to himself after so long of giving pieces of himself away. 

What has that shame ever done but made you worse? 

If there isn’t the will to keep his eyes off the girl then there’s the give in him. Like a levy, it cracks a little, breaks into a million pieces of splintered wood for her. It’s been too long since he’s seen something so pretty. All flesh and blood. No graphite on paper; recollections of the women from his past, no Gem of Beauty cigarette card. She carries the smell of soap and perfumed cotton. He thinks it's geranium scented or another delicate flower crushed to pieces to make her smell like she came from heaven too. It’s a weakness he hadn’t culled. 

This girl of his; she must be something quite real. His wishful daydream would have diverted to more intimate topics by now, and he’d probably imagine a woman he’s at least met before. Deciding if he’d prefer her to be real or a misty figment of his imagination; he can’t make heads nor tails of it. Arthur knows he’d probably end up disappointing a real person more than he could offend a figure cooked up in his mind. He sighs. He turns to the iron stove beside the dining table. There’s still coffee and he can distract himself from his ridiculous train of thought by clumsily pouring it out for her. 

Hopeful bastard.

“You mute, girl? Asked you a question.” He knows she isn't but he wants to hear her talk some more. And maybe if she hears what a brute he makes himself out to be most of the time, she’ll turn her nose up at him the way she’s supposed to. Lots of women have, she wouldn’t be the first warned away by his attitude like a bad smell. He could almost let that temptation win. To change who he is at this moment. If only for the selfish purpose of luring her further into his home. However, he’s too impulsive and his tongue is too practiced at offending. He has words that are about as gentle as a fist to the nose. 

He sets her cup down on the table. Arthur doesn’t wait for her to figure herself out, grabbing another cigarette, swiping them off of the coffee table in front of the fireplace. To hell with the rations. It was a special day after all, a goddamned holiday. He strikes the match on the table, lighting it as she tentatively steps forward. Nearly singes his finger on the match he forgot to put out, wincing and waving it out to put out the flame. 

She’s a pearl, surrounded by the ugly oyster that is the less than stellar home he keeps. Carefully, she steps into his space. Suddenly, he’s hyper aware of every thing she could find awful or garish; his hunting trophies or the weapons or the wall. Or the mess of papers on the desk in the corner. It has him gripping his cigarette a bit too tight. Her face hardly moves in any particular reaction, as if used to him already. A simple neutrality is what takes her as she looks at some of the things over the mantle, then her eyes track over the small hallway, leading to the bedroom and some storage. She’s quick to bring her attention back to him, a soft smile that stuns him graces her face, kicking up some long buried hope of his.

 If there was a woman who should be a lady, it’s her. She sets herself down on the sofa, neatly keeping her hands to herself, reaching for the cup he set out for her. But first checking to see if it wasn’t for him with a nervous flick of her eyes up to his own. He can hardly ignore how it pulls at him. She holds the blue speckled cup on her thigh. 

“No, I…was getting something for my granny…” She explains she couldn’t make it to the doctor in the almost fatal weather outside. He has a humorless laugh. How could anyone send her out for the sake of some old hag; already knocking on death's door? Selfless girl but stupid. Defenseless. Her own mother, too. He supposes he can relate. The man he regarded as his father had been the one to let him down the most.

 It’s always the ones you trust. 

He makes his opinion known to her, maybe he can talk some sense into her. 

“I can imagine. What kinda mother sends a pretty thing like you on a fool's errand? You really thought you was gonna bring your ol’ granny a doctor in this?” He reprimands her, she might need it. 

Little girl gone out by herself. Needs you, don’t she?

What she probably needs is someone to keep her from doing things that risk her life for nothing at all. Doesn’t have to be him but he won’t turn the thought away. Breaking her open on her marriage bed. Such a pretty thing, a distracted smile into her cup of coffee. Lost in a snow drift because no one cared enough to keep her inside. 

And she does nip back. Trying to give a rebuttal but he won’t have it. He knows he’s right, giving his idea of a light hearted joke, his particular brand of poking humor. Heavy handed as always. 

“Your granny probably already kicked the bucket while you were out here, damn near gettin’ yourself killed.” 

 Perhaps insinuating her grandmother was already dead wasn’t the best attempt at familiarizing her with himself, her face tinges with an expression he’s used to seeing. Dutch said he had a sharper tongue than people thought. Hosea said it was too blunt. 

“And if it weren’t for me, well…” she’d be dead. Forgotten somewhere in the snow with a dead horse for company. Such an image should hopefully be sobering for her. It’s a harsh reality but one he would prevent from happening.  His hand comes up to scratch at his brambly jaw. She probably thought his slightly overgrown beard was ugly and unkempt. His fingers raise the delicate rolled cigarette to his lips. A nice calming drag helps his nerves calm down, they quit jumping under his skin every time her eyes pull over him, over his scarred face and his crooked nose and his gnarled hands. She looks like she holds something back. Her tongue, he thinks. He wished she would have just come out and said it. 

But she’s a polite little thing, stifling herself with another drink of the coffee. The satisfaction on her face and the small droop in her shoulders now that she’s warm makes him smile. 

She speaks up with a tremor stuck to her words. “I’m sorry mister,” her nose scrunches a little, doesn’t even know how darling he finds it. “but I don’t think you gave me your name…” 

In a well practiced motion, he leans and ashes his cigarette. It took him a while to remember that he can’t just ash them on the ground anymore. He had floors and a permanent roof now. He tends to get the hang of things at some point. He kicks his legs up on the table, gently so as to not frighten the girl on his sofa, warming herself by his fire, and drinking his coffee. The thoughts tickle that provider’s instinct so deeply embedded in his being. His name, he almost forgets all about that, looking into her pretty eyes, blinking curiously. Right. 

