#i mean hamlet too kinda

[appljuiceboxx]

stolen from the fireproof TR discord server

[hollowed-theory-hall]

I'd love to know your thoughts on the Gaunts in Hogwarts Legacy. I loved Ominis as a character, and the story of his family was interesting, but I'd really love an in-universe explanation for how they get to the state they are at when Tom is born in less than what... 40ish years? At most? How exactly do they go from multiple family members functional enough to attend Hogwarts to barely able to speak English (or seemingly use magic) that quickly?

So, the reason I didn't put Ominis and the Gaunts in my big canon contradictions in the HL post, is becouse I can in fact headcanon my way into Ominis' existence making sense (kinda). We only need one big factor that would allow for a very fast decline and we have one — inbreeding.

I mentioned this already here, but Marvolo speaks like he remembers the influence his family once had. Not only that, but he's different from his kids. He acts more like a person who can be somewhat reasoned with than both his barely more than squib children who don't seem capable of much intellectually.

How this might've happened is, say, one Gaunt got obsessed with blood purity and around the 1780s married his cousin.

His children turn out okay since it's just one generation of cousin marriages, but then his son also marries a cousin in the 1810s.

Their children would still seem reasonably fine and marry cousins again. And they have children in the 1840s.

By this point, most of them would be losing prestige and money and many other purebloods would want nothing to do with the Gaunts. This pushes them to keep marrying just a bit too close and shrink down the family to only the main line and maybe another one.

So, these children born in the 1840s would have their own kids with their cousins around the 1870s.

Now, these kids are Marvolo and Ominis, another brother (since Ominis mentions having older brothers), and at least one sister (for the sake of this theory to work). By this point, inbreeding would start to be a problem after 4 generations of first/second-cousin marriages in a row, which would work with Ominis being born blind, for example (which is a possible result of inbreeding).

Now, while both Ominis in the game and Marvolo in the 1920s talk a big game about their family influence, by the 1890s, it's a lie. I think they started falling from grace earlier throughout the century (as I mentioned), losing money and prestige and holding onto their position in the wizarding world by the skin of their teeth. Ominis' posturing about his father knowing the headmaster in HL always came off to me as just that — posturing. His father may have met Phineas Nigellus Black, but they weren't close by any means. Ominis is just threatening you the way he knows and can — which is some of the connections still left for his family since the money ran dry years ago.

The fact we don't see other kids in Slytherin trying to win Ominis' good graces for the sake of his family's influence (blindness or not) again suggests a lot of said influence is posturing more than the real deal. I mean, he's only friends with Sebastian and Anne, two students who are definitely outsiders within Slytherin (even if there's no way they live in Feldcroft, since there's no way that hamlet doesn't exist in the books).

Also, Ominis mentions his brothers and father tortured muggles. There's a non-zero chance that in 1890 most of his family is in Azkaban and he really is just lying and he has nothing he can do against anyone with his connections. Basically, it's a bluff.

I think seeing them like this adds an interesting reason as to why Noctua (Ominis' aunt) would want to look for Slytherin's Scripturium (though I don't think the Scripturium exists in the books, so let's say she looked for the Chamber of Secrets and was eaten by the basilisk since she wasn't the heir it was meant to obey in the 1880s). Becouse she's trying to bring the family back to its place of influence as descendants of Salazar Slytherin in a different way from her brother.

By the 1890s, Noctua is dead, there are no Gaunt cousins, just the main line with Marvolo, Ominis, unnamed brother, and unnamed sister.

Ominis is likely disowned at some point, and it fits his character to decide not to have kids and not pass on Parseltongue, which he sees as dark. I can see his character making that decision. But for this theory to work, he has to die before Tom is born, so he doesn't live a long life unless he left Britain and is living happily in the US or Australia or something.

The unnamed brother might be in Azkaban for crucio-ing a muggle, getting him out of the picture in an in-character way and making sure he has no kids.

Marvolo is where it gets interesting becouse with the state we see with his kids, and the nosedive off a cliff the family took in his time, my theory is that he had his kids with the aforementioned named sister. It would explain why Morfin and Mereope are like that. It would explain why they were completely shunned from wizarding society. How they lost even the measly amount of influence they had so quickly. It would fit with Marvolo's view of blood purity and the Gaunts' blood in particular, being purer than the rest.

So, this is my answer as to how I can headcanon my way into the Gaunt family's fast decline making sense. That being said, do I think Ominis is canon for the books' universe? Probably not, but I can make up shit to make it work, as I illustrated here.

[edosianorchids901]

Forget How To Feel

Ace Omens Hugfest 2024 prompt - "a silent hug"

St. James’s Park, 1860

“Ooh, and I thought perhaps we might go to the theatre soon! That would be lovely, wouldn’t it? We could go see Hamlet again.”

Crowley grunted in response to the enthusiastic chatter. His only audible contribution to their meeting so far, aside from grunts of agreement, was the tap of his new cane. The silver snake head handle wasn’t exactly comfortable to hold, and definitely not practical, but it looked cool. Very fashionable.

“Or-or-or perhaps something a bit more cheerful,” Aziraphale said with a sideways glance at Crowley. Crowley averted his gaze, studying the ducks instead. They seemed a lot happier than he was. “I know Hamlet isn’t precisely your favorite thing. I do adore it, especially because it reminds me so much of your kindness.”

Crowley hissed softly.

“Well, it was kind. And don’t argue with me, Crowley.” Aziraphale stopped, and Crowley jammed the cane down to slow himself without toppling over at the sudden change. His legs hadn’t been very reliable this week. “Actually, I would feel somewhat better if you argued with me. You haven’t said a single actual word, and I’m not sure whether it’s because something’s wrong or if I’ve simply been babbling too rapidly for you to sneak in a response.”

Aziraphale waited for him to reply. Crowley stared at the ducks and didn’t reply.

When Aziraphale just kept standing there, waiting, Crowley finally caved. “S’ not you. But nothing’s wrong.”

“Something certainly seems wrong. I-I am aware that I’m often chattier than you, but you usually at least, well. Chat.” With a little sigh, Aziraphale searched his face. Crowley found himself grateful for the new sunglasses that shielded his eyes from the side, too. “Quite frankly, I’m starting to worry.”

There it was. The phrase that would always get him to reply at least a bit, even if he masked the worst of the trouble. “You don’t need to worry, angel. I’m just… kinda down. S’ not a big deal.”

Ducks splashed in the water, totally absorbed in their own lives. It looked peaceful.

“Yes, well. You’ve been ‘kinda down’ since that whole incident in Edinburgh.” Aziraphale swallowed hard, twisting his gloved hands together. “Of course, it’s not that I can blame you, considering the trouble you were in. I merely wonder if I could be of assistance.”

After a minute, Crowley shrugged. Then he looked around nervously for observers. No one seemed to be paying any attention at all to them. “D’ya think ducks ever have a bad day? Or are they just, y’know… happy as a duck, as the saying goes?”

Aziraphale gave him a baffled look. “I’m not entirely sure that is a saying, my dear. Although I’m not always entirely on top of slang…”

That was an understatement. Normally, Crowley would have teased Aziraphale a little about that. Right now, it seemed like too much work.

When he didn’t answer, Aziraphale gave a little huff. “Well, would you rather we met up another time? If you’re having a bad day?”

“I didn’t say I was having a bad day. I was just asking about ducks,” Crowley protested despite knowing that Aziraphale would never buy it. Aziraphale gave him a look. “Okay, okay. Yes, I’m having a bad day. But I just want to…”

He snarled in annoyance, unable to admit it. He just wanted to be with Aziraphale. Not doing anything, not talking. Just together, where the world didn’t feel so bleak.

“Oh,” Aziraphale said softly. “Well, in that case, I’d be more than happy to stay together. We don’t have to talk, if you’d rather not. Why don’t we go sit on the bench for a bit? It’s actually quite a nice day, sun and everything.”

“Nnnh.” Crowley glanced towards their usual bench. It was usually comfortable. “My legs are killing me today. Sitting on wood doesn’t sound terrific. But I don’t really wanna walk back to the shop, either.”

“I could carry you.”

“I am not letting you carry me. That would definitely make people look at us.”

“No, I mean…” Aziraphale snuck a quick look around. “Not in this form. You could turn into a serpent. We could even sit on the bench like that, if I’d be a more comfortable place to rest.”

Biting his lip, Crowley regarded the angel beside him. Aziraphale was definitely the most comfortable place around, no question about that. “People would still look at us.”

“And then they would assume that I’m merely an eccentric, taking my pet snake out for a walk on a nice, sunny day.” Aziraphale held out his arms. “Shall we?”

Crowley snorted. “You’re not even gonna let me sit down first?”

“We can, if you feel like walking.”

Oh. He really, really didn’t feel like walking.

With a soft hiss, Crowley leaned his cane against the fence and laid his hands on Aziraphale’s forearm. “Okay. Okay. But I swear, if you let any humans pet me…”

Aziraphale beamed. “No humans petting you. I promise.”

Reassured, Crowley shifted into his rarely used snake form, coiling around Aziraphale’s arm as he did. The pain in his legs morphed too, distributing to most of his body. But at least it was different, and less intense.

He opted for a pretty big snake, big enough that he would probably scare most observers away. Aziraphale cooed and hugged him close, supporting him carefully. “Oh, my dear. You’re so adorable in this form.”

Crowley hissed his disapproval.

“My apologies. You’re… very striking. Handsome. Stunning. Also quite large.” Chuckling, Aziraphale shifted Crowley’s weight to one arm, then picked up his cane. “Shall we?”

That didn’t mandate a reply, so Crowley didn’t bother getting one. He was too busy being a snake, enjoying the way it sanded the sharp edges off his mood.

It shifted his priorities. Sure, he was still depressed and exhausted and in pain, not to mention constantly worrying about everything going wrong again. But all of that receded. All the snakey side of himself cared about was warm angel, and he definitely had warm angel.

“Here we are.” Aziraphale sank down onto the bench. He leaned the cane nearby, then wrapped both arms around Crowley’s coils. “Would you like me to talk at all, or be silent?”

Right now, talking was too much to process. Crowley hid his face under Aziraphale’s fluffy cravat thingy.

Aziraphale gave a soft chuckle and stroked his coils, then simply wrapped his arms around Crowley and lapsed into silence. Crowley emerged from under the cravat, resting his chin on Aziraphale’s arm.

The previous pileup of anxious worry faded, retreating deeper into the background as he sank into the comfortable lack of conscious thought. Right now, none of that seemed to matter much. He was with Aziraphale, being hugged to incredible warmth. Nothing could be more important than that.

[aesolerin]

do you have any headcanons on Baldwin's and/or Sarmenti's love languages if you are into this? i have some and want to compare hehe

i mean, you kinda answered that already--

(/j)

i'm sort of into love languages, in an abstract away. a fun thing to think about, but not to take seriously enough to affect my real life

anyways!

Sarmenti:

yes there are some acts of service for those he deeply cares about, in little ways that he doesn't bring attention to. very quickly picked up on all the small things he can do to ease some of Baldwin's burdens.

don't try physical touch too quickly. receiving unexpected touches will likely make him lash out verbally or physically. but you can tell he likes you when he's touching you in a way that isn't part of a joke or teasing! affectionate headbutts, quick and playful hugs, leaning against you, friendly gestures ya know?

