#'i want this person to die' <- not a crime

[thewritingfairy]

I keep thinking about 'Jason crime' and the fact that they made a replica of reader's room is so... disturbing? Scary? (I don't find the word in English. It's not my first language)

Imagine you got beaten helf to death and your room got completely destroyed and when you woke up you found yourself in a copy of your room. Like nothing. Ever. Happened.

The only events you have are your family hamilton and your physical condition.

It gives me questions.

1. Do the girls know that Jason came to the reader room and destroyed it? Because you said that they were just told he fallen to Pit madness and reader got hurt in the cross fire. Is that all they know?

2. (This one is dark) What would happen if the Batfamily was late and the reader ended up dead by Jason's hands? I mean the only normal one in their family died by the hand of one of them.

Will guilt come crashing on them or will it be a slow process?

Will They make a funeral and try to make some excuse?

What will happen to Jason?

Will they try to bring the reader back?

_🪷

Fic mentioned: 04.1 Jason's crime

I think the words you used were correct, English isn't my first language either and I switch a lot between dialects (which might be noticable tbh).

But it is disturbing, yes. Especially if you factor in that the batfamily are supposed to be heroes. They are supposed to be the 'good ones'.

But to your questions;

No, they don't know anything. They only know that your heirlooms have been destroyed, they didn't even remember were your old room was, so they think it was just a small pit incident. And that you were hurt so badly because you threw yourself on your heirlooms without thinking. (they don't factor in that you have never recieved training and don't know about Jason's pit madness or anything really)

Now reader dying, that sounds like a good ass side story tbh.

BUT, if Reader died that means that Jason has to confront something else. The fact that he did the same thing the Joker did, just - the prolonged torture and the crowbar. But does that make it any better? Of course not, so that's why it's enough to make him spiral even more.

It breaks everyone's heart that the normal one passed away, and this is before Damian gets pissed at you. So he demands that you have a big funeral, that you are remembered properly and that you are grieved properly by your mother's traditions.

There will be guilt crashing down, there will be a funeral but there will also be excuses. They'll say that a petty villain broke in and killed you, they already lost you so you won't blame them for not wanting to lose Jason right?

I don't really like the idea of bringing the Reader's back with the pit, especially a disabled reader. (Because if they were to die and then brought back their illness would absolutely flare up) I believe personally, that Reader's chronic pain would get worse after going through the pit.

[starl1ght444]

jason todd x reader

── .✦ angst

[ jason bought you, your favorite flowers for the first time ]

long story — [8.2k words count]

second person writing

*. ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

phase one ; blooming [dating]

you loved carnations.

jason learned that on your third date. It was a small, throwaway moment—something you said while sipping a lukewarm latte in a dingy coffee shop tucked away from gotham’s chaos. you’d been talking about nothing in particular, just bantering like usual, your legs tucked under you in the booth as the sky darkened outside.

“they’re not fancy,” you said, absently stirring cream into your coffee, “but they’re strong. they last longer than most flowers, you know? and they come in so many colors.”

jason raised an eyebrow. “you really into flowers?”

You shrugged. “they’re just… comforting. It’s like a reminder that something can be soft and still survive.”

he didn’t answer. just stared at you for a moment like you were something he hadn’t figured out yet—like he wasn’t sure if you were real.

you weren’t like the people in his world. you didn’t carry trauma like a weapon. you didn’t flinch at loud sounds or look over your shoulder in paranoia. you had a softness to you that he hadn’t expected in gotham. and he didn’t know what to do with it.

when he walked you home that night, you paused at a flower stall outside your building. rain was drizzling, the kind that clung to your lashes and curled your hair, and you stopped to look at a small bouquet of pale pink carnations.

“they’re my favorite,” you said, smiling. “someday I’m gonna fill my whole apartment with them.”

jason rolled his eyes. “flowers are a waste of money. they die in a week.”

you blinked. just a second. just enough for him to notice. “well,” you said, voice light, “some things are worth it, even if they don’t last.” he didn’t understand what you meant. not then. not yet.

you started seeing each other more often—slow at first. you were cautious with your heart, and jason was dangerous with his. but he started staying the night. started showing up at your place with bruises and bullet grazes and that haunted look in his eyes. you never asked where he’d been. you only asked if he was hungry. If he was okay. If he wanted to talk.

he never did. not about the big stuff. but you’d find him in your kitchen at 2 a.m., heating up leftover pasta, or sitting on your couch with your cat in his lap like he belonged there. and he did.

he didn’t say “I love you,” not for months. but he watched over you like he did. he’d show up outside your job with a scowl and coffee if you had a rough day. he knew the fastest route from your place to every hospital in the city. he installed cameras at your front door and never told you. — you noticed. you just didn’t say anything.

carnations bloomed on your windowsill. a new one every week. you bought them yourself—white-blush and lavender. you kept waiting, hoping maybe jason would walk in one day with a bunch in his hands. not because you needed them, but because you wanted to know he’d remembered.

he didn’t.

one night, curled up with him under a ratty old blanket, you brought it up gently. “I used to get flowers when I was little,” you said. “my dad would bring me carnations on my birthday. I think that’s why I still love them so much.”

jason looked at you from where he lay on your chest, his brow furrowed. “didn’t know your dad was around.”

“he’s not.. not anymore.” silence settled between you.

“I used to think… if someone brought me carnations, it meant they really saw me,” you admitted. “not the ‘I’m fine’ version. the real me.”

jason didn’t say anything. — you didn’t push.

the first time you told him you loved him, he froze.

It had been a good day. one of the rare ones—no crime scenes, no emergency calls, no red hood business dragging him into gotham’s underbelly. you’d spent the afternoon in the park, lying in the grass, his head on your stomach as you read a book aloud.

that night, wrapped in each other’s arms, your fingers tracing lazy circles on his back, you whispered, “I love you.” — jason’s whole body tensed.

you felt it. every muscle. then he pulled back. looked at you like he was trying to memorize your face. “you don’t have to say it back,” you murmured.

he didn’t. but he kissed you like he meant it. held you all night like he was terrified you’d disappear. you told yourself it was enough.

phase two ; budding [fiancé]

It wasn’t a proposal. not really.