“Arthur. You married?” He never liked small talk too much. Never one for the surface level bullshit people put on. He watches each of her features form into something like a smile but not. Too nerve-y, falls into something else when she presses her lips together, her brows twitch as they pull together and her fingers scrunch in her gloves. 

As if she’d marry you, ain’t exactly the pick of the litter, are ya?

His fingers twitch, squeeze his short nails into the give of his palm. Then why does she call him? So enticing, then, looking at him with soft eyes, her legs pressed together and slanted. A real proper girl. Cute thing. Naive enough not to recognize someone like him at first glance. He’s something to be avoided. He wishes he could see a ring glittering on her finger, to ward away the seething heat in his head and his gut. Like a prayer muttered in the presence of evil but he doubted it’d be strong enough. 

“No, I’m afraid not,” her voice is like velvet, the rub of a rose petal between his fingers. Her eyes flick away and her teeth press gently into her bottom lip, sweet looking. No man to look after her besides her worthless father, left her out here to freeze. Alone, really. Or she might as well be. The world has been known to be cruel to women. To his mother, to a woman whose life he had ruined, to Mary even, to Susan and Molly. Well, most every woman he knew. It wasn’t fair but many things in their lives were disparagingly slanted away from them, scales always uneven. 

“Young lady like you, unwed and caring for your Ma, Pa, all by yourself?” Arthur scoffs, even as he points out her tragedy. “Now that’s just sad, is what it is,” His fingers push his cigarette into the ash tray a bit too hard, twisting it. And he looks at her blouse, drawing the outline of her with his eyes. He’d put it to paper later. She has a small nod for him. A shining opportunity. But he has to introduce his own dingy reality. The one where he was probably old enough to have been able to hold her when she had just been born. 

“You are… a sight, for an old ugly bastard like me is all,” Honest words slip from him, too loose for him to keep them behind his teeth. The bashful look crosses over her face makes his lip curl up just a little. She deserved to have someone tell her how pretty she is, who wouldn’t ever let her forget for a second how lovely she looked. Where all of these sappy things come from is beyond him. They ooze into his mind anyway.

Delicately, she sets the cup down on the table littered with other cups he had forgotten to put away and empty packages of cigarettes. He rolls his eyes at himself, of course he doesn’t clean up the day he has company.

“I left my horse in the stable out front, I hope you don’t mind,” her hands pet at her thighs, he can see where the fabric is damp. Immediately, his mind clicks into place, thinking on how he can fix it. That’s what the fairer sex truly craved, wasn’t it? Not some puffed up egomaniac. A fixer. A solution. His hands itch to move. To pick up the pieces of her problems and push them back into the shape of something whole. “Ain’t no trouble,” the relieved sag in her shoulders tells him that she actually worried about it. 

So Arthur does, he’s nothing if not a man of action. “Why don’t I get you somethin’ dry to wear? Should be turnin’ in soon. Gettin’ late.” He’s up before he can hear a protest. But she doesn’t give much of one. In his bedroom, his hands swipe his hair backwards. The small mirror he usually keeps around strictly for shaving catches the light of the small oil lamp. 

God, his best years are way behind him. So say the lines at the corners of his eyes, the gouges of his age on his forehead and the delicate webbing of wrinkles under his eyes. All of the evidence of his lifestyle glares back at him. There’s a ruddiness over the higher planes of his cheekbones from burning them under the sun. Some of the fist and knife fights from his youth have left permanent evidence of his misgivings on his face. Mostly in the form of scars and his odd nose. 

You disgust her, don’t go kidding yourself. 

If he ever told her the truth of himself, he’s sure a girl like her would go running, suddenly not minding the cold. He never was good at keeping beautiful things by his side. They rotted or wilted, or blew away with the wind. His rough fingers rub at the back of his neck. He stares deep into his own eyes. Trying to force some normalcy, some sense into himself but it’s all in vain. He grunts, paying mind to other things. 

He opens his cabinet, all of the simple clothes he keeps. Something new and not so weathered, or dirty, something clean. Like her. Some nice cotton knit union suit, something he bought when he was preparing for winter. He grips them tight and hesitates at the door. 

Just go n’ give it to her, and try not to be an idiot; for god’s sake. 

And the sweet smile he sees knocks whatever sense he had gathered out of him, he can hardly form a word. He just holds the fabric out to her like an oaf. And she rises, as to keep things comfortable, good at reading his brutish signaling, taking them gently and skirting around him. And then she’s in his bedroom. With a mental cuss, he realizes that he forgot to clean the room before he left. 

Ah, she’ll find out how pathetic you are at some point. Just a matter a’ when… 

All those empty bottles and habits he’s formed from living alone. Dirty clothes piled somewhere and sheets that probably smelled a bit too much like sweat. Christ. He sighs, pinching his nose. He’s not sure why he’s putting so much thought into this. He doesn’t care. Not a care at all. Right…sure.

At first, he distracts himself with preparing food, his leftovers, hopefully enough for her. Doing this is an action which is perhaps a bit selfish. He wants to make it clear that he can give her things she needs. He could figure out wants later.. Typically, he hadn’t thought too much of what women wanted but with her he makes lists, takes out the fine brandy. Sometimes he took after Dutch more than he would like to admit, the man was all too good at forgetting about a woman’s wants and needs.

