#i have no idea whether any of that makes sense or whether it was just incoherent babbling

[seewetter]

The only point of contention for me would be -- to use the cleaning metaphor -- what if people intentionally come into your kitchen after you've cleaned and revert all your progress? And what if you've identified the cause?

Cleaning the kitchen anyway can be good for your soul, I suppose.

But all too often people will do the immediate improvements without asking how to make them both lasting and sufficiently supported by responsible people so that if the improvements are flawed they can be reverted but if the improvements are good nobody can tamper with them.

Actually, I really dislike the kitchen metaphor, because it only acknowledges *you* (or *me*) and not the role of everyone involved. The "dirt" isn't accidental, it was dirtied on purpose. The people that did so are referring to the dirt as "cleaning". Some are uninformed, some are malicious...and some have been warned against our cleaning efforts, told that we are utterly evil, malicious and manipulative and they don't trust even the most harmless cleaning job you can imagine. They don't trust ideas outside their circle openly, their trust in others has been systematically undermined. Every act of kindness or cruelty further deepens their sense that manipulation or evil is at work. In the kitchen metaphor, this is just another type of dirt to chip away at -- the people involved are no longer people, their misguided cleaning efforts are no longer expressible through the metaphor because all they are is passive "dirt", at best their activity could be expressed as "dust collecting in a corner" or "mold growing" or something.

I'm not trying to critique the mindset of hope or the desire to fix even small problems even when all is bleak. The mindset can be helpful. It usually is. It is far better to do anything than to freeze and wallow in misery. It is definitely good to look for any opportunity to help -- and whenever you feel able to, to seize those opportunities.

What bothers me is instead that talking about cleaning a kitchen just doesn't capture the situation.

Let's think about the types of knowledge/power and how they are distributed.

Are you struggling with a disability? With a health issue? With a mental illness? Does neurodivergence present challenges? Does being fat present challenges? Or are you nearing old age and your body and/or mind aren't what they used to be? Perhaps you are a child and your body and mind are (sometimes rightly, but sometimes wrongly) judged to be incapable or overly capable. All these people ultimately don't struggle from non-descript "dirt", they struggle with judgments made about the health and capability of their bodies. The elderly, fat, neurodivergent and mentally ill all deal with doctors, diagnoses, etc. There's people that view all these issues separately, as different piles of dirt ("sanism", "ageism", "sizeism" etc) but technically, whether your deformity gets you called ugly or your health issues aren't taken seriously, it all revolves around health and ideas about the healthy body.

And we can see these kinds of parallels with other issues, too.

--- Tangent (skip if disinterested) ---

Movements for digital privacy share some peculiar overlap with movements against prisons and police brutality and the state, because the privacy movements deal with surveillance -- and surveillance isn't just "dirt", it's how governments aim to control their citizens (of course economic actors also try and control people, but states seem more interested in this).

Conversations about race and racism revolve around place and belonging, around origin, around "outsiders", real and imagined. For example, Islamophobia is racist because it takes cultural differences and uses them to attack people. When the bigots tell a Navajo woman to "go back to your country", the idea of place that racism relies on is on full, awkward display.

And then there's the conversations queer folks and women share in common about gender. The nuclear family and it's "family values", there are connections that can be drawn here. Here also we have the rights of sex workers, the conversations around kinks and "weird" sex, the things that are perceived as threats to the reproduction of society.

Then there's environmental issues, which can be radically different from each other, but also share a lot in common.

And economic issues, of course.

--- END Tangent ---

And when we look at these roughly six fields of knowledge, we realize that they aren't just dirt.

You can't understand racism's history without understanding that slavery was a business, that colonialism was "good for the economy", that taking people's homes and resources is something that involves goods changing hands and is intensely economic. You can't understand environmental damage until you understand that the mess industry causes is so monumental that the small mess I'd like you to start cleaning ...has to do with the small steps to fix the pollution the economy causes, not your own personal pollution. Health care costs money and the expectation of what healthy looks like is tied to making people money. Everything the state does, from evictions to arresting protesters to spying on you, is motivated, in part, by corporate lobbying, by "the interests of the state" (which are interests in goods, economic growth, and in protecting wealth). The idea of the reproduction of society along specific lines is the only exception here...but even there we discover that the biggest dirt in our gender kitchen are economic barriers that entrench conservative attitudes.

So I really really doubt that There is no "THIS is the MOST IMPORTANT part." is good advice for the 21st century.

Our kitchen has a dirt-flinging machine in the center of the room. And the machine has people maintaining it, convincing kitchen cleaners to stop cleaning dirt or to keep cleaning dirt but ignore the machine. Or to focus on the dirt they can clean and maybe some day a miracle will happen and the machine will be dealt with.

The idea that all problems are equal makes me think progressives just have no genuine idea of how to fix dirt.

A wise girl once said that classism will disappear if poverty is gone -- and I think that this is a good way of thinking about dirt. There is dirt you will regret having cleaned because you were going to throw out the entire stovetop anyway. If you can identify these MOST IMPORTANT parts of life and make little efforts to improve them, you will live with far fewer regrets. There are so many ways to end up wasting ones time with cleaning. Politics that becomes overly personal often just makes you judgmental and punitive. Politics that becomes overly focused on crises often makes you short-sighted and narrowly focused. I can't guide you through to the perfect way of improving the world in one Tumblr post (and there likely is no perfect way) but don't say there aren't more or less important changes, because there are.

Like...the whole idea of using the word "radical" is to talk about the roots of problems. You needn't want violence or be involved in mega-changes to see the value of addressing mostly these elephants in the room. Because trust me, an elephant in your kitchen is probably important to try and let out. And how do we eat the elephant? One bite at a time.

Daily reminder that we do not actually live in a dystopian movie put the apocalypse down and back away slowly. You know when your cleaning a room and you pull everything out of it's draws to sort through it and you're like "what the fuck have I done I'm never going to be able to tidy all of this" I think that's the stage we're at in the world. Thanks to social media we've pulled out all the messed up shit from the cupboards of the world, it was always there but now we can see it and we're going to have to sort it all out we made this mess and we can fix it. Falling to the floor sobbing will not clean a crusty room. A group of people working systematically (preferably with music in the background) will.

[flofaiiry]

haunted ; frank langon x reader

❝ i swear to myself when he leaves at dawn, this will end... 'till he haunts me again ❞

warnings: swearing, infidelity, fwb, implied smut, teeny tiny mention of p in v blink and u will miss it, frank is oblivious and lowkey stupid, reader is also maybe a bit stubborn?? no happy ending

note: i was listening to haunted by laufey last night & this idea popped into my head!! i don’t normally like cheating but the angst is too good to resist #sorrynotsorry.

wc: ~1250

you swear every time will be the last time

whether that be spoken out loud or said in your head when you’re getting dressed after.

when you watch him pull his scrub pants back up over his hips and wipe the lipgloss you smeared on him off his mouth, you have to remind yourself that this is it.

this, the physical aspect of him. that was all you got access to. you know it now, and you knew it when you signed up for… whatever this is.

but that doesn’t stop you from wanting more. from wanting the part of him that exists outside of the on call rooms and supply closets and your bedroom. the part that only exists when he’s at home. in his bedroom. with her.

he steps away from you to the small mirror in the room. normally used for doctors to wipe the sleep from their eyes, now used for him to remove any remnants of you that remain.

“that’s the last time,” he says, trying and somewhat succeeding at sounding sure while he fixes his hair. but you know him too well. you know he’s only saying it out loud to convince himself of it.

all you can do is scoff. “sure it is.” you say, halfheartedly and not loud enough for him to fully hear.

“what?” he looks at you through the mirror.

