#IN MY DEFENCE I WAS SUICIDAL??

[the-magnusinstitute]

All staff and visitors,

So. Hello. Um. Long story short? Yellow door.

[psychojetcocktail]

im fucked, i didnt read the thing for romanian class but i had other things to do sooo

[paterday]

The most frustrating thing to me. Is that my art could be miles better. If i did not spend 3 years being actively suicidal everyday. Like i know i did not control that but man.

[secretceremonials]

getting rejected from 4 different first year schemes because 2 years ago when I was supposed to be doing work experience, I was too busy trying not to exit this mortal realm <<<

[redvexillum]

I feel like the way I portray Alastor is all in the spectrum of Yandare. So, I tried my best to write...yandare Alastor in a way it makes sense for my head canon of him. I want to give a quick shout out to my friend @peach-flavored-flambe ! I thought the best way to welcome her is dedicating this unhinged Alastor story to her!

TAGS/WARNINGS: f!reader, dead dove: do not eat, dub con, obsessive!alastor, p in v, gentle sex, gaslighting, entrapment, breeding kink, psychological, dark, mental torment, unhealthy relationship, orgasm denial, power dynamic, unhinged!alastor, reader is not okay, implied cannibalism, suicidal thoughts, depression, reader is delulu, alastor is delulu, extreme co-dependency, extreme denial, yandare!alastor

🙏 please mind your mental health before you read 🙏

The thought curled through you like poison, clinging to every corner of your mind: you wanted to die.  

It was a siren song, cruel and haunting, a whisper that slithered deep into the crumbling fortress of your mind, eroding the defences you’d built to keep it out. Your hands shook as exhaustion seeped into every crack; bones weary from a battle that felt endless. It wasn’t just tiredness – it was a soul-deep weight, a leaden heaviness that hollowed you out.  

In the background, soft jazz played from the kitchen, each note swirling with a warmth that felt so alien in the cold void within you. Sunlight poured through the window, a golden river that washed over everything it touched, indifferent to the shadows lurking within.  

You noticed the knife on the counter – a sharp gleam that seemed to pulse with a dangerous allure, its polished blade catching the light with a slick, almost wet shine. It seemed to call out to you, offering a quick, dreamless eternity.  

But even as your gaze lingered, your heart resisted, tethered stubbornly to someone who’d become both your prison and sanctuary. 

Alastor.  

A man you never should have crossed paths with. A man you should never have fallen for.  

You sighed, holding the knife as you turned back to the chunk of meat. Its once bright crimson flesh changing to a dull, dead brown. The raw smell was overwhelming, thick and nearly spoiled in the oppressive Louisiana heat. Alastor left you with some tasks today, after you had begged him to give you something to do as you wait for his return. Your task was to package the meat, clean up the kitchen, polish the floor while you waited for his return.  

The smell of raw meat brought images to flicker through your mind: men and women, faces frozen in terror as Alastor dragged them down to the cellar. A shiver ran down your spine, and a small whimper escaped, a whisper of fear against the tears that threatened to fall. You tore your gaze away from the knife and forced yourself to look outside. The bayou stretched out beyond the window, a bleak expanse of gnarly trees and dark water – silent, desolate, and as inescapable as him.  

You took a steadying breath, mentally reciting the day’s tasks like a prayer to keep you grounded. Finish the meat, scrub the blood stains, bleach the floor, and when the last crimson smear was gone, he’d return. By then, you’d be ready, composed. With a sniff, you shoved your feelings back, burying them under the monotony of chores.  

Finally, when every trace of red erased from the floor, you heard the front door click open. The sound echoed, a rhythmic click-click-click, each lock sliding free, the metal grating sharply against the silence. Your heart skipped as the door creaked, and there he stood – Alastor, haloed in the setting sun. His smile was gentle, but his eyes gleamed as he opened his arms.  

“My love,” he murmured, setting down his bag and slipping off his coat with an air of practised ease.  

You scrambled to your feet, the memory still fresh from the last time you hadn’t been there to greet him. He had panicked, refusing to leave your side for days. He held you then, whispering sweet words of devotion, his arms an unyielding cage, each word sinking deeper until it was all you knew. You didn’t know if he knew the truth – that every word bound you closer even as you longed to escape.  

Fear wrapped around you, yet somewhere deep within, in a place even you struggled to reach, you needed him. The years of isolation had stripped you bare, leaving only the two of you locked in this strange dance.  

Five years – five years of him as your only constant, your only company in this void. That had to be love. It was the only way to make sense of why you stayed, why you remained bound to him by something more powerful than chains.  

It had to be love.  

“Alastor,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, legs shaking from hours of kneeling on the hard floor, scrubbing away every crimson stain. You took a step forward, the chilling clink of metal grazing the wood beneath your feet with each uneven, hesitant step. The floorboards seemed to pulse below you, each creak an echo of your own heartbeat, until finally, you stopped, frozen four steps away from the exit.  

He chuckled – a warm, resonant sound that should have been comforting but only heightened the chill trickling down your spine. With graceful steps, Alastor closed the distance between you, his arms circling around your shoulders. His chin rested gently against your head, the weight of him grounding you in place, his presence washing over you like a tide you couldn’t escape.  

“I missed you,” you mumbled against his chest, nuzzling into his embrace. The heat of him, the solid reassurance of his touch, brought you back to yourself, to the one undeniable truth of your existence: you were here, alive, because he held you tethered. “Did you have a good day at work, my love?” you murmured, soft and tentative.  

His hand slid over the back of your head; fingers gentle as he stroked you. He breathed in deeply, a wistful sigh slipping from his lips. “My love, you never left my thoughts for a single moment.” His voice was soft, warm, and his arms tightened around you, so tightly that for a second, you felt as though the air was slipping away.  

Finally, he parted, just enough for you to breathe again, his fingers grazing along the warm curve of your cheek. “Let’s get you out of that, hmm?” His voice was gentle, and his whisky-brown eyes glittered with a kindness that made your chest ache.  

A swell of relief surged in you, and you threw your arms around his shoulders. “Thank you, Alastor, thank you!” Laughter bubbled out of you, bright and involuntary, stretching your lips into a smile that felt foreign, almost unbelievable after everything.  

He lifted you effortlessly, his strength both exhilarating and terrifying as he carried you toward the couch. Each step sent the faintest clinking of metal into the air, a reminder of the bond that held you captive.  

As he set you down and took a step back, you could feel his gaze moving over you, slow and deliberate, like he could peel back each layer with a single look. You flushed under his scrutiny, your shoulders curling inward, a strange blend of shame and need warring within you. Despite your clothes, under his gaze you felt exposed, vulnerable, as if he could read every thought you’d ever dared to keep from him.  

“Cher,” he murmured, his hand drifting over the outside of your calf, fingers tracing a path until they reached your ankle.  

You heard the fabric rustling, and then – there it was, glinting between his fingers: a silver key. Your eyes focused on the key, and your heart skipped, hope blooming like wildflowers in a barren field. The promise of freedom lay in that tiny object, so close and yet, a lifetime away. You watched, hardly daring to breathe, as he took your ankle in his hand, his thumb brushing lightly over your bare foot. It was a reminder of the first time he’d ordered you to go without socks when you first escaped from this manacle.  

He slid the key into the lock, and with a single twist, the manacle opened with the same familiar click that marked his return home every day. The cool metal fell away, clattering weakly to the floor. A rush of air hit the skin beneath, and you winced as blood surged back into your ankle, a dull ache flooding back into limbs so long constrained.  

The shackles lay there, lifeless on the floor, the physical proof of your captivity now nothing more than a scrap of metal, stripped of its power. And yet, as you looked up at him, his eyes shining with something both possessive and achingly tender, you realized you could never truly cast off the chains that bound you to him.  

Not as long as you believe you loved him.  

“Oh, my poor cher,” Alastor murmured, his voice thick with a twisted blend of regret and possessive tenderness as his eyes traced the dark bruises wrapping around your ankle. His lips brushed softly over the tender skin, lingering in a gentle, reverent kiss before his forehead rested against your leg.  

With his eyes closed, he sighed, pressing warmth into you. “It pains me,” he whispered, “to see even the slightest mark of discomfort on you.” His lips began a slow journey, grazing from your ankle upward along the sensitive skin of your inner calf, each kiss stealing a shiver from you. “But you understand, don’t you, cher? It’s a necessity.” 

He lifted his eyes to meet yours, their intense gaze sending a shudder through you. His position – kneeling between your legs – made it impossible to think straight. Despite being in a servile pose, he was still the master of your heart.  

“Yes...I understand,” you managed, your voice raspy and barely audible. His lips continued their climb, each kiss leaving a cool, tingling path against your skin. “But I’ve been good, Alastor.” Your breath hitched as his head came to rest in your lap, his fingers tracing languid circles along your thigh.  

He chuckled softly, low and indulgent. “You have been,” he murmured, his warm breath fanning across your skin. “Perhaps if you continue to behave...I might let you roam freely around the house when I’m not here.” He looked up, giving you a small, playful smile that made your heart stutter.  

The thought of moving freely, without the heavy, omnipresent clink of the chain dragging behind you, sent a thrill through your veins. You clenched your hands into fists, desperate to keep your excitement contained.  

“I can be good,” you whispered, fingers drifting to his hair, threading through the soft strands as you stroked his head. “I can be good for you, Alastor...” 

A groan escaped him, his eyes falling shut as he leaned into your touch, savouring the sensation like a man starving. Emboldened, you took a breath, letting words slip out – words you’d held back for so long, daring to hope he might grant them.  

“Maybe...” you hesitated, voice barely a murmur. “Maybe sometimes in the distant future, I could go into t-town with you?” Your fingers froze in his hair as his body tensed, muscles stiffening under your touch. You held your breath, dread and hope tangling within you, afraid you’d crossed some unseen line. Alastor’s overprotective streak was ironclad – whenever he sensed a threat, real or imagined, his vigilance would lock you down even more tightly than before.  