It was three in the morning, and jason was sitting on the edge of the bathtub while you brushed your teeth, eyes half-lidded with sleep, his hair a mess from the pillow. you wore one of his old shirts, threadbare from a hundred washes. he wore the quiet panic of someone who had never believed they’d live long enough to consider a future.

“hey,” he said, voice low. you glanced at him in the mirror, mouth full of toothpaste. “If I asked you to marry me, what would you say?”

you froze mid-brush. he didn’t flinch or try to recover it with a joke. he just watched you—blue eyes soft and serious, hands clasped between his knees. you spit into the sink and turned to face him.

“Is this the part where you propose with a ring made out of dental floss?” a breath of laughter left his nose, and the tension eased from his shoulders.

“I’m serious,” he said. you stepped closer, cupped his jaw with a wet hand. “then ask me like you mean it.”

jason paused. his eyes searched yours, and when he spoke again, it was barely a whisper. “(y/n) (m/n) (l/n), will you marry me.”

and you—heart pounding, love swelling in your chest like it would break your ribs—smiled. “yes,” you said. “of course I will.”

he pulled you into his arms, buried his face in your stomach, and for the first time in a long time, he let himself breathe like it was safe.

the ring came later.

It wasn’t new—wasn’t even something he’d gone out to buy. one night, you found him sitting in the closet, the small wooden box in his hand. It had belonged to catherine todd—passed down, like love that tries to survive the storm.

“she kept it hidden,” jason said quietly, running a thumb over the aged velvet. “I think she always meant to give it to me… if I ever found someone.”

you sank down beside him on the floor, resting your head on his shoulder. “she’d be glad you did.”

he gave it to you that night, no speeches or ceremony. just slid it onto your finger while you sat together on the floor of the hallway, bathed in moonlight from the window. as jason kissed the ring on your finger.

It fit perfectly.

planning the wedding wasn’t easy. you didn’t want much. jason didn’t want attention. but it was yours—intimate, quiet, full of stolen glances and laughter that didn’t belong in a city like gotham.

dick cried during the vows — roy forgot the rings.

alfred gave you a smile that nearly brought you to tears.

jason kept his hand in yours like it was the only thing tethering him to the world. you didn’t walk down the aisle with roses or lilies or orchids.

you held a bouquet of white carnations, tied with a silver ribbon. jason saw them, saw the way your fingers curled around the stems, and something flickered in his expression. he didn’t say anything. but you caught the way he looked at them—like they were a language he hadn’t learned yet.

life settled into something that almost resembled normal. at least, your version of it.

your mornings were soft. you’d wake first, kiss the scar on jason’s temple, whisper something into his sleep-dazed hair. he never told you what it meant to wake up to that. but he held you tighter every day.

sometimes he cooked breakfast—burned eggs and all. sometimes you did. the coffee was always too strong, but neither of you minded. the routine mattered more than the taste. — your nights were more complicated. jason still went out. still fought gotham’s darkness with red and black. but he came home now. always came home.

and he talked more.

he told you about things he’d buried—things no one else knew. his mother. the pit. the dreams he still had where the coffin never opened. the pain of coming back to a world that had moved on without him.

you never asked for those stories. you only listened, threading your fingers through his, anchoring him with silence and steady breaths. — one night, after a particularly rough patrol, he came home soaked in rain and blood. you helped him out of the kevlar, your hands gentle, your voice quiet.

he sat at the kitchen table while you cleaned a deep gash along his ribs. “I thought I was gonna die tonight,” he muttered.

you paused, heart in your throat. jason looked up at you. “and the weirdest part? I wasn’t scared for me. I was scared you’d be alone.” you pressed gauze to the wound, leaned in, and kissed his forehead. “you’re not dying, jason.”

“someday I will,” he said, a sad smile tugging at his mouth. “and you’ll have to go on without me.”

“then you better keep surviving,” you said, voice firm. “because I’m not planning on loving anyone else.”

he pulled you into his lap, held you there like he was trying to fuse your heartbeat with his.

you kept carnations in the apartment. a vase in the kitchen. one on the nightstand. always fresh. always soft. jason never brought them home. but he started noticing them—more than before.

he’d run his fingers along the petals absently while sipping his coffee. tuck a fallen one behind your ear with a fond little smile. you caught him once, standing in front of a grocery store flower display, just staring at them. — but he walked past.

you didn’t mention it.

you never asked for them anymore. not because you didn’t want them. but because you wanted him to want to bring them. — some small part of you still hoped.

one afternoon, you were lying together on the couch, your legs draped across his lap. he was reading something—an old paperback with cracked pages—and you were watching the sunlight paint gold across the hardwood floor.

“do you think we’ll ever leave gotham?” you asked suddenly.

jason looked up. “you want to?”

“I don’t know. sometimes.” you shrugged. “sometimes I imagine a house with a garden. somewhere quiet. I’d grow carnations.”

he smiled, brushing your ankle with his thumb. “you and your damn flowers.”

you chuckled. “they’d be all over the place. kitchen, bedroom, porch. even in the bathroom.”

jason leaned down, kissed the inside of your knee. “If you want a garden, I’ll build you one.”

you reached for his hand. “I don’t need a garden. just you.”

but still, in the back of your mind, you pictured it—soft soil and early mornings, dew on petals, and jason beside you, older, whole. — you didn’t know it would stay a dream.

phase three ; blooming [marriage]

married life with jason was unexpectedly sweet.

you never imagined the red hood would be the type to make tea in the mornings or memorize your grocery list, but he did. he kept your mugs on the lowest shelf so you didn’t have to stretch. he learned how to braid your hair, poorly but determinedly, just so you’d smile.

your new apartment was bigger, higher up—safer. there was a little balcony with just enough space for a few flower boxes, and you filled them with carnations in every shade. jason helped you plant them, dirt under his fingernails and a look on his face like maybe, just maybe, he was starting to understand why you loved them so much.