“you said that last month, then a week ago, and again two days ago. always the last time, always can’t happen again but we somehow find ourselves here over and over again, don’t we.”

he sighs, head falling into his hands and rubbing his eyes. “i know, okay, i know.” he looks back to you, “but this time i’m serious, we can’t- i can’t keep doing this.”

you smile, but it’s not real. “said that last time too.” you step into frame of the mirror, fixing your hair and adjusting the neckline of your scrub top to cover the faintest bruises he made.

you hate when he leaves them. leaves a physical mark on you. like he’s claiming some piece of you, yet you get no part of him in return.

without another word you slip out of the room and back into the constant hustle and bustle of the emergency department. you make your way over to the nurses station at central and catch him leaving the room soon after out of the corner of your eye. he doesn’t spare you a look the rest of the day.

you make it a week this time.

one week before you're pressed against the door in an on call room, before his hands are back on your body and his mouth is back on your neck.

“frank.” you whisper into the warm air of the room. it’s half a warning for him to stop and half a plead for him to keep going.

“i know, i know, just one more time, yeah? need it just one more time, please- one more” he says through open mouthed kisses down your neck.

you tilt your head to the side, subconsciously giving more of yourself over to him. allowing yourself to be claimed by someone you know will never let you do the same to him.

you know it’s bullshit. you know it’s not the last time, it’ll never be the last time.

you almost have the sense to say that. to stop him. stop this.

but the second his hands snake under your shirt, the second he pushes inside of you with absolutely no resistance… all logic flies out the window and your body betrays you.

and in that moment you want nothing more than for him to have you. all of you.

you sit on the tiny bed in the on call room afterwards. back against the wall as you watch him rid himself of you. tousled hair, lipstick stains, all of it. wiped away and smoothed out like it was never there in the first place.

like you were never there in the first place.

“this is the last time.” you say it like you’ve said it countless times before but never with such… indignation.

“i know.” he breathes, pulling his shirt back over his head.

“frank,” you say, but he doesn’t turn to look at you, just keeps stripping away at any hints that you ever even touched him.

“frank, i’m serious.”

he finally turns to you. he can tell from the tone of your voice that something is different.

you both know deep down whenever you swear this is the end, that it will never really be the end. but the hint of that knowing in your voice is gone this time.

“what?”

“i can’t keep doing this. lying to myself like this.”

“lying to yourself?” he squints. god, he’s oblivious

“telling myself that im okay with this- just this. that i don’t want more of you, that i don’t want all of it.”

“you know this is all this can be.” he picks up his ring from the table and slips it back on. shutting the part of himself you get off again.

“i know, i- fuck, i know,” you shake your head, searching for the words. “but that doesn’t mean i don’t want it, don’t want you.”

he just stares at you, “want… me?”

you stare back. “yes, frank. you.”

he steps over to you, “but you have me.” he shrugs and you shake your head, “god, you just don’t get it.”

he scoffs, “then explain it to me, please, explain it to me, because last time i checked you were fine with this arrangement.”

“i don’t just want your body frank, i don't just want sex i want…” you reach out and grab his hand, gold band reflecting the little bit of light in the room. “i want this. i want the emotions, i want the feelings, i want… you.”

his face changes. he finally gets it.

he pulls his hand out of yours, stuffing it into his pocket. “you know i can’t give you that.” he says simply. not even a hint of sorry in his voice.

you smile, it’s one of defeat. “then i’m done, we’re done.”

you slip out of the room first again. same as always.

but something about this time is different.

this time you get the sense that maybe you won’t be finding yourself here again in a matter of days. not unless frank is willing to give you more. give you what you’ve always given him, even if against your will.

his heart.

as always, feedback is appreciated & my inbox is always open for ideas / thoughts / requests !!! 🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻

[niuniente]

I love the latest DHD update! It was really interesting to see the side by side between kid Alrick talking and adult Alrick's actions! And WOW was I holding my breath on whether or not he was going to shoot the both of them, just for that ending! Which really makes sense with how you've written Alrick so far! Very narratively satisfying, I do have to say. I do wonder what exactly the deal was that that lady made? Did you have any ideas for it, or do you want to leave it purposefully vague? (Also awwwww little Alrick has that scar on his mouth, I love that detail!)

Thank you for the update!

Little Alrick likely hit a tree with a bike and got that scar, or something similar :D

I wanted the scene play like Alrick recalling his wish to be a Dane Margaux and what inspired him as a kid in Dane. Not like an exact scene playing in his head but a faint recollection that when I was a child, I wanted to be like Dane Margaux and look at me now.

The thing with Alrick is that he is kind but he works in a horrendous job. We have seen him breaking rules because his consciousness chimes in. Which is something that shouldn't happen. Do you break rules for the sake of innocents and take the punishment or do you just do your job like a robot because you're told to do so? Alrick is always balancing between these two.

The deal is purposely unexplained. It's good to leave some room for pondering and imagination.

[necrofagewriter]

As someone who believes that the presence of queer ships are a sign of a healthy fan space, I feel it is especially important to see in Invincible fan spaces, especially in relation to queer ships involving viltrumite characters.

Because can be used in such a great way to address and discuss the anti-queer aspect of the Viltrum empire's ideology (I'm looking at you WillMark shippers; CecilNolan shippers, y'all are great, but I haven't seen enough).

As the show and comics have made clear, Viltrumite ideology views sexual relationships as a means to an end, only existing to create offspring, with romantic relationships being not only nonexistent but also viewed as a weakness.

As a result, this makes all Viltrumites, whether Kirkman intended or not, raised to believe that intercourse, the one of the last types of intimacy allowed in their culture, should only exist between individuals of a different sex.

After all, it makes sense in a twisted way. A same-sex relationship, in most instances, is not going to bare any offspring, removing the one level of validity any type of intimacy has to the Viltrum empire. Why would they want that?

They wouldn't. And that's queer relationships with Viltrumite characters is so important here. They grab that idea of intimacy only existing for the use of breeding and turn it on its head. They say "creation is not the purpose of intimacy and it never was" and directly confront how this control over intimacy is just that, a way of control.

Yes, we do get a look at how normal, healthy straight relationships can help Viltrumites (I am not opening that can of worms here), but they all still hold onto the Viltrum idea of intimacy being an act of heterosexuality only.

That is why I think queer ships are so important here not only as a way to help point out how yet another internal bias of Kirkman's has embedded itself in his writing but also because they help us look and explore the social impacts this fictional ideology has in universes on members of that society.

P.S: And this is why I think there should be at least one gay Viltrumite- *I am shot by an Amazon executive*

[do-you-have-a-flag]

just read that article from new york magazine, "Everyone Is Cheating Their Way Through College - ChatGPT has unraveled the entire academic project."

didn't reveal anything new to me about the use and functioning of the plagiarism-grown, glorified auto-predict, language models that were rolled out so irresponsibly it means now anyone can waste water instead of their own time and effort. but was still fascinating to read, in a bleak way.

it's so interesting because cheating and corner cutting will always exist in education, whether out of desperation or laziness, it will always be there. but by university it truly is wild how many people are not actually there to learn, because at that point if you have a program do all your work for you you are fully not there to learn so why waste your time and money playing pretend at a degree. a degree you aren't qualified for because you did not do enough.

we aren't in a post-capitalist universal basic income world where the idea of a few individuals lightly supervising automation is feasible. the technology is not there and the culture and economic stability is not there. so when a professor in the article reasons to students “you’re not actually anything different than a human assistant to an artificial-intelligence engine, and that makes you very easily replaceable. Why would anyone keep you around?” that is not hypothetical. and in terms of the degrees just because the on paper grade says you passed doesn't mean you passed it means you curated automated responses that pass with no actual guarantee of comprehension or retention of information on your part.

and there are tools and templates and minor automations that can be used to supplement your own efforts! they take longer but not that significantly, and more importantly they are less likely to impede the actual practice of learning to implementation.

that's what a lot of people who cheat or use these tools in this way seem to miss.

let me pull out three paraphrased statements of possible justifications from this article:

The education system is flawed

These exercises are irrelevant

I'm bad at organisation

these are all experientially true to my experience of education at various points. and the first point exacerbates issues with 2 and 3 to where students can feel overwhelmed or underprepared or frustrated for various reasons. however where i differ personally from the choice making of these students, is that while i never had access to such a powerful tool i still never chose to cheat or cut corners with things like chapter summaries instead of reading a book, or getting someone else to write for me, or any other obvious forms of cheating/plagiarism.