The food hasn’t gone too cold. His hands look for things to do, stirring unnecessarily. Fumbling the dish he places it on. However, the little comfort he gains from activity fades. He can only grip the counter like a vice while staring out the window above his sink for so long. The shades of brown and orange that make up his cabin blur into nothing, the wood grain isn’t as grounding as he wants it to be. 

But then his legs drift in the opposite direction, He can hear a soft sigh and the rustle of clothing behind the door. He wets his dry throat. Arthur shouldn’t salivate. He does anyway.

You’re a creep. Something in his head laughs at him. 

Been too long since you had a woman this close to your bed and she ain’t even in it with ya…c’mon. C’mon, just open the damn door. 

His heart is about to pound his ribs into dust. He’s among the worst of the worst but this… pushes boundaries. Lines drawn in the sand. Peeping on women wasn’t something he was raised to do. And if he saw something he wasn’t supposed to see, it was an accident. 

You ain’t that bad.

He’s used to letting the tide wash those out so he can draw new ones. And here is a new one. When his fingers push at the door and he can see the sliver where she bares her own flesh. Rubs her hands up her thighs, stepping out of her clothes. His throat goes dry, his teeth bite bluntly at the tip of his tongue as his jaw gets tense. 

His eyes follow the natural plush curve of her body, pale yellow lamp light glancing off of her. He’d kill a man to touch her and he’d kill a man for touching her. Devouring every inch, his eyes soak it all up, dedicating her to memory. 

 And then she’s stepping into the creamy cotton of his clothes. Doing up the buttons at her front. Unbidden by him, his cock fills out, half hard, pressing uncomfortably at just the sight of her. The perfection of her hips, her hair brushing over her back. 

The guilt is chewing a hole in his conscience. It’s like there are termites gnawing away at the foundation of whatever restraint he had. He’s felt less disgusting after killing a man, making him choke on his own blood as it fills his lungs. But the reward had never been so delightful. A sweet girl, so trusting, putting her hand to her chest and smiling as she realizes he’s there. It doesn’t feel good at all, the realization that he’s drooling over her like a mutt. All she has given him is reluctance, nervous glances. She doesn’t touch him or leave her hand to linger. A sweet-as-cream smile is all he has, enough to tide him over. He wants her anyway, needs her to stay. Letting her walk out after this will be next to impossible. 

“You scared me, Mister…” Mister. So polite, an angel delivered unto him. He can feel how his body is tense, tight like a spring. How she doesn’t notice the evidence of his wrongdoing, pressing at the front of his pants is luck or her naivety. His expression must be dazed, a foolish look because all he can do is stare, unable to stop himself. Observing the way his clothes drape over her, exaggerating how much smaller she is in comparison. How stunning she’d look, sprawled over his bed sheets. Precious girl; struggling not to cry when she gets all stretched out on something wholly too big for her. In his mind's eye, she mouths his name, looks at him like all she wants is him inside of her. Right. His name again. 

He dips back into his own ease in which he controls all of himself with. He is self assured and well handled. And he certainly doesn’t curl in on himself. Lets her see how big he is, slips back into old habits with the ease that comes with capability. “Morgan, Arthur Morgan,” his real name, no Kilgore’s or Calahan’s. She should know it anyhow, if he has any real intention in giving it to her.

It’s dangerous and it’s like she can feel it, somewhere in her body is that base instinct. One she was born with to protect herself from people with bad intentions. But she has another instinct, bares her neck to him. Arthur has always been good at suppressing his hunger, desire for soft pretty things. Settling like sediment on them was the control he had, buried them and buried them and buried them. She's a rainstorm, flooding his mind, washing out his carefully maintained resistance. Leaves his want raw and exposed and actionable. He wants her too much, wants her more than he has any right to. 

He feels what little control he has over his urges begin to slip with that thought.  Usually, he let them take over. Let whatever pain and anguish in him manifest into pure rage, cold and unadulterated. At first, it revolted him, his actions. And the reputation he built to go along with them. But they began to grow over him like a second skin until they encased whatever hope he had for a better life completely. His self induced hatred hid whatever pieces of him weren't supposed to be his to have and to share. The things he had to hide from himself even to feel like a whole person at any given moment. And he let himself be that awful thing people thought he was. Arthur Morgan. A force of nature. 

But he deserved it, didn't he? Everyone should keep their distance anyway. He has a habit of making things worse than when he found them. But all he wanted was for her to be close. Sure, he could play the vulnerable man who could pine after his sweetheart, go out riding after her, guide her home where she would forget all about him. Just a kind man out to help the world.

That's not what he wanted. He wanted her to stay here. Can’t bear the thought of being a good man, sending her away when the storm blows over. In sickness and in health, til’ death do us part. That’s what he sees when he closes his eyes. She’s standing in the kitchen, turning the spoils of his hunts into dinner. With that easy smile. His too empty house just wouldn’t feel like a home without her in it. He’s sick, he knows; but he’s sure she can cure him. 

Arthur Morgan has always wanted more than he could have. He chews on the thought like tobacco. Bitter but eventually he begins to need the taste, to crave it. 

“Put somethin’ on the stove for ya, man can’t leave no woman hungry…” God, his tongue feels too thick in his mouth and his jaw aches from gritting his teeth too hard. And of course, he lays all his cards on the table. Man can’t leave his woman hungry.

Every little gesture she makes, wrapping her arms shyly around herself, the gentle tilt of her head and the small affirmative gesture she makes is in no way unordinary. But they’re all dripping with her appeal. How can she smile at him like he doesn't look the way he does? Like he hasn't made the world worse just by existing in it?