A heartbeat passed before he spoke. “Perhaps...” He rose to his feet slowly, drawing you up with him, a gentle smile curving his lips. “Perhaps one day, cher.” His hands slid under your legs, lifting you from the couch, his grip firm and desirous. “But for now...” he trailed off, leaving the sentence open, thick with suggestion as he carried you up the stairs.  

The scent of him, rich and intoxicating, filled your senses, mingling with the sharp, metallic undertone of old blood. Recently, he had brought up the idea of family, his eyes lighting with a dark kind of joy when he saw your loneliness. The house felt hollow most days, empty but for him, and he’d suggested a child - a little soul to fill the silent rooms.  

At first, the notion had left you reeling, uncertain, but the longer you were left alone with only your thoughts, the more the idea began to take root. Its appeal started to bloom uncontrollably like weeds in your mind.  

Now, Alastor and you spent every waking moment together in his bed, until your wishes took fruit.  

He lowered you onto the bed with an almost reverent tenderness, as though each touch was sacred, each look a silent promise. He shed his clothes slowly, his eyes never leaving you as his skin emerged, bare and raw. By the time he climbed onto bed, leaning over you, his desire was unmistakable – his cock hardening just from watching you laid out beneath him.  

He hovered for a moment, his face close to yours, and his gaze softened as his hand brushed along your cheek. “Cher,” he murmured, a plea woven into his tone, his voice low and thick. His fingers traced down the side of your face as though memorizing you by touch alone. “Will you let me...feel you tonight?” He pressed a kiss to your cheek, slow and lingering, each word like a promise. “For the rest of the night?” His hips lowered, pressing himself against your thigh, his warmth branding you.  

Heat flared through you, your body’s response instant and shameless. Every part of you remembered him – his hands, his mouth, the way he claimed you until the world slipped away. Your body answered before your mind could, a warmth pooling low in your stomach as he lifted the hem of your dress, slowly baring your skin. You sat up, letting the fabric fall away, and his eyes flickered, his gaze dropping to your bare breasts. Your only cover now a thin piece of cloth hiding the most intimate part of you.  

Alastor’s grin widened, his gaze roving from the pebbled peaks of your nipples down to the damp fabric between your thighs. His hands traced down, catching the waistband and tugging it free. His touch lingered over each inch of exposed skin as he pulled it over your thighs, past the bruises on your ankle, until you lay just as bare before him.  

Your legs fell open, your slick folds glistening in invitation, your body traitorous in its eagerness. Alastor’s eyes darkened, his fingers tightening around his cock as he gripped himself, slow strokes stoking his own arousal as he stared, captivated by your wetness. 

“The thought of you carrying my child, cher...it drives me mad.” His voice was a rough whisper, his breaths shallow as he stroked himself harder, faster, his eyes on your throbbing core. “It drives me to the edge,” he murmured, his grin feral as he leaned closer, his gaze smouldering with dark intent. “Drives me to the point of bloodlust,” his adam’s apple bobbed up then down, his grin trembling as it couldn’t stretch further lest it tore through his cheeks.  

You swallowed, your pulse quickening at the edge of his words, at the memory of the shadows he kept hidden – the bloodstained cellar, the bodies you helped him to clean. Whether you were here or not, you knew he would continue to kill, as relentless and ruthless as ever.  

"Ah, cher,” he sighed, settling his body over yours, his hard length pressing flush against your entrance, teasing you with his warmth. “Cher, cher, cher,” he murmured, his voice a low chuckle as he brushed his fingers through your hair, wrapping it around his fingers. “Why do you have to be so lovely?” His nose skimmed your hairline, nuzzling his way to your temple, where he pressed a slow, heated kiss. “Why do you tempt me like this?” 

“You’re all I think about, dream about,” he murmured, his voice honey-sweet as he pressed his mouth against your skin, each word a whisper trailing down your cheek, your neck, and finally, open-mouthed and lingering on the curve of your breast. “So much so, cher, that I sometimes imagine killing you.” His tone was soft, unsettlingly jovial as though he’d confessed a secret desire, his hands tracing delicate patterns over your skin.  

Your heart pounded, memories flashing across your mind like dark, haunted snapshots – the cellar door muffling desperate cries, the hollow silence that followed. The scent of blood hung thick in those memories, the darkness swallowing up the faces that haunted you. Your hands trembled, a pulse of fear mingling with something deeper, something you could barely acknowledge.  

“But I won’t,” he murmured against your skin, pulling you from the spiral of those memories. He lifted his hand to catch a tear that had slipped from your eye, his thumb brushing it away softly. He gazed at the glistening drop before licking it from his fingertip, his eyes darkened as he held you captive in his gaze. “I would never hurt you, cher. Have I ever hurt you?” His voice was quiet, coaxing yet intense, his question leaving no room for escape.  

His eyes burned into yours, searching, unwavering. “Tell me, cher,” he pressed, his voice as smooth as silk but laced with a demand that made your pulse stutter. “Do you see me as a bad man?”  

There were moments when Alastor felt so delicate, so gentle that he might as well have been made of glass, every touch featherlight. But there were others, moments like this, when he shifted – his possessive grip, his words, his gaze – all dark and consuming. When he asked these questions, you felt like a bird trapped in his cage, heart fluttering as you tried to find the right words.  

Your lips quivered, unable to form a reply, the silence thick as more tears slipped down your cheeks. Alastor’s gaze softened just slightly, and he gathered you close, arms wrapping around you as he rocked you, as if you were a fragile, precious thing in his hold. “Shh,” he whispered, his lips against your hair, “I love you, cher. I love you, I love you,” he repeated, his voice lilting like a lullaby.  

Your mind fractured, the edge of your memories sharp, each fragment glinting in the dark recesses of your mind. You reached out within yourself, searching, groping for the piece of you that had loved him first – the man you’d met one hazy night at the speakeasy, the man who seemed to light up the room just by existing.  

Slowly, you let your hands drift to his back, your fingers pressing against the warmth of his skin. Your eyes closed, more tears slipping free as you tried to remember the feeling of joy, of laughter that you’d felt with him. Your lips brushed against his shoulder, a tentative sign of trust as he sighed, his body relaxing under your touch.  

You dug deeper, sifting through memories of that laughter, of your first dance, your first kiss – all those quiet, gentle confessions that had once coloured his eyes in soft brows. You found yourself on your knees, clutching at those fragments with desperate hands, determined to recall the moments when his touch had felt safe, cherished.  

“Shh,” Alastor’s mouth hovered over yours, his lips ghosting against yours, a barely there whisper of warmth. “It’s alright, cher. I have you.” He guided himself against you, pressing gently, his cock slipping slowly into your wet, pulsing heat. His mouth melded to yours as his tongue traced along the seam of your lips, savouring each taste as his low moans mingled with your soft gasps.  

A hum escaped him, rich and satisfied, as he sank into you, his body pressed to yours, filling you with a quiet intensity that left you breathless. The salted trails on your cheeks lingered as your lips curved into a slow smile, your legs parting, welcoming him deeper, your heart opening despite everything, the echoes of his whispers filling the night.  

“Good girl,” Alastor groaned, his hips pushing forward, stretching you around the hard, unyielding thickness of him. “Oh, cher, you’re perfect for me,” he murmured, his words a deep, reverent moan as he sank in deeper, inch by inch, until he was completely enveloped. His hands settled possessively on your hip, his eyes devouring the sight of you.  

“I’m going to fill you with my seed all night, love,” he purred, rolling his hips with a languid, maddening rhythm. “After all, your body is begging me to take you – wouldn't you say?” His voice rose with playful amusement, the bed creaking beneath you as if echoing his delight.  

“Yes,” you gasped, breathless, the sensation of him making you tremble. “Please,” you whispered, your nails pressing into his shoulders, urging him closer. Alastor drew his hips back slowly, agonizingly, until only the tip of him remained, only to push back in, the pace deliberate, every inch of him dragging against you with intent. Each movement seemed to ignite a new flame within you, stretching your pleasure, drawing it out until it was almost unbearable.  

“Look how good you are for me,” he whispered against your flushed cheek, his lips tracing his words into your skin. “Look how perfect you are,” he breathed, sinking deeper as he tightened his arms around you, locking you into his rhythm. “No one will understand you the way I do. You were destined to be mine.” His voice was rich, warm, but tinged with darkness that was both thrilling and terrifying.  

“Al-Alastor,” you whimpered, each thrust stoking the tension building inside, reaching deeper, pulling you into a spiral of desire and delirium. His moans, his heated words, his relentless pace – all of it washed over you like a fevered dream. Each breath, each sigh and whispered praise tangled together in a symphony of need.  

The creaking of the bed became louder, and with a sudden surge, he lifted himself, teeth gritted, and drove into you harder. His hips snapped against yours; his pace relentless.  

“Cher...cher...” he growled, beads of sweat glistening on his brow as he focused on you, his gaze hungry. “That’s right, cher,” he chuckled breathlessly, each laugh broken by the sound of his hips smacking against your own. “Oh, you’d make a perfect mother,” he panted, his words nearly incoherent as he picked up his pace. The final thrust left you both gasping, his grip on you tightening as he finally reached his own release, filling you with powerful, pulsing bursts of warmth.  

You moaned in frustration, your pleasure still simmering, unsatisfied, leaving your skin taut with need. You tried to move, but Alastor held you firmly, pressing himself deep inside, his body still wrapped around yours.  

He brushed a stray lock of hair from your face as he slowly softened within you, the warm rush of his seed starting to trickle down. When he finally withdrew, his fingers slipped to your entrance, pressing lightly to try and keep every last drop inside, as if marking you as his.  