and the reason for this is not lack of frustration or feelings of antagonism towards the system or confusion over content or lack of organisation skills (all issues i had). it's that throughout my education, i am talking back to primary school, i always tried to figure out WHY we were doing the work assigned to us. what in our studies is it trying to get us to engage with, what methods does it force us to put into use to communicate that knowledge, and how much of the information have we comprehended and retained. some assignments are bad at the execution of these goals but if you can see what the goals are you can still benefit from attempting to achieve them while meeting the requirements enough to pass. IMPORTANTLY the process of doing this frustrating and often inefficient process helps not just critical thinking skills but also is how you actually learn things.

no one else can know stuff for you. it makes sense to outsource a basic sum to a calculator app on your phone, but this means you are not a mathematician. if you use a chapter by chapter summary to write a book report you have not read that book. if you read the wikipedia article for a movie you have not watched that movie. all of these are more verifiable sources of information than language models.

if you get a transcript of a lecture you did not attend and use a chatbot to make notes for you then you did not attend that class- if you read the transcript and take notes and then use the chatbot and compare the difference at least then you used your capacity for thought to process the information and assess it through comparison.... but it would be better to find a classmate and compare notes with a peer so you both have the opportunity to not only check how well you understood the lecture/refresh the information covered, but also a much lower stakes chance to try out communication skills than the group assignments and oral presentations often assigned for this purpose. and on top of that you get to socialise and network with someone in your field of study in a way that benefits both of you.

i'm not even against the use of machine learning models generally, i think they are useful in a repetitive task automation and data scanning context. but why are we delegating things like Knowing Stuff and Human Connection to the 1 and 0 machine that might as easily sell our info as have it leaked to hackers. what kind of cyberpunk surveillance dystopia are we shrugging lazily into? you do not have to pay all that money to pretend to be a competent professional. and if that sounds harsh it's because it is. there are enough scammers and barely qualified people succeeding in this world.

you do not have to dedicate your life to labours that you are not capable of, at the very least be honest with yourself of your own capacity for thought and action. genuinely try to figure out if you are using this technology because of a 'can't' or a 'won't'

it's not a tool if it knows more than you- it's a tool if you could do the job without it.

[harpskae]

THE successful shifting mindset

These days I have developed a very passive mindset towards shifting. I don’t even know how to describe it, but I guess I have just accepted the certainty that as long as I have the purpose of shifting to my DR in mind, whether or not I actively “try”, I will inevitably wake up in my DR.

I can’t know right now if it will be tonight, in three days, the night before my histology exam, or maybe next month. There is simply no way in the world for me to know before hand when that will happen. But it will happen. Because all the pieces are where they should be, and really, for once in my life, for once ever since I was 14, I have no doubts about it. What I am writing right now are my genuine feelings on this process, I no longer feel like im trying to convince myself about this. Speaking of which. My outlook on this being a process has also changed. Let me tell you about it. When I first got into shifting, and for years really, I believed this was a journey. I unconsciously thought that I needed to fail before I succeeded. I associated those stupid symptoms during my attemps to being “close” to shifting to my DR. It was as if I expected to experience failure, because that’s what’s natural, right? In the same way I cannot play a guitar solo right now because I have never played the guitar before, I thought I should be “bad” at shifting before I was able to “be good” at it. Somehow. bc that’s not a great way of putting it but hopefully you get the message. But truth is, shifting is not a journey. It’s a phenomenon, an act. A deliberate act just as brief as snapping your fingers and as imperceptible as the beating of your own heart. Let me further develop this idea, bear with me jeje.

You see, the first time an ever shifted happened on a random night when I didn’t know reality shifting was a thing. I went to bed as I always did, and I woke up in an alternate version of my room. I didn’t know what shifting was, I didn’t know that it was possible and therefore I didn’t believe in it. Because you cant believe in something you don’t know exists. I didn’t have any intention of shifting, again because I didn’t know anything about it. I literally did nothing and didn’t believe. And I still shifted.

Lately ive been thinking about that and my other past shifting experiences and I have come to a few conclusions. Firstly, I literally don’t need anything to shift. Nothing. Not belief. Not intent. Shifting, as I have been reading in scientific investigations, is the result of a physiological change, or trigger in our brain. As shifters, we are learning how to trigger that so that we can use our brain and the ability to shift our consciousness to a reality to our favor and will. The fact that im using “big words” isn’t in any way with the intention of complicating the concept, it is just to express my own idea of it, but I will return to more basic statements. So. Since I don’t need absolutely anything to shift to my DR, that can only mean one thing. I already have what I need to shift. Because I don’t lack what I don’t need. In what this matter regards ig. That’s why, there is no process, there is no journey. Yes, for years I have been learning about all of this, trying to do it on command, and shaping my mindset to what it is today, but really, I could have shifted on the first try, because not even a good mindset is needed. It is helpful to shift on command, but if it were a requirement to shift, so many people wouldn’t have shifted on accident, unknowing of what shifting is, or even, as anti-shifters (who were then, by their own experience proven wrong). I don’t even know if I am making sense but I am making sense in my mind. Anyways, so since we don’t really need anything to shift, why not just shift, why not just choose to shift. Though I am not implying by any means that us shifters that have been in this for years have not been choosing to shift all this time. That would be cruel. We have been putting effort and intent, but now I am referring to the change in mindset that views shifting as an instantaneous shift in our perception not as as process that will lead us to achieve "what we need" to shift, because thats what it is. That’s why im doing these days, I know I don’t lack by any means anything that could make me shift. There is nothing different between me, you and those who call themselves master shifters because they shift to their DRs whenever they want. And I am the version of myself that shifts whenever I want. I could shift tomorrow to my DR and nothing would have changed really. That future version of me is the exact me as I am right now as I am ranting on my notes app instead of studying fucking histology.

Also, about the moment itself of shifting, to put is simply, both of the times I have fully shifted were on accident, I just fell asleep. I didn’t feel anything weird, I didn’t even know I was in a different reality until I proved it to myself. That’s why I no longer seek for any symptoms while shifting. After all, we describe these symptoms —dizziness, tingles, buzzing sounds?, spinning— as physical sensations, and although I myself have experienced those on multiple occasions, even while shifting back to my CR (though that’s a whole other story), they mean nothing, because we are perceiving them, or at least describing them through our senses. And I know some of these symptoms are not perceived exactly by our physical body, but still, choosing to focus on them is just a way of anchoring ourselves to the fact that we are not yet in our dr. that we are halfway there. And do we want to be halfway there? No. We want to be there. That’s why it’s no use focusing on symptoms. Plus, I know that senses shift last. 

I might post this on my blog, I decided to do so halfway through this, but it is still my diary so this are all my genuine thoughts which I am only writing digitally instead of in my journal bc I write quite slowly and I don’t have enough time to write down all of my thoughts. If it weren’t for that I wouldn’t post this. I didn’t proofread and English is not my first language, having said that thank you to whoever read through all this.

[gowerhardcastle]

As When I Wrote a Tumblr Post

I was starting to write a response to an ask about my use of similes, and I was starting to explain how important Spenser, Milton, and especially Homer was to my use of simile in my prose, but then I got caught up in thinking about how I use classical references to make jokes that amuse at least me.

So then I figure I would amass my ten favorite Greek and Roman jokes from my games for you. Then ten became eleven. I can't stop.

Learned jokes about classical and early English literature is at the very heart of this whole gigantic thing I'm writing here, which should be no surprise, because that's what I teach when I'm not writing interactive games.

All I can hope is that the reader either really enjoys a narrative voice that is a little obsessed with such things.

At any rate, much--perhaps even most--of these jokes will be invisible to a character with low Culture. Or, as in several examples below, the joke changes depending on whether you have high or low culture.

Here they are, my top XI classical jokes. Plus, one bonus. Some come from previously published games. Many come from my current game, Tea and Scones.