 He soils her just by laying greedy eyes on her neck, on her nipples which he can make out through the fabric of his union suit. And when she opens her mouth, he knows he’ll end up calling her what she is. Sweet and syrupy, soothing on his throat. 

“Thank you, Mr. Morgan. I really appreciate your kindness,” Arthur is convinced he heard her wrong. But her honesty is in those radiant eyes, in her easy posture. It must be meant to be, it’s not every day a woman talked to him like that. Or talked to him at all. He was perhaps too busy making sure they knew what they would be getting into; dealing with him. 

It may just be the respectful manners instilled in her. He supposed her parents had given her that; mannerisms that made her quite the catch. Utter perfection. But really, even that was a disservice. They damned her to him. Makes him see glimpses of a life he could have. Hundreds of conversations, every iteration of the precious babe they'd have together with his hair and her eyes, a son or a daughter. Two of each perhaps. Hours and hours of her gentle, refined voice taking up the empty room. He bows his head as if he can keep his disbelief and joy under the brim of his hat, currently hanging by his front door. 

She comes nearer. He can smell her cotton scent, can see the way the light casts around her hair, feathering over her, turning it into gold. His body moves to make the smallest space for her. Hoping she’ll nudge against him. He doesn’t even realize the way he’s formed himself to keep her here for just a moment. So close, Arthur nearly loses track of what he was supposed to be doing.  

“Been a long time since somebody called me a kind man, usually it was the opposite,” apprehension floods her body, her features. Her eyes focus on him, waiting for something terrible to happen. Arthur sees how she bristles. He only meant to be honest but she’s already read between his lines. Smart girl. 

He shows her just what he means. Even when he knows better, even if he’s never been this far. It’s like he has to touch though. No where uncomfortable, just to be sure she isn’t a sign that he’s truly gone from this world. 

“Please, I-” 

Her plea goes down his spine. It rakes its teeth over the parts of him that are wrong. That weren’t formed with gentleness, aren’t intricate. Just instinct that he’s indulged. 

He may not be a good man. But he can behave well enough to keep her. Now that he has the room for her. He doesn’t live in a drafty tent. He’s not a dog chained to the hand that fed him too many years ago. He would never treat her like an object to display or a mistake made in a drunken night of pleasure. He wouldn’t throw this away, this one chance at having something real. Wouldn’t lay waste to this opportunity to fill a hole in him that yawned empty for what felt like eternity. She’d be his wife and he; her man. A husband. Mister and Missus Arthur Morgan. A crock of shit, he would have said a month ago.

That ain’t the hand you been dealt and you know it. You’ve made a mess of things enough.

 But now… it's a dreamy reality. It hasn’t quite taken shape but he can get it there. Determination starts to crystallize over the idea. She’s something good; doesn’t need him. He could try to make something better too, could make the best of a situation, try to show her the best in him. But he knows it’d never be enough for her. He always throws these good things away, always ruins it somehow. But he grips and shakes like a mutt at this idea, gnaws it until it's raw. He can just take what he wants. Done that before, hasn’t he?

Just leave’er alone. God, you never learn, goddamned fool…

His fingers graze over the skin on her neck, uncovered by the collar of the union suit he lent her. Here in the dark of the small hallway, he can swear there’s something in the way she breathes, shudders. “I think you need a man to take care of you, honey, need a man to keep you inside- wouldn’t let you go out alone like this if you was my woman… Lemme show you how a man looks after a girl like you,” He’s aware that he sounds like a right bastard but he’s only telling the truth. His hand settles at her back, like it’s supposed to be there. They’re meant to be, all he has to do is show her. 

ok yall how we feeling LMAO i think his perspective was interesting and fun for me to write but idk if its any good, but i hope with practice ill get more confident 🥹🥹 bro is a freak sooo yeah it was fun to write him as a freak he is very conflicted about everything and he is super weird but also sexy sooo😳 i hope you guys enjoyed this lil backstory on why arthur is a weirdo 😊😊😭😭 lmk what you guys think !!

[pumpkinstrawbrew]

the upper hand.

*or some things just never change. bruce's yaoi hand of justice will reach you anywhere, jonathan *

(i’m as energy drained as a squeezed lemon, but here it is. my latest art baby. i’m actually kinda surprised with how much i end up loving this set, considering that while the second art was barely changed from the sketches phase, the first one went through a lot of rearranging. it kinda looked like a butt for a bit there, but somehow [makes a vague gesture] it turned into smth that i actually like. it’s prob my best art of aa!scarecrow so far. it’s hard for me to tell, but i really love how he came out kinda cute vs scary ass bitch, he was in the beginning. it’s the power of bruce’s hand entering the picture, i guess. it domesticates the wild scarecrow.

but ah anyways, as it can be gathered from the 'title', the main idea is that certain things can change, when it comes to bruce an’ jon, but some will always remain the same. like, bruce always being there to catch jonathan in the end of the day. even if i wanted to play with emphasis on it being more playful an’ less violent in arkham asylum set up vs arkham knight. in the first art, bruce pretty much reaching out toward jon, while hallucinating an’ trippin balls, so that’s why jon is kinda in a ‘window’. somehow, the bat sense his presence, even if he sees dozens of other things too. him lightly tugging on scarecrow’s noose is a foreplay, before he will rougly yank on it, bringing jon closer to an’ make him ‘regret’ playin’ his games again. you are free to imagine what exactly this means for yourself. i personally seeing some touchy-feely times.