Lying on his side beside you, he gazed at you, his expression gentle as he took in your flushed, tear-streaked cheeks, still needy with unfulfilled desire. A smile tugged at his lips when you also turned to your side to face him. His eyes drifted down, and you knew he was watching his own essence escape, sluggishly slipping down and pooling on your inner thighs. He leaned in to press a soft kiss to your shoulder.  

“Don’t worry, cher,” he said quietly, his voice low and calming. “I’ll take care of you, again and again, tonight.” He withdrew his fingers, now slicked with his and your arousal. “Until your body takes my seed, we’ll keep trying,” he promised, his gaze flickering down between you both before meeting yours with a playful, boyish grin.  

With a breath that finally began to steady, you raised a hand to his face, touching his cheek tenderly. He turned to press a gentle kiss to your palm, a quiet moment of warmth shared in the aftermath.  

In moments like these, in the field of fractured memories, you saw one shard glinting brighter than the rest, pulling you toward it. It was a piece of you – something essential, something more truthful and dangerous than anything else. It shimmered with dark clarity, cutting through the shadows of doubt and lingering despair. 

You drifted past the memories that still haunted you, not quite registering the images that flooded your mind. Alastor’s eyes, once warm, turning nearly black with fury the night you tried to leave, his grip like iron as he vowed you’d belong to him. You passed by the moment he chained you to the cellar walls, his victims mere echoes in the darkness, his voice soothingly venomous, telling you that no one else could ever understand you as he did.  

Each scar those memories left on your soul was still fresh, a raw edge in the depths of your mind, fragments of yourself that would never heal.  

But in this one shard – this singular piece of undeniable truth – you saw something more. It was in these quiet, raw moments after he’d loved you, held you close, his breath mingling with yours. It was here, next to him in the aftermath, that you could almost believe he was the only soul in this world who would ever love you with such consuming fervour.  

You dragged your body closer to him, feeling the warmth of his body against yours, as his arms immediately circled protectively around you. His eyes softened as you leaned closer, drawing him into a gentle kiss. Your lips grazing his in a tender, slow exchange that felt achingly real. His fingers traced up and down your back, as if branding his name on your skin.  

In this quiet, lonely world, he was your guiding light, a burning soul who consumed all but left you somehow whole. You wanted to hold on to him, to keep him by your side. You feared whatever darkness lurked beyond Alastor, the fear of the unknown paled in comparison to the thought of leaving the one person who had vowed to love every fractured, scarred piece of you.  

He needed you, just as much as you needed him.  

Follow #vexitober 2024 to read my questionable kink/fluff stories!

[apas-95]

the liberal 'actually, it's impossible to tell whats good and bad, so you should never have any authority over anything' approach is, principally, ridiculous, but is also just incredibly weak as a defence.

whether abortion is good or actually murder is a pretty important thing to address: it's good. whether hrt is good or actually delusional self-harm is a pretty important thing to address: it's good. whether being gay is good or actually a sign of a sexual predator is a pretty important thing to address: it's good. in all these cases, going 'yeah, maybe abortion is murder, but it's my inalienable right to bodily autonomy, either way' is laughable. it wins over nobody who doesn't already think abortion isn't murder, and is based on a premise that we should already know is wrong: there are no such thing as universal human rights. all rights are socially-situated and conditional, and in fact, there are good times when 'bodily autonomy' should not be respected - I mean, for god's sake, we intend to kill people with guns.

we have to actually make value judgements and weigh the positives against the negatives for real, specific cases, not just pre-emptively refuse the question out of a solipsism and appeals to universal truths. forcing someone to give blood to save lives at a mass casualty event is more emotionally impactful, despite being identical to, mandating vaccination and handwashing. both of the latter are 'violations of bodily autonomy' that are plainly agreeable on practical grounds. the position that finds no possible way of extricating 'stopping someone from committing suicide', an act generally thanked after the fact, from the abuses that take place in capitalist psychiatric institutions, is not one based on material analysis or an attempt to mitigate harm - it is a juvenile 'abolitionist' approach that refuses to consider class character, in favour of an idealistic condemnation of entire systems and related practices in the abstract.

ultimately, there is nothing incorrect that is not also harmful. a refusal to analyse the positives and negatives of behaviours, procedures, and acts, justified by 'it's impossible to know!' and 'doing anything would be authoritarian!' is not helpful, does not bring about correct behaviour in practice, it is the opposite - it is a cover for harmful behaviours, and promoting it to avoid the hard discussions over whether a given behaviour is harmful is wrong. it fails to defend correct things - like the fact that hrt is good - and works to defend incorrect things. any view that our positions should not be based on practical, material facts is corrosive.

[bagelbun333]

The death penalty in Ace Attorney | The fandom’s biggest misconception

Capital punishment is something we all know is a real consequence when it comes to murder in Ace Attorney, but do all culprits who commit these crimes actually get the death penalty? That’s what I’m going to go through in depth within this post!

CW and TW: mentions of death, execution, murder, suicide etc.

Also major spoilers for basically all the mainline ace attorney games!

To start off with, what exactly warrants a death penalty in Japanifornia? Murder has been referred to as a capital crime that deserves a capital punishment, which in turn led people to believe that all murder convicts get the death sentence. However, there is a slight mistranslation within that statement and it should say “murder is a charge that risks the death penalty.” “Risk” is the keyword here. While yes, it is possible murder charges can warrant the death penalty, that doesn’t mean every culprit will get executed. Like, this isn’t Danganronpa 😭 What people don’t think about is the different kinds of murder charges there are, and the differences in sentencing this can create.

Murder charges can go from:

1st Degree Murder - Premeditated/long time planning

2nd Degree Murder - Not premeditated but the intent is there within the moment/deliberate killing

3rd Degree Murder - Deliberate reckless behaviour resulting in death

Aggravated Murder - Murder when an aggravating circumstance is proven (such as kidnapping or torture)

Voluntary Manslaughter - Intention to kill but is not guilty of murder due to provocation or mental incapacity

Involuntary Manslaughter - Killing without intention within the heat of the moment

Self Defence - Killing for defence of oneself

Consensual Homicide - Assisting a suicide

Attempted Murder - Planning and failing to kill

In Japan (the country this series is initially based on) these charges have different kinds of sentences depending on circumstances. So naturally, Japanifornia must have punishments very similar to this. These are the sentences for these crimes in Japan according to my research:

1st Degree - 5 years to life imprisonment

2nd Degree - 5 years to life imprisonment

3rd Degree - 3 to 5 years imprisonment

Aggravated Murder - Death penalty or life imprisonment

Voluntary Manslaughter - 1 to 15 years imprisonment

Involuntary Manslaughter - 1 to 15 years imprisonment

Consensual Homicide - 6 months to 7 years imprisonment

Self Defence - No imprisonment

Attempted Murder - 5 years to life imprisonment

Death penalties are usually passed in cases of multiple murders, although there are exceptions where individuals have committed a single murder that have been executed because it involved torture, extreme brutality or kidnapping with a demand for ransom. It is punishable by five years to life in prison, and with the death penalty if aggravating circumstances are proven. The only exception is for juvenile offenders since the minimum age for capital punishment in Japan is 18.

With this, we can work out what kinds of charges each of the ace attorney culprits will be given. (Mostly for the Phoenix Wright trilogy since I can’t recall much beyond aa4.)

(For clarification’s sake: a “/” is used when a crime could be one or the other or both, while the “,” is used to separate different crimes.)

Frank Sahwit: 2nd Degree Murder

Redd White: 1st Degree Murder

April May: 1st Degree Murder (Accomplice)

Dee Vasquez: Self Defence/Voluntary Manslaughter

Yanni Yogi: 1st Degree Murder

Manfred von Karma: 2nd Degree Murder, 1st Degree Murder (accomplice, planned out)

Joe Darke: Serial Murders (technically spree murder, guilty on five counts)

Damon Gant: 1st Degree Murder, 2nd Degree Murder (Serial Murders)

Lana Skye: 1st Degree Murder, 2nd Degree Murder (Unwilling Accomplice in both)

Richard Wellington: 2nd Degree Murder/Involuntary Manslaughter

Mimi Miney: 1st Degree Murder

Morgan Fey: 1st Degree Murder, Attempted Murder (Accomplice in both, planned out the crime)

Acro: Attempted Murder, Involuntary Manslaughter

Matt Engarde: 1st Degree Murder (Hired a hitman), Consensual Homicide (driven a woman to kill herself)

Dahlia Hawthorne: 1st Degree Murder, Consensual Homicide, 3 counts of Attempted Murder, and 2nd Degree Murder (Serial Murders)

Luke Atmey: 1st Degree Murder

Furio Tigre: Either 1st or 2nd Degree Murder

Godot: Voluntary Manslaughter/Self Defence (defending someone else)

Iris: Voluntary Manslaughter (accomplice)

Kristoph Gavin: 2 counts of 1st Degree Murder, Attempted Murder (Serial Murders)

Those who canonically got the death penalty:

- Joe Darke

- Dahlia Hawthorne

- Terry Fawles

- Simon Blackquill

Those who canonically got the death penalty but didn’t get executed:

- Terry Fawles (he died anyway rip)

- Simon Blackquill

Those who are most likely to get the death penalty but never canonically stated:

- Manfred von Karma (not explicitly stated but heavily implied)

- Damon Gant

- Matt Engarde

- Morgan Fey (vaguely implied)

- Kristoph Gavin

- The Phantom

Those who don’t get the death penalty:

- Frank Sahwit

- Redd White (he would if his blackmail victims got leaked)

- April May

- Dee Vasquez

- Yanni Yogi

- Lana Skye

- Richard Wellington (could be a chance that he would considering his victim was a police officer)

- Mimi Miney (unsure considering her accomplice is implied to be on death row)

- Acro

- Luke Atmey

- Furio Tigre

- Godot

- Iris

To recap, the death penalty in Japanifornia is reserved for the criminals with absolutely no hope for rehabilitation, and for those who have aggravated murder charges/serial murder charges. Even people like Redd White will not receive the death penalty.