“you said they’re strong, right?” he asked one evening, watering them carefully.

you looked up from your book. “yeah.”

he watched a pale yellow bloom tremble in the breeze. “they remind me of you.”

you didn’t cry. but your throat ached as you crossed the room and wrapped your arms around him, resting your cheek against his shoulder. you were happy. really, genuinely happy.

jason had been changing—slowly but surely, like stone shaped by water.

he didn’t punch walls anymore. he let himself laugh more, sleep more. he still fought, still bled for gotham, but he came home more often than not. he started going to therapy, though he never told anyone but you. he even made peace with bruce—if only in small pieces, quiet dinners, and fewer arguments.

“I think I’m finally starting to feel human again,” he told you once, curled in bed with you at dawn. “you made me human.”

you kissed his chest, hand over his heart. “you were always human, jason. you just forgot for a while.”

you talked about kids more openly now.

“we could adopt,” you said once, the thought half-formed in your mind as you watched him fix the hinge on a closet door. “someday. maybe.”

jason looked up, surprised—but not alarmed. “yeah. maybe. I’d want them to be safe first. you to be safe.”

“we’re close,” you said. “gotham won’t be forever.”

he stood, brushed the dust off his hands. “no. just a little longer. then we’ll go.”

you imagined a place with less noise. a porch. a yard. real mornings without sirens. carnations blooming around the edges of a little house.

jason kissed you that night like he could already see it too.

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

the last morning was warm.

you watered the flowers on the balcony while jason made eggs and toast, humming some rock song under his breath. the windows were open. the world felt light for once.

you had plans to meet barbara for lunch, to run errands, maybe grab groceries. jason had patrol later that evening but promised to be back before midnight. you kissed him at the door like it was any other day. — he kissed you twice.

“text me when you get there,” he said. — “I always do.”

you smiled, leaned back against the doorframe, watching him disappear down the hallway with a peace in your chest you hadn’t felt in years. you didn’t know it was the last time.

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

you weren’t supposed to be anywhere near Ivy’s old sector.

the lab had been quiet for months—dormant, some said, shut down after the last run-in with her plant toxins. but something pinged on the surveillance net—unusual bio-activity—and you, being who you were, decided to check it out.

It was just a recon mission. you were careful. you always were.

you never saw the vines until it was too late.

jason got the call from babs, her voice tight and scared.

“something’s happened,” she said. “(y/n)… we lost her signal near Ivy’s old territory.” he didn’t hear the rest.

he was on his bike in seconds, tearing through Gotham like the city itself had betrayed him. he didn’t stop at lights. didn’t slow for anything.

he found the lab half-collapsed, tendrils of greenery coiling through the wreckage like veins.

he screamed your name.

he dug through debris with bare hands, shoving aside branches that moved like they were alive. the air was thick with the scent of earth and blood.

then he saw you. — your body was tangled in vines, arms limp, head turned slightly to the side. you looked peaceful.

but you were too still.

and around you—blooming like a cruel, beautiful grave—were carnations. each one having a meaning.

white — purity, innocence, remembrance

pink — gratitude, admiration, undying love

purple — unpredictably, capriciousness, free spirit

all curling around the vines like some terrible mockery of love.

jason dropped to his knees. — “no,” he whispered. “no, no, no—please..please.. (y/n).. no no.. please…”

he tore at the vines with shaking hands, not caring that they cut into his skin. he gathered you into his arms, blood staining your shirt where the toxins had entered.

you weren’t breathing.

“come on,” he choked out, pressing his forehead to yours. “you’re strong. you’re stronger than this. you said—you said they were strong.”

he rocked with you in his arms, howling into the air like something feral. screaming like his heart had been physically ripped out of him. sobbing into your shirt, the same one he had watched you put on this morning asking if you looked good. and of course you did, jason was always mesmerizing by you. and right now he was spiraling into a new unknown feeling.

bruce was the first to arrive. then dick. then tim.

they found jason cradling you, his jacket wrapped around your body even though you were already cold.

he didn’t look up when bruce knelt beside him. “she’s cold.. i put my jacket...and she’s still cold.. i couldn’t save her,” jason whispered. “I wasn’t there. I promised I’d be there.”

“I know,” bruce said softly, eyes glassy. his daughter-in-law peacefully covered in blood and carnations. he never truly got to tell you how much he appreciated the way you helped jason grow into the man he had become— you taught jason everything he couldn’t. jason slowly became emotionally mature, your marriage teaching him how to love and be  patient everyday.

dick stood nearby, hands over his mouth, unable to speak— the way he watched his younger brother holding his lifeless wife in his arms. tim just stared, stunned— not being able to believe the scene in front of him, as the wind tugged at the scattered petals around you.

“look at them,” jason murmured, brushing a blood-streaked carnation with his thumb. “she loved these. I never… I never brought her any. n..not once.”

jason looked up at bruce with hollow eyes. “I was going to. this week. I swear. I saw some at the store. I almost bought them.” — looking back down at you, squeezing you hard. trying to look for any sign of life left in you.

bruce placed a hand on his shoulder. “she knew.”

jason shook his head. “I should’ve told her more. I should’ve done everything more.”

Dick finally stepped forward, kneeling across from his brother. “you did love her, jay. you loved her more than anyone. she knew. she felt it.”

jason’s face crumpled. “she died alone, dick. In pain. In fear.”

“no,” bruce said gently. “she died trying to help people. that’s who she was. that’s why you loved her.”

jason buried his face in your hair, silent now, his grief no longer words—just broken, shaking breath. staying like that, planting himself on the ground sobbing into you. tracing your body trying to remember every detail about you, like you always did for him. “i love you (y/n).. i love you.. please.. god we were going to leave.. we should’ve... i can’t.. (y/n) please baby, wake up… what am i supposed to do.. sweetheart please.. pleaseplease.. you’re so strong.. my beautiful wife.. we were gonna adopt.. you would’ve been a p..phenomenal mother..my sunshine.. please babygirl.. i can’t do this without you.. im so sorry.. im sorry..god please” jason holding your hand, rubbing his moms ring — the ring he vowed to love and protect you forever.

they had to pull him away eventually. jason fighting each one of them, not ready to let go of his wife. “please.. stop.. please.. a few more minutes.. please.. i can’t..please..i need her” he sounded defeated. bruce helping him up while he still clung to you. carrying both of you out of the building. struggling, not because of holding you two — but struggling not to sob along with his sons.

phase four ; wilting [death]

the funeral was three days after they pulled your body from the vines.