I:

"Honestly, I think you should just endure."

"You mean like the fellow chained to the rock with the vulture eating his liver out," moans Marmaduke.

*if culture < 35

"I have not seen that film as yet. Sounds a bit gory. But certainly, if that helps you. Like the liver fellow. Just endure."

*if culture >= 35

"Yes. You are a modern-day Prometheus, if that helps you steel your nerves. Just endure."

II:

You ponder Buck's words, rolling them round and round in your mind, turning like

*if culture > 45

            Ixion upon his wheel, to bring a classical simile into things.

*if culture <= 45

            a pinwheel, or a merry-go-round, or, let us say, some sort of carnival tilt-a-whirl.  But it is no use.  If he were trying to communicate something specific, the project was a failure.

III:

There is a moment in The Iliad at which the great Greek hero, Diomedes, filled with valor by the might of Athena, flings his bronze spear at the Trojan hero Phegeus.

The spear streaks across the battlefield as Diomedes emanates fire from his head, and strikes true, puncturing his armor, transfixing his foe, and sending him on a one-way trip to the underworld.

Back at university, you did not give much thought to this moment, but now, you think you have a better sense of what that Homer fellow was all about.

True, fire does not literally emanate from your head, but in all other ways, you emulate the feat of Diomedes, as the walking stick you throw flies true, across the opera house.

IV:

"But you haven't heard what I have to tell you.  You will realize why I need you when you hear the details.  It will be a simple matter for you to solve, whereas I am wholly helpless."

"As I say, you must fend for yourself.  I wish it were otherwise, but there we are.  Would you kindly remove yourself from my leg?"                                  

"No, I shan't.  Like Lykaon before Achilles, I supplicate you!  Mercy!  Mercy!"                

"If you recall, Achilles slew Lykaon, not heeding the supplication in question.  You ought to reread your Iliad."                                     

"Did he?"                                           

"Yes.  The supplication in question was not a wise idea."                                         

"Oh."  Marmaduke loosens his grasp and stands up.  "You certainly know your classical mythology."

V:

#"What's in the violin case?"

"I'll bet you'd like to know," he says.  "You know the story of Aolus and the bag?  It's like that."

"That's Homer," says Vyv.  "The bag of winds or something.  You have to open the bag to let the winds out.  No, wait a moment.  It's the other way."

"That is familiar," you say.  "The bag of winds is too tempting to open and then they open it, and there's wind inside, which frankly they should have figured out because it is called the 'bag of winds.'"

VI:

The tactical choice here is not a complex one.  You strike him as hard as you can with your fist.  It is a tried-and-true approach.  The thought bypasses your brain entirely, and comes entirely out of a conversation between your spine and your hand, as you sock him as hard as you can.

Scores of great authors have groped for the way to describe, say, Achilles spearing some unfortunate Trojan, or Macbeth slicing his way through some or other thane with his broadsword.  But this particular blow, if a Homer or a Shakespeare had been present, could only have been described by the bards in question with a single syllable:  "Wow."--or its equivalent in Ancient Greek.

VII:

“And then I shall defeat you properly."

"Oh," you say.  "Really?"

"Quite," he says, "There shall be songs sung about the things I do.  You may have heard of Achilles dragging the body of Hector around the walls of Troy.  That will be an idle picnic at the park compared to what I do to you."  He walks away from you slowly and furiously, fists clenched.

VIII:

The two of you approach a small, vine-covered restaurant, one of those new novelty eateries.  It is named "Polytropos," serving Greek feasts "Fit for Odysseus Himself Upon His Return" as the sign proclaims.  The whole place is themed after The Odyssey, and the walls and ceiling are festooned with grapevines and garishly painted plaster gods and goddesses….

Your waiter, dressed like a cyclops, places a basket of complimentary lotus root crisps on the table.  Before anyone can speak, Aunt Matilda orders the Octopus Supreme Platter for everyone to share.

IX:

"Yes, of course," you say.  "Really, you should be thanking me.  Imagine--a brutish ruffian is after you, hoping to treat you in a most unmerciful manner.  You have insulted his pride, heedless of the consequences.  You shall defend yourself against him, come what may.  How bold!  How unyielding.  Your name shall live forever."

“Gosh!” says Marmaduke.

*if (((culture >= 47) or ((persuade + culture) >= 75)))          

You are like Theseus braving the minotaur, or Heracles wrestling the lion, or Pompey the Great.  You are, or will be, Marmaduke the Great, in the eyes of many.”

*else

            "You are like that Roman fellow holding the bridge in the face of opposition," you say.  "The name eludes me at the moment.  Horace Sublicius?  Horatio Sulla Decimus?  Something like that.  Roman sounding."      

            "And this is your argument that my name will live forever?" Marmaduke says.

X:

You hesitate, just for a moment. *if culture >= 40 Like Aeneas, his sword lifted high above the prostrate Turnus, or Pyrrhus standing like a painted tyrant above the frail and helpless Priam. That's the way you hesitate. But then, like those warriors of old, the moment of indecision passes away, and you act. *if culture < 40 You hesitate, as when Duddles, having eaten eight already, holding his hand above the plate with the very last berry scone, looks about the room, his will poised between "take it" and "I probably shouldn't." But then, like Duddles, the moment of indecision passes swiftly away, and you act.

XI:

The corridor is decorated with classical scenes of service, like Ganymede being abducted by Jupiter to eventually be made the cupbearer of the gods, the messenger goddess Iris pointedly and respectfully not partaking of the sacrificial meat of the major gods, and Hebe spilling the divine nectar and being given a dressing-down and a lecture on the subject of carelessness by Juno.

As always, your nostrils flare as you recognize the frankly gauche mixing of Greek and Roman figures in the same scene.

Bonus:

"I love you," you say to the the mirror.  "It doesn't matter what anyone else says.  I love you."

"Thank you," you say to yourself, hugging your arms around yourself.  "That means a lot, coming from you."

"I appreciate you, and I see you, and I know how hard things can be.  You've got an ally in me."

"This gives me the strength to go on."

"Ignore the brickbats of society.  Be true to yourself.  γνῶθι σεαυτόν, in the words of the ancient Greeks."

"Right, right.  Well put."

"Thank you."

Perhaps Shakespeare is more your cup of tea? I've written up a similar discussion of my use of Shakespeare in my games here (albeit for patrons).

If the precise nexus where great literature and interactive fiction is where you live, might I tempt you to visit The Noble Gases Club? Become a member, read what I would call a panoply of mini-essays on game design and matters of literary interest, and play an absurdly long demo of Jolly Good: Tea and Scones.

[jtargaryen18]

Under His Skin ~ Chapter 5

Series Masterlist

Words: 6.5k

Pairing: Jonathan Crane aka Scarecrow (Nolanverse Batman) x F Reader

Warnings: Stalking, gaslighting, head games, x-rated fantasies/thoughts, drugging, voyeurism, manipulation.

It's the day after Ares fell. You're feeling lost, alone, and unsure of what the future holds. Thank goodness Jonathan Crane is there for you...

Jonathan reflects on your growing submission to him with quiet satisfaction, confident this time, unlike the last, he won’t fail.

Disclaimer:The author of this work claims no ownership of characters aside from the reader, and original secondary characters mentioned. This work is not intended for those under the age of 18 due to explicit sexual content and darker themes. By reading this work or any works on my blog (jtargaryen18), you agree that you are at least 18 years of age. I do not consent to have my work hosted on any third party app or site.

You woke slowly the next morning, and the air around was still, the silence eerie. Your heart sped up as you sluggishly tried to pull your thoughts together. 

Panic had you sitting up on your couch faster than you should have as a wave of dizziness struck. You were in your clothes from yesterday and on your couch, wrapped in... It was Dr. Crane's coat. Did you remember that right? It was expensive and tailor-made without being showy. The dark wool was perfectly pressed, the lining soft against your skin. You touched the edge of the lapel without thinking. 