After all, Redd White did plead guilty to Mia’s murder specifically because getting arrested for one murder would be safer than having his list of blackmail victims get leaked to the press. It would be strange to confess for his own safety if he was just going to get executed anyway.

In the later games it is shown that the law is changing, and the death penalty is even less involved when culprits are convicted of murder. (Not counting charges in Khura’in, that’s different.) So it is very possible that the punishments can change overtime for those who were already convicted; meaning there’s a chance that they can be given a lighter sentence later on. There’s even a culprit in aa5 who was planning a murder but ended up killing someone else accidentally, and they were released from prison mere months after the trial. If they can released for that then surely a lot of the other culprits deserve the same treatment.

Speaking of Khura’in, that is actually more of a parody of what the fandom thought Japanifornia’s death penalty worked like. Even then, after the ending aa6, it looks like that judicial system will change for the better too.

And that’s pretty much it! The reason I wanted to go through this topic is because the whole murder = death penalty ideology is taken way out of proportion, and has been treated as a fact for far too long when it’s actually not completely true. This is just what I’ve managed to research and you can feel free to believe it or not, but I really wanted to share a new perspective on this subject. I, for one, wanted to share some hope for people; especially because I know a lot of these culprits have a lot of fans, and they deserve to have a brighter perspective on these characters. I definitely want some of these characters to return and this research really helped me feel confident that some of them have the potential to make a comeback.

Plus with the HD release of, not only the Apollo trilogy, but the Edgeworth collection in the same year, it’s more than likely that aa7 will bring back old characters! The reason a lot of these old characters didn’t make a reappearance sooner is because Capcom stood by this “no spoiler” rule for the players who may have missed out on certain games in this series. But now that we have all the mainline games in the series getting a HD release on all modern platforms, this “no spoiler” rule will most likely not be necessary anymore!

No more of this “if they’re guilty they’re never coming back” bs, let’s be more hopeful! It’s actually less likely that all culprits would get executed than the majority not getting executed. Let’s bffr!

And even if they don’t come back in aa7, we now have a more clear understanding on this messy topic, and you can feel free to use my analysis as a way to explain ace attorney culprits being able to leave prison in fanfictions, roleplays, fanarts etc. Don’t let the fandom tell you what to do >:3

Unrelated but I think this has been my first analysis post I put on tumblr and it was very fun to delve into! I may make more if anyone is interested :3c

[soap-ify]

mdni.

YOU'RE AN ANGEL, I'M A DOG | simon 'ghost' riley x reader

05 — i'll meet the judgement by the hounds.

chapter summary — a fool and a coward, that's the realisation you had come to.

tags / cw — no smut, fluff, a bit domestic honestly, basically reader's drunk and simon takes care of you, bittersweet, simon opens up... a bit, angst, suicidal thoughts, very subtle religious references if they even count as one, simon's in denial and reader is on the verge of losing it all. [4k words]

masterlist | ao3 | prev | next

Simon had come to the conclusion that you were a snake, and your love was your poison. Maybe he really was a coward for being afraid to let your venom drown into his veins.

“Remind me to never take you out for drinking again.”

If it weren’t for Simon holding you carefully against him and walking through the street, you’d surely have collapsed on the ground all drunk and worse, thrown up by now.

It was a little mistake. One drink became two, and then three. You had forgotten about your tolerance, and here you were now. It’s all because of Simon. That’s what your excuse was, blaming it all on him. Which was true in all honesty, you had gotten too excited about this little hangout.

“You’ll never go out with me again?” Completely mishearing his words, you looked up at him with wide eyes, tears already approaching. Yeah, you were completely drunk. Simon froze, his heart tearing at the sight of your incoming tears, even if they were just due to your emotions being all over the place now. Emotions that had always been there, hidden deep within.

His first instinct was to ignore your words and just keep walking, his heart begging for him to comfort you. But again, how does a killer comfort an angel? How would the moon comfort the ocean, while being so far away?

“I didn’t say that.” He gruffly replied and continued to look ahead, not daring to meet your eyes anymore.

O Angel, let me fall on my knees, kiss your fingers, and weep for forgiveness. So you may hold my absolution, and make me man again.

“C’mon, we gotta take you home.” Simon internally cursed himself for not taking you both to the bar in a car. He hadn’t considered the possibility of you being a drunk mess. Do I ever consider anything?

“No!” Your loud whine echoed in the empty pavement, and he could barely hold in a chuckle, deciding to bite his bottom lip beneath his mask. “Can’t we spend more time together, Si?”

I’d spend a lifetime with you. But god forbid he ever said those words. Not to you, not to anyone. “S’not like m’gonna die or somethin’, or that you’ll never see me again.” Simon grumbled and tightened his hand around your waist, accommodating your wobbly body, guiding you.

Simon wished he could take your hands and sway around with you, let both of you move into a sweet dance, with the stars praising you. A performance for the cosmos. He wished he could hold you when you throw yourself over him, to let you never escape his embrace. Lovers forever tangled.

He wished.

He wondered what something like that even would look like. His dad never danced with his mother. He remembers his mother looking at him, holding in her tears and forcing a smile. “I promise your dad loves me, just as much as I love him. He's just… exhausted nowadays.” He wished his mother didn’t consider him a naive — a child.

Simon doesn’t think he was ever a child. A child is innocent, his very first cry was a sin.

“Simon?” Your voice snapped him out of the reminiscence he was trapped in. He let out a soft grunt, urging you to continue.

“Have you… Have you ever seen a ghost?” You burst into laughter at your own poor attempt at the joke, a rapid change of emotion, though in your defence, it’s definitely very funny. Your free hand tried to wipe the tears as you continued laughing, and Simon swore that this was truly the angels’ hymn eliciting from your mouth.

“Do I count?” He grinned behind his mask, the side of his eyes crinkling a bit. You quickly shook your head and stared at him with determined eyes, fully set on your question. “In that case, no. I don’t think I’ve ever seen one, love. But if I do, I’ll make sure to tell ‘em you said hello.”

If it was someone else like Kyle or Johnny who would be laughing about this joke, Simon was sure that he would have said something snarky or just straight up ignored them. But not with you, never with you.

“You’re the best.” You beamed, his heart squeezed painfully.

“We’re almost there.”

Upon arriving at your apartment complex, he dropped you off outside your apartment’s front door, the only thing in mind being to flee quickly so your sweet smile doesn’t taunt him anymore. Though he simply couldn’t, your fingers not letting go off his forearm at all. Too exhausted to figure out if it was intentional or not, he sighed under his breath and turned over to face you, brown eyes having a slight shine in them due to the hallway’s light.

“C’mon, you gotta go in and rest.” He couldn’t figure out why his breathing was falling short. Was it the alcohol? He barely drank anything.

You, on the other hand, tried your best to not look up at him and meet his eyes, knowing that it would shut you up. Like the intimidating gaze of a god, a warrior. You had to speak your mind, had to know about something, to ease the storm in your head.

“Are you getting bored of me?” These words slipped out of your lips as a meek whisper, forbidden.

It was a sickening feeling that ensued within Simon after that, as if something was grabbing his heart and trying to rip it out of his chest. Inhale, exhale. He didn’t know what exactly horrified him. Probably the fact that he knew what had caused you to think like that. The perfume.

O Angel, let me carve my heart out with a knife and hand it to you as an offering — apology. So may your hands embrace it and take me home, with thee. So may your fingers caress my cheek once again, and let my blood paint my skin.

“No.” He was embarrassingly quick to reply, fingers curling up into fists by his sides as he inhaled sharply. How could he put such thoughts into your head? How could I? Only a devil, the most evil being, could commit such atrocity.

You paused at his words, not knowing what else to say. No? Then why was that perfume there? You didn’t want him to think you were dumb enough to not notice that. “You’re lying…” Your voice cracked, and it was no longer the alcohol playing you like a puppet. It was you now. You felt like your own marionette. Stop speaking, fucking stop. “I am not dumb, Si. I saw that p-perfume on your couch the other day. Is that why you got mad at me?” God, stop talking please. “You could have just… said that you prefer other girls. Am I… Am I making a fucking fool out of myself here?” It terrified you, your own emotions terrified you. Your voice was rising just a bit, and all your feelings had their hands wrapped around your throat. Controlling you. You didn’t want to speak, didn’t want to say it out loud. You weren’t used to being so open about your mind, and now you felt like nothing but a cat shivering under the rain — alone and abandoned. Vulnerable, naked.

Maybe you and Simon weren’t so different after all. Vulnerability — just why did it terrify humans? Were the angels and the gods just as opposed to vulnerability?

“Oh, l-” Love. It almost slipped off his tongue, and he didn’t know if you even wanted him to call you that right now. The thought alone made him shudder uncomfortably. He didn’t know what to do — stuck in between two roads. Should he lie? Or tell you the truth? — That it was just one time, a drunken act that is nothing but lamentable to him.

Why were you both even acting like an actual couple right now?

He swallowed the lump that threatened to torture his throat, exhaling softly. “I was drunk, and it happened. She probably left her perfume accidentally.” He spilled the truth out. Just the way a mature person would. Don’t be fucking daft, Riley. His eyes assessed the subtle twitch of your brows at that, your lips quivering. He wished he could just lean in and kiss all the tears away, despite them not having landed on your cheeks. Hopefully they won’t.

“Oh…” Your response was too short, unsure and reluctant. It made Simon feel as if he had sinned once again, chains threatening to drag him into the darkest depths of Hell. Home — the one he was familiar with.

You swallowed nervously and looked down at your feet, your hand long having stopped holding his arm. Instead, your fingers were fiddling with one another anxiously. Why did you feel as if you were betrayed? A desperate cry for love, you wished you could say it to him. To his face, sob and scream about what you felt. He was the only one who understood, who was willing to understand. He was the only one who ever was, and who ever will be.