gotham had turned grey that week. the sky hung heavy, like even the clouds mourned you. the streets were quieter. the city somehow knew it had lost something bright.

they dressed you in soft fabric. nothing flashy. just something gentle and familiar. jason picked the dress. he remembered how it looked on you the first time you danced in the living room, barefoot and laughing.

you had flowers around you. carnations. barbara brought them. white, pink, red—your favorites. jason couldn’t stop staring at them.

he hadn’t cried since that night. now, at the funeral, he was quiet, but this time it was different. empty.

a shell wearing his face — everyone was there.

dick stood beside him, barely breathing. tim sat stiffly, not blinking. bruce kept a hand on jason’s back, grounding him, like he was afraid he’d float away.

barbara gave a speech. so did roy. even alfred, voice trembling, spoke a few words about love and grace and the way your laughter changed the manor the few times you visited.

jason didn’t hear any of it — he just looked at you.

laid out in the casket like sleep had taken you mid-sentence. lips soft. lashes resting against your cheeks. skin too pale, but peaceful. like you were waiting for him to say something.

the carnations framed your face like a crown.

and jason— he hated them.

not because they were ugly. not because they were yours. but because they were there, blooming, when you weren’t breathing. —because you always asked for them, and he never brought them.

and now they were here. too late.

someone touched his shoulder after the service. maybe dick. maybe bruce. maybe god himself—jason didn’t look.

“she loved you,” the voice said. “she never doubted you.”

but jason didn’t believe it.

not when he’d failed you in the most final way possible.

the grave was at the edge of the cemetery, under a weeping willow. the headstone was simple. your name. your birth and death dates. and a small engraving at the bottom:

“still the light in the dark.” he visited the next day. and the day after that. and the next. — he came without flowers. he didn’t know how to carry them.

weeks passed.

the apartment stayed quiet. your shoes still by the door. your toothbrush still in the cup. your pillow still untouched. the only thing touched were parts of your clothing. lingering perfume you’d sprayed on your shirts — jason needed the items to help him sleep. craving any ounce of you he could find. clinging onto the fabric imagining it was you. your body laying on top of his, cupping his face and kissing him endlessly. whispering about the good life they had. it broke jason. everything reminded him of you. it was killing him in a way he couldn’t grieve properly.

he didn’t move anything.

he didn’t patrol much anymore. bruce didn’t force it. dick stopped asking. jason barely responded to texts. calls went unanswered. roy left voicemails. barbara stopped by once and found him curled on the living room floor, clutching one of your sweaters, rocking slowly.

“it still smells like her,” he whispered. barbara didn’t say anything. just sat beside him and cried quietly.

he didn’t dream of you. not really.

just flashes. the way your eyes crinkled when you smiled. the sound of your laugh in the kitchen. the scent of carnations on your skin. the feel of your hand in his—soft and warm and alive. soft words leaving your lips — “i love you jay, i love you, i love you” you said like a prayer to him. your sweet voice haunting him in a way he hoped he’d never forget. wanted these cruel dreams, just to listen to you until his brain slowly fades it away.

then he’d wake up. and the cold would remind him. you weren’t coming back.

one night, he sat in front of the flower shop you used to visit. they had carnations in the window. he stared at them for an hour. then he walked inside. — the woman behind the counter gave him a curious look. “need help?”

he cleared his throat. “just… just the carnations.”

“any color?”

he looked down. his hands were shaking.

“all of them.”

he brought them to your grave the next morning. the sun hadn’t risen yet. the cemetery was still wrapped in mist, cold and soft. the carnations trembled in his grip. red, white, pink, purple, yellow, orange, lavender— tied with a pale ribbon. the kind you would’ve picked.

he knelt beside your headstone, laid the flowers gently across the grass. “you deserved these,” he whispered. his voice cracked. “i should’ve brought them sooner.”

he brushed his fingers across your name, eyes stinging.

“i thought they were pointless. i thought flowers died too easily.” his breath hitched. “but they were never about that, were they? they were about love. about life. about choosing something beautiful even when everything else was dark.”

he laughed, bitter and broken. “you knew that. you were that.”

the wind shifted, gentle and cold, like a simple answer.

“i miss you,” he said. “god, i miss you so much it fucking hurts.” he pressed his forehead against the stone. “i don’t know who i am without you.”

days blurred. he kept bringing flowers.

sometimes he talked to you. sometimes he just sat. sometimes he cried. he never stayed dry-eyed for long.

he stopped going to the apartment eventually. moved back into one of the safehouses. colder. emptier. more fitting.

he stopped shaving. stopped eating well. he looked thinner, paler, his eyes sunken like the weight of grief was dragging his soul down with it. — no one could reach him.

not dick, not bruce, not even alfred.

roy visited once. found jason standing in the rain at your grave, drenched and shaking. “you need to come inside,” roy said.

“she’s alone,” jason whispered. tears and rain mixing together, not knowing which was which.

“she’s not,” roy said. “you carry her everywhere.”

jason shook his head. “it’s not enough.”

roy didn’t know what to say. because maybe jason was right. and roy didn’t leave his side. they both sat in the rain. his best friend holding him and rubbing his shoulder in a ‘i’ve got you’ way. sitting in silence while jason continued to cry.

jason would be walking down the street, trying his best to clear his mind when he would see a little girl walking with her dad holding hands while the girl had a carnation, a small reminder. the ghost of you she saw in that little girl. — crushing him. these flowers were now everywhere he went. he couldn’t get away from them. it was a sign just like roy said — that you were everywhere.

jason never moved on. he didn’t date. didn’t laugh like he used to. he existed. he survived. that was it.

every year on your anniversary, he brought nine carnations. three white, three red, three pink. one for every phase of your life together—dating, engaged, married.

every year, he whispered the same thing. “you were the best thing that ever happened to me, i love you eternally sweetheart. i miss you.. every.. every fucking day.. it’s so difficult.. you were my favorite person…god i hate this city.. i gutturally hate ivy for taking you away from me…i miss you..so much.. please know that… i love you (y/n) todd”

and one night, sitting by your grave, his back against the cold stone, he looked at the flowers and finally said it aloud: “i think… i think i was a carnation too.”