Sarmenti Is A Cat. following you around and being in the same space as you despite insisting he's not hanging out with you. does that count as quality time?

Baldwin:

man is a walking act of service. would throw himself across a puddle to let friendly enough strangers stay dry. he's in the Hamlet/crumbling world of DD2 for the sake of doing one last service for the good of humanity. frankly getting him to stop with all the servicing and accept service in turn is a feat in itself.

So Many Words Of Affirmation Holy Shit. man is always saying kind things to those around him. sometimes even Damian, once in a blue moon.

he tries to give gifts too! mostly humble and simple gifts from nature, like flowers or seashells. simple and beautiful things that he hopes reminds the receiver to enjoy the little things in life.

[skyloftian-nutcase]

So I’m kinda curious, I know you said you are not much of a shipping person (aside from like SkSw Zelink and Miphlink) but are there any of the popular ships that stand out either as ones you think are cute or ones you really do not like?

Hmmm 🤔 I’m fairly neutral or just meh about most, but I guess there are a few that stand out? Or maybe I should just list my opinions on the major ones I know of?

BotW Zelink - I don’t mind it post Calamity. Not really into it pre-calamity, it feels like it’s at the expense of a relationship that’s already there (Mipha and Link). But dang the two definitely would be close after the calamity, given that they’re the only ones who have such a shared experience. I could see it being romantic or platonic, and there’s kind of a heavy leaning towards romantic but then totk also makes it seem platonic sometimes too?? Whatever. Nintendo likes to be vague (except Skyward Sword, let’s be real, nothing about that was vague lol), but I can see it happening after everything.

Midlink - I think it’s sweet. I think in canon Link’s most likely gonna either be with Ilia or someone we don’t even see in the game as he travels, but Midna definitely could’ve had a chance with him if there’d been more time for them. They had good chemistry, and the physical attraction was clearly there when Link saw her true form.

OoT Zelink - Nope. Especially Adult Timeline, absolutely not. It’s a pet peeve of mine that people ship this Link with anyone in the Adult Timeline - he is a child in a teenager’s body. NO. Sure, his body might be attracted to people, but his brain sure ain’t figuring it out, and anybody who wants to explore that just… no. NO. As for Child Timeline, I feel like this Link has a hard time reconciling what happened, has a hard time letting go, and would therefore have a really difficult time separating Child Timeline Zelda from Adult Timeline Zelda and that would lead to too many mixed feelings. I can’t see them getting together. This ship is either entirely one sided (I can 100% see Adult Timeline Zelda romanticizing the Hero she’s been waiting for before she really realizes that he’s still a kid, if she ever realizes it) or nonexistent.

Malink - I quite like it. I honestly didn’t really see it in the game, there’s like… enough for it to happen, I guess, but admittedly Linked Universe has made me biased. But given that it’s heavily implied TP Link and OoT Link are related, and TP Link knows Epona’s song, and Malon was a friend of Link’s, and she talks of marrying a knight in shining armor, and Shade is a knight in shining armor… I can put two and two together. And I think they’d be cute together.

Sidlink - Just… why. I get that half the fandom is in love with Sidon, so they project that, but good grief. Link was engaged to his sister. That’s some Hamlet level incest nonsense there. Link may not remember Mipha all that well but Sidon freaking does. Just because the dude is ridiculously sweet and supportive to literally everyone and about literally everything doesn’t mean he’s romantically inclined towards everyone. He’s a golden retriever, there are two brain cells firing between those fins, let the man just be happy and vibe, good grief. I had this opinion before totk came out, and then the addition of Yona made me laugh because I knew the fandom would blow up about it, but she’s honestly really sweet and good for him - I loved when she called him out to help him, she’s a good wife, I like her 😤

Uh… I think those are all the popular ships I have any kind of actual opinions about? Aside from Skyward Sword Zelink and Miphlink, love them both, mwuah. The rest I’m just meh. 🤷🏻‍♀️

Honestly, I’m very inclined to say that just because two people share oxygen together doesn’t mean they’re gonna fall in love. Just because two people might have some chemistry doesn’t mean they’re gonna fall in love. And just because two hormonal teenagers think each other is hot does not mean they’re gonna end up together. But since romance is such a huge thing in fandoms and in our culture, and I am very much not in a romantic relationship and therefore the culture makes me feel like my life is incomplete, I am not very inclined to get into shipping all that much (translation: sometimes shipping is downright annoying to me, and I hate it when fandoms ship characters together just because they like each other as if other relationships can’t even exist or be meaningful), even the ones that I love. My biggest weakness is loving families, though, so that’s usually where I cheat lol.

[junk-culture]

chief whats the appeal of withnail and i... i kinda thought it sucked ://

THAT'S OKAY.... you don't have to like it..Each To Their Own.... ❤️ and i do think withnail & i is a very specific acquired taste. if the comedy isn't your kind of comedy or it just doesn't resonate that's fine lol. (and ik some people find the 'predatory gay man' trope in uncle monty's character a bit too much which is fine lol.)

i don't wanna try to change your mind about it because it's totally fine if you don't like it but also i would quite like to ramble about why i like it for 200 paragraphs if that's okay.

i do think withnail & i is something you probably have to watch at the right time, like mentally. like i first watched it when i was bored unemployed stagnating rotting in my small town flop era and so naturally it Resonated. i was literally drifting into the arena of the unwell. making an enemy of my own future etc. and it made me feel worse. it truly is a feel-bad film basically. but i don't mean that as a criticism i mean that's part of its appeal.

also i guess just that type of comedy appeals to me. i like nasty putrid absurd stupid but intelligently written black comedies. and i think richard e and the eighth doctor are very good in this film. like partly it is just a classic quotable comedy to me. and that's a subjective thing obviously. one man's cult classic is another man's it sucked. i learned recently that richard e was and is a teetotal which is pretty awesome considering how grotesquely high and unhealthy he managed to look.

obviously i can't neglect to mention the doomed yaoi though. that's certainly part of its appeal epecially on tumblr the doomed yaoi website. but it's like an absolutely wretched putrid ugly tobacco stained disgusting fried egg flavour of doomed yaoi. which is quite refreshing in my opinion.

but also just the character of withnail is so good. like he's insane and terrible but also extremely sad and someone to be sympathised with. i rewatched the film recently (lol) and what got me was how like. gracious he is about marwood's success. like the main tragedy of the film is marwood finally managing to break out of their mutually assured self destructive mess of bad habits but to do that he has to leave withnail behind. and it's heartbreaking to see withnail get left behind etc. but it's the way withnail for all his ranting and raving never like. openly begrudges marwood for his success like he always puts on a brave face and congratulates him, despite all the despair and bitterness he obviously feels internally. and he tries to "make time" drink driving back to london so marwood can make it back quickly for his audition and it's like </3 .especially because like. in the film we don't even know if marwood is Good at acting. at the end of the film when withnail does his hamlet speech it's like ohhh. he wasn't just a self-important dreamer with delusions of grandeur he can actually act. but it's marwood who gets the luck. and there's nothing really to suggest that he's a better actor than withnail or "deserves" it more. just a simple case of some people make it some don't. some escape the cycle some just stay and rot. idk man.

plus the fact that the film is partly autobiographical/partly based on someone bruce robinson knew? like it's coming from the heart basically.

also i think it is pretty well-shot/good looking as a film? i love the scenes in the countryside, withnail standing on the rock shouting into the misty void etc but also the beautifully pungent and detailed interiors of their flat.

(also, people say that withnail & i is a very specifically british film so i guess that's probably why it works for some and not others. both in terms of the humour and in terms of the subject matter i.e. the end of an era 60s was shit the 70s will be shitter everything's incredibly shit vibe. plus the specifics of monty and the dying breed of upper class twit he represents i guess and withnail's specific brand of oxford educated repressed homosexualism or what the fuck ever.)

idk it's hard to articulate exactly what the appeal of the film is and why i've watched it like 4 times but basically it's just funny and tragic in a way that i Get. joker voice you had to be there you wouldn't get it etc. if the ending theme with withnail walking off in the rain accompanied by his insanely sad clown music doesn't get to you then that's fine, i guess it's just not the movie for you. but me personally i <3 it :)

[lil-ms-dipst]

Okay seeing as my depression is spiking so hard I can't even find enjoyment in music anymore for the time being, I am going to talk about one of my favourite characters ever Webber from Don't Starve.

I love him (platonically/from a character design standpoint, I aint in romantic love with a child ew) because he is a little ball of light in an otherwise grim situation. Bro got eaten by a spider, lived, got chased out of his own home by his own parents, made a deal with a suspicious lanky man, got sent to a pocket dimension thing, fucking died???, came back to life, and is just. Chilling. I mean yea Webber has his angst examination quotes. "Oh, to feel a sharp edge against my skin," blah blah blah, but he usually sees things from a different perspective?

"Oh I got eaten by a spider and now I am a we. I bet we'd be really good at football now though." Like I am sure you would be.

He even forgave Maxwell, you know, the guy that kinda caused him to end up in the Constant. He even has Wolfgang trying to get over his fear of spiders just to hang out with Webber.

And his duality with Wendy is so good. Wendy, the angst one, the one that is always talking about death, wanting to die, whatever, is best friends with this little ball of sunshine. I bet Webber helps pull Wendy out of the pit of depression she might find herself in. They have tea parties together!!! Wendy's first thought when finding the faux fangs is "Now Webber and I can match!" Like they are best friends for life your honor.

And Webber extends this kindness to everybody else in the Constant. Webber is the one to grab Walter and drag him to safety. Webber is the one to offer Wurt a cookie. Webber thinks about WX and Woodie!! He claims that he sees WX eat gears by the fistful and for the log cake he says "Haha wanna see our Woodie impression?" or something along those lines. He's even willing to help Wagstaff, this random person he's never met that's phasing in and out of existence. Hell if Wilba from Hamlet made it into DST I'm sure he'd extend his kindness to her too. He has been through so much yet still is so joyful. And I love him for that.

Webber's happiness and love for others has even rubbed off on the spider half of him! "We hope everybody liked the presents we got them." Key word: we. If it was just the child speaking, it would be I, if it was just the spider speaking, it would be he. But no, it both. Both of them are hoping the gifts they got for others are good.

Anyway uhh rant over because I have other thoughts about Webber but those are more angst-like and I don't feel like those here.