The agreement. It was no longer just fucking, it never was. Not since the day you saw him with Kyle, not since the day he talked with you after Kyle gestured at you. Never. Could he also see it all the way you did?

Your silence was a clear indicator of the fact that you were lost in your thoughts now. Simon’s eyes softened up, and before he could think rationally, his body reacted on its own and embraced you tightly against his chest, strong arms wrapping around you protectively.

“Fuck…” He cussed under his breath, despising how his voice was thickening up with emotion. He hugged you like an old dog messily giving affection to its owner. My angel, my angel. I sinned, I have sinned. I am sorry.

He pulled you impossibly close, as if wanting to mold his body into yours, to become one. He could be with you forever in that way, to be your breathing and you his heartbeat.

You didn’t even feel confused at his rapid action at all. Just broken, so broken. He was the hammer that had finally hit the dam, and broke it. “W-Why?” Your voice wavered and mixed into a sob, your hands tightened holding onto him, fingers threatening to dig deeper as you let your head rest against him, tears tickling your skin. “I am so tired… So tired, Si. I hate you…”

“Do you want me to leave?” His hold tightened despite his words.

“No.” Your words came out a bit more forcefully than you had intended, too anxious to let him go. You felt his right hand leaving your back, a soft whimper leaving your lips once you felt his lips, bare and real, pressing a soft kiss on the top of your head, soon realising that he had taken his mask off. Too shy and messy in tears, you made no effort to look up at him and instead continued to cry, emotions desperate to keep pouring out and leave the imprisonment of your body. His hand continued to rub the back of your head while his other held your lower back, both of you unknowingly taking a few steps back and forth together, unable to stay still. It was as if you both were dancing slowly, like lovers.

“Alright. Hand me the keys, love.” You tentatively grabbed your keys from where you had kept it and handed it to him, your hands quickly latching onto him again. He carefully unlocked the front door of your apartment and led you inside, being extra cautious so he doesn’t accidentally step onto your feet. Closing the door by kicking it gently with one leg, he gently guided you towards the living room, easing you down onto the couch.

“Do you remember that creepy guy that came into the cafe?” Your voice was still shaky from crying, eyes all glossy as you finally looked at him, heart skipping a beat. Despite already having seen his face the last time, you still weren't used to it. Were you blessed?

He silently nodded and took a seat beside you, his arms leaving your sides so his large hands could cradle your face, thumbs tenderly wiping the drying up tears away while you talked, eyes looking everywhere but at him due to the sudden proximity. He didn't mind it at all, simply adored your sudden sheepishness.

“I still get scared at the thought of him… I don't want anyone like that to visit the cafe again. I-I don't think I can handle it.” Your voice gradually got quieter by the end, nibbling on your bottom lip. Oh, dear. Simon hadn’t told you that he had already beat that creep up. Now he somewhat wished that he had killed him instead. Surely Price would back him up if he made up some reason, yeah?

Your shoulders visibly eased up at that, your mind clearing a bit. Probably sobering up? You were sure that you weren't going to pick up a bottle of alcohol after this. Leaning into him, you decided to rest your head on his chest and listen to his heartbeat. Expecting a soft, calm rhythm — you were instead met with a fast thump, your brows furrowing though you decided not to comment on it.

“He wouldn't. No one will ever treat you like that again, love.” As long as I am here. Possessive yet guilty. He was vaguely promising to be by your side while always avoiding you, protecting you from himself. From the ugliness within him. No angel must spare a glance at a stray, especially not one used to violence.

His hands were playing with the fabric of your shirt now, mindlessly toying with it, feeling the texture under his skin as he gently tugged onto it. It felt oddly comforting, both of you not mentioning what happened outside the apartment a few minutes ago.

You looked up at him again, your eyes falling onto his lips this time. A bit chapped with a small scar adorning the side of his upper lip. You couldn't help but smile at the sight, leaning forward to place a bashful kiss on top of it. Simon let out a soft grumble at that, tilting his head to the side so he could kiss your lips properly, eyes fluttering shut alongside yours. He could taste some hints of your salty tears, his hands holding your waist while your hands held the back of his neck, letting his lips devour yours.

He held onto you gently, not wanting to be tight despite every fiber within him wanting to hold you fully against him once more, like a hound too eager to please.

Once he pulled away from the kiss, his heart skipped at the sight of your lips being all glossy. Ethereal. Your lips twitched into a giddy smile, and he could swear that he felt the heat radiating off you once it crept up onto your face. It felt soft, everything felt too soft and warm. The gentleness threatened to suffocate him once more, a mocking reminder of him being undeserving of such tranquility. He was supposed to be wed to the war, to violence. To the bloodshed that haunted his dreams. Not whatever this was.

But he refused to get up, not wanting to see any more of your tears. “We have to get you to bed. You need sleep.” He spoke quietly, a soft sigh leaving his lips once he felt your forehead pressing against his, letting you lean into him.

“Will you join me?” You normally would have never asked something like that, but the way he was holding you almost made you believe that he was willing to warm up a bit more with you.

Simon frowned at that, pulling his head back slightly. “We can't, you're drunk.”

Realising that he misunderstood you, blood rushed to your cheeks and you looked away in embarrassment, your voice getting timid. “No… I meant sleeping together. Nothing else.”

He paused, eyes softening up as the implication dawned on him. Sleeping together. Innocently domestic — something you both had never touched. He wanted to reject, to say that it’d be better for him to just leave. That could have been the better option anyways. Though he couldn't bring himself to refuse you, too enamoured, as if trapped in some spell by you.

“Fine.” He clicked his tongue in a poor attempt to appear reluctant, masking his inner eagerness. Helping you off the couch, he led you towards the bathroom first, opening the tap. “Let's wash your face first, yeah?”

He did everything — getting you in comfortable pajamas once he finished helping you clean up, even helping you in preparing the bed. Everything. It made you feel as if you were cared for, as if he was the warmth you had ached for throughout your life. The felicity had long spreaded within you once you laid down on bed, watching him lay down beside you.

He was tense, visibly so. You tentatively scooted towards him, a hand reaching out to settle onto his chest, to feel his heartbeat once again. Maybe in this way, you could sync your heart with his, build your own little bubble. Or was that too much to hope for?

“Thank you…” It just slipped out of your mouth like a soft prayer — a hidden whisper to be close to him so more.

“S'nothing.” His eyes looked over at you, taking in the contentment etched onto your face. He wanted to wrap his arms around you and hold you against him, to let you melt in his embrace while you slept. No. That's too much, that's crossing a line. A line made up in his head.

You're building your own grave, Simon. He despised his own mind for mocking him like this, for littering his head with unwanted thoughts. Just one night.

“Sleep now, love.” He whispered quietly, watching you reach over to turn the lamp off. You shuffled besides him again, letting the blanket cover you up.

Simon doesn’t remember the last time he had slept so nicely, your soft breathing his lullaby.

Upon waking up alone on your bed, a heavy feeling of dread settled on you alongside a throbbint headache. Had he left? Wasn't it just getting better?

Holding your heart together from cracking it with every strength you had, you tried to take a few deep breaths. Don’t panic, don't-

The sudden clinking sound from outside your bedroom made you jolt, and only now could you notice the pleasant aroma of something cooking. Sheepishly, you slid off the bed and tiptoed over to the door, poking your head out to look around. Able to make out some of Simon's figure through the open door of the kitchen, relief flooded deep within you. He's here.

“Good morning, Si…” You greeted him once you entered the kitchen, standing besides him, rubbing the weariness off your eyes. He gave a soft grunt of acknowledgement, focusing on cooking some breakfast.

“Your whole kitchen needs some restocking.” He mumbled, sparing a small glance over at you. You stayed quiet, a bit embarrassed by his observance. You were planning on restocking it soon, anyways.

The morning went by like a pleasant breeze, your mood ever so joyous today. You felt light, as if floating on the clouds and reaching the stars, as if becoming one of them, alongside Simon. He hadn't mentioned much about last night at all, even gave you some pills and an offer for a head massage. You had declined it, mostly because you didn't want to show how greatly affected you were by the subtle signs of care laced in his actions, despite it being already evident all over you.

You didn't know what had driven you to act in the way you did in the afternoon. Maybe you shouldn't have opened your mouth, just kept it shut and complied.

“Si, I um… I want to talk to you about something.” You paused the monotonous movie literally none of you were actually focusing on, turning over the couch to face him, your fingers tightly curled on your lap, digging into your flesh.

Maybe it was just your heart acting out, feeling as if things had changed. Foolishly clinging onto the thin strong of hope, never learning. Never learning that touching stray dogs was bad, they had fleas. Fleas that had already infected you, threatening to devour you.

“I think… Uh- I was wondering- I just-” Fumbling over your words, all you could hear was the loud beating of your own heart, each nerve of yours set on fire. Anxious, too anxious. You wanted to throw up. “I wanted to tell you that I really… like you, and-” Your words drowned into heavy silence once you took note of just how silent Simon was, how he was frowning.

A fool. A fool who dreamt too much, who was too lost amidst the heavenly clouds of tranquility. A fool who did everything to avoid reality — that's what you felt like.

“No.” His reply was rather abrupt, clear. The subtle smile on your lips fell, and Simon wished to do nothing more than drown into a river. “You don't like me.”

“I-I do!” Unbelievable, did he not believe that you like him? Even love him.

“You shouldn't.” That came out more roughly than he had intended to, a little snarl escaping his throat. “We've already discussed it, this is nothing.’

You should have shut up at that, should have somehow sewed your lips together and quieted down. You couldn't, instead growing more agitated, more on edge. “You can't say that, Si! D-Don't you see whatever it is that we're doing?” You whimpered in exasperation, trying to keep your voice from trembling, miserably failing. “I care for you! I do, and you care for me too. I can see it…” Vision progressively growing blurrier with incoming tears, you looked away and tried to ignore the sting in your eyes, your breath shuddering. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Simon was at a loss of words himself, his heart aching to kiss your tears away and plead for forgiveness. He was a cruel, cruel man. Cruel for being so terrified, cruel for being so persistent.