his voice was hoarse. the wind tugged at his coat. “strong. stubborn. quiet. always trying to survive. but…” he blinked slowly. “i needed care. i needed you. you were the one who watered me. gave me sunlight. made sure i didn’t wither.”

he closed his eyes. “you kept me alive.. and now—” he didn’t finish. he didn’t need to. because the silence answered for him.

the carnations on your grave never wilted for long. he always replaced them — always brought fresh ones — always sat with you. — in every lifetime, you had been his light. his warmth. his reason.

he was just a flower with cracked petals. and you— you were the hands that kept him blooming. and without you, he wilted. and never truly grew again. stuck in the endless cycle of grief. still having dreams of you, bright and beautiful. a cruel reminder of what he can’t have anymore. “i use to be scared that if i went you’d be alone.. now.. i..”

jason was alone. he shut everyone out. he knew it wouldn’t be what you wanted. jason was afraid of actually accepting your death, grieving properly and moving on. you were the most impactful person in his life, and couldn’t imagine moving on from you. he was only alive for you, knowing you had dreams and passion about life, it was taken from so you abruptly that jason wanted to find comfort in your activities. his routine meshing with your old one. “i built a flower bed.. right outside that coffee shop where we had our first couple date.. i know you’d love it. a couple kids painted it for me.. it’s stunning, just like you baby…” jason said kissing the headstone, placing a bouquet of carnations down.

*. ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

i love jason 🫂 i should write something sweet next time, or would ya’ll like more angst? — have a good day / night xx !!!

i hope this was an okay read!! i could’ve gone more in depth at some parts, but i kept training off :p !!!! mwaahh byyee <3

[domesticatedstew]

a little gaslight district fanfic i wanted to write (might make more) Basically a prequel to what happens in the pilot, like a few hours before the pilot happens

It had only been a few years since Jack joined the Whale Belly Butchershop crew. It felt like a fraction of a second and yet somehow not a single moment was dull or boring.

Ken was a pretty good boss, hard on his employees but Jack knew it was from a place of care (for his employees and the resturant.) Breadhead was always a goofball around Jack, he's lucky that he's never been on the receiving end of one of Breadhead's yeast filled rampages. Mud was a bit sketchy, but he was funny and was nice to talk to from time to time (while Jack desperately tried to bum a cigarette off of his sludgey coworker.)

Mel was... something else though. She was closer in age to Jack than anyone else (at least as close in age as two immortal zombies can get), and they got along better than anyone else too. But no matter how cool she was, Jack couldn't look passed how much different she was to everyone else.

She was still perfectly intact, no decay or scars or even missing limbs. Her hair was all natural and her eyes were still so full of life. He hadn't even seen her die once, while every other coworker had at least one death on the job.

Weirdest of all, nearly everyone around her had disappeared.

It wasn't all that weird that the crime family he worked for got rid of some people, it just made Jack worry he could be next at any time. Jack knew that something had happened to Romeo, and then Cathy, and then Syd. Which was an odd coincidence the more he thought about it. Unfortunately, Jack didn't have time to keep thinking about it.

"JACK!! BRING OUT THE CLEAN DISHES, AND PRONTO!!!"

Ken's loud, grumbly voice snapped Jack out of his train of thought, sending a chill down his exposed spine. "COMING SIR!" Jack scooped up every single clean plate, fork, and knife he could find (which was barely a dent in the mountain of dirty dishes the resturant accumulated.) He always wondered how this place got so many dirty silverware when most customers ate with their bare hands.

He raced through the back room and into the kitchen where Ken was chopping up some sorry fly person, still kicking and screaming until Ken brought down a larger butchers knife. Jack could see the bright red guts seeping out from different slashes from the torso, he began to wonder if he could take some leftovers home with him after his shift.

"Youre gonna have to help Mel bring out the food, it's chaos out there and people are ordering more food than I can chop up." Ken snatched the stack of dishes from Jack's hand and started portioning out the fly carcass. "Why can't the others help Mel? I've still got a million dishes to clean back there-" "You need to help because 3 of my employees ran off and the other 3 can't put plates on tables if it was the ONLY thing they could do!!"

Ken slammed the butchers knife he held into the table, walking off into the freezer to presumably thaw out some more bodies.

Jack didn't want to still be standing there when the butcher got back, so he stacked as many plates as he could on his arms and shimmied his way through the swinging doors into the dining area. "Holy shit, he really wasn't kidding."

People were sitting on any surface they could find, cluttering up the floor and making it practically impossible to navigate. "JACK!! IM DROWING OVER HERE," He swiveled his head to look for whoever was yelling at him.

Mel was trying with all her might to climb free from the swarm of customers, reaching out for Jack who was in the safety of behind the counter.

Jack grasped her gloved hand and pulled back with all his might, completely forgetting about the stack of plates in his arms as Mel sprang free from the horde. He realized too late that she was coming straight towards the stacks and stacks of plates. All that food would go to waste and Ken would for sure fire him on the spot, at least Jack he'd only be fired.

Before the food could even touch the floor, swarms of zombies and flies devoured every single scrap.

"Thanks for helping me out Jack, they act like they've never had breakfast in their life," Mel chuckled as she climbed off of Jack. Somehow she didn't get a single piece of guts on her, it made Jack just think she was cooler. "No problem Mel, I didn't want to see your crushed corpse on the job," He said in a joking manner, but he could have sworn he saw a different emotion somewhere within Mel's glistening red eyes.

"Hey, uh... where's Mud and Breadhead by the way?" Jack finally noticed the lack of giant bread men and tall gooey skeletons. He hoped they hadn't been devoured by the starving mass of customers.

"I'm not really sure if I'm being honest. Mud is probably hiding somewhere to avoid work like usual, but Breadhead should be playing the piano-"

Before Mel could finish her sentence, there was a sudden loud commotion coming from the kitchen. For a second Jack had thought someone had started driving through the resturant and was coming straight for them.

Ken burst through the kitchen doors, fists clenched around the necks of two rottlings who were trying desperately clawing at the butcher's large knuckles. Jack could feel his own throat tightening and his already clammy hands getting clammier.