You held it around you for a moment, not sure whether you wanted to shed it or stay inside it. The scent rising faintly from the fabric was sandalwood, subtle and warm. You’d once bought Ares a cologne with sandalwood notes for his birthday because you loved the scent. You remembered testing it on your wrist in a shop you couldn’t afford when you'd just started dating Ares. He wore it maybe twice. Said it wasn't bold enough. He preferred scents that announced his presence.

You exhaled slowly and tried to stand. Your body responded. Your mind lagged behind. How did I get here?

Then you remembered… Ares. Screaming at you with his hands gripping your arms. You remembered the terror in his eyes that somehow had nothing to do with you. 

Your stomach twisted. You’d been upset with your fiancé. It was the culmination of weeks of everything feeling wrong. It started yesterday, in his office. He’d snapped at you about Dr. Crane. Jealous, maybe, or paranoid. You weren’t even sure anymore. He’d bristled when he realized the two of you had spoken without him knowing. And when he found out Crane had visited the gallery, had bought something, he'd made it worse. Telling you to stay away from the man, talking about him like he was some monster out to get Ares. At first, yes, you'd wondered about Dr. Crane's intentions. But you saw past that. The man was trying to help. It didn't make any sense.

Then the painting. You’d tried to make it a peace offering to Dr. Crane after your misunderstanding. And the only reason you'd approached Dr. Crane for advice was because you were worried about Ares. But the moment you hung it in Crane’s office, Ares saw it as something else entirely. Betrayal?

You’d texted Ares when you made it home. Called him. No answer for the rest of the day. By ten o'clock last night, you were pacing your apartment, coat half on, phone screen glowing in your hand. With no other choice, you’d driven to Arkham even though you knew it was a bad idea as late as it was. 

And you'd walked straight into a nightmare.

You still weren’t sure what you heard first, his voice or the screaming. But by the time you reached his office, it was coming from behind the door. Ares screaming like he was being ripped apart. You knocked, tried the door to find it locked. Ares never locked his door. You called for him.

With no other choice, you ran to the main desk and told them something was wrong. Someone called security. You remembered the pounding in your chest.The way your hands shook as you ran back. 

Dr. Crane's office had been dark when you ran to the front desk, but he was there when you returned. You'd reached his door, called him by his given name, and told him something was wrong with Ares. And he didn’t hesitate, taking control of the situation like no one else in the building could. When they got Ares' door opened... God, Ares... He came at you like he didn’t know you at all. His eyes were filled with terror, his hands grabbing your arms violently. The desperation in his voice had tears stinging the backs of your eyes just thinking about it. 

You’d been so far out of your experience that you froze. But Dr. Crane had pulled you back. Told the nurse to hold you as he plunged a syringe into Ares' neck to sedate him. 

After that, your memories weren't so clear. You remember Dr. Crane explaining that you were in shock. But you remembered his voice, his hands steadying you. The warmth of his coat being draped over your shoulders, and him at your side while someone asked if you were okay. You remembered sitting down. Then… nothing. But somehow, you were home. Safe.

Was it real?

The night played in fragments: voices, pressure, and Crane’s coat warm against your skin. You didn’t remember getting into a car, nor unlocking your door. You shrugged off his coat slowly, carefully draping it over the back of the couch. 

Well, your forearms ached. Ares did that. You swallowed hard. Would he be okay? He would never willingly hurt you like that. Ever. Whatever happened to him, it wasn’t normal. It wasn’t like anything you’d ever seen before.

You needed to see him and you needed answers. You went to grab your phone, and then froze. It wasn't where you normally kept it. If it wasn't there, it was usually in your purse and you couldn't find that either. Nor your keys. A quick look at the lot, you ran to the window with your heart pounding, revealed your car wasn't there. The space where you usually parked was empty.

Your gaze moved to the clock on your living room wall. 10:17 AM. Panic rose like a tide. You needed to let the gallery know what was going on. Someone needed to cover the front desk. You were supposed to meet an artist about a consignment today. And worse, how were you even going to get to Arkham to see Ares?

You turned in place, searching for something, anything... There was a knock. You went still. It came again, softer this time. You walked to the door, pulse in your throat, one bare footstep at a time.

You looked through the peephole. Dr. Crane. You opened it carefully, eyes wide. He stood there, dressed casually for him, in a dark charcoal shirt, sleeves rolled precisely, a paper cup in one hand and your purse in the other. His expression was soft and steady.

“Good morning,” he said gently. “I thought you might need a ride.”

He held your purse out first. “I had someone retrieve everything from your car after the incident. We have vehicle break-ins from time to time. Your phone’s inside, fully charged, so are your keys.”

Your mind was still spinning, and you blinked. Stunned. “You… you didn’t have to do that.”

He gave a faint, almost shy smile. “Didn’t want you to worry.”

He handed you the coffee next. It was warm. Even if it was black, you needed it to try and snap you out of your panic spiral wrapped in a heavy mind fog. 

“Also,” he added, as you stepped aside to let him in, “I called your artist contact. She was kind enough to let the gallery know you’d be out today.”

You stared at him. Yes, you did work every other Saturday. Still... “How did you…?”

“You gave me her card when I bought the painting. Said she knew you well and that she'd let them know. I just didn’t want you worried about being late or your responsibilities there. Not after what you've been through.”

Your throat tightened, but it wasn’t panic this time. It was something quieter. Something you might’ve called gratitude.

You stepped back from the door, clutching your things, and he stepped into your apartment like he’d always belonged there.

She stepped back. She didn’t ask him in, but she didn’t stop him either.

Jonathan crossed the threshold as if he’d never done it before. But he had.

Last night, she'd been sedated by his own hand. And he'd timed it perfectly. Given her size and the amount of trauma she'd experienced, he knew the dose would be effective for eleven to twelve hours. No one had seen him carry her inside the night before. He laid her on that couch, right there, where the cushion still dipped slightly, covered with his jacket. Her pulse had fluttered steadily under his fingers.

Now she was awake, watching him. And she had no idea. The scent of the apartment was the same. Warm lavender, old wood, the smell of summer rain...

He glanced at the small woven bowl on the side table where he’d found the spare key. It was in his pocket now.

You’re awake this time. But nothing’s changed. I’ve already been here. You just don’t know yet how deeply I belong.

She took a sip from the coffee cup. That subtle tilt of her shoulders, lowering and easing. Exactly like last night. Only now she was awake to experience the calm for herself.

You’ll associate this stillness with me. With my voice and presence. And soon, that’ll be the only thing that feels safe anymore.

He let his gaze flick toward her bedroom door. Just once. A gesture she didn’t notice.

But he remembered the room inside. The amber light and the unfinished painting hidden behind the door. He’d been there. And now, here he was again, only this time she let him in.

She hesitated at first, tugging at the sleeve of her shirt like it might give her permission. “Would it be okay if I showered before we go?”

He met her gaze, steady and soft. “Of course. Take your time.I’ll be right here when you come out.”

He waited as she disappeared into her bedroom, leaving the bathroom door slightly ajar out of habit. Still, it was permission enough. The water began to run. The pipes groaned then settled. And Jonathan moved.

The coffee cup sat on the edge of the table, still half full. He stepped closer, watching the steam curl upward, lighter now but still warm. She’d drunk more than half of it, and that mattered. He’d adjusted it before bringing it to her, barely enough to register consciously. A mild compound with a long half-life. There was no sedative fog, because she likely had that from the sedative he used last night, and no chemical aftertaste. Just… calm. Something to ease the tension in her body, to slow her thoughts before they spiralled.

You’ll never know it was the coffee. You’ll think it’s me. You’ll start to feel like you can’t breathe right without me in the room.

He watched the liquid sway inside the paper cup, then placed it down, stepped away.

On the arm of the couch, his coat. It was folded neatly where she'd left it after waking in it this morning. She hadn’t mentioned it and he wouldn’t, either. He wanted to let it linger. 

It’s mine. You wore it. You woke in it and felt safe. That memory is now sealed. And it smells like me.

He brushed a finger over the edge of the collar, barely a graze before turning away. 