[meia-stounor-194]

ooc: js an intro for my pjo oc !! this is an rp acc for her, interact plz !!

hey, i’m meia stounor. cabin 194 (Melpomene)

(MY NAME IS PRONOUNCED MEEYUH. I DO NOT KNOW WHY IT IS SPELT LIKE THAT.)

some background info: i grew up poor with my father, an aspiring actor. he never made it. when he married my rich step-mother, they both changed. they both hated me, so i ran away at 11 and found CHB. i literally waited FOR. EVER. to find out my mom.

weapon: bow and arrow, but i’m not the best

powers: my words. quite literally. i mean, muse of tragedy, my words make people so sad they cant function. not as cool but… yeah

lesbian, any pronouns.

born in russia (can speak russian)

16 (09/09/09)

adhd and dyslexia (obvi) but also sprinkle a bit of autism in there. kinda anemic (dont tell the infirmary)

fatal flaw: lack of self-control

hobbies: playing cello, violin, lyre, bass, guitar (im very talented with stringed instruments) but i also enjoy reading and writing. and theater, obviously

favorite play: julius caesar or hamlet

number of times banned from infirmary: 4 (stealing fentanyl. maybe they shouldnt have it in such clear sight?? huh??)

number of times banned from capture the flag: 5 (cheating or… well, idek)

number of times banned from the Aphrodite cabin: 1 (trying for 2) (dont ask how)

i’m usually in w the Demeter kids (aka my gf, Dreena)

do NOT bring up opera. i WILL start a 24 hour rant about how much i absolutely ADORE it.

favorite song: Dido and Aeneas, Z. 626, Act III: No. 37, When I Am Laid In Earth “Dido’s Lament”

favorite album: the magic flute

trying to get chiron to lift my ban from leaving camp in the middle of the night!! sign the petition on the door of the big house b4 chiron sees it!!

ALSO, i am OBSESSED with cherry coca cola !! stealing it from cabin 12 is my favorite hobby lolzz

(what i mean by that is i will leave in the middle of the night for my night shift at the tattoo parlor. i usually will have a new hair color too. and money.)

and if u ask “who gets a tattoo in the middle of the night??” idk why either. they js do. americans, right?

пока!!

[tall-glass-of-nope]

Let’s talk about “the lady doth protest too much,” because it’s a phrase I heard and used before I knew the actual context. And now, after I’ve finally gotten the context, I find myself continually thinking about its intent.

When I first heard it, (and pretty much exclusively how I still hear it) it’s been used to mean “it is suspicious that this person is denying something waaaay too hard.”

Ex. “The PR people keep insisting this chemical won’t harm the environment. They doth protest too much, methinks.”

And I never questioned that usage, because it makes sense.

Then I read Hamlet, and found that the line comes from a scene wherein Hamlet is trying to trick the people around him into revealing their guilt by having actors perform a thinly veiled parody play of his current predicament as he sees it.

In his actors’ play, the character that parallels his mother is solicited by her husband’s killer — who is also her brother-in-law. And the actress in the show denies her solicitor several times before succumbing to him.

When Hamlet turns to his mother and asks what she thinks of the show so far, he’s looking for her to see herself in the part. To react, or provide some kind of recognition of what she’s done. To condemn the clearly uncomfortable situation her character is in. But all she says is

“The lady doth protest too much, methinks.”

And I LOVE analyzing that, because my personal takeaway is like.

You know how you can write a whole poem or story about someone who’s wronged you, and they’ll read it and not see themselves in it? Yeah. (If you don’t know: this happens. A lot.)

So, whether or not she saw herself in the character onstage, My interpretation is that Gertrude (Hamlet’s mom) is revealing that her decision to marry Claudius (Hamlet’s uncle) was not a tearful and tormented decision made under coercion and duress. (Which is how Hamlet has experienced seemingly every major decision in his own life, and explains why he’d find this lack of passionate waffling to be offensive.) For better or for worse she’s revealing she just… didn’t say no to her brother-in-law.

And from there you can get into the why behind all that and her motivations and whatnot but that’s beyond the scope of what I’m trying to get into here.

“The lady doth protest too much” doesn’t read to me like condemnation of insincere delivery. Not exactly. The difference is kinda subtle, I guess.

A more parallel usage of the phrase is difficult to imagine, then, because there is some amount of self condemnation that it should invoke.

Me: “I baked you these cookies”

Them: “I shouldn’t; I’m watching my figure”

Me, knowing full well I ate five of the cookies before boxing the rest up to give: “The lady doth protest too much. Take the cookies.”

[concretevampire]

Early Morning Breeze cont.

arthur morgan x f!reader ꔫ 8.1k ꔫ domestic sadness + angst, some violence too, idk what happened but this got kinda sad // based off of the Dolly Parton song // religious themes

A/N: this is a pt. 2 because people to seem to be asking for it! can be read by itself/ as a stand-alone but if you want to read pt 1 it's here: Early Morning Breeze

“So, tell him with the occurents, more or less, which have solicited. The rest is silence.” Your head lolls to the side, tongue sticking out. Jack giggles. You crack an eye open. “You don’t make for a very convincing Horatio, Jack.” 

He giggles again, leaning back into the grass. “I don’t know how it goes.” 

Propping yourself up onto your elbows, you hum. “That could be an issue.” 

“What happens next?” 

You think, trying desperately to remember a play you haven’t read since you were a teenager. A gunshot sounds in the distance. Ravens fly into the air in a wild blunder, black embers ripping across the sky. 

Just a hunter. You pray it’s just a hunter. 

“Now cracks a noble heart. Good night sweet prince,” you grab Jack, fussing his hair with a tight smile, “And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!” You turn back to the forest, eyes narrowing. Another gunshot sounds. “Why does the drum come hither?” 

He pulls away, hands on your shoulder. “What does that mean?” 

“Well it means,” and you try to come up with an intelligent answer. You couldn’t be bothered. “It means Horatio is very sad.” 

“That’s sad.” 

You nod. “It is, isn’t it?” 

Jack stands up, eyes searching the grass for a stick. Something to wack and stab with. “Are there any happy plays?” 

You snort, laying back in the grass. “Maybe.” 

“Do you know them?” He bends down, poking around in the mud. 

“It seems the happy ones haven’t stood the test of time, Jack.” 

He turns back to you, twig in hand— small and frail— too skinny and too young to be a sword. 

“Uncle Hosea said the same thing.” 

Your eyes look to the sky, gray and heavy. The sun never seems to shine in Beaver Hollow. Another gunshot sounds. 

“He did.” 

Jack circles around you, swinging his twig uselessly. “Did Uncle Hosea like Hamlet?” 

You sit up, knees coming to your chest childishly, as if Hosea were still blonde and still alive. 

“Uncle Hosea liked it.” He didn’t. He liked A Midsummer Night’s Dream more. Lovers gone mad and neurotic. Deluded by their own frivolous needs. Or deluded by pixies. 

Pixies would be preferable. 

You clear your throat, shrugging. “But he liked reading all sorts of things, not just plays.” 

Jack drops his twig, already gone in search for something stronger. “Reading’s boring.” 

“Well, you will be the most bored lawyer in the world then.”

He groans, head dropping. “I don’t want to be a lawyer!” 

You snort, standing and brushing at your skirts of any grass or mud that could have stuck. “Tell that to your Ma.” 

Jack huffs as if the gray skies have fallen to his little shoulders: the weight of the world settled onto a four-year-old. 

“She doesn’t care,” he bemoans.

Your hands go to your hips, head tilting as you look his little body over. “She doesn’t care?” 

And he nods furiously, pouting indignantly.

“Well then, if she doesn’t care you would be stuck at Mr. Bronte’s,” you poke at his ribs, “eating pasta for the rest of your life!” 

He smacks your hand, frowning. “I like pasta!” 

You wave him off. “You’d get tired of it after a year.” 

“Not true!” 

“True.” 

“Not!” 

Laughing, you bend down to fix the collar of his jacket, tightening it against the chill that permanently hangs over north New Hanover. Just another beast to fight against with the impending militia of Pinkertons, Cornwalls, and O’Driscolls. 

Another gunshot sounds, closer this time. Jack grabs for your skirts, eyes peering into the forest– more curious than scared. Thank God. 

“It’s just a hunter,” you sooth, patting his back. But he stares for a moment longer. Another torrent of ravens flies over the both of you, cawing loudly. North American banshees. They seem to break his stupor– he grabs for your hand and pulls you from the trees. 

“Let’s go home,” he declares. And you follow, knowing it’s best to get back anyway, lest suspicion grows. 

Whether it be crazed or not, suspicion is suspicion. 

Molly was not spared, and though you have been with the gang longer than most, there’s a growing despair in your heart, an amalgamation of wailing demons that’s telling you mercy would not be shown. Your efforts, everything you’ve given– whether it was your all or not– will not save you. 

This is out of your control. 

Now, admittedly, it has never, ever been in your control, and you would be a fool to think it ever was. 

But beyond control, you barely have a choice anymore. What can you possibly do? As Dutch’s mind rots away– festering and bubbling synapses– you can only act as an audience member, chained to your seat. 

It’s maddening. 

But you blame the cold. The frigid air for the sleepless nights and trembling fingers. The biting breezes for your nauseating headaches. 

Arthur’s getting worried about you. 

You’re getting nervy in your old age, Sean used to joke. But it’s not his supposed old age; it’s not him at all. It’s Dutch and it’s you and it’s the loss of Hosea. His devastation is apparent but he refuses to speak about it, like a stubborn child holding their breath. 

Refuses to admit it because, just like you, he thinks that if he does, something bad is actually happening. And there’s only so much you can do for a person who can’t stand help in the same way he can’t stand celery in his stew or the way you tuck your cold hands under his stomach as he sleeps. 

Once again, this is out of your control. 

But you let yourself ignore it as Jack tugs harder, pulling you into camp and towards the dying fire. 

It was quiet at Shady Belle, but here in Beaver Hollow it is silent– and this aching, foreign silence ripples excruciatingly through your bones as Jack warms his hands. But you prefer it. Prefer it over the arguing and killing. 

Better it be silent. 

But it seems your luck has dwindled— not a new development— and Dutch is now hollering. For you. 

Shit.

There’s an attempt to ignore him; you would cut your ears off and burn them in an act of morbid defiance if that’s what it took to get him to stop. But Micah is watching. His Cerberus. 

So you bid Jack farewell and step towards Dutch; back straight, fingers clasped tightly as if you were entering a confessional. 

You have no sins to reveal though. Nothing to worry about. So why are you? 

“There you are, my dear,” and he closes the flap of the tent behind you. 

“Dutch,” you greet softly. 

“I have a gift for you.” 

You turn to him, brow raised. “A gift?” 

“Don’t sound so surprised,” he walks over to his nightstand, “it’s insulting.” 

You laugh breathlessly and shake your head. “Sorry.” 

And he gives you a book. It’s not big, not very extravagant, but that’s why it intrigues you. Because with Dutch, things are always big and always extravagant. 

He doesn’t really know how else to live. As a fish to water, a man to money. 

Carefully, you open the cover, eyeing the title. “An Essay Concerning Human Understanding,” your mouth hangs open, almost in confusion, “this is,” frankly, “old.” 

“I know. He’s no Miller or Emerson, but Locke certainly had some things to say.” 

All men do if they think hard enough. 

You nod a bit. “I think I read it before. When I was in school.” 

Dutch leans back on his desk. “Have you really?” 

You flip further, hands delicate on the yellowed pages, drying leaves at your fingertips. Another frailed, withering mind contained in words. “Something about parrots.” 

He chuckles, crossing his arms, and you look into the air. Thinking beyond your body. 

“Therefore some, not only children, but men, speak several words no otherwise than parrots do, only because they have learned them, and have been accustomed to those sounds.” You turn back to the pages. “Parrots.” 

Dutch eyes you wildly. As if maybe he could cut your brain out and replace his with yours. 