now, with slightly opposite mood, the second art takes place after the events of arkham knight. or well, toward the end of it, where the victory is almost bitter in a sense. for quite a few reasons. but even with this lingering wrongness, jonathan is defeated an’ scared, an’ then fall down all spread an' ‘sexy’. for no reason. in a way, he continues the tradition of aa!scarecrow an’ being a indecent without really knowing it. i mean, he doesn’t ran around half-naked, but he's exposes his ankles an' fingers. if they lived in medieval time, that’s basically be vulgare of him [shakes head] honestly, what a tramp you are, jon. also bruce's gloved hand around naked ankle ... goddamn. we really can’t keep it pg level, can we? but if seriously, i like to think about difference in both bruces an' how it translates into the way he gripes / grabs crane. more careful the first time an' literal manhandling the second. slightly upgraded mentality. or well, mental instability, more so.

you can say that this whole perspective bit was inspired by arkham shadows *even if i’m yet to watch it, i’m saving it for my holidays*, but i thought that it’ll be fun to imagine how bruce sees jonathan. bc he kinda would see him from some awkward angles at times. 'i'm the night. i'm justice. i'm batman' all while jonathan does his erogenous goblin fall lol.)

[ckret2]

Is the ending bill getting therapy? I don't think that's right bc that's not incredibly cruel but I need context to that last ask

Bill's locked up in some kind of mental facility/prison from which its villainous inmates aren't allowed to leave until they're... idk, fully cured & repented or whatever. Once they're cleared to leave, they can reincarnate as, like, worms or butterflies or snails—all the example options mentioned in text are pretty pathetic little creatures. If you don't work on yourself and get cleared to leave, you could stay there for LITERALLY forever—and the doctors running the place seem very keen on the idea of that happening to some prisoners.

From the sound of it, the Theraprism is a facade of benign healing and normal therapeutic techniques mixed with some truly horrific Victorian insane asylum-level human rights abuses, amped up with cosmic/psychological horror. Locking patients in a sensory deprivation void is an acceptable punishment for misbehavior.

It's possible that if Bill faces his past, his trauma, and his crimes, and puts in the necessary work to grow as a person, he'll get set free to reincarnate. But it's also possible that even if Bill does that, he won't be allowed to leave until he's completely broken down and reshaped into an empty husk of his former self, everything that once made him "Bill Cipher" now gone. We can't tell from what we read. But there's a subtle air of sadism around how the doctors talk about their patients and treatment.

Bill acts like he's enduring the cruelest most torturous imprisonment imaginable, but he'd do that whether or not the facility's benign.

But like—he's abusing his therapeutic journaling time to communicate through a book with mortals in the desperate hope he can trick one into freeing him, just to get condescendingly scolded for it and his book confiscated, so he is desperate to get out and truly limited in his options

[rottenpumpkin13]

Y'know what Imma be real funny. I SENTENCE AGSZC TO ARKHAM! For therapeutic purposes of course.

( @izunias-meme-hole)

Sephiroth: He was unsettled by the idea of being sent to a hospital at first, given his medical trauma, but Arkham ends up being surprisingly peaceful. He sits in his cell, reads books, and gets chocolate pudding for good behavior. Everyone's too scared to mess with him, even the Joker, who takes one look and mutters something about "not touching that one." Eventually boredom sets in. Sephiroth starts mentally categorizing the other inmates by strength level, quietly theorizing how quickly he could topple the whole asylum if he felt like it. But he won't. Because then he'd have to go back to Shinra and cut his vacation short. Therapy sessions consist of the psychiatrist sobbing while Sephiroth critiques their methodology. He's punched Scarecrow in the face at least once. He's thriving.

Angeal: Poor Angeal keeps trying to bring order to Arkham. "Everyone deserves second chances" is his reasoning as he breaks up a fistfight between Killer Croc and Scarecrow. Then he discovers Poison Ivy and, to no one's surprise, they become besties.

Genesis: Genesis finds a new rival in Edward Nygma, his cellmate. He solves every one of Nygma's riddles before they're even finished, much to the Riddler's frustration. Nygma tries upping the stakes, but Genesis just starts critiquing the riddles instead. It's rumored the guards have found Nygma in his cell, rocking back and forth, muttering about "logic" while Genesis recited Loveless, slowly losing his mind.

Zack: He takes it as a chance for self-improvement. He signs up for group therapy, makes friends with the guards, and even organizes a fitness group. He spots the Joker for the first time, bounces up to him excitedly, complimenting his "awesome clown makeup." The Joker doesn't harm Zack because he finds him endearing and "it would be fucked up to kill this guy."

Cloud: Cloud is somehow both invisible and infamous. Invisible because he looms around the asylum with his hood up, avoiding everyone, and infamous because he made Bane cry.

[bnhaobservation]

Does BNHA fail at being a superhero story?

So my “BNHA IS NOT A WORK OF SOCIETAL CRITICISM AND ITS MESSAGE IS NOT REALLY ‘OUT OF JAPAN’ FRIENDLY” post had some interesting responses that made me wish to address some more points.

Many people noticed Horikoshi was inspired by American comics but fails to understand their thematic, morals and the politic behind it and I see the problem as being slightly different in that it’s not that he didn’t understand them, it’s he didn’t care about them.

American comics were an inspiration but then he took some basic ideas from them and transposed them in a story bathed in Japanese culture and values in which, he believed, JAPANESE READERS would identify. They’re the target audience, so thematic, morals and politics must fit them.

All those differences I listed in my post between readers’ expectations and what BNHA does?