A short stack of unopened mail rested by the door. One letter bore the mark of her gallery. It wasn't junk or promotional, maybe scheduling or payroll. She had hung her hopes for her future on that gallery as much as she had Ares. It had been in her entire demeanor the day he visited her there. He committed the sender’s name to memory. He’d call again soon, under a new reason.

Control doesn’t begin with isolation. It begins with reducing noise. The more I handle, the less you need to.

Checking the time, he knew she'd be done soon. He resisted the urge to glance at the hallway again. Instead, he reached into his coat pocket, fingers brushing the cool surface of his phone. The mirrored copy of hers was already synced to his device. He had access to everything now, her texts, calendar, voice memos. Even the notes app she used to keep reminders for herself.

You haven’t written anything new. Not since before Ares fell. 

He slid the phone back into place, expression calm, when the bathroom door creaked open. 

She smiled faintly when she saw him.

Good. You think it’s your smile. But it’s mine now.

She stepped into the living room. Water still clinging to her hair, the scent of rain from the products she used. Maybe it was also her.  She was dressed simply in jeans and a loose top, but he could still see the hesitation in her body. She wore no makeup or jewelry, but then she didn't need it. She really was physically beautiful. 

“I woke up in your coat this morning," she said quietly, fingers brushing the fabric as she passed it on the couch. “I don’t remember why. But it helped.”

Jonathan didn’t smile. He let a brief silence fill the space. “You went into shock after what you saw last night,” he explained gently. Her breath hitched slightly, but he continued, gentle but deliberate. “You were disoriented and cold. You could barely speak. I drove you home. Made sure you got inside safely.”

She didn't need to know he carried her in anymore than she needed to know about the sedations. Or the missing time. That would only frighten her.

This version? This version gave her something to hold onto.

“You were never alone,” he added quietly.“You’re still not.”

She nodded, the distant, shaken look softened into something smaller. Gratitude blended with uncertainty. 

You don’t remember how you got here. But you believe I got you here safely. That belief is all I need.

Her fingers grazed the folded coat again as she passed it, hesitating for a second, like she might bring it with her. But she didn’t, leaving it behind.And he didn’t stop her.

Leave it there. Let it become the thing you reach for when I’m not around.

Picking up her bag, her phone slid easily into her hand. Her thumb unlocked the screen by habit. But he already knew the passcode and memorized every open tab. She had no idea.

“Ready?” he asked, offering the same soft tone he’d used before.

She nodded. “Yeah. Thanks again, Dr. Crane… for everything.”

“Please,” he said quietly. “Call me Jonathan.”

Jonathan opened the door for her, and she stepped out into the daylight. He followed, not behind her, but just to her right. Beside her. Exactly where he wanted to be seen.

The drive was quiet at first. She sat beside him, arms wrapped loosely around her middle, her gaze fixed on the window but not really seeing anything. She hadn't touched the radio, nor did she say anything. She lingered in a soft, thoughtful silence, punctuated only by the occasional breath she didn’t seem to realize she was holding.

Jonathan didn’t rush her, letting the science do the work. 

They were nearly halfway to Arkham when she finally spoke. Her voice was quiet and strained. “What if he doesn’t recognize me?”

He kept his eyes on the road, but he heard the ache beneath her words. 

“There's a possibility he might not.” He saw her flinch out of the corner of his eye. But he continued, voice low and grounded. “Hallucinations are unpredictable. And disorientation can make the familiar feel foreign. But even if he doesn’t recognize you, he’ll feel you.”

She turned toward him then, visibly clinging to that thought.

Jonathan kept his expression neutral and warm. He wanted her to trust him. “If anything anchors him,” he said softly, “it’ll be you.”

She looked down, blinking back whatever emotion had risen too fast.

Good. Let the fear linger. But let me hold it for you.

You’re not afraid of what you saw. You’re afraid of what it means. And I’m the only one who’ll explain it in a way you can survive.

She didn’t answer him or thank him. Just turned her head again and looked out the window, her shoulders drawn in slightly and her fingertips pressed to her purse like it was some kind of anchor. But she didn’t say anything else. She didn't reach for her phone to check messages... She was quiet.

And she was his.

Jonathan kept one hand steady on the wheel. The other relaxed on the gearshift.

But inside? He felt it. The moment the shift happened. 

You’re unraveling just enough. Not into fear. Not yet. But into silence. And silence is where I live.

She was already moving toward him in the way that mattered most: psychologically.

Away from the world. Toward me.

The gravel crunched under the tires as the car rolled to a stop. You hadn’t realized you’d been holding your breath again until the engine quieted. The silence hit sharper than before, like a door shutting behind you. You looked up. Arkham loomed just ahead, with its dark brick and iron gates. To you, the  cold, clinical architecture that had once felt sterile. Now it just felt heavy, like a weight pressing on your chest. Making it hard to breathe. 

Jonathan stepped out first. He walked around to your side. He didn’t rush you, and he didn’t open the door until you looked up.

You opened the door and stepped out. Your legs felt stiffer than expected, like your body had remembered something it hadn’t caught up to yet. The air smelled different here. Clean, but wrong. Like something meant to cover decay, not remove it.

As you stood in front of the main entrance, your body tensed. Your shoulders rose and your hands clutched at your purse like it was a lifeline. A faint chill crawled across the back of your neck.

You weren’t even inside yet. But the memory of last night with Ares screaming, the pain of his grip on you, the look in his eyes... It was waiting for you here. Waiting inside.

Your breath hitched just as you realized you didn’t want to move.

“You’re doing well," Jonathan said.

You turned toward him.

Jonathan stood at your side, not quite touching, but close enough that you could feel his presence like a second skin. Like gravity. You didn’t say anything to that, but your foot moved forward anyway.

The doors opened for him, and you followed. Inside, the air was cooler. It was too quiet for a place meant to hold so many people. You heard no voices, no laughter. Just the faint whir of overhead lights and the hush of distant footsteps.

You’d been here dozens of times before. But today, it felt different. It felt like the building had shifted around you, like it knew. Your hand lifted to your chest instinctively, and your heart was racing. You told yourself it was the memory of last night with the nightmare memories of chaos and fear. 

But it wasn’t. Honestly, it was the not knowing. What would Ares be like today? Would he scream again? Would he even see you? You felt the heat rise behind your eyes.

You blinked quickly, looked away, trying to focus on something neutral—the floor, the hallway light, a crack in the tile. And without thinking, you took a half-step closer to Jonathan.

You hadn’t intended to follow him into his office. You were just walking beside him, like you had since the car. But when he paused at the door and opened it without a word, you stepped inside.

It was quiet. Dim, but warm. The windows were frosted against the outside world, and the painting you hung was still there, a subtle nod to the chaos you felt was bottled inside you. The crows looked different today. They were still dark and sharp. The piece felt heavier now, like they were circling something you couldn’t see.

You'd been in his office before, but this was the first time you realized it didn’t feel like part of Arkham. It felt like somewhere else, somewhere that didn’t belong here. You felt strangely safe here.

He gestured toward the chair across from his desk, and you sat without hesitation. It took you a moment to realize what that really meant. You didn’t ask to see Ares first, and you weren't asking for updates. Why?

His desk was neat and purposeful. Only what needed to be there was present. You saw a closed notebook, a black pen, a single file. 

Jonathan sat calmly across from you, his hands folded lightly atop the desk. "Thank you for giving me a ride back," you said slowly.  It was hard to meet his eyes. “I needed to be here."

He leaned forward slightly. “You slept?”

You nodded again.“Almost too well. I questioned what was real and wasn't this morning.”

The second you said it, you regretted it. You hadn’t meant to admit that. You didn't want to sound paranoid or unstable. But honestly, you were both. And you needed to know it wasn’t just in your head.

Some emotion flashed in Jonathan's eyes that you couldn't name. It held for just a beat too long.

“That’s not uncommon," he said with a more professional tone than he'd used up to now today. “When the mind undergoes extreme stress, especially witnessing trauma, it defends itself by softening the edges. Sometimes it builds distance between memory and awareness.” His gaze didn’t leave yours. “It’s not something to fear so much as it’s something to understand.”