You pretend not to notice, deciding to shut the book and turn to him.

“Thank you.” 

“You’re very welcome.” 

You can’t help but wonder. “Why these essays? Why Locke?” 

He shrugs lazily. “Thought of you when I saw it. You did always like the analytical ones.” 

Not really. It was always such a drag, having to read fifteen pages on one point. They were actually Dutch’s favorite, but you never had the heart to go against his taste. And now, a question lies laced in your exponentially drying saliva— though you should leave while the silence still hangs. 

While you still have a chance.

“Is this it?” You ask, pressing the book to your side. 

“No,, no.” 

Of course. But you bite your tongue and accept your fate. It is in part your fault.

“What is it, Dutch?” 

He comes off of his desk, approaching you slowly. “I need a favor from you.” 

Funnily enough, you smile coyly; like everything that’s happened in the last few months subsequently hasn’t. Like you’re still in Blackwater. Like you’re still one big, messy family. “When do you not?” 

He smiles at you too, gently and softly, the excrements of a memory. 

“What’s the favor?” 

“I need you to go to Blackwater.” 

You freeze. And your despair deepens, cauterizing every cell and nerve until you become numb. “What?” 

“Now, I know it sounds crazy, but I have a plan.” 

“You always have a plan,” and it comes out harsher than you intended. Harsher than you really expected. And it makes him freeze, face dropping, eyes darkening infinitely. Ravens. 

“Listen to me,”

“Dutch, no.” 

“Listen,” 

“I can’t,” 

“Listen!” He grabs your shoulders harshly. You can almost remember how the act used to be comforting. Why does it feel so long ago? His breathing is harsh against your cheeks and nose— panicked— as you wait for him to put a bullet in your head. Why doesn’t he just do it already? “I just, I have a plan but I need your help.” 

“Blackwater? Blackwater!?” 

“Just hear me out!” And there’s an urgent shake to your shoulders, silencing you. “You go in anonymously, or disguised,” 

“You go in disguise!” 

“I can’t,” 

“You,” 

“I can’t! They know me, they know my face, they’ll know it’s me! They know Arthur and everyone else, they know us. You have to do this for me,” his plea is frenzied, strange and uncoordinated on his deep voice. 

“And they don’t know me?!” You counter. “Dutch, they know me too!” 

His grip tightens on your shoulders. “There’s money there. More than you can imagine. I need you, I’m begging you to do this,” his hands raise to cup your face.

“I’ll die.” 

“No, no you won’t,” he takes a deep inhale, “I have a plan.”

“I don’t care.” 

“Listen. You go in, wail about how the Van Der Linde gang kidnapped and raped you,” 

“For eight years?” You add incredulously. He pulls away, hands gripping into fists, begging. 

“They’ll let you live. You’re lucky to be a woman.”

Lucky. 

“You have plausible deniability,” he continues, “and then you can grab the money and go. And then it’ll be okay! We’ll be okay.” He revises. “We can go to Tahiti or the Philippines, whatever you want, just as long,” and he takes a breath, “as you get that money.” 

You shake your head desperately. 

“You have to.” 

Silence falls, one pair of terrified eyes looking into the other. You trust this man; a strange blemish of a father figure; and you can only pray that he sees your humanity and eases. 

But perhaps that part of him has finally been discarded: the understanding caretaker. You have entered Exodus.

You rack your mind for options or scapegoats; something that will keep you far away from that city and maybe alive. “Does Arthur know about this plan?” You ask hesitantly. It’s a stupid question, makes you feel like a real whore, but you know it’ll make Dutch pause. 

And he turns away, huffing. “Why does that matter?” 

“It matters to me,” you say, diminishing your earlier aggression. Anger will get nowhere with him. It’ll only send him into another paranoid fit: guns blazing, mind wilting.

Spreading plague and famine. 

Dutch looks back at you, eyes gleaming with a kind of savagery that humans were never even meant to know. “And if he did know? And he agreed? What would you do?” 

You swallow. “I’d put a gun to his head.” 

He raises a brow, grossly curious. “Really?” 

You take a deep breath. “I will not risk my life for this plan.” 

Something snaps. You’re not sure what it is, but it does. “You won’t risk your life for this gang,” he says pointedly. Accusatory. And any sort of love or affection he ever had for you has left. Gone is the man who pulled you from the arms of abusive professors and ravenous nuns. Gone is the man who dressed and fed you like his own. Gone is the man you first believed in.

Now you’re being confronted with Dutch Van Der Linde. 

“I have always risked my life for this gang.” You assert, your fingers shaking, almost dropping the book. 

“Have you?” 

“Yes. I have.” You step away, eyes unable to stay with his. “I always have.” 

“So why don’t you now?” 

“Because I’m,” ‘Tired. Worn. Sick of fighting for an imaginary future,’ “Because I don’t want to die, Dutch.” 

“You won’t die.” And unlike the former compassionate assertion that statement used to be, it’s grown cold: a matter of fact. 

“You have such a way of promising things,” you muster, lips pursing with grief. Grief for a man who is standing and breathing. 

His hands rise, fingers pressing into his temples as if he could will the rot from his mind with one simple act. “Go.” 

And you do. You won’t waste a second if it means life or death. 

You’re relieved to feel just how cold the air is outside his tent. It’s chilling, almost painful, but it’s better— angel’s breath across your furrowed brow. But the relief is eradicated when you make eye contact with Micah who, of course, is sitting just outside Dutch’s tent. 

His fingers fiddle grotesquely, preparing to dissect and devour. 

“Since when did you go yellow? You were always the feisty one. Morgan must be rubbin’ off on ya.”

Your jaw clenches.

“It’s a shame really,” he grins, revealing rows of crooked teeth. “I always liked that about you.” 

You walk away. He follows. 

“Oh, but you have been so uppity lately. I wonder what it is. Morgan hurt ya?” He taunts.

You continue your path, neither speeding up nor slowing down.  

“Nah, he ain’t the type. Too soft and too dumb to be hittin’ his woman.” 

There must be something someone needs you to do.

“Ohhhh, I know what it is,” Micah feigns realization. “Bet he hasn’t fucked you in a while. Broodmare missing it, ain’t ya?” 

The camp seems so empty.

“I can help with that,” Micah steps closer, voice louder. “Why don’t you meet me tonight?” 

Your hands twitch uselessly at your side.

“One o’clock. Outside. Just you and me. I’ll give it to ya good.” 

You pause. 

“Out by the Kamasa. No one will know. Morgan won’t know.” And he finally comes into your peripheral, a mass of sin and maggots. “What do you say? Yes or no.” 

Turning slowly, you eye him with a violent look. Something vicious that Dutch taught you. But you walk away again— and this time he doesn’t follow. 

Entering your tent, you slam the book down onto your cot before collapsing next to it, face mashing into the pillow; a rotten peach to an oversized, cotton pacifier. 

You scream a bit. Then sigh. Scream a bit more. Roll onto your side. Stare at the photos Arthur has hung up. 

He looks like his father. The first time you saw the mugshot you told him that too, and he didn’t seem pleased with the notion. But they’re twins. 

Same easy eyes. Same strong jaw. Same pout. 

You’ve always wondered what his parents would think of you. Would his father think you were a waste of time? Or just a whore? How about his mother? Was she kind? Would she have been protective? It doesn’t matter though, and you should probably stop groveling. 

Especially because the tent has opened, Arthur stepping in with searching eyes. His nose crinkles into a funny smile when he sees you. 

“There she is.”

“Hi.” 

He walks over, sitting at the edge of the cot by your hip. “Gonna tell me why yer in a mood.” 

“No,” you rise, scooting to sit next to him, “mainly because I’m not in a mood.” 

“Yer always in a mood.” 

“Says you,” and you stand, flicking his hat as you do. For a moment you think to stop, ask Arthur if he’s heard anything about Blackwater from Dutch. But you decide against it when you see the darkening eye bags, the deepening cheekbones. 

He’s been running himself dry. 

It’s painful to watch— he really has been reduced to a workhorse. Something to plow the fields so that Dutch can sow the seeds of another fruitless plan. 

And the worst part? He’s afraid: just as much as you and everyone else.

But he will never admit it. 

He couldn’t. Because if anything, no matter how much he hates it all— this weight he’s pulling— he cares too much to let it go. He would rather collapse under the strain than leave you without something to pick at; fruit or not. 

It’s a pattern of self-inflicted abuse he revels in. 

Because when love is shot in bullet dosages, you learn to lick your wounds and ignore the blood. I’m used to it, Arthur will tell you. It doesn’t help. There was a time when you had hoped to show him something different, and you have, but you’re starting to believe it will always be an uncomfortable novelty. 

Your silver spoon, a frivolous nuisance. 

Sighing, you bend down and kiss his cheek. “You should rest.” 

“I ain’t all that tired.” 

“You certainly look like it.” 

“Callin’ me ugly?” 

You scoff, shoving his shoulder gently. “You do that enough for the both of us.” 

“Guess so,” and Arthur plays with your hands a bit, thumb rubbing at your ring finger— what used to be a pale band of skin there has tanned and calloused. Time has gotten the best of you. “Got a pretty good catch today, so maybe the stew won’t be so bad,” he speculates out loud. 

“That’s like hoping a dog hasn’t licked itself.” 

Arthur snorts, rising to wrap an arm around your shoulders and kiss your jaw. “Bah, I ain’t that hungry anyway.” 

“So much on your metaphorical plate keeping you full, hm?” 

“Sure,” and he rubs your back a bit before pulling away. “I’ll see ya tonight though?” 

You bite your cheek. “Maybe.” 

“Just maybe?” 

“I don’t know, Arthur.” 

“What don’t you know?” 

You smile hollowly to yourself, shaking your head. “It’s nothing. Just thinking.” 

“You do that too much.” 

“Yeah, and so do you, so,” and you push him towards the tent’s exit, “go manhandle a log or something.” 

“Sometimes I think ya hate me,” he complains, but he’s smiling. And naturally, you smile back. 

“Maybe I do. Woe is you.” 

His face drops. “I hate when you talk like that.” 

“Like what?”  

“A damn pompous fool.” 

“Awe,” you smile, patting his cheek. “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” 

He raises a brow. “I’d rather you not.” 

“No, it’s a quo- oh nevermind.” 

“Thou art more lovely and more temperate,” he finishes for you. Seems Hosea taught him something. You beam.

“I am, thank you,” and you fix your apron around your waist, “see ya later.” 

“Tonight.” 

“Okay.” 

He sags in the corner of your eye. Beaver Hollow has created a strange, shared disappointment. It’s new, and you’ve both grown too weary to try and fix it. 

Once we get out of here, Arthur keeps telling you. Over and over again, his mantra. It used to be comforting but now it just makes you sick, cigarette smoke blown in your face: insulting and demeaning. 

You won’t have it anymore. 

So you walk away— off to find another meaningless chore that will distract you for the time being. You have nothing else to do with yourself. 

Moving hay bales around, you ouch and ooh at the way the straws poke and scratch, but pay no real mind. The horses have served as some source of comfort during this time; you often find yourself drifting towards them thoughtlessly. 

Precarious creatures they are, but there’s an inherent kindness to their mannerisms. 