They’re there because Japan views (or used to see) things differently.

It’s something I touch in many posts, for example “THE JUSTICE SYSTEM IN BNHA - PART 1” & “THE JUSTICE SYSTEM IN BNHA - PART 2”, “Ramblings about the Todoroki family” “Part 1”, - “Part 2” & “Part 3”, “Heroes and human rights” (especially in the reblog in reply to a comment), “‘Code red’ order in Aldera middle school aka teachers supporing bullying in BNHA” and so on.

It makes sense because Horikoshi has zero interests in preaching that the American beliefs, values, ideas expressed in comics are right, he’s just taking some background ideas in American comics and transposing them in a Japanese setting.

What if Japan had people with superpower too? What if we made some of them a new kind of cops called ‘Heroes’?

The way Japan would handle people with superpowers, what they decided to call Hero, not an independent, selfless person who pursues helping others and justice but as richly paid figures who’re as popular as idols in the justice system shows us a completely different mindset.

The police, the prison, in Japan they’re greatly valued and appreciated, people don’t doubt them, when the police arrests you, YOU HAVE TO BE GUILTY and if you’re guilty you probably deserve what happens to you. If you’re a dangerous escaping criminal the police is allowed to shoot you in the back, which ties with how Heroes can kill Villains if they’re deemed dangerous enough. Things like giving people psychological help is heavily discriminated. Work needs to be prioritized over family.

In such a mind setting I don’t know how Japan would, for example, see Batman. His unwillingness to kill the Joker, the fact he brings his Villains to an asylum that he tries to have them psychologically cured should feel weird.

BNHA just slams them in Tartarus, not in the Arkham Asylum, even when they seem mentally unstable like Moonfish and no one worries because they're Villains.

Midoriya, Shouto and Uraraka want to ‘save’ their Villains, but neither of them seem to consider they should end up in a place that’s different from Tartarus.

BNHA Heroes ARE cogs in the machine,  NEVER critical of society even when they acknowledge it's grey and not perfect, and this is accepted as right by the story.

Let’s go back to the Lady Nagant’s arc. She confesses the commission had her murder Heroes because they were committing crimes, then that she couldn’t bear doing it and, as a result, she protested with the president. When the latter tried to take her out she killed him.

What is the thing that impresses/surprises Midoriya the most? That the commission had her kill people? That the president tried to kill her when she complained about what they were doing?

No, that she killed the president, that she went against the system. True, he was fed a different story so his reaction can be tied to this also but when he heard the Commission had Nagant kill people… WHERE WAS HIS REACTION?

He had none because deep down the idea is she should have obeyed orders, that yes, she was just a cog.

Midoriya claims he sees things more clearly now and that now he knows society has shades of gray BUT HE NEVER PLANS TO CHANGE SOCIETY RADICALLY, TO FIX THE WRONG OF IT, just to extend a helping hand when he has the chance.

While the western fandom wants the HPSC to be one of the great evil, Horikoshi easily dismisses it. The presidents who did bad things for the greater good are dead, the rest were just mindless soldiers, let's replace them with a better president and we're done.

After all they acted for the well being of society.

And then there’s of course the whole X-Men/Heteromorph. X-Men were also meant to be an allegory about the consequences of racial discrimination in America where the Heteromorphs are meant to be victims of xenophobia and Japan has its own idea on how to deal with it.

Of course everything is tackled differently, BECAUSE EVERYTHING IS SEEN DIFFERENTLY.

@stillness-in-green has many good posts dealing with the handling of Heteromorph but I recommend On Riots and Resolutions (Part One) as it tackles the way Japanese people don’t see themselves as racists but as xenophobics.

Long story short, it’s not that Horikoshi understands or not Hero comics, it’s HE NEVER PLANNED TO MAKE A COMIC WITH U.S.A. THEMES/VALUES/MORALS IN THE FIRST PLACE. He wanted to use the ideas of Heroes and some points to ponder and themes he found in comics to make a Manga with Japanese values and settings. As Japan is deeply different from U.S.A., of course we have moral reversed.

Batman is against killing, other superheroes might have killed but it’s so rare part of the fandom wonder if they’ve a no-killing rule, Midoriya, a teenager, is encouraged to kill as this would mean ‘saving’ and ultimately he kills Shigaraki and becomes the greatest Hero.

That’s why, in my previous post, I said BNHA has a message that’s not really ‘out of Japan’ friendly. Many countries outside Japan do not approve the idea that killing=saving, that work needs to be prioritized over family, that only the political party affiliated to Villains would care about GLARING human rights violations in prison.

We can’t however claim it’s a flaw in Horikoshi’s writing if his country agrees with this mind setting (though things are changing in Japan, that’s why BNHA can feel even to Japanese people like an outdated work), it’s just not a writing that’s suitable for countries with different values and a very different way to tackle with many issues raised in BNHA.

After all we can see it even if we spend some time looking through fanfics, which try to ‘adjust’ BNHA by proposing the character would even use a different cultural approach to certain issues or that laws would just be different from what they are in Japan (I’m guilty of this as well so I’m not criticizing).

All this to say that BNHA works in a specific  setting and, outside of its birth country it can be seen as an interesting look at the superhero setting if it were to take place in another culture… but it’s not a story fit for many who live outside Japan and with different values. We don’t want the world that BNHA offers as an ideal/better one because for us it’s not as such.

[splynter]

Bill Cipher dissociates. I can't get it out of my head.