O Angel, forgive me for I can't let you love me, for light should never kiss the shadow.

“You shouldn't…” He repeated his words again, his voice quieter, weaker. A plea, a request. You shook your head, a sob erupting from your throat as you tried to reach out for him.

He pulled away just as quick, your hand never meeting his. An ocean that could never touch the moon, a man that could never touch a star.

“I need to leave.” Hastily he turned around and walked out of your apartment, leaving you speechless, hand still shamefully held out. Frozen and alone, unloved.

Simon Riley was a coward.

Simon had lost count of how many bottles he had drank by now. Feeling horribly, horribly similar to his father. A drunkard, disgusting. He thought the alcohol could wash his emotions away, drown them hopefully — all it did was make him even more vulnerable, his glossy eyes staring off at a distance.

Weak. Ironically enough, this brute was nothing but weak. Everyone should be laughing at him, you should be laughing at him. Laugh at him for not knowing how to love properly, for being so quick to run away.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of his phone ringing, making him click his tongue in irritation that soon melted away once he noticed the caller ID.

Price.

He picked it up and listened to his captain's words, each syllable both a stab and a blessing.

A deployment again, finally.

notes — i apologise for uploading it after A WHOLE MONTH. blaming it on the writerphew, a deployment! this could mean many things. also a heads up that either chapter 6 or chapter 7 will be the last one (made some changes to my plan!)

[thenyoumightaswellwrestleangels]

Is it a curse that keeps the dead alive? (is it the love dripping from my tongue?)

Day 6 of The Long Halloween - event masterlist here

pairing: jason todd x reader (gender neutral)

length: 8.2k

genre: horror, fluff sort of, hurt/comfort

warnings: poltergeist jason, lots of talk about grief/death, unhealthy drinking habits, reader is almost mugged, brief/vague talk of suicide

a/n: sometimes all you need for halloween is to tongue kiss a ghost yk anyway enjooooooy <3

Staying in Gotham after Jason's death had felt like a bad decision that you couldn't shake, just like loving him had always felt like a bad habit that you couldn't break. There was a part of you that always knew that you should leave, that staying in this place where the memory of him haunted you like a ghost was doing nothing but turning you into a phantom, yourself - a whisper of what you used to be.

There's a part of you, you think, that died with him, that crumbled to dust and now lays somewhere on a street hidden in a corner of this endless, cursed city. You should've left, you know. You should've run when you had the chance. But you didn't. And now here you remain, feet rooted to the ground in this terrible place, the feeling of your dead lover haunting your every move. You should've left, but you didn't - and now you can't help but cling to whatever pieces of him you have left, even as you feel them pulling you further from the living. 

"These drafts are, uh," your editor chews on her lip as she speaks, tapping her pen against the stack of paper on her lap. "Well -"

"What?" you snap. She holds her hands up in defence.

"They're just… a little dark, is all. It's not - they're not like your other novels."

"Am I not allowed to change?" you ask dully. "Am I stuck here? Can I not… can I not take a step forward?"

You should've left, but you couldn't, because the only pieces that you have left of Jason are Gotham -  the Bowery and the streets of it, the bricks of the alleyways and the cracked concrete of the sidewalks. The apartment that you'd planned on getting with him, with its rickety fire escape and paint peeling from the walls. All these pieces, all these reasons to cling to and keep you here. It's like a curse, this place, and you were trapped before you ever even realized it. 

"That's not what I'm saying," your editor sighs. "I'm just… a little concerned is all. I don't want you to get lost in this."

"I'm not lost," you shoot back, the words a rushed tumble falling from your lips, a fearful assurance for yourself more than her, perhaps. "I'm not. I know exactly where I am."

"And where is that?" She arches a manicured brow as she watches you. The clock on the wall ticks on and on and you think, perhaps, that this must be what it feels like to be an animal caught in a snare. You stare back at her, waiting, waiting, waiting for something to happen, for someone to pull you out of this place… but you're not sure there's anyone left to take your hand these days.

"…I'm right here," you offer eventually, your voice quiet in the echoing room.

"Right," she sighs. "You should… go away for a while, I think. Take a vacation."

"A vacation?" you echo. She nods and hums in affirmation. "Where?"

"Wherever you want," she shrugs. "Anywhere… anywhere but here."

"Where would I be," you say slowly, "if not for right here?"

"It's just to, you know," she sighs, tapping her nails on the stack of paper as she searches for the right words, as she looks and looks and looks for the way out. "Just to get away from it all for a little while. Get away from this place and these drafts and the - your, um,"

"My dead boyfriend?" you offer dryly. She shoots you an exasperated look.

"Your grief," she corrects. "Get away from your grief before it kills you, too."

You wonder sometimes if Jason knew that, even when you didn't. If he knew, all of those nights that you spent crying and pleading with him to be safe, to be careful, to not go out there to die. You wonder if he knew that it was some kind of curse, that this city traps you and ensnares you and chokes the outside world. 

Not that it matters, you think dully, now that he's dead.

"Is this because of the Red Hood?" your editor asks bluntly. You blink.

"Pardon?" 

"The new novels, the - the horrors that you write now. Is it because of the phantom?" she clarifies. You straighten where you sit, shifting in your seat.

"They're just… ghost stories," you say slowly. "The Red Hood's not - he's not real."

"I'm not saying he is," she sighs. "I'm just… Jason died and that changed you and I get that. But these weird… these weird rumours start popping up all over the city and suddenly the only books you'll write are about… about -"

"Ghost stories?" you prompt.

"Dead people!" she exclaims before sighing and brushing a stray hair out of her face. "I just… I just don't want to see you get stuck in this is all."

"I think," you say pointedly, rolling your shoulders back and settling further into your chair, "that it's a bit too late for that."

Dead, sure, but not gone. Even after his death, it's like he's still here. It's an ever-heavy presence laying over your shoulders and wrapping around you. Sometimes you swear you can even feel his breath on your cheek.

But that's crazy, you tell yourself. It can't be real. He's gone, he's gone, he's gone.

It's years after Jason's death that stories begin to spread around the Bowery - rumours of a hulking, shadowed figure stalking through the alleyways at night, intangible and uncatchable and melting into nothing whenever he's close to getting caught. People murmur about seeing streaks of red out of the corner of their eyes and a hooded figure hiding in the darkness. People whisper, people talk.

The Red Hood, they began to call him.

It scares people, notably - everyone at first. But then a pattern begins to emerge, and the story surrounding the Red Hood begins to shift. It's the criminals that begin to taste fear, that begin to shrink away from the darkness of night and the nooks and corners that they used to call home. It's the violence that begins to shift, turning against the perpetrators.

The Bowery's protector, he begins to be known as. Some sort of guardian angel, stalking the dangerous back alleys and keeping people safe in the depths of the endless night.

You hear the stories, of course, for you also call the Bowery home. And sure, a part of you thinks that it must be nonsense, must be some kind of trick of the night or hallucination spun from living endlessly in this closed-off city. But you've felt it, of course - the presence of someone watching, lurking, trailing after you. You swear that you've seen it, the streak of red like a splash of blood against the blackened backdrop of night. 

You swear that there's something out there… and you swear that he's got his eye on you.

The first time you really encounter the Red Hood, you're sitting on the rooftop of your apartment building, one beer cracked open for yourself and a second sitting next to you, untouched. It's never opened - Jason's not there to share it with you. He never will be again, you know, you know, you know. But there's something that feels so wrong about doing things for just you instead of for the both of you, and you're not sure that you would be able to stand the idea of grabbing one beer from the fridge and drinking it alone.

But you are alone, you know, and you swing your legs over the edge and look up at the stars alone, your breath coming out in cold, foggy puffs. He'd sit with you, back when he was still alive. He'd point up at the stars through the cloud-splotched sky and tell you about the constellations, outlining the stories and the histories as he traced a hand up and down your spine and pressed gentle kisses to the crown of your head. 

You look at the sky tonight and you think about the big, wide world beyond this city, beyond the tangled snare of this life and the way that it haunts. And it's like you can feel it, the knotted wires twisting around your ankles and keeping you rooted here.

But then you tip your head down to stare toward the tangled mess of the city beneath you and you think of the Red Hood, of the shadow stalking the streets below. A shudder passes through you as you feel it, the weight of that unknown presence, and you can't help but wonder if it's Jason who's still here - if he's still holding on for you in some way.

Selfish, you think harshly as you clench your fists and stand, bleary-eyed from lack of sleep and stumbling. Your head swims as you pull yourself to your feet, and you teeter for a moment as you slip on the edge of the roof. 

But just as your heart lurches in your chest, just as you feel yourself tip off the edge, everything sort of… pauses for a minute. No one ever thinks they're really going to be the one to fall drunk off of a roof to their death - but here you are, balancing so precariously on the ledge between life and death.

Something sort of… catches you, then - an arm wraps around your waist and hauls you back up onto the safe, steady ground, notably far, far away from the ledge. And you swear to god you see it - the shadowy outline of a figure, the halo of red, the bite of cold flashing through you. 

You spin around, wildly looking around the empty rooftop and letting your heart sink back into your chest as you find yourself alone, standing next to the roof access door. As you reach for the doorknob, your heart still spinning from the ordeal, you glance back at where you were sitting.

Your heart lurches again, then, finding its way to your throat as you stare at the empty beer bottle that sits on the ledge, your fingerprints still smudging the condensation on it. The second bottle, you realize… is gone, disappeared along with whoever or whatever saved you from the fall. 

As you stumble back into your apartment, locking the door behind you with trembling fingers, you can't help but feel like you're not quite alone - like something that used to be out there is now… in here. 