You brush and pat them; feed them sugar cubes and peppermints because you might as well spoil something. Sadie joins you eventually, braiding Hera’s mane lovingly. A sister in arms.

You don’t know Sadie very well. Well, you know she’s good with a gun and has a temper, but you like that. She reminds you of yourself when you first joined the gang. 

Ruthless.

Though you can’t say you blame her. In fact, you’d rather she be ruthless and mean and brutal. To an extent, you admire that sort of malicious strength— praying you still contain it. 

You offer Sadie a peppermint for Hera, and she smiles politely, uttering a thank you. And then you’re off again, searching to make yourself useful. 

Dinner is as peaceful as it possibly can be. Jack’s already dozed off, but you, John, Abigail, and Arthur sit at a table, scraping away at stew. Knights of the Roundtable and their extravagant feast.

Few words are shared, mainly John and Arthur passing half-hearted jokes at one another. Sometimes Abigail chips in. 

It’s been like that lately. 

Arthur’s knee bumps against yours under the table, though you don’t flinch nor do you move away. You don’t even acknowledge the contact. Instead just continuing to miserably eat as if his legs were simply the breeze; there because, well, where else would they be? 

And Arthur prefers it this way. Prefers the normalcy of it all. 

It’s a sliver of hope. 

The thought that you can still stand his touch calms him more than he cares to acknowledge. That at least if he can’t voice his worries, he can show you he still cares. Show you that he misses your voice and your thoughts, and the way you used to dawdle idly during dinner. 

But there’s a heartbroken passion to the way you smile at him and fix his hat. As if you were begging for him to save you; from what, he’ll pretend not to know. 

The hand he has resting on his knee tightens into a fist. He’s failed you. But with the eyes watching all he can do for now is brush your hand away and continue eating. 

The usual. 

Only when Arthur has you under him does he ask. You’re nipping at his neck, trembling fingers clawing at the cotton of his shirt, chemise messily pulled down your shoulder— and yet he can’t. 

This culminating dread is keeping him at bay, keeping him from going further. He’s had enough. 

And so he pulls away, looking you over carefully. He looks sad, like you’re a stray mutt. Hungry and cold, shaking with the need for affection. But your eyes shine piously for him. 

He’s seen the look before. 

In a chapel back in Blackwater. After you had vowed impossible things to him and to God where after he could only gasp ‘I do’. 

Hands drifting silently, they come to play with his hair. And you have always liked it a bit longer— just for the fact you get to brush it away. Arthur’s not sure what to do next. 

Option one: ravage you entirely.

Option two: let you rest. 

He chooses something in between, coming to kiss your lips again— gentler, less hungry— like you’ll never have sex. 

And then he steels himself, pulls away, and clears his throat. “Are ya ever gonna tell me what’s wrong or do I have to guess?” 

You’re breathless, brows scrunching as soon as he asks. 

“What?” 

Arthur pulls away further, swallowing. “Today,” ‘and the day before. And the entire week. And the weeks prior. And the entire month. And all the way back to Colter,’ “what was botherin’ you?” 

You huff heavily, pressing your head further into the pillow. “You wanna talk about this right now?” 

Arthur works his jaw, the telltale sign that he’s pressing his tongue against that chipped tooth of his; a frustrated habit. 

“Yeah. I do.” 

Your head lolls to the side, eyes distant before nodding. “Alright.” 

And he pulls you up so that you’re sitting next to him. The way you hug your knees to your chest has his heart dripping with nostalgia— leaking into his stomach uncomfortably as he remembers a simpler time. When Hosea was still blonde and you both still wore your rings. 

Arthur realizes you’re waiting for him to start and takes a moment to string the right words together. 

“I just want you to tell me what’s botherin’ ya. I ain’t blind, I can tell it’s somethin’.” 

You glance through the crack of the tent, into the darkness. Arthur looks there too. “It was nothing,” you start, “just,, just some argument me and Dutch got in.” 

“‘Bout what?” 

Your eyes narrow. “Something about Blackwater.” 

Arthur’s head snaps to you. “What?” 

You then turn to him, confusion and frustration marring your features. “So you didn’t know anything about it?” 

“About Blackwater?” 

“Yes.” 

“No, I don’t know anythin’ about it.” 

Confusion turns to anger. “I knew it.” And you stand, pacing the tent floor. Back and forth, and back and forth against the grass and mud— a deer caged by white canvas. 

“What did he say?” Arthur supplies, still sitting on the cot. He watches you go left.

“It was just another one of his idiotic plans,” you say. He watches you go right. It starts to make him nauseous– your back and forth– so he reaches for you, gently, cautiously, like maybe you’ll stomp his hand into the ground and run away. 

“I’ll talk to him about it,” he settles, fingers at your wrist. 

It’s supposed to be comforting, and for a very long time it has been, but his words and touch have made it worse. Much worse.

Your anger is biblical. 

And Arthur can’t identify it or console it, nor could he understand it coherently. It simmers under your skin in a blasphemous way. In a way that will lay him on a cross and rip holes into his palms and feet; and all he can do is starve and pray.

He’s already consolidated that you will be the one to bury him, and subsequently be the one to unearth his body. 

Stupidly, your rage reminds him of when you had first entered camp— dragged in by Dutch in the middle of the night, covered in mud and bruises like dark lace— skirts ripped, lip bleeding. And he did not ask where you came from, and neither did you. Paired with your anger, that odd, mutual understanding laid a foundation. 

“You’ll talk to him about it?” You ask incredulously. “And you think he’ll listen? Or care?” Your hand waves towards that dark crack in the tent. And though nothing is visible, Arthur can feel the hell that awaits outside of your lantern lit alcove. “You think he won’t turn you into another Molly?” 

He fumes a bit at that, standing with his hands placed on his hips. Looming over you. He never did like using his size against you— not like this at least. “I ain’t some woman he keeps around to fuck.” Arthur bites.

“I know you’re not,” you eye him, “you’re his son. Which is arguably worse.” 

Shaking his head, he purses his lips. 

“And it’s worse for me,” you continue, “God, you should’ve seen the way he looked at me today! Like I had just ripped his prick off and thrown it in his face. I was so sure he was going to kill me.” 

It’s a funny image. You’re both too upset to laugh. His frown deepens. “Did’ya say anything to him?” 

Your eyes widen, looking into Arthur’s, disbelieving. “Are you serious?” 

“I just wanna know.” 

“Of course I didn’t.” You step away from him. “It’s Dutch, Arthur. He’s the instigator.” 

“I know he is, but-“

“No. No, I will not let you put this on me.” 

“That’s not what I’m doin’,” he says, reaching for you. You take another step back. 

“Yes it is.” Silence falls. Tense and waiting. “I don’t know why you still believe in him.” You do know. He isn’t a religious man– and those kinds of men look for faith, for vision, in something else. Desperately. Hopelessly. To ease whatever craving for enlightenment humanity was cursed with. 

“Once we get out of here he’ll come to his senses,” Arthur utters stiffly. Your hands grip into thoughtless fists; that familiar emetic feeling consumes you, ripping through your pores. 

“We will never get out of here,” you seeth. And it’s the first time you’ve ever defied the promise that he’ll save you. It hits him bluntly– a hoof to the chest– the anguish in his eyes and slacking shoulders apparent. Dead weight. “And we will die if we stay here.” 

“Don’t say that,” he commands perilously. 

“What am I supposed to say?” 

“We jus’ need more time.” 

Your eyes close, willing hot, angry tears to stay in their damn place. “It has been months,” you quaver. “Months of running and hiding and killing.” And the anger dissipates, a sorrow beyond hope replacing it. “How much more time, Arthur?” 

He’s quiet. 

“Because if you give me a time, I will wait. So how much?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“A week? A month?” Your voice is shaking, “Two months? A year?” 

“I don’t know!” He begs. “I just need you to trust me.” 

“I do trust you, but you scare the shit out of me! Every single day you run off, doing God knows what for Dutch, and I never ever know if you’ll come back,” 

Arthur backs away, opening his mouth to refute. 

“And don’t you say a word about how it’s always been like that because it hasn’t. Because you’re not just going up against some dumb outlaws who pick bones for fun, these are people who seriously want you dead, Arthur, and,” you choke back a sob, “and for good reason.” 

He’s gone still. Like a winter tree, his limbs hang frozen and useless, gone dead from the cold and other miseries. What does that make you though? A storm? 

And you’ve stripped him of all his male inclinations; fostered and trained like an obedient dog. He’s no longer a man, but a person, sad and mournful as they come.

“What am I supposed to do?” He finally mumbles. 

You shrug uselessly, sniffling. “Give up?” 

Arthur smiles hollowly, shaking his head. “Twenty two years and you want me to give up?” 

“I don’t want you to, but I’m asking you to. For your sake.” 

“I can’t do that.” 

You smile too, just as hollow and watery. Easily washed away. “I know.” That’s the worst part. 

Arthur looks away, the line of his shoulders straightening. Back to being an angry moron. A dumb brute. A workhorse. 

A man. 

You nod as he turns back to the cot, sighing heavily. Collapsing, he runs his hands down his face, his back facing you. Exhausted. The argument was pointless but it was waiting to happen for weeks, prowling around you both; thoughts like coyotes. 

You sit down at the edge of the cot, hands laying limply in your lap. 

Arthur rolls over at some point, quietly watching your frame. “You gonna come to bed?” 

“Soon.” 

“Okay.” 

And you wait. Wait for the crickets to crescendo and his breathing to decrescendo— to filter out into consistent whole notes— quiet snores a staccato on every other breath. You turn towards Arthur, seeing that he’s rested his hand by your hip, gentle and open. 

You think of reaching out; wrapping your fingers around his in an adoring apology. Kissing each knuckle and soothing each callous. But you don’t. 

Instead you stand, tremulously collecting yourself. Without bothering to dim the lamp, you approach the flap of the tent, staring into the eternal darkness. 

A question. An opportunity.  

To step into the depths of hell so that you can escape its pit. How many circles were there again? Nine? Feels like the tenth. And you stand there for a long time, still and silent, long enough for your nose, fingers, and toes to have gone numb from the air.

A statue amongst screeching souls. Crickets. 

You look over your shoulder, seeing that Arthur’s still asleep. His hand is where you left it, reaching out. The Creation of Adam. It’s a chance. A beckoning option to return to his side and repent. 

You step outside. 

You don’t actually know why or where you’re walking but you know you have to– because if you stop moving, the darkness will flood your lungs: suffocating and choking until you drown on adrenaline and fear. 

You’re terrified. 

It’s uncontrollable, animalistic, and most of all irrational. He’ll kill me, you keep thinking. And you don’t know who ‘He’ really is; Dutch, Arthur, God; but you know you can’t turn back. 

Not now. Not anymore. 

So you sob. Quiet, hyperventilated gasps for air that leave you reeling for your consciousness even as you keep pressing forward. You must look pathetic– your face hot with heavy tears, paving a path towards irresistible exile. It’s almost impossible to remember the last time you cried like this; you were small, still hurt about why the world offered so little when it promised so much. 

It’s disparaging how you will always be that girl. 

Always scared and sad– wanting too much to be soft and kind– not knowing that it’s useless. You’ve tried so long to tuck her away, but you suppose, in the end, you never grew up all that much. 