You exhaled slowly, relieved. That helped. And ever since you'd actually given the man a chance, he always made things make sense.

“Ares had a difficult night.” 

Your heart clenched in your chest at those words, even though Jonathan said them gently.  You nodded, signaling that he could continue. But your hands twisted in your lap, instinct telling you that you weren't going to hear anything promising. 

“The hallucinations haven’t fully stopped,” Jonathan said softly. “They’ve changed, shifted in tone. But they’re still very much active. Sporadic instead of constant now, but distressing.”

You looked down at your hands. It was hard to hold still. “Is he sedated?”

“Only when necessary.” His voice didn’t falter. “We’re allowing his brain to come back to equilibrium naturally. Too much intervention too soon could cause more harm.”

That made sense.You didn’t know why, but it did.

“Has he asked for me?” you heard yourself ask. The words surprised you the moment they left your mouth.

Jonathan paused. “He hasn’t spoken at all today.”

What? Not at all? That hit harder than you expected. A part of you deflated. You hadn’t even realized you were still holding on to the hope that it was a temporary thing and that he could bounce back from it.

A moment passed. Jonathan’s voice was quiet. “He didn’t ask for anyone.”

You looked up at that. And for the first time since walking into this building, he met your eyes fully. “This isn’t personal. It’s neurological.” He sighed. “The man you love is still in there. But right now, he’s behind something we’re trying to pull him through.”

Your throat tightened. You weren’t sure what to say. While you appreciated his honesty, it was hard not to despair. Would Jonathan be able to pull him through?

“His condition hasn't worsened. Psychotic breaks of this nature sometimes stem from chemical imbalance, long-term stress, or suppressed trauma. It’s possible something dormant was triggered. We’re running assessments.” 

"Would I be able to see him? Even for a minute?" You had to ask. If he saw you, couldn't that give him the strength to fight for you?

"Not yet." Jonathan held your gaze. "Right now it’s important to let him stabilize. His system is still in shock... Your presence, at the moment, would only increase the emotional volatility. Right now, he needs structure.”

The tears threatened to come on again, though it was strange because they felt like they were just below the surface, beneath a thin layer of control you couldn't name. “Is there… anything I can do?”

“What he needs right now is consistency. Quiet. A stabilized environment.” He paused. “What you need is rest. Let me take care of him.”

It wasn't that easy, and he knew it. It felt like your heart was cracking open in your chest. “Dr. Cr-- Jonathan, you’re telling me to let you handle it,” you said carefully. “And I know you can... But I can’t just… go on like nothing happened.” You shook your head in frustration. “I can’t just sit on the sidelines while someone I love is locked inside his own mind... So what am I supposed to do?”

Jonathan wasn’t smiling. But he wasn’t distant either, that same careful stillness in his posture. That same unwavering focus.

“You’re not just his fiancée. You were part of his routine. His tether to something outside of this place.”

You nodded faintly. That had always been your role, hadn’t it? The part that existed beyond Arkham.

“But that’s changed now,” he added gently. “And you need support, too. Not just information.”

You swallowed hard.

"You don't have to go through this alone," Jonathan said. “I’d like you to keep coming. Not as a visitor. As an extension of the care team.”

Your eyes widened slightly. "I don't understand."

“You'll be here as someone who matters.”

You didn’t respond right away. The words care team still echoed somewhere in your mind. But it didn’t feel clinical, as you once would have expected coming from him. It felt… inclusive. You hestitated and he caught it, didn’t wait for you to ask.

“You were part of his routine," he reiterated. "That shouldn’t disappear. If you feel up to it, come have lunch with me. I’ll update you every day on his condition."

Your heart beat a little faster. Lunch. Like before. Something normal. You needed that more than you could say. And if there was a chance you could see Ares soon, you'd take it.

And something in the way he said it, come have lunch with me, felt less like a request and more like a lifeline. One you didn’t want to pull away from. You weren’t sure what you had left to hold on to. But for now… You could hold on to this, hope for a miracle that would see Ares make a recovery.  You just really hoped Jonathan didn't feel sorry for you.

"Yes, I'd be glad to come by for lunch with you, Jonathan," she said quietly.

You hadn’t planned to say his first name. It just came out. And when it did, something shifted behind his eyes. It wasn't surprise or pleasure, but something deeper. 

His posture changed subtly, his spine straightened. His hands were still folded, but more precise now like every finger was now where they were supposed to be. And you could feel the weight of the silence between you, like he was filing the moment away with meticulous care.

“Good.”

Then you glanced away for a moment, a thought slipping through. You came on weekdays, spent the weekends with Ares outside of Arkham. Today was a Saturday, and you didn't like the thought of tomorrow alone in your apartment given the circumstances. 

“Is that okay on weekends?” you had to ask. You hesitated. “I mean, I know I usually came during the week, but I don’t want to interrupt if--”

“I’m here on weekends,” he said simply. “My schedule is flexible.”

You nodded. But something about the uncertainty still lingered at the edge of your mind. He must have seen it, read it on your face. Without a word, he turned to the side of his desk, opened a drawer, and pulled out a single, crisp white card. His name was printed on the front. Office number. Title. But he reached for a pen, turned the card over, and in neat, angular handwriting, he wrote his personal number on the back. Then he slid it toward you, placing it gently on the desk between your tea and your hands. 

“Call if anything feels off. If you have questions. Or if you just want to talk.” He didn’t say call me. He said “call.” As if the idea of you choosing anyone else never even crossed his mind. You picked up the card slowly. 

“Thank you.” You meant it. 

He didn’t answer. But his silence felt… satisfied.

You held the card a moment longer than you meant to. The card stock was smooth, but the ink on the back was still faintly warm and fresh. Deliberate. Your thumb traced the numbers like they meant something more than contact. To you, they felt like protection. 

You slipped the card into your bag and stood slowly. Jonathan rose with you, precise and unrushed. 

He crossed to the door and opened it without a word. Not waiting for you to move first, but not leading, either. He was just holding space. 

You stepped past him into the hall. And though you didn’t look back, you could feel him watching you go. And in your bag, the card rested against your wallet like a promise.

One you didn’t remember agreeing to. But somehow you already felt bound by it.

She contacted him six weeks after her husband’s death. The message was cautious. She didn’t remember him at first. Not until she unearthed his name on a university archive page.

And then, suddenly, she remembered. The boy in her middle school chemistry class, the one who was smart. 

But she reached out and that meant something.

She wanted to talk. She said she needed his help.

He said yes before she even finished the sentence. They met at a café in the lower district. Neutral and public. Jonathan dressed with precision. A pressed shirt with clean cuffs. Hair perfectly parted.

She wore black. Still grieving. Her eyes were tired, filled with suspicions. But she was still beautiful. 

"You're late," was the first thing he said to her. It was accurate.

She didn’t waste time. She immediately explained what had happened to her husband, from her point of view, in great detail. “There were chemicals in his blood when the autopsy was performed,” she said. “Trace compounds. The toxicology report listed substances the lab couldn’t even classify.”

He just let her speak.

“You taught there. You and your students were in the room that day. They said it was routine observation, but something wasn’t right.” She paused. “I saw your name and I remembered you.”

He just studied her, waited. Hoping. 

You remembered me. You came to me.

But her voice didn’t soften. “Was it you? Did you do something to him?”

That he didn't expect. “You reached out to me.”

“Because you’re the only lead I have.” Her voice cracked then, not with affection, but with rage. “My husband’s blood was boiling in his body and no one can tell me why. What kind of monster—” She stopped, staring at him as if she were just really seeing him for the first time. “…It was you.”

He reached for her, not physically. Just leaned forward slightly. “You didn’t come here for answers.” A quiet smile touched his lips. “You came because you remembered how I looked at you.”

She recoiled. “I never looked at you. Not once. What is wrong with you?”

The silence between them crackled.

Her voice turned cold. “You’re delusional. I just wanted help, and you—”

That was the moment it broke. The need, the fantasy, and that last flicker of hope that she’d come back.