"ALRIGHT YOU SCUM, EVERYONE WHO'S BEEN LOITERING HAS 5 SECONDS TO LEAVE OR ELSE." He tightened his grip on one of the rottlings necks, an audible crunch filled the silence of the once chaotic dining room.

Everyone started bolting out of any and all exits, busting through windows and nearly breaking the front doors off their hinges.

The rottling that was still somehow alive was dropped like a bag of garbage is dropped in a dump; struggling to breathe or stand while desperately trying to crawl away from the enraged butcher. Ken dropped the other rottling, who was quickly revived by the black hand and sprinted out the building. Being revived felt amazing, but that feeling wore off in a few minutes and all the pain that you endured would come crawling back into your body. Jack shuddered as he remembered all the times he died.

Ken sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, "We're never serving breakfast again. MUD, BREADHEAD, STOP HIDING AND COME OUT TO HELP ME FIX THE DINING ROOM!!" Ken turned to look at the rest of his family with a look of exhaustion (Although Jack was pretty sure that expression was permanent.)

"You two are on dish duty, I don't care how long it takes just get it done."

Mel and Jacked looked at each other, Mel having a mischievous expression plastered all over her face.

"You still got that magazine, Jack?"

[doebrain]

I HAVE BEEN VERY GOOD AT WANTING NOTHING

i have made a religion of the duvet a gospel of horizontal hours and tea gone cold because nothing ever burns here anymore not since the year the sparrows dropped dead midflight or maybe i imagined them maybe it was a dream a fugue a dead pixel in the memory reel. yes there was once fire in me i think or at least a chemical mimic a hiss of fizz before the bottle went flat but now everything is grey and polite i want nothing and it is exhausting to want nothing do you know how much effort it takes to decline pleasure how much ritual it takes to prepare for sleep that never comes how much devotion to avoid feeling how devout i am in my inertia how much control it takes to let go every single day (every single day) i whisper maybe and step out into traffic not to die just to see if i can still startle myself if i can still flinch the body still knows terror even if the soul doesn’t show up anymore. i eat i bathe i text back like a very polite ghost i do everything correctly i am so good at staying alive it is criminal really like a performance of survival like mime theatre like wearing a corpse suit with a lovely blouse and being charming and everyone says you are doing so well and i say yes thank you the days go by like dominos like spoonfuls of dust like a looped gif of a person pretending to sleep until sleep itself becomes theatre and the curtains never fall and i keep forgetting my lines because nothing is written just repetition repetition repetition like i am being punished for a crime i do not remember committing like the sentence is life and the crime is birth and i am very sorry and very tired and very quiet and very good

[herearedragons]

Selene Companion AU

had it for a while. putting it on main because I need a point of reference when talking about it to people and also like. It's Fun. with the power of imagination you too can have Selene Moonborn in YOUR Watcher's party

background: this AU gives Selene her original background of being raised in an Ondrite temple in The White That Wends, escaping and eventually making her way to the Dyrwood, with the difference that she happened to arrive several weeks sooner and not on Odema's caravan. alone, she wandered until eventually deciding to head to Defiance Bay, where the Watcher eventually encounters her.

Recruitment

Once allied with Dunryd Row, you receive a sidequest from Kurren to investigate a chain of serial murders (separate from the disappearances connected to Lumdala; these are proven murders, with bodies found). He'll direct you to a few crime scenes, where you will read the remnants of the victims' souls to learn how exactly each of them died, and where the killer went after that. You will learn that the killer was a woman, who was cloaked but emitted some kind of light, and that all of the victims were suffering prior to their deaths: a victim of robbery stabbed and left to die, a sick man with nothing to relieve his pain, a heartbroken widow who has tired of life.

You will eventually follow the killer's tracks to Ondra's Gift, where you'll find her in an abandoned building where a gang of criminals was torturing a traitor. The torturers are already dead, and she's getting ready to finish off the victim; with a high enough skill check you can stop her, but otherwise she'll put an end to the woman's suffering.

The killer turns out to be a moon godlike woman. Either through dialogue or through Watcher powers, you learn that she has some kind of condition that makes her feel the pain of others, and being in a crowded city overflowing with refugees is driving her insane. She has been killing suffering people in a futile attempt to make the noise stop.

At this point, you can either fight and kill her, putting her out of her misery, or turn her in to Dunryd Row (mentioning them will make her perk up, barely recalling that she wanted to find Dunryd Row before the noise became too much, hoping that they could help her).

In your next conversation with Lady Webb, she'll mention the woman you brought in: her name is Selene, and the ciphers of Hadret House have been able to bring her back to her senses. Webb explains that Selene is a powerful cipher whose mental defenses were worn down, and that though an insanity plea might spare her from being executed, she'll probably be locked away in the sanitarium for life. A Watcher with a high enough Intellect or Perception can pick up on the fact that she wants them to ask whether there's a better solution to Selene's problem; otherwise, Webb will bring it up herself. Either way, she will offer that the Watcher take Selene with them. If you agree, she will become available as a companion.

(If the Watcher refuses to take Selene with them, the first time you camp outdoors after the Defiance Bay riots you'll get a cutscene where she approaches the camp and asks to join you, explaining that she saw what happened in Hadret House and wants to avenge the deaths of those who helped her, giving you a second - and last - chance to recruit her)

Dialogue

Selene gets more dialogue options as her companion quest advances, but by default you can question her about her abilities, her condition and her homeland, all of which she will be perfectly willing to explain — though she skirts around discussing her community and its religious practices, saying that it's personal. She has a bitter attitude towards everything Ondrite, and it's clear that she was once fond of the religion, but for whatever reason that relationship has soured. She'll mention that her godlike nature made her important to the Ondrites in her community, but refuse to elaborate, falling back on vague "you know how it is" statements (though she'll be a little more open with a godlike Watcher, saying that she was expected to become a spiritual leader because of her nature)

Banter

Selene has a concise manner of speaking, trying to speak shortly and simply, but not out of a lack of patience: she just wants to be understood. If faced with aggression from other companions, she'll sometimes snap back, but most often she'll just retreat into herself, either indifferent or exasperated. She has a deadpan sense of humor, delivering jokes in the same tone she says everything else, and will laugh at the jokes of others when they're not outright cruel or too raunchy for her to relate to. She seems to enjoy the company of Sagani, Edér and Kana the most, having long conversations with them. Her fondness for Edér, seemingly based in their shared experience of being sentenced to death by their god and her admiration of his ability to find light in the world despite his hardships, seems to be deeper than she lets on; in one of their conversations, she asks him whether he'd like her to remove some of his Saint's War memories, a process that (unbeknownst to Edér, but known to the Watcher) is painful to her. He rejects her offer.