Just a tall child, running off with a broken heart once again. 

Wiping clumsily at your tears, you stomp into the Kamasa, ignorant of its blistering cold. You let the water splash at you horribly, turning every bone in your body to ice. It’s tumultuous and piercing; so you let yourself sniffle loudly, hiccuping against the sobs. 

“What the hell are you doing?” 

You pause, a wail catching in the back of your throat. Right on the edge. 

It’s Micah. 

And you turn to him, standing still as the current blunders against your thighs. A deer in lantern light. His eyes are narrowed, gnarled fingers branching out over his holster. 

“So did’ya come out her to take a bath or fuck me?” And his silver eyes sweep over your figure. Your chemise has gone sheer from the water, clinging to your figure: hiding nothing, your body exposed to the world, and worst of all to him. But you continue to stand eerily in the river, not caring as it shoves at you. A siren. He grins evilly. “Not like I’ll give you much of a choice” 

Something ruthless awakens. Bloodthirsty. Those demons in your heart. 

You hide it though, approaching Micah clumsily from your spot. His smile splits his face, folding and creasing in all sorts of unnatural ways. And the strain of growing arousal in his trousers is obvious; but you ignore it, coming closer. 

“Heard you and Morgan arguin’,” he teases, “that’s all it took for you to run to me, huh?”

Your eyes raise to meet Micah’s. 

“Oh, I just cannot wait.” 

Your hands reach for his hips. 

“Eager, aren’t ya?” 

Quickly, faster than you can really even process, you grab for the hunting knife hooked to his belt and stab it into his shoulder. Through muscles and tendons it goes, slicing across red hills. And you press infinitely hard— up to the hilt— just for good measure.

This euphoria in violence is savage.

Micah releases an agonizing scream, ravens shooting into the air violently. But you continue, twisting the knife to add to his torture. Rivulets of his blood run down your fingers, crimson drops of his soul bleeding out into the world. 

Just the two of you as witness. Him and the devil. 

And you had never enjoyed torturing things: it was always a quick kill: a snap to the neck, a shot to the head. But with Micah, you’ll draw it out. Push the knife deeper, twist it harder, until he’s reduced to nothing but a pile of evil and limbs. 

Let him suffer. He deserves it more than anyone you know. 

Revenge is a fool’s game, Hosea used to say. Arthur’s started saying it too. But you couldn’t care. Not when Micah is screaming and bleeding under your touch. 

You could do this forever. Keep him here for infinity. 

“You bitch!” 

Your knee jerks up, slamming into his crotch. Micah collapses, gasping for air as you rip the blade from his flesh. And you watch him for a moment, reveling in the desimation, before stepping away, spitting in his face, and walking off. 

You hear him howling curses as you enter the forest. 

John finds you shortly: he’s on watch tonight. Must’ve heard Micah scream. And you’re sure you look beyond crazed, not even human. A piece of clay on ecstasy. 

“What the hell happened?” He asks, gripping his shotgun tighter. You glance at your bloody, knife-occupied hand. 

Shrugging, you stumble past him, not bothering anymore. 

Oddly enough, the sight of Dutch standing at the edge of camp washes some manic form of peace over you. That maybe he’ll kill you— put an end to this all. A new form of mercy. But Abigail and Arthur stand guard at his side, the both of them looking equally mortified as you step nearer and nearer. 

It’s been some time since anyone has looked at you like that. 

You drop the knife when Arthur grabs you, dragging you away into your tent. You can tell he’s trying to be gentle but he’s failing miserably; grip like a vice on your bicep. And he practically throws you inside, breathing harshly. 

“Have you lost your goddamn mind?” He hisses, nearly shaking with ire. “What the hell were you thinkin’ runnin off into the night like that knowing damn well someone coulda killed ya?” He glances at your red hand. “What the hell happened?”

You sniff. “I stabbed Micah.” Simply stated. 

Arthur stares. His lips curve up but he certainly isn't happy. He’s polarized between chewing you out and giving congratulations. “You stabbed Micah.” He repeats. 

“Yes.” 

Sighing, his head knocks back to stare at the canvas ceiling. “So you have lost your goddamn mind.”

“I think so.” 

He looks you over; checking for bruises and scratches, having no other natural way of telling you he was worried. His hands come to cup your cheeks, turning your face this way and that; and they stay there even when he finds nothing.

“Is this about the fight we had?” 

You lean into his palms, eyes closing. “I don’t know what it’s about anymore.” And it’s the truth. There’s no other way for you to put it. Somehow, this madness is because of everything and nothing all at once. Real limbo, heaven and hell mixed. 

Pursing his lips, he swallows. “You can’t stay here anymore.” 

Your face scrunches up into an ugly sob, but you have no tears left to cry. Nothing to offer in your sadness. Nothing to argue in your despair. And he’s right. You can’t stay. Not only because you denied Dutch and stabbed Micah all in one day but because this last month you have been crumbling. 

Falling apart right in front of his eyes. A prolonged, devastating erosion.

And Arthur can label himself The Provider all he likes, but you were always the strong one in the relationship: emotionally stable, mature, good with your words. You were the one who took his bullshit and shoved it back in his mouth so he knew it was more than just him suffering consequences. 

But you were too kind to let him suffer through it. Always have been. 

It’s you who sits with him on bad nights, and it’s you who feeds him when he couldn’t be bothered, and it’s you who undresses him at the end of the day. 

But here you are, entirely deprived of all your sanity, begging for his help. And he can’t even think coherently. So he has to let you go. What else can he do? He at least won’t allow you to be tormented– not by Micah or Dutch, or even him. 

You have to leave. 

“Yeah,” you whimper. 

His bottom lip tucks under his top one; and you know Arthur– know that he doesn’t cry– but you know that means he wants to. Bending down, he brings his face next to yours. 

“Did you do this on purpose? To force my hand? To make me throw ya outta here cause you’ve gone mad?” 

You shake your head, hands raising to hold his wrists gently. “No. No, if it was on purpose you would be coming with me.” You explain. And none of this was on purpose. None of this was premeditated or thought out, and it was all driven by a need to feel human again. 

Arthur presses his forehead to yours, breathing deeply. Quiet. Thinking. Something he says he doesn’t do. “Is Dutch gonna kill me?” You whisper after a moment. 

Arthur pulls away, shaking his head. “Nah. Dutch ain’t gonna kill you. Someone was gonna stab Micah eventually.” 

And you remember what Dutch had said to you earlier today. 

“They’ll let you live. You’re lucky to be a woman. You have plausible deniability.”

Lucky. 

Funny, maybe you are. 

Arthur moves around the tent, grabbing your things and hurriedly shoving them into a knapsack. “Get dressed,” he mumbles at you, distracted. 

“I’m sorry.” You say suddenly. It makes him pause. And he turns slowly, eyebrows furrowed. “I’m sorry, Arthur.” You stare at your hand. 

He’s silent, not knowing what to do. You don’t really ever apologize, mainly because it’s usually him who’s in the wrong. It’s unprecedented and there’s no plan to move forward. No routine you’ve developed. It scares him.

“That’s alright,” he says.

You grimace, amused. “That’s alright? Really?” 

He sends a pursed smile. “Jus’ get dressed.” 

And you do, slowly but surely. As you rinse yourself clean and pull on petticoats, there’s a heavy weight hanging– a profane fog. The both of you are too scared to acknowledge that your time together has suddenly become very limited. 

Cut short by your lack of control and Arthur’s suicidal loyalty. 

And Arthur wants to be angry at you. 

Wants to scream at you for your thoughtlessness, for your act of revenge— but he can’t. Firstly, because something like this was bound to happen (he just didn’t think it’d be you) and second, because even if he was dying, losing all his strength— the one thing he has— he would carry you out. 

He wouldn’t have it any other way.

Dutch tries talking to you when you exit the tent. You keep your eyes trained on the ground, not seeing if he wants you dead or wants to know what happened. 

Arthur puts a hand on his chest, shaking his head. Telling him to “ignore the fool”. 

And you can feel the eyes on you as you leave. It’s best that way. To escape alive and crazier than you came rather than dead and entirely sane. 

You can hear Jack’s quiet, tiny voice fussing. 

Arthur takes you to Annesburg, having you sit at a bench as he buys a ticket. One ticket. 

And then he joins you, takes his spot next to you as you watch the sun rise over the water; peeping a childish hello. Patching up whatever transgressions occurred during the night. Kind and new, eastward, a distance you’ve both been running from throughout your entire lives. 

“Here’s the plan,” he hands you your ticket, “this’ll take you to Wallace Station. Once ya get there, there’s a track going up to Oregon. When ya get to Oregon,” he shuffles around in his satchel a bit before pulling out an incredible stack of bills, “you get settled there.” 

You stare at the money. 

“And when I take care of things here, I’ll come lookin’ for ya.” 

You shake your head and he grabs your hand, placing the money in your palm heavily. 

“It’ll be okay.” 

You give up, dropping the money in your lap worthlessly. 

“Where did we go wrong?” You mutter, eyes trained on the horizon. Arthur does the same. 

“Maybe when ya married me,” and he coughs a little, patting his chest, “just a thought.” 

“That would mean it’s entirely your fault.” 

“Ain’t it?” 

Pulling the silver chain from under the collar of your blouse, you undo the clasp perilously, slipping the ring off. For a moment Arthur thinks you’re going to hand it to him— a final rejection. 

You’d become a final glowing pearl in his line of women. 

But instead you slip the band on your finger, fiddling with it a little in a familiar way. Just how you used to all those months ago. “I don’t regret it.” 

“Maybe that’s where we went wrong,” he snorts.

You shrug. “You loved me. I loved you. It was enough.” 

Arthur scowls. “We still love each other.” He defends. God help him if you don’t. 

You shake your head, eyes still on that sunrise. Golden and warm. Fleeting canary. “We do. But it stopped being enough for both of us.” 

Arthur wants to argue. That it’s still enough, that this is enough, but you’re leaving. And that’s that. 

“Guess so.” He mumbles. 

You glance at the money, sniffing. “Do you think it’ll be enough?” 

“It better be,” Arthur grumbles. “Worked my ass off for it.” 

You smile a bit. “Maybe I’ll get the chickens we talked about. And that dog.” 

“Dog would be nice.” 

“Missing Copper?” 

Arthur smiles. “Always. He was a good boy.” 

You smile too. But then you seem to remember yourself, and the smile drops. “Do you think I’ll be able to find a job?” 

“You will. Yer smart. Don’t worry too hard about that.” 

“I’ve never had a real job before.” 

“Yer tellin’ me robbin’ and killin’ ain’t a real job?” 

Usually you would laugh. But you don’t, reserving yourself to the sun. “We wouldn’t be here if it were.” 

He sighs. “Yeah.” 

There’s a pause. “Is it nice in Oregon?” You fill. 

Arthur mulls it over, head nodding back and forth. “Sure, from what I remember. But I dunno if it’s the same as that.” 

“That flower your Ma gave you is from Oregon, right?” 

He nods. “Cliff Maid. Grows on the mountains.” 

You smile a little. “Maybe I’ll find some.”