It's weeks later when the Red Hood makes his appearance again. You're sitting on your fire escape late in the evening, the metal hot to the touch as the moon hangs low and the summer air sits heavy and humid. Two glasses of lemonade sit next to you, yours half-empty and dripping condensation in the heat that wraps around everything, choking everything that it touches. Jason's, of course, sits untouched beside you, but it sits nonetheless - like he'll walk out any minute to join you, to sit next to you and crack the ice cubes on his teeth.

You're looking through old pictures of the two of you, boxes of them that typically stay hidden and buried in the back of your closet having been pulled out and dusted off. You're not sure why, but there's something lately that's made you want to remember him more than usual - something that's made you want to see him. 

But one of those hot, sticky gusts of summer wind blows through and a picture flutters out of the box and away - despite your desperate, rushed scramble to lean over the railing to try to grab it. It's agonizing, perhaps more than it should be. With so few tangible memories of him left, you don't feel like you can afford to lose any small scraps. It's like he's slipping through your fingers more and more each day, and you start to realize in a sinking sort of way, that even the dead will always have further to fall, further to disappear.

You're hanging over the railing, staring forlornly down into the darkness when the photo just sort of… floats back up toward you. It's like it was tossed by someone or something down below, some unseeable force pushing it back up and toward your chest. But as you snatch it in your hand and lean a bit further to peer down toward the ground, all you manage to see is a quick stripe of red blurring through the shadows in the corner of your vision. There's nothing else… nothing besides the endless darkness and the twisting maze-like trap of the city.

When you sigh and sit back down, thumbing the photo as you grip onto it and letting your shoulders slump with a deep exhale, you reach for your lemonade. But the second glass, you find, is… empty, with wet fingerprints breaking through the layer of condensation on it and the ice missing, too.

Turning away sharply to look down at your hands, you realize that the photo that you're holding is one of you and Jason on Halloween years ago, matching ghost-like costume makeup smudged across your faces. 

And so it begins, this routine that the two of you have. It's no replacement for Jason, sure - this strange, shadowed spirit that seems to trail after you, that seems to haunt your every move and tangle around you like the curse of this place. It is no replacement for the love of the living, but it's something - it's someone, and it makes you feel just a little less alone.

It's when you're walking home one night, winding through the twisted, maze-like alleyways and streets with nothing but the dull light of the moon to guide you, when you think that maybe this will be the night that you're unlucky. You know where you live - you know that it's really only dumb luck that you haven't been mugged yet, haven't been backed into a dark corner with no one to turn to and nowhere to run.

It's a cornerstone of this city, perhaps, to be so trapped… to be caught in this web before you even know to be afraid.

So when it begins to happen, when you're pressed into a corner, the brick wall cold and piercing against your back and your heart in your throat, you think that it's probably just time for the inevitable.

But then you think of Jason, of how kind and caring he was and how protective he was. You think of how he'd walk you home late at night to make sure that you were safe, how you'd wave down to him from the fire escape of your apartment and blow him a kiss from above. You wonder, in that hazy, fearful sort of way that seems to happen when death comes knocking at your door, if he was afraid when he died, somewhere in some back alley like this. You wonder if he thought of you, of the fact that he'd never come home safely that night, of the fact that he was leaving you.

There's something that lurches painfully in your throat as you press yourself further against the wall and you think of him in your place, with those kind, gentle eyes of his and those hands that didn't quite know how to do harm yet.

Sometimes you think that Jason was just too good for this place - that he deserved something much more than this crawling city could give him. And maybe, you think as a knife glints in front of you, the yellow of the streetlight illuminating your oncoming death. Maybe dying is the only way out of this godforsaken curse.

But then something… changes. The air shifts - the shadows dance. A streak of red slices between you and your threat and you hear a scream and a bloody gurgle of pain and maybe even a gunshot. You see the figure in front of you, wrapped in shadow and striking reds. You see the way that the streetlight goes right through him and the way that the shine of the moon can't quite seem to touch him… and you see the body of the man who'd been threatening you, too, blood-soaked and unmoving on the ground.

You stare down at him, your eyes wide and unblinking as you watch blood pool into the cracks and crevices of the crumbling asphalt beneath you and you consider how many of you have died like this - silent and ignored, like a rat in a back alley that's seen as nothing more than a nuisance… another body to step over, another lost cause finally gone.

The body doesn't move and a shaky, whimpering exhale leaves your lips as you lean heavily against the brick wall, your knees trembling and your hands cold. It could've been you tonight - it was Jason, once. There is a death that stalks these streets and something saved you tonight, you're sure. Something that shouldn't have been there.

Sure enough, that strange, hulking figure is still there, standing in front of you for the first time after flitting past you, unseen, for so long. You see him tangibly, solidly - you see his stance and the way he rolls his shoulders back and clenches his fists. 

You see Jason standing in front of you - a ghost of what he used to be, a haunting memory seeping into reality before your wide, unsteady eyes.

"Jason…" your voice is a whisper, nothing more than a murmur cutting through the silent, still night. You're sure that you've gone crazy, of course. You think that maybe that man really had killed you and this is some hazy, cursed afterlife… some way of trapping you here in this moment and this agony even in death. You think - but you say his name, whisper it to him like a prayer and you wait, frozen, for an answer from above.

He turns to you slowly, and it seems that it's his turn to act like he's seen a ghost, spinning to face you and staring, wide-eyed and silent. You see him, just for a moment, and you know now that it's him, that it's Jason.

"Jason, I - no, wait, please -," Perhaps it's because he's afraid, you think desperately. Or perhaps it's - perhaps you've gone insane. He fades from in front of you, vaporizing into the endless shadows of the city and leaving you alone in the alleyway.

Alone, alone, alone. 

Even in death, you're still losing him. Even in death, he's still slipping further and further from your fingers, squirming from your grasp until not even his memory is left to haunt you. 

He's gone, and there's nothing but you and an unmoving corpse in a dark corner of a dark city, and when you stumble home slowly that night, there's a silence and a stillness that makes your skin crawl and your hands twitch. 

Even in the days that follow that incident, the presence is just… gone. It leaves you reeling, of course, wondering endlessly if it was real, if the shadowy, blood-soaked protector of the Bowery is Jason, in one form or another. 

But even if it is the ghost of him, you think, staring at the photo of him that you keep tucked into a corner of your wallet. Even if it is some phantom memory of him, some piece that couldn't die - couldn't get away from this place… is it even really him? Is it enough, you think, to have just the shadow of his life?

It plagues you as the days roll by, and you find yourself wandering endlessly, both inside your home and out in the winding, maze-like streets, like you're looking for something that you know doesn't exist. It's like you're searching for some kind of way out, waiting for a sign or an omen or another blood-soaked body in the back of an alley to rise from the dead and tell you what to feel. 

But time drags on ceaselessly in a city that grows inward, that tangles itself endlessly together until it traps you. And as that time rolls by, you begin to get more… desperate.

You want to see him again - you need to see him again. And you figure… there has to be a way to make him appear - just once, just to see if you're right, if it's really him and he's really haunting you. 

That's how you find yourself, one night, up on the rooftop of your building once again. One mostly empty beer bottle sits next to you with a second, untouched one placed caringly beside it as you stand on the concrete ledge and let the breeze blow into you.

You wonder briefly, as you peer over the edge, what it would be like to be nothing, to have the wind blow right through you and never feel the cold. You gaze down, down, down towards the darkened depths of the city as night blankets the buildings and muffles the life there. It's odd, you think, to look at it all from this height - to stand above it like this. It's odd to feel so separate and yet… trapped, still. Trapped… always.

You toe at the concrete edge and wrap your arms around your waist as the end-of-summer breeze brings in the cooler air and makes you shiver. You think that perhaps this is going a bit too far - perhaps you've gone a bit too crazy and this will be the end of you. Maybe there is no place here for the living and all that's left for you in this forsaken curse is to join the dead, one way or another.

You consider, as you stare down into the depths, being buried next to Jason if this kills you. But then you consider being buried somewhere outside of Gotham - because maybe then you could finally escape this place, even if it really is only in death.

But then, as you lift one foot and let it swing over the edge, you think that perhaps you… don't even really want that. Perhaps you can't even stand to think about it. Perhaps there is some part of Jason tied to this place because that's really what gets you… you don't want to break free of it.

You get a bit distracted, admittedly, thinking about all this and turning it over in your mind, and you let your foot hover over the empty space, staring down at the city below. You're so distracted that it catches you off guard, the firm arm that wraps around your waist and hauls you away from the ledge, dragging you to safety. 

The breath catches in your lungs from the force of it, from the strength of the tug that pulls you endlessly away from that tipping point between life and death and steadies you on your feet. You're reeling from the force of it still when you hear a voice - his voice. Jason's voice… for the first time since his death, all of those years ago. 

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" he begins, a hysterical edge in his voice. "Do you have any idea how dangerous that was? What if I hadn't been there? You could've - god, you could've died." He's going on and on, trembling and tugging at his hair and babbling about how he doesn't know what you were thinking and how dangerous that was and how he's been trying so hard to keep you safe but you're out here doing things like this and… 

And you stare, wide-eyed, at the ghost of your lover as he stands before you and speaks to you in a voice that you almost recognize. It's different, notably, scratchy and warbling in a way that it wasn't before. But it's Jason's, still, and you'd know that voice anywhere, from anyone… even in death.

He looks… dead, mostly, you note. Pale-faced with dark circles under his eyes, cheeks sunken and face hollow. He looks… ashen - empty and unwell and… dead. He looks dead. 

But he's standing in front of you and chewing you out for being so reckless, scolding you for not taking care of yourself and you're just sort of… stunned. Your head spins and your hands shake and it's like you can't breathe as your lungs turn to ice. You can still feel it, you're sure, the weight of his arm around your waist -  you can still feel the strength of him haul you away from the ledge that you were so precariously tipping over.