Companion quest: Still Waters

(if recruited at Webb's request) Selene, a cipher with a mysterious past, has killed several people in Defiance Bay. The ciphers of Dunryd Row brought her back from the brink of insanity, and I have agreed to take her into my party to make sure this never happens again.

(if recruited in Act 3) Selene, a cipher with a mysterious past, has killed several people in Defiance Bay. The ciphers of Dunryd Row brought her back from the brink of insanity, and now she wishes to avenge their deaths. I have agreed to help her, but I should keep an eye on her in case she relapses.

Tasks:

- Travel with Selene for some time

Selene's quest functions similarly to Durance's and Grieving Mother's, in that it advances through cutscenes that trigger when resting with her in the party. Once you have triggered all three cutscenes, a special visitor will arrive in Caed Nua, and dealing with them will resolve the quest.

Like many other companions, in interactions with Selene during her quest (and maybe in some Selene-prompted conversations), you can sway her towards one of two values: in this case, connection versus isolation. To sway her towards connection, the Watcher has to be supportive and stress that Selene doesn't have to face her struggles alone, and encourage her to care about others; to sway her towards isolation, remain indifferent or suggest that Selene can minimize her suffering from other people's thoughts by spending her time away from other people and/or emotionally distancing herself from them.

Cutscene 1: on the first rest with Selene in the party, the Watcher suddenly wakes up from a nightmare to find her standing over them, having woken them up with her mind. She explains that their thoughts were painful and kept her from falling asleep; the Watcher can express gratitude, remain indifferent or ask why hasn't she killed them like she did the other suffering people. Regardless of their reaction, Selene will explain that back in Defiance Bay, her judgement was clouded by pain and that she wants the Watcher to know she's not a danger to them. If the Watcher asks how it felt to be in the city, Selene will refuse to explain, saying that she wouldn't wish this feeling on her enemy. The scene ends with her offering to put the Watcher back to sleep with her powers; if they accept, they drift off into a peaceful dream of a moonlit ocean shore.

Cutscene 2: The Watcher finds Selene at the edge of camp, staring off into the woods with a lost expression. If asked, she will explain that there's a dying deer not far from the camp, and she's keeping it company. The Watcher can approve of it, mock her, stand with her in silence, or offer to go look for the deer. Selene will say that it's not necessary, and then announce that the deer has died. The conversation then turns to her feeling the pain of others, and, feeling vulnerable in the aftermath of sharing an animal's last moments, Selene will talk about how her cipher powers awakened when she was an Ondrite acolyte, and how she was tasked with taking people's painful memories away until her mind couldn't handle it. Her fellow Ondrites tried to put her out of her misery, then, but she escaped and lived for decades more with a broken mind. She will then ask the Watcher whether they think that was the right choice, giving them an opportunity to argue either for death as a mercy or for clinging to existence even when it hurts, or to argue the more neutral point that every person should be allowed to choose that for themselves (which Selene clearly wasn't).

Cutscene 3: As the Watcher sleeps, they find themselves pulled out of their dream and into Selene's. There, they see the temple she grew up in, and follow a phantom version of her around until it leads them past a closed door with a cold, terrible feeling radiating from it. Upon opening the door, the Watcher will see the events of the night when Selene's fellow priests tried to ritually drown her "to return her to Ondra" play out: Selene walks into the chamber, expecting a parting ceremony as she's been told that the temple has allowed her to leave, finds four priests waiting there for her, forcing her into the pool in the middle of the room. She kills them with her mind and runs outside. When all is done, present day Selene will appear next to them and comment that this was the first time she'd ever taken a life with her mind, or at all. The Watcher can express sympathy, callousness or indifference, and then has an opportunity to question her more about her past and her recovery. The conversation ends with Selene confessing that on that day, the whole world has shrunk to the size of this room for her: here, her family betrayed her, and though she didn't let them kill her, she had to lose them instead. The Watcher has an opportunity to argue either that Selene shouldn't put her faith in people blindly, or that, though what the priests did was horrible, there are people out there who would support her.

Special Visitor: after the third cutscene, an Ondrite Acolyte will arrive at Caed Nua. Impatient, the Acolyte will approach the Watcher at the gates of Caed Nua, explaining that they are a missionary sent from their temple in The White That Wends to spread their faith in the Dyrwood. At that point, they will notice Selene, either in the Watcher's party or coming over to greet them, and be shocked. They cry out, calling her Saint Sigrun and expressing their confusion at seeing her in the flesh, as it's known that she has ascended. Selene then speaks into the Watcher's mind, explaining what they can probably piece together themselves: that the Acolyte came from her community and that Selene's escape was apparently never solved, and now she sees that her people believe her disappearance to be Ondra's miracle. She's shaken, and the Watcher can feel her composure start to crack through their telepathic connection. At this point, they can either pressure her to steel herself (earning Isolation points) or reach out and support her (earning Connection points), all the while they and Selene stumble through trying to construct a plausible explanation for why she's here and not "ascended". Eventually, it becomes clear that her presence in Caed Nua can't be handwaved away, and Selene faces a choice: tell the Acolyte the truth (which will surely find its way back to her people, letting them know she's alive) or erase their memory of the encounter. The former earns Connection points and the latter earns Isolation points, but it's possible to let her erase the Acolyte's memory and still end the game with a high Connection score. This will finish Selene's companion quest, as one way or the other she will have come to terms with her place in the world.

Endings

If Selene's Isolation score is higher than her Connection score: once her quest for vengeance is fulfilled, she walks into the woods of Eir Glanfath, never to be seen again.

If Selene's Connection score is higher: she returns to Defiance Bay and joins forces with Kurren to rebuild Dunryd Row, determined to not let the legacy of those who helped her fade away.