Arthur opens his mouth to reply, but he can hear the train in the distance. He knows you can too. An impending doom that you both willingly signed up for. Funny, how resigning yourself to hell doesn’t make it any better. 

“I hope I won’t have to wait too long for you,” you mumble. 

“Not if I can help it,” and he pats your hand.

You almost roll your eyes. “Sure.” 

The train shrieks. “Gettin’ close,” he says idly. 

“Yeah,” and you stare towards the tracks before shoveling the bills into your knapsack. 

Something overcomes him then, a primal devotion that has him leaning forward and brushing a hand against your shoulder so he can kiss you. And Arthur has always hated public displays of affection— turning him awkward and uncomfortable— but in this situation it’s easy. 

And you lean into him, hand clasping around his gently. Maybe if he keeps his eyes closed for long enough he can imagine you’re still in Blackwater. Imagine that he’s just recently started going sweet on you— not even together yet. 

It’s pleading and desperate; one last act of adoration before you go. 

And for once, Arthur prays. A real religious man. 

He prays for your safety and your happiness, but most of all, he prays that he’ll come back to you and that you’ll be waiting for him. Maybe he will or maybe he won’t because Arthur doesn’t believe in God. Doesn’t really believe in anything anymore. 

He’s lost his faith and the will to care. 

And when he pulls away, you smile. Real, genuine, the happiest he’s seen you in quite some time. So he can hope things will be okay. It’s highly likely they won’t.

And if anything, he’ll die and leave you waiting permanently in Oregon. We shall see. But at least he can say he prayed, if it matters. 

The train arrives, ravens ripping into the air as it does. 

[sweetandsavageautistic]

(CW: Cringe, puzzle pieces, Autism Moms, potential sensory eyesore, ableism possibly, like one sex joke)

Welcome back to me harshly criticizing graphic design choices that people make about autism where I find pictures of shirts and whatnot and I tear into them like a lion tearing into its prey. Let's get into it.

In the words of @rebmasel on TikTok: "Ka-chow."

First up the only appropriate way to do this review is in the style of Dr. Seuss.

I do not like the puzzle piece, for it disturbs my fucking peace.

The color purple is real nice, but the message here I would think twice.

No tacky colors, so that's good. I don't hate it, though I feel I should.

Final Score: 4 out of 10. I'd rather not see this again.

I know the first line's kinda cheating, but I couldn't really think of any other fitting rhyme.

Next up is this:

This is already miles better than most of what I've seen.

The colors aren't tacky, they're actually kinda nice.

You have two wolves inside of you, both of them are gay and autistic. /ref

Autism Acceptance, that's a win.

Infinity symbol instead of puzzle piece, fuck yes.

Only criticism is that it's kind of a cheesy message, but not the worst.

Final Score: 9.5 out of 10. I'd wear it.

And then the quality drops here.

Puzzle piece means you lost points.

"Autism Mom." You can say it's difficult to raise an autistic child, but you're not a goddamn superhero.

How dare you use Rosie the Riveter for this. The disrespect. /hj

The military font is tacky.

I don't like seeing blue associated with autism, but at least it's not an abominable shade of blue.

Final Score: 1 out of 10. Get it out of my sight.

Speaking of lions that I mentioned earlier:

I'm already liking the absence of puzzle pieces.

Autism Acceptance is a yes.

When a lioness has children, she stops making love to the lion. The lion gets jealous, sometimes so jealous he EATS the children. You'd think this would upset the lioness; far from it. They make love again like the children never existed. I find that idea terrifying. /q

Not a fan of the colors, they're too dark for my taste.

The message feels cheesy.

Final Score: 7.5 out of 10. I dunno if I'd wear it, but it's not the worst design I've seen. The effort and care are present.

This feels like a roller coaster because it went downhill again.

"Share your friends." As someone with PDA, to quote Hamlet, Act 3, Scene 3, Line 87; "No." /hj

Autism Awareness. Once again, I am very aware of my existence but sometimes I wish I wasn't; there are days where I'd like to be both perceived and NOT perceived.

The blue isn't tacky, thank God.

I hate the quote because it gives the message that autism is nothing but a burden.

Also there's a bit too much going on with it, all of the decals and shit.

I don't see any puzzle pieces, so thank God.

Final Score: 2 out of 10. I do not recommend.

This is a bit different.

There's just way too much going on in this. Absolute eyesore.

Return of the Tacky Elementary School Colors, except they dragged orange into it this time.

So many puzzle pieces.

Why is everyone trying to fight autism? It's just minding its business.

I'm pretty sure that that's going to be a signal to mean kids to bully your kid. Like, even if there's more understanding of autism, there are still asshole crotch goblins.

I haven't "done" autism, but I am curious as to whether or not autism is good in bed. /j

Final Score: 1 out of 10. No thanks, I'll pass.

Let's end part 2 on a high note.

Simple design, but colorful and pretty easy on the eyes.

And the colors aren't patronizing.

No puzzle pieces.

Acknowledgement of the intersectionality of autism and sexuality.

No cheesy message; just a funky design about autism and gayness. Not all autism shirts have to be serious or UwU or motivating, so it's always a nice change of pace.

Final Score: 11 out of 10. As an asexual biromantic autistic, I'd wear this.

[fantomette22]

Brain fluid, Great ones, Blood and parasites.

I am replaying Bloodborne and I'm noticing a few new things.

I finally get to the research hall and read the brain fluids description again (in French & English)

Greyish amoeba-shaped brain fluid. Wobbles and bounces.

Extracted from a patient whose head expanded until that was all that they were.

In the early days of the Healing Church, the Great Ones were linked to the ocean, and so the cerebral patients would imbibe water, and listen for the howl of the sea. Brain fluid writhed inside the head, the initial makings of internal eyes. (…)

So… was i supposed to found out myself they actually have parasite inside ??

So one thing you need to know is that "brain fluid" or cerebrospinal fluid (liquide céphalo-rachidien/cérébrospinal en VF) is a transparent liquid where you have your brain and inside your spine for your nerves. It doesn't quite fit what we have in game right ?

But they did add water in it, right ? It also said (but it's more clear in French that it have an amoeba (amibe) shape.

What's an amoeba ? from wikipedia : "(...) is a type of cell or unicellular organism with the ability to alter its shape (...) Amoeboid cells occur not only among the protozoa, but also in fungi, algae, and animals. Microbiologists often use the terms "amoeboid" and "amoeba" interchangeably for any organism that exhibits amoeboid movement."

It's an eucaryote (membrane, cytoplasm and nucleus like our cells) and unicellular organism that can lived without and host in the earth or water for example (unlike our cells who need to be a part of a pluricellulaires organism).

But, there's some type of amoeba who act as parasite and actually can "eat" a brain💀 (actually it attacked the nervous system & cells from the cavity between the nose and brain ) do you see where I'm trying to get ?

The water they put inside the patients head... probably had microorganism inside it. If it's not the Kos parasites then others things really similar.

It will take too long to develop everything, maybe another day so really short : we know about the Kos parasite right ? And that Kos probably had parasites who infected and transformed the inhabitants of the Hamlet.

For the blood we literally have vermin, the loran silver beasts (+ the maggots), the bloodletting beast with the giant worms and the blood dregs. (the eyes that turned blind some parasite do that in real life too)

I thought at first that what caused the beast plague was "infected cells' like cancerous cells that created more organic materials, mutated their host and boom. And not just some bacteria or viruses (that is possible too XD but also vermin are those arthropods like parasites so I was a bit confused.

But now ! If we need to have a more scientifically and realistically approach about what happened in Bloodborne (and not just boom great ones dream magic) I think it can be caused by unicellular beings who composed the great ones and mess with everyone 👍

I mean diseases and organism disfunction (of the neural system for ex) are caused on a cellular if not molecular level after all (how molecules and drugs act in the neurons and synapses of the brain is really fascinating ! But it’s not easy to learn)

Also why are great ones so close to the first protozoan cells organism for some reason ?! There's multicellular organism I guess but exist on different planes of existence (if they're not aliens or smt) but bc of the parasites blood and all (odeon is kinda blood/ what we have in the blood) so they're probably really really old forms of life you (like unicellular organisms).I guess we could say that great ones are parasites of the mind !👈 👈 (ok enough of today)

Little bonus : the first unicellular appear between 3,5 and 3,8 billion years. The multicellular appeared 2 billions years ago, our Earth have 4,5 billions years, our solar system just a bit more and the universe is 13,8 billions years old. Homo sapiens sapiens (us) is like 200 000 years old 💀 but don't worry the homininae line appeared 10 million years ago!

Hey you know we're closer to the dinosaurs who lived at the end of the cretaceous (64Ma) than between the Dino of the cretaceous and the beginning to the triassic (first Dino : 230/250 Ma)? CRAZY HMMM ??????

Anyway I do believe Bloodborne universe is actually as fantastic as dark souls or Elden Ring and not super ultra realistic like our own world. Some things just doesn't make sense realistically and maybe don't have a possible realistic and scientific explanation (the dreams, great ones etc) but it's cool to try to used sciences to explain things in the universe ! That make its own world more coherent in its own logic I believe ! (it's like you know sci fi movies, Frankenstein and all. it's not possible in real life but based on true sciences stuff).

[bugwolfsstuff]

VineOwls Christmas

Pollux's Pov

Pollux felt like he was in a fairyland. Bright blue, red, yellow, and white lights flashed around him and his twin like a kaleidoscope. Snow covered everything, like a crystal wonderland. It was just a (Probably) mortal village decorated for Christmas. But it looked so pretty.

Luke Castellan, a son of Hermes, chuckled behind them. "Haven't you ever seen Christmas lights before?".

"We have, Larry. They're just pretty." Pollux replied, though he didn't think Luke heard him over the scarf.

"Not that you'd know anything about prettiness," Pollux's twin brother, Castor, said. 

Castor always made it clear if he disliked someone by making sarcastic remarks or insults. 

And Pollux liked to be sneaky, like being passive-aggressive or tripping someone while they're carrying something with a vine.

To put it mildly, neither he nor Castor liked Luke Castellan. Sure, there was nothing wrong with the guy. He was nice enough to them. He doesn't talk badly about their dad like the other campers (at least Pollux has never heard him do). But since he came back from his quest, there was a feeling at the back of Pollux's mind, like a gut feeling, that gets stronger by the day. 

"Hey, wait up!" Annabeth called from down the street. Her blonde curls bouncing under her grey woolly hat like a halo as she ran to catch up.

Annabeth had been him and Castor's friend since —well, not since they met her. In fact, they were kinda very mean to her when they first met when they were eight. But they're ten now! They've matured now and become best friends.

He even made space on the sidewalk for her.

"The Christmas lights are so pretty," she said, walking between them, Castor on her right, Pollux on the left.

"Yeah," Pollux said.

"Can you believe what Leonard quoth to us?" Castor said, putting an annoying amount of emphasis on quoth.

Annabeth giggled. "It's Luke, Cast. And what did he quoth to you?"

Pollux sighed, "Don't encourage him, Owlbrain." 

Castor discovered Shakespeare a week ago, and he's been hyper-fixated on it ever since. And Pollux isn't sure how much longer he can take hearing about symbolism in Romeo and Juliet in the middle of the night before he starts thinking he's in a Shakespearean tragedy himself.