He pulled the injector from his coat pocket. Second-generation compound. It was stronger and purer, beautifully tested. No one saw.

She screamed as it hit her. He was flying out the door before anyone could stop him. Her mind unraveled in minutes.

Her parents came for her the next day. Flew in from out of state. They took the child and removed her from Gotham, having her committed.

He watched the discharge record appear on the private hospital system.

Involuntary psychiatric hold. Indefinite. 

I gave you a place to come back to. You threw it away. 

This time… She won’t.

Saturday night and all paperwork was complete. Everything filed and notated, logged with the magistrate's office and internal review board. Everything perfectly legitimate and unopposed. Dr. Ares Katsaros was officially on indefinite medical leave. And Jonathan Crane now held temporary administrative control over Arkham Asylum. 

And it won’t stay temporary for long.

No one questioned the promotion or fought the logic of it. Jonathan was calm under pressure and he knew the systems. Above all, he made people feel safe.

Even his contact at the magistrate’s office had said as much. “I was sorry to hear about Dr. Katsaros. How’s his fiancée holding up? She's a lovely young woman.”

Jonathan had paused, just long enough to suggest a personal weight to the question. “Understandably shaken. But she’s coping. She’s been stopping in to checking on things. I’ve been keeping her updated.” Another pause, softer this time. “She’s resilient. It helps.”

Let them think she’s healing. Let them believe I’m helping.

He offered no further elaboration, finished the call. The truth didn’t matter. The perception did.

Jonathan smiled thinking about how this morning had gone. She said his name, and he'd never forget that. She would come back and have lunch with him, she took the card, drank the coffee.

You reached for me. You didn’t even know it, but you did. 

He'd stepped to the window, overlooking the parking lot. Her car was still there, and she was likely fumbling for her keys right now. Still shaky, maybe a little uncertain. But she wasn't lost... because of him.

“Better,” he'd said quietly to the glass.“This one is already better.”

Peeling off his latex gloves, he dropped them into the disposal bin. The door to the observation room slid shut behind him with a soft pneumatic hiss. Another test complete. The subject was a long-term residence with schizophrenia, a woman in her mid-60s with no known family. She'd never be missed. 

That’s why you were chosen.

This version of the compound had longer onset, more subtle atmospheric triggers. Increased paranoia. Decreased verbal control. Heart rate spikes stabilized after twenty minutes. It was very promising.

Jonathan felt good, grounded and focused. Arkham was beginning to feel like his lab.

Before leaving, he made one last stop. He made his way down the west wing to lower-level containment. Ares’s room. The door had no viewing window, just a secure panel. Biometric access only.

He entered silently, the way one might enter a cathedral. The lights were low, and Ares sat curled in the far corner. He was barely recognizable, unshaven and wild-eyed. He rocked slowly back and forth, his eyes wide and glassy. He wasn't staring at the wall, but through it. Muttering, but not forming words.

Mind gone. Speech stripped. Fear locked inside the folds of your own memory.

Jonathan observed for two full minutes and there was no reaction to his presence. 

Good. He made a note on his internal log and left without speaking. The drive home was uneventful and quiet. It had been raining all day and he loved rainy days, found them calming. The shampoo she wore smelled like rain. Was the scent in other products she used? Did she taste like a raindrop? He wanted to know...

His house, tucked into one of the more exclusive hillside neighborhoods, was still and cold when he arrived. It was a large, elegant home, designed for the man he was becoming. It wasn't truly lived in yet, but he hoped to change that soon. 

Setting his coat over the back of a chair in his living room, he loosened his sleeves. And as usual, the stillness pressed in on him. All this space. All this silence. And nothing inside it but dust and control. 

Jonathan had just made it to his bedroom when his phone chimed. He pulled out his phone, curious because he wasn't expecting to hear from anyone. It was a text to his personal number, the one she'd traced with her finger earlier in his office. The one he wrote by hand, deliberately. 

It was after midnight and he'd received a text. From her.

Her: Will he remember me?

He stared at the screen for a moment, smiling. 

The safety of the screen gave you courage. The hour gave you loneliness.

And you came to me.

Her text was more than a question. It was a fracture.

He could picture her lying in bed, in the perfect quiet of her bedroom. The blue glow of her phone screen washing over her tired face. Eyes open. Mind racing. Chest too tight with anxiety to sleep. She wasn't mourning. No, not yet. 

You're caught between what you thought you had and what you might still be able to hold onto. Between grief and redefinition.

Jonathan typed slowly, with care. He wanted a delay that suggested sincerity. 

JC: If anything anchors him… it will be you.

He'd said it to her earlier but it bared repeating. He let it sit on the screen before adding one more line. 

JC: You were always the constant.

He hit send. Then he set the phone down beside him on the table, letting his words do their work. 

Her reply came two minutes later. He didn’t rush to open it. He knew what two minutes meant. 

Tears. Doubt. More unanswered questions with each heartbeat.

Jonathan went through his night routine before climbing into bed. He didn't wear anything to bed, never had. 

Finally, he turned the phone over to see her response. 

Her: Thank you. I needed that.

And she was still writing. 

Her: I don’t know why, but it helped hearing it from you.

Jonathan stared at the screen, enjoying the familiar, slow quiet unfurling in his chest.

I speak the language of fear. I know how to calm it. You’ve already made me your anchor so...

There was nothing he needed to respond with, so he placed the phone on his bedside table where he always kept it at night. 

Things had moved a lot faster than he'd expected thanks to Ares's meltdown and some magnificent timing. He now had Ares exactly where he wanted him. Jonathan would be chief administrator at Arkham Asylum, and he'd be able to perfect his fear toxin in a fast, meaningful way. 

And soon... he'd have her too. Here to help him make this enormous house a real home. He'd have her in his bed, and the sooner the better. Wondering how her lips would taste, the way her body would feel tucked under his took up way more of his time than it should. He wanted to taste her on his tongue, tie her up and make her beg for him. He wanted to know how it felt to be inside her...

Reaching into the drawer of his bedside table, he fished out her panties. Soon...

[cosmogyros]

.

[the-mononoke-facade]

One of these days I'm going to figure out when 瞳 (hitomi) is supposed to be referring to someone's eyes and when it's supposed to be referring to someone's pupils, because slitted/narrowed eyes and slitted pupils have two different connotations, did you narrow your eyes or do you have cat eyes? This is important information okay

[auberginesdonthavelimbs]

Ok so I haven't read the most recent trilogy but from what I've seen on social media, there's this new thing being retconned in called Lolth's Embrace where drow who are servants of Lolth get cool tattoos. And I'm assuming that Lolth herself decides who gets tattoos even though that doesn't necessarily make the most sense but go with me here.

I think Drizzt would have Lolth's Embrace.

Maybe he was born with it, as are all drow in Menzo, and it just never went away. Or it did when he left Menzo, but came back later. Maybe after Siege of Darkness? Whenever she realised that he was a force for chaos among drow and generally amusing to watch.

And I think she would shape the pattern so that it's not on his face or hands or anywhere that would be easily visible if he didn't want it to be. Because the point isn't to advertise to other embraced drow that Drizzt is one of them. It's to remind Drizzt that he still serves her whether he likes it or not.

[darabeatha]

/ Okokokiedokiearchiedokie I'll be trying to cut back to my regular fate shenanigans to not flood up the dash, but thank u all for entertaining the silliness even when we are not in april's fools OITRUOTURTU

[philautia-agape]

She veemo on my woomy til I splatoon

.

[phagodyke]

weekend melancholy is starting to kick in >~<

[bat-the-misfit]

you know the Si dom i said i mistyped yesterday? i'm starting to think i also got their judging axis wrong lmao

[omgsomeonesomewhereonearth]

I started a whole fucking thinkpiece in the tags and then they told me i was out of tags aaaaaaaaaaaaa

other as in other than your agab, not other than your gender. so for eg a cis woman reading this the question is if you were amab would you be a trans woman do you think