(bonus) If her Connection score is higher and every one of her banters with Edér was triggered: it's mentioned that Selene regularly rides out of town to meet up with someone. She never tells anyone where she's going, but Kurren once managed to track her down and saw her walk into a tavern side by side with a familiar straw-haired man.

Bonus content: The White March

(spoilers! people who haven't finished TWM2, avert your eyes)

Taking Selene with you to The White March for part 2 of the DLC yields you an entire additional storyline. The Low Tide's situation reminds her of her own; she will be more or less vague about it depending on how much you have advanced her personal quest, but Ondra's general presence will deeply unsettle her. Learning about the murder of Abydon has a strange effect on her, seemingly evoking both schadenfreude and dread; in addition, if Selene is present, Ondra will address her personally, accusing her of shirking her duty to her (an accusation that hits different if you already know that Selene was supposed to be sacrificed).

If her Isolation acore is high, after defeating the kraken Selene will ask the Watcher to let her stay behind and strike the crystal, saying that she's tired of fighting against her fate. If the Watcher refuses, she'll try to use her powers to force them to hand the hammer over to her; successfully resisting requires passing a high Resolve, Intellect or Might check. This only affects whether you get to choose who stays behind; the criteria for Selene's survival are the same as any other companion, and if she strikes the crystal and survives, you'll get additional dialogue with her where she seems shaken, but weirdly invigorated by the experience, delighted by the fact that Ondra couldn't claim her after all.

Deadfire

If Selene survives the events of POE1 and gets her "connected" ending, she'll be with you on the Defiant at the beginning of the game, having helped Edér charter the boat, keeping an eye on the state of the Watcher's soul.

[iclimbtreestofeelalive]

hey for everyone talking about jury nullification etc etc: it only works if you lie and say you dont know what it is. if youre chosen for jury duty and they ask you if you know what it is, you say no. here's an article going more in depth, and here's the cgp grey video about it.

like. just so we're clear, it's good to know about, but if you go into a courtroom and start talking about nullification, you could very well have voided your place on that jury. be smart about it 👍

[will-pilled]

How to get a boyfriend as a trans masc no borax no glue

[trying-to-jew]

Deeply tired (but unsurprised) sigh

[sga-owns-my-soul]

one of these days i'm going to go to prison for committing crimes against my cities transit system and tbh they'll deserve it

[cerusee]

worst part of gmp fandom was the amount of gu jian dickriders who thought he was xiaofeng's shining light and true love. that guy is at best a narrative function and you cant date narrative functions!!

Oh god I can only imagine. As he he didn’t betray Xiaofeng just as badly or worse than Li Chengyin! Li Chengyin absolutely used her to get to Khan Tomur, even after he fell in love with her, which is unforgivable of him, but she was basically a stranger when he set off on that journey. Whereas Gu Jian grew up with her, had a very close relationship with her, was well aware she loved and trusted him, and deliberately abused that trust for his and LCY’s mutual family revenge drama. I think it is VERY telling that when the River of Oblivion is doing its brain surgery to pluck out all of Xiaofeng’s painful memories, it completely wipes out Li Chengyin and Gu Jian.

(And sure he spends the rest of the show in an alcoholic spiral of regret and guilt about it, but tbh I’m not at all convinced the show has any illusions about them—he arguably does her far dirtier by hanging around and trying to reconnect/force her to remember him when she forgot about him for a damn good reason. Okay, admittedly, she might have died from poison if he hadn’t been on hand, but given that he was in the city for clan vengeance goals anyway, he COULD have just checked in with A’Du and been like “yo, I’m available if she’s ever in mortal danger” and then otherwise have stayed out of her life in recognition of the fact that he fucked her over so badly she bleached her brain about it. Like, if he was committed to following her around atoning at a respectful distance, it would be a little bit creepy, but eh, I’d accept it in this genre. It’s the part where he keeps bulling into her presence and trying to rekindle lost feelings—ones I think even he knew were never as intense as the ones she’d had for Li Chengyin—that had me thumbing my nose at him a lot of the time. Because THAT was 100% about his feelings, specifically his jealousy of Li Chengyin, and I think it made everything so much worse for Xiaofeng in the long run.)

[arolesbianism]

Everyday I see another youtube video or whatever say smth along the lines of "this character is badly written because they're unlikable/annoying/insert negative description here" and everyday I end up massively disappointed because I came here for analysis on the actual writing of a character not just a description of the feelings they made you experience

[leviiackrman]

I just found out what happens to dabi at the end of mha. Don’t talk to me.

[ersatz-introspective]

hiii:33!! friendly reminder that someone can enjoy a character that has done heinous things and not support said heinous things

usually when a character does Bad Things in a narrative (espec if they're not the protagonist) it is Portrayed As Bad so people who enjoy the character Likely Know They Are Bad

& either way harassing people over enjoying a fictional character is just really childish

if you don't like the character, that is perfectly valid. but there's never any reason to characterise everyone who likes said character as Evil, and/or imply they condone the character's negative actions.

also sometimes i look at internet discourse and it's like people want morally grey characters but then turn around when "morally grey" is not always "i have my own rules but i still make all the right choices !!" some of y'all just need to admit you just like good characters that's fine not everyone is into the spice it's ok to like that good protagonist energy

;;;not saying every character i'm referring to fits in that "morally grey" category, some are just evil villains, but even then i'm sorry 90% of ur stories wouldn't exist without them. they drive the plot.

[contraspem--spero]

I'm pro-palestine but the rhetoric "everyone cares more about 500 dead Ukrainian kids than Palestinian kids" is so fucking braindead

~500 are the KIDS ONLY MURDERED ON UKRAINIAN-CONTROLLED territories e.g shelling bombing and drones

Like how purposely dishonest do you have to be to forget that Mariupol alone has a death toll of 500 000 and counting, and that's just one city. Like do you really think it's 500 kids total and not because we will don't know the full number and WE NEVER WILL because russians filled mass graves with concrete to hide their crimes? The Mariupol theatre with "CHILDREN" written next to it, razed to the ground? Like did we just collectively forget about that or what? russia claiming to have "saved" 700 000 kids from occupied Ukrainian territories? Doesn't ring a bell?

If you gonna compare the genocidal wars to make a point (here's a tip: don't) at least compare things that actually make sense.