"O, speak to me no more. These words like daggers enter my ears." Castor annoyingly grinned as he quoted Hamlet. He turned to Annabeth, "Lenny here," He gestured to Luke, "thinks we've never seen Christmas lights before".

Luke put his hands up in defence, "Hey, I was just saying, you guys seemed so amazed by the lights; it's like you haven't seen Christmas before".

"Probably 'cause me and Cass don't celebrate Christmas," Pollux said.

"Dad has beef with Jesus," Castor explained, scooping up snow in his gloved hand.

"And Mom's relatives come over around Christmas, and Dad says they're a bunch of—" 

"Pollux," Chiron chided, rolling up behind them in his wheelchair, "Language. And Castor put that snowball down."

Castor stared at Chiron. The snowball he was about to throw at Luke dropped to the pavement. "I wasn't going to do anything!" 

"I don't celebrate Christmas either, though not because of that," Annabeth said.

"Then why?" Pollux asked, kicking a ball of snow as he walked.

Annabeth hesitated, "...Because of how it's about family and how great it is. And since I ran away from my 'family'. It's kinda a sore subject."

"Oh," is all he said.

It was all he could say; one of the only downsides to having your godly parent at camp was that you'll never understand your fellow campers.

Annabeth laughed, "Guess neither of us are getting Christmas presents this year."

Pollux giggled. "Yeah," he said.

But he was lying. He had already made up his mind.

Annabeth was getting a Christmas present.

A laugh rang out, and Pollux heard Chiron say, "Don't."

He and Annabeth whipped their heads around to see what was going on.

Luke was standing behind Castor, who had lagged behind and was too distracted by a red robin nearby to see the giant ball of snow Luke had looming over his head.

Pollux scooped up some snow, and Annabeth did the same.

"Cassie, look out!" he yelled, throwing a snowball as hard as he could at Luke's chest. Unfortunately, Pollux was never much good at being a marksman, and instead of hitting the much bigger son of Hermes, he hit the much smaller Castor's left arm.

Annabeth on the other hand, was a better shot than him...unfortunately, not better by much.

Her snowball sailed over Castor's head and past Luke's chest.

Hitting him in the armpit.

Luke dropped the snowball in mild shock...directly onto Castor's head.

'Whoopsie' was all that went through Pollux's head.

Part 1 of 7

[sereves]

My thoughts on Ophelia

Bare with me, this is long.

Okayyy so I might get a lot of hate for this and this is my very first post so here we go.

I’m really sick of the fandom shipping Lawless x Ophelia, and it seems no one really touches on the gravity of their relationship and just blindly ships it because it's cute and matches the princess x knight aesthetic. I’ll be the first one to say it, although I love Ophelia’s character I really hated her relationship with Lawless. 

First off, she treated Lawless like shit. No one ever mentions this, but she only used him whenever she wanted to. Lawless being a servamp and all that, and not to mention it is heavily implied that Ophelia knew of Lawless’s feelings towards her which makes it extra hurtful. I mean, just look at this panel:

Is no one really going to say anything about this panel? Lawless even canonically says he felt used in their situation, and he’s not wrong to feel this way. Granted, again I love Ophelia’s character being based on Hamlet and her ambitions to keep peace within her kingdom, but man…She really used Lawless whenever she felt fit. 

Another thing I’d like to note is that whenever a character is talking about someone they love dearly, Strike intentionally makes the surrounding background of the character shine like they are an angel. Misano’s mom is an example of this. Seriously the fandom-loving Misano’s mom who intentionally homewrecked was weird and now that we’ve gotten her real backstory it feels as if Strike who made Misano’s mom look angelic and innocent has been shattered. It’s the same way how I feel about Lawless looking at Ophelia. It’s almost like rose-tinted glasses are being put on whenever the guys see someone they care for deeply. They cannot see their flaws.

Moving on, here is another panel I want to talk about.

Yall, I am upset with this panel a lot, and again, no one ever seemed to talk about it, but here Ophelia literally tells him not to cry and calls him a fool. AND she says he has no dignity as a servamp?? Guys, do you not see the toxic masculinity here 😭 No wonder Lawless is such a crybaby in the future, Ophelia literally told him to stop crying in the past and basically called him a big baby, when she is literally going to die. Like Lawless, is literally having a full-blown panic attack right now and Ophelia literally tells him to stop crying- I- WH Y- YOU ARE ABOUT TO DIE. HE LOVES YOU. YOU KNOW THAT. AND YOU TELL HIM TO STOP CRYING AND SAYS HE HAS NO DIGNITY. I’m sorry, I’m trying not to be too emotional but this panel really had me upset, because it really does explain later why Lawless cries so much when he lost djinn later on, and is noted as a “cry baby”. Gee, I wonder why, maybe cause in the past the person he loved used him, emotionally abused him, and told him to stop crying 💀

Moving on, theres this,

yALL, SHE CUCKED HIM FOR REAL 💀 😭Like my mans did not deserve this 😭I get it she had to do it for peace for her country but damn, did she really brush off Lawless when she KNEW he had feelings for her. When she said she was getting married she and during the actual marriage she fr had that smile on her face as if she wasnt breaking Lawless’ heart into a million pieces 💀

MY NEXT AND BIGGEST POINT:

She. Was. A. Child. When thye met. Guys, please tell me I’m not insane for not shipping them, but Lawless met Ophelia as a child and basically raised her. I cannot get over it, it’s weird??? Bro basically prordered her 💀I love Lawless, I really do. He’s been my favorite character for the past like 6 years, but the Ophelia x Lawless ship really gives off weird vibes. Like I really dislike how they met when Lawless was a full on adult and Ophelia was literally like 10 in this panel, and then she grew up. Like thank god they didn’t get together cause that’s basically gr00ming since he kinda raised her💀I’m going to move on from this, and let you guys process this, but yeah…

Alright those are my main points for now, sorry if this is rushed, I’ve been having these thoughts ever since I met Ophelia not gonna lie and this is way overdue, but I’ve had my suspicions for awhile that Strike frames loved ones in rose-tinted glasses for a reason, and then later on reveals who they are actually. Not saying this matches with Ophelia, but after seeing the reveal on Misano’s mom being a whole hoe I figured I’d finally get the balls to make this post. I know I’m going to get chastised for this, but honestly, someone needs to say it. Happy Thanksgiving yall, and my inbox is open if you wanna talk about this, but please be gentle, I’m not here to fight anyone, just give my opinions.

(Edited: typos and grammar)

[theliterarywolf]

I've finished Guilded Dragons as of the last ask and got a few more thoughts. Also, you are gonna have to explain some mechanics of the app and the Centurion Borealis MK II(?).

Me seeing the Strawberry Short Lived: Aw. What good friends. They're gonna fucking die. They're gonna die horribly. -several pages later- Yep. Saw that coming. In more gruesome fashion than I imagined, mind you. Also he can fucking hypnotize people too... I mean he is a doctor so chemical warfare makes sense but damn.

Meets the couple: My red flags are just gonna be constantly raised with these two arent they? -finishes with a sequel hook- On one outcome, damn shame. They were nice. On the other, I kinda want Linus to have an actual friend(s).

Ain't no fear like a mother scorned. No matter how big and bad you are, the leash stays tight.

This fucker just limit breaked on a trash mob. He just pulled up, recited Hamlet, lulled a the domain expansion, stole Shiva's Diamond Dust, and turned a province into powder snow. All while singing opera! Dread Beast indeed.

Ooh, two in one day; I am eating GOOD!

I mean... is there a specific part of the Centurion Borealis Mk II that you want more insight on?

'Strawberry Short-Lived', I fucking can't..!

Yeah, I've been told that the sequence with the Sugarville Squad is probably the most brutal in all of V1. Though, admittedly, it just has the back of my mind going 'you have to try harder'.

Okay, so, to give a... not really a spoiler for V2 but just a reassurance: Guildine and Meow-La-La are fine.

'Theatrical' definitely comes to mind when thinking about Fimbulventir. 'This fucker just limit breaked on a trash mob.' I love it, that's perfect.

V2 is on the way, due to release this month. The whole buying the house and adjusting to a longer work-schedule kind of put some things on the back-burner, but the text is done; I just have to finalize the illustrations for it.

Thank you so much for reading and your commentary! Reading these asks has definitely been a bright spot!

[p1325]

Since Tomorrow I got the English Literature exam which is all about Shakespeare for extra credits. I was thinking of reviewing all the plays I had to study for it.

1. Much Ado About Nothing (1598-1599) 10/10 I really loved this play. The plot is somehow similar to Pride and Prejudice and Emma but instead it’s set in a city near my hometown in the Renaissance period. Benedick and Beatrice are hilarious, I really loved this couple in particular. I loved the 1993 movie adaptation especially.

2.The Taming of the Shrew (1590-1592) 8.5/10 I preferred its modern movie adaptation ‘’10 Things I Hate About You’’ since Katherine is less abusive and the relationship between Katherine and Petruchio is extremely toxic. Bianca’s relationship was slightly better though. I loved the plot and its metatheatrical intro. It was kinda sexist too lol

3. Romeo and Juliet (1594-1596) 10/10 As a tragedy, this one was well done. This is obviously one of the most popular Shakespearean tragedies of all-time and everybody knows the story pretty much.The relationship is kinda weird but the romantic undertones throughout the play are incredible see Romeo’s soliloquies or the famous balcony in Act 2. The ending was very intense too.

4. Richard III (1592-1594) 9.5/10 As a historical play, this one really had everything. No wonder that Game of Thrones and House of Cards were inspired by them. The soliloquy at the beginning gave me chills. However, I think the play really reflects our political reality. It looks like we as a society didn’t evolve much. 

5. Hamlet (1599-1601) 10/10 Whew, what a trip. I didn’t Hamlet to be so depressing. Hamlet as a character was very relatable because it reminded me of myself at a certain point in my life. What I loved about this novel is Hamlet’s indecisiveness, it was very reminiscent of myself. Despite the tragic ending, I loved it. Ophelia deserved better by the way

6. Macbeth (1606) 10/10 Honestly, this is probably Shakespeare’s best tragedy, Similarly to Richard III and King Lear, Macbeth is a man who gets what he wants through corruption and immoral acts despite the witches’ prophecy. His wife Lady Macbeth is no better. However, they all get what they deserve in the end and I can’t complain about it. You reap what you sow.

7.King Lear (1605-1606) 7.5/10 King Lear was my least favorite Shakesperian play. Don’t get me wrong but Cordelia didn’t deserve to die even though the King Lear’s declining mental health process was portrayed very well with no judgement from the writer. Actually, Shakespeare felt sorry for him. Ugh his mind 

8.Othello (1601) 10/10 This one was a messed up trip. How can a husband be that jealous and suspicious over his wife? I mean, Seriously? How did Othello even believe Iago’s lies in the first place? Smh....Anyway I loved Othello. His rage seemed like King Lear’s insanity to me. Overall it was really good. The handkerchief symbolism was incredible to analyze in particular.

Wish me luck for tomorrow :D 

As a way to finish this thread, I’m adding these two quotes from Romeo and Juliet and Macbeth