It's mentioned twice directly in The Book of Bill, implied in the scene where he shows Ford the last speck of his universe, it likely regresses him during his drunken scene, and good lord anything regarding his parents is flooded in dissociative imagery. It's so wild to me. He canonically dissociates

Do you have any idea how much this means to me? Like holy shit this opens up so many things for writing, ideas, theories, lore...

AND IT MAKES SENSE TOO. Severe traumatic events, and the memories of said events, often cause episodes of dissociation and depersonalization. Bill is absolutely the type to shove everything he doesn't like or doesn't want to think about completely out of his head. Most things he doesn't like he just fights and destroys, or he runs away from it. He has deliberately tried to rewrite what happened to Euclydia by saying everyone's fine, everyone's happier now, he liberated everyone!

Because every time he thinks about what really happened, he dissociates so hard that he loses entire chunks of time and can't remember a thing that happened

And it seems to take up a portion of his current life too. He mentions dissociating during his time with the henchmaniacs and finding out he had conquered a new place. It's not just past memories that trigger the episodes, it looks to be something he just deals with. He accepts it as normal, he mentions it so casually, which makes me wonder how fucking long he's had to deal with this.

How many times has he woken up and found that he'd done something he doesn't remember? How many times has he found himself in an unfamiliar place? How much has he had to rationalize everything in his head, rework it and retie it into the false narrative he's built up around himself?

No doubt I believe all this denial makes his dissociation worse. All the running just makes him fall down harder. The Theraprism, built like an asylum, like a doctor's office, is likely only making his dissociative episodes worse and more frequent. It's probably bringing both flashbacks and shoving him into an even worse mental state, considering how horrible and distant he looks at the end of the book. How he only draws red and blue triangles

He's being shoved into a corner and not only does he refuse to face it, but his own mind is so used to detaching and disconnecting from those memories that I don't think he even can.

I wonder if he dissociates in his room so much that he forgets his parents are gone... and calls for them like he did in the bar

[blvdymary]

I want to support you. ^-^ Let me send a request. How about Jonathan Crane testing his toxin on patient and he actually feels bad because she has a massive panic attack when it wears off.

|| Thank you so much girlie this means so much to me. Also, I'd like to apologise since I was gone for a long time but I was having some struggles. ANYWAYS, hope you enjoy this and ilysm !!||

Piece Of My Past

pairing: Jonathan Crane x Reader

Summary: Holding trauma to yourself might not be the best idea but what were you supposed to do? They wouldn't believe you. Now here you were, in an asylum for the things that never happened by you but to you.

Genre: Angst, fluff/comfort.

Warnings: Mentions of SA.

Word count: 1k

Note: I am alive. I think.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

Ever since childhood, your parents and people around you knew something was wrong with you. At first, you were a talkative kid, but once you turned 7 you stopped talking. They tried every trick in the book to get you to open up, talk, and be happy like the other kids. Of course, you had your small circle of friends- not really, but oh well. So it wasn't a surprise to people around you when you end up in a mental asylum, Arkham, to be specific.

Walking towards a room in your straight jacket, both arms grasped tightly by security guards. They were acting as if you killed somebody! This much security for someone like you was useless, I mean, why not the guy who tried to eat their friend's arm? I swear to god, people in this city need a reality check.

The guards guided you into a small, white room with a metal table and two chairs seated across each other. What kind of psychotic shit was this? Your eyes are glued on the “restraints” as they called them, more like torture devices because what the hell is that and why is it looking like an 1890s doctor's equipment?

They sat you on the chair, putting the cuffs on your wrists and ankles to keep you in place. Why were they treating you like an object to be tossed around? So not fair. You watched as the guards left the room, leaving you to stare at the empty chair in front of you. Door, table, chair. Nothing to keep someone like you entertained.

Soon after —probably been 15 minutes, to say the least— you heard the door creaking open, revealing the oh-so Doctor Crane. Don’t get me wrong, he is a good doctor, as far as you heard, but you always thought there was something slightly off about him. Like the way, he stared deep into people’s eyes, the way he was cold as a barrel, and oh! Don’t forget that every patient he visits becomes delusional and psychotic the moment he leaves them alone with their thoughts. What is with this guy? What is he hiding?

He walked in, setting the brownish suitcase onto the table, and folded his hands on his lap. He looked like how your mom used to scold you as a child for not being expressive enough with your thoughts and feelings. His eyes stared into yours, taking you as a whole. God, why did it feel like you were in trouble or something? After a while of both of you staring at each other like two dogs, he finally spoke up with his condescending voice.

“So, I have heard you were having speech problems, and I'm here to help you, as you may know.” He put his hands on the table, still keeping his fingers interlocked to show authority. You look at him, then at his hands, and then at the suitcase. “what is that…?” you spoke silently, a bit too shy for your liking. When he realised his suitcase picked your interest, he had an idea. A not so great idea. He felt a little smirk appearing on his face before he quickly got rid of it and gazed at you. “I could show you if you want.”

“yes.” no hesitation, pure curiosity. Why would he need a suitcase to talk about your speech problem? You glued your eyes to the suitcase as he slowly opened it, not yet showing it to you. He cleared his throat, making you look up at him as he took off his glasses. Handsome, to say the least. Just as you were about to compliment his eyes, you felt some kind of gas getting sprayed onto your face, making you inhale it. You looked up at him, only to see…him.

-

Playing at the park like other kids, not yet aware of the consequences of being so pure. You didn't even notice a man approaching behind you. Feeling his gaze, you looked up, his eyes crazed but hidden behind a pair of sunglasses as he held a piece of candy towards you. “hey little girl…why don't you come with me for a while hm?” so gullible, not yet aware of how disgusting men could be. You took his hand.

-

Feeling tears streaming down your face like a waterfall, begging and screaming and crying for the pain to stop as all you could think of at that moment was your childhood. Jonathan rarely felt like this, guilty. as he heard your pleas to “get him off you” and “to let him go of you”. He stood up, looking down at your disheveled form before deciding this was enough. He grabbed another vital from the suitcase, one that he specifically made so he could use as some form of anesthesia. He opened the small bottle, spraying some onto your face as he watched you go from some kind of wild hog to a sleeping baby in minutes. He decided it would be for the best to let you rest before talking or even any word out of you.

Of course, the dreamland wasn't any peaceful as you continued to have the same past trauma repeat over and over and over again till you felt something pulling you away, the ending. Finally. You slowly felt your eyes open, pulling you away from the nightmare you just relived. You felt arms around you, was it…?

Needless to say, you weren't expecting Crane, one of the most heartless men in Gotham, to be holding you close to his chest when you woke up. You looked up at him but he stopped you, pulling you closer to his chest as he spoke in a more soft and gentle voice. “Everything is going to be alright, it wasn't your fault.” And at that moment you knew there was good in bad people, and people were willing to listen to you. For once.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

taglist: @hiraethberry @1-fuzzy-squirrels @justcallme1anangel @tejasvkris @rosierosem @meowsicles39

[demphen]

the hewitts (and eddie!) after the 1973 massacre

(here are eddie and thomas; context and full drawing below!)

in the novelization of the 2003 movie, it’s said that the fbi mishandled everything surrounding the 1973 massacre. the government declares thomas hewitt dead and makes no mention of his family—so it can be assumed that they’re legally dead too. this is in part due to negligence and also malpractice, as everyone involved just wanted to get the case done and over with. in 1981, the hewitts’ farmhouse is bulldozed over and the basement is filled with cement. erin hardesty is sent to a mental asylum, and the baby she saved is put into the foster care system.

obviously, the police didn’t kill thomas. everyone else aside from charlie came out of the massacre (relatively) unscathed. if that’s the case, where did they go? here’s what i’m thinking!

note: this is all pretty self-indulgent and made-up by me! this is just how i choose to continue the story.

so the hewitts are left with absolutely nothing after erin escapes. no money, no home, and clothes other than those on their back. this fact doesn’t really change when you add eddie into the story. in fact, erin gets into a fight with him while in the basement and ends up shooting his left pinky and ring finger off! so fun!

they’d be on the road for a long, long time afterwards, homeless and just trying to survive. i figure that they could’ve taken two vans (they had taken a lot of cars from victims over the years, after all) and lived in them during this time, fleeing the state. they’d be starving again, and i think that’d send them back into this constant state of intense stress, like the one they were in before the killing started.

luckily, eddie would have connections to people that create false identification. prior to meeting the family, eddie had a fake i.d. made with the name “jackson hughes”—the same people who provided him with that i.d. would offer falsified birth certificates and SSNs too. this would cost a lot of money, however, so i imagine the family spent a long while lying, stealing, and begging all across the country to gather it all up. of course i’ve never gone through the process of being declared legally dead and buying a new identity in the 1970s, so i have no idea how much it would cost exactly, but let’s just say it takes three years to save up all the money.

so by 1976, the hewitt family legally does not exist anymore, having been killed off and forgotten. that same year, the “howard” family moves to the small, rural town of elksville, wyoming. here are all the name changes i came up with! (for the hewitts who don’t have canon middle names, i made those up too) (can you tell i took on a lot of creative liberty here)

thomas brown hewitt → raymond “ray” paul howard

luda mae hewitt → evelyn ann howard

montgomery “monty” lee hewitt → ernest john howard

kathryn ann hewitt → noelle helen howard

henrietta louise hewitt → virginia “ginny” lynn howard

jedidiah paul hewitt → william lee howard

eddie amar reid → eugene joseph roberts

i actually don’t think the family would fully go back to their cannibalistic, murderous schemes. without hoyt there, and after all they’d experienced, i think luda mae (who was already the head of the family before, but would now have the final say over everything) would just want to be left alone? having her first son die would really take a toll on her, i think. perhaps she’d see it as god himself coming down and trying to teach her a lesson by taking charlie away from her (and taking thomas’ arm, too). so she’d order that the family just keep to themselves. “this is our chance to start anew.”

don’t be fooled, though. none of the “howards” are normal folk. i feel that they’d have an eerie reputation among their small number of neighbors, especially since they’re known for being aggressive with trespassers (i can see them having “TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT” signs on their fence). “eugene”, their “family friend”, would be the only one consisently seen around town, making minimal social interaction with other people. even he seems… strange, when you look at him. most folks choose to keep their distance.

design/character details:

eddie would cut his hair and grow out his facial hair in an attempt to separate himself from his identity as the rockstar killer. he's a much calmer person now, sort of more grown up? mellowed out? he still deals with violent urges, but he's more restrained. he takes his anger out on trespassers.

thomas grows his hair wayyy out to better obscure his face, since he can't wear masks anymore. i debated giving him facial hair, and settled on a patchy mustache and absolutely no beard hair. as a character, i think thomas would become so much more tired. for the first couple years, he'd be quicker to anger/frustrate. with the second chance his family's been given, he doesn't really want to interact with anyone from the outside world. he's done with it.

hope you all enjoy this i've been Thinking about it for a while........ buh bye!!!