You can feel the ghost of the man that you once loved saving you from becoming what he is now.

"Jason…" you whisper his name and his jaw snaps shut as he stares, unblinking and unmoving as you fall apart in front of him. If he were still alive, you realize, all of that shouting and carrying on would have him here heaving for breath while his heart hammers. But he's dead, you remind yourself, and you can't help but sink to your knees, crumbling under the weight of it all, under the weight of the man that you loved and lost standing in front of you and looking so hollow but so whole at the same time.

Your hands shake and your lungs tremble and you feel lost in the maze of it all more than ever before as everything spins and spins and spins around you. But he sees you start to buckle, start to crumble towards the ground and Jason reaches for you, gripping you around the waist and keeping you somewhat upright.

When you reach for him in shock, gripping onto the dull red of his tattered hoodie, you feel him, solid and real and tangible as he presses against you. He's real, even as a memory, even as a phantom of who he used to be. He's real. You whisper his name again as you look up at him and it's like it all comes to a halt, like the wind stops blowing and the stars stop blinking as you look at the man that you love and you find him again for the first time… even in death. 

There the two of you stand, face to face, dead and alive. He's looking at you like you're the ghost, wide-eyed and shocked and staring at you like he loves you still. And you're pressing against him - and he's cold to the touch like he never was before, the heart in his chest silent as he looks down at you.

But he's Jason and he's here and he's more alive than he's been to you in years.

"Jason…" you say his name again like a prayer, like a plea. You say it while you stand so close to him that your breath would be mingling with his if he still had anything to breathe and your hands tighten on his hoodie at the reminder… at the remembrance that he's so, so far from you, even now.

It's almost as if he remembers this at the same time as you, because he pulls away from you in a jerking, shocked action, stumbling away and leaving you to stumble on your own. He steps back so fast that he trips on his own feet and there's a look of anguish in him suddenly, like he's remembering that he's not supposed to be here - that he's not allowed to live anymore. 

"Jason," it's a shrill, desperate yell this time that comes from you as you watch him begin to fade, begin to melt into the mist of the night and leave you once more. You call out to him with a wretchedness that he's not sure he's ever heard before in life or in death… with a need that makes him feel almost alive, almost real.

It makes him stumble, makes him hesitate as he stares, eyes wild and sparking with something almost akin to life. It makes him snap back into solid form again. You make him whole again, just for a moment. 

He says your name, a whisper over the breeze, a small noise swallowed by the night, and the shock begins to rattle and drain from your body in heavy, gasping breaths as you double over and sob, falling to your knees fully this time so that you can weep into your hands and hide your face from view. There's nothing from him for a moment, and you're petrified that if you look up, he'll be gone again, nothing but a shadow of the night, nothing but a memory faded by pain.

But he proves you wrong - takes you by surprise, just like he always could. He moves toward you like he's pulled by some invisible thread tangling around the two of you and winding your lives and deaths together that he can't quite untangle himself from. He moves to you like he loves you, still, even in death.

When his cold, undead hands cup your face and begin to wipe away your tears, when his bluish lips press against your forehead and he shushes you in that gentle, loving way of his, you find that maybe being trapped here isn't so bad.

"You can't do that," you whisper as he crouches in front of you, his hands wiping away endless tears that roll down your cheeks and his brows bunching together as he frowns. "You can't leave me like that - not again. I can't - I can't do it again."

"I'm sorry," he starts with, and a part of your heart lurches until he says, "I won't - I won't leave you ever again. There is nothing that can take me from you now." Just as he's begun to smooth the wet tracks from your cheeks, though, the mist around you dampens further into rain and you watch as it goes right through him, as it hits the ground beneath his feet and soaks the pale concrete.

"Jason, I need…" you begin as you stare at the ground through him. "You need to tell me what's been going on."

It's odd, you find, to have him in your home again, to watch him stand in your kitchen and make a cup of tea - just one cup, you notice, while you dry your hair from the rain. He'd ushered you out of the cold, pushing you with gentle, tender hands until you were back inside the safety of your apartment and looking up at him with wide, hopeful eyes. 

The kiss that he'd pressed to your forehead was quick, a hesitant sort of thing as he'd delicately guided you to the bathroom to clean up and get warm. As you stood in the doorway and watched him waft toward your kitchen, something had flipped in your gut at how normal it felt to have him back in your life and your home, even if you could see the kitchen lights shining through him and onto you. 

By the time you come out into the kitchen, he's pushing a steaming cup of tea towards you as you sit on a stool at your counter, letting your hands wrap around the ceramic to soak up the warmth. 

"How is it that you can, um," you begin, frowning down at your tea. When you glance up at him sheepishly, he just grins in that kind way of his, the gesture juxtaposing the gaunt, hollow look on his face. 

"It's ok," he prompts gently and you sigh.

"How can you… touch and hold things and… and be?" you ask slowly. This time, when he smiles, the only thing that shines through is love.

"Well it's - it's because of you, baby," he says simply. You blink at him, staring as you frown.

"What?"

"It's, I don't know - it's just what poltergeists do, I guess," Jason shrugs as he shifts on his feet. "We cause trouble, we wreak havoc. It's what I do."

"I don't know," you say, huffing out a laugh. "I'm not sure keeping the Bowery safe counts as wreaking havoc. I mean, the only people you're causing trouble for are the people who probably deserve it. And you're… you're keeping me safe. And - and my home. You're keeping our home safe." You clear your throat after you speak, pointedly looking away from him and out your window, instead, feeling heat seep into your cheeks as you stare at the way the rain quickens into a downpour outside. 

"I have to," Jason says quietly, and the sombre tone of his voice makes your gaze snap back to him. "I couldn't… I couldn't do it when I was alive. But I can do things now… I can be things that I couldn't before."

"But how, Jay?" you sigh. "What do you mean when you say it's me?" He laughs a bit at that, then, leaning across the counter to kiss your cheek and feeling a spark of delight zip warmth through his chest for the first time since his heart stopped beating when you lean forward subconsciously to let him love on you. 

"You've been leaving things out for me, baby."

"Hm?" is your only response. Jason looks at you pointedly and you chew your lip for a moment before he glances down at the tea in your hands and you perk up.

"Oh my god," you splutter, and he laughs a bit at your gasp. "The beer, the lemonade, the  - everything. It really was you."

"Yea, baby," he says easily. "Every… all the drinks, the extra plates of food, the - everything like that. You were paying tribute to a ghost, babe. You were keeping me here." You sit with that for a moment, letting your fingers tighten around the cooling ceramic of your mug as your head spins from Jason's words, with the knowledge that you really had spent all this time keeping the dead alive, in a way. 

"Why'd you…" you begin, shifting in your seat as you search for the words. "Why'd you stay here, though? This place… it chokes the life out of people, Jay. It really choked the life out of you." You wrinkle your nose in immediate regret as you say the ill-timed joke, but Jason just laughs and presses another cold kiss to your cheek and you relax ever so slightly under the comfort of it all. "Why would you stay trapped in a place like this? Even in death?"

"Because of you, baby," he says gently, and his fingers tangle together as he eyes your hands, like he wants so desperately to reach for you but he just can't bring himself to. "I'm tied to you. Your love and your gifts and your… your remembering of me - that's what's keeping me around. I'm not tied to this city like a curse anymore. I'm tied… just to you. To your - to your love."

"Jason," you begin, your voice wavering as you feel tears begin to pool in your eyes, but he just continues.

"I've been trying, you know, this whole time," he says in a rush. "I've been trying to watch you - watch over you, keep you safe and all that. I've been trying to repay you for keeping me alive, sort of. I've been - I've been trying to make it worth it for you."

"I wasn't…" you begin carefully. "You don't have to do that for me. You don't have to make it worth my while. I just - I just missed you, Jason. I just wanted you back. Why didn't you come back to me?" Your voice cracks at the end as tears blur your vision and Jason shrinks back in a way that you've never seen before, curling into himself. He looks small, scared and insecure in a way that you're not used to seeing from him, even in life.

"Baby, I'm - I'm dead," he says heavily. "I look dead. I'm… I'm hollow and I'm rotting away and I didn't - I couldn't let you see me like that." 

"Oh, Jason…" you say softly, but he steps away from the counter, away from you, and rubs harshly at his eyes with the palms of his hands as his shoulders bunch up. Under the light of your kitchen, his skin looks thin, stretched over bones too tightly as it shines with a waxy, unnatural, yellowish tinge. 

"I can't be who I was before," he says desperately, keeping his face hidden in his hands as he all but doubles over, his voice trembling and cracking. "I can't - I - I want you to remember me, remember me for who I was, not - not this thing that I am now. I just… I wanted you to remember me well."

You abandon your cup of tea at his outburst, retracting your hands from the warmth of it so that you can make your way around the counter and toward him. 

"Come here," you offer gently as you jump up to sit on the counter in front of him, waving him over with one of your hands. Jason looks at you for a moment, wary and sniffling, but even now he finds himself incapable of denying you and his feet bring him, stumbling, toward you despite his protests.

You widen your legs for him, letting him slot his hips between your thighs as you wrap your fingers around the red fabric of his hoodie and pull him closer to you. It's the hoodie that he died in, you note as you thumb at the fabric, at the tears and loose threads. It's the hoodie that he was wearing when he walked out your door and never came back.

But now he's here, trembling and looking down like he can't bear the sight of whatever disappointment, whatever hatred he's sure you'll look at him with. But you just cup his face in your hands, his skin cold as you smooth your palms over his cheeks and coax him ever so gently to look up at you. Then, slowly… slowly, you lean forward to press your lips against his, the bluish tinge of his lips chilled against your own. 

There's a sound that he makes somewhere in the back of his throat, nervous and shocked and disbelieving as you part from his lips only to press a series of gentler, slower kisses across his face. You cover the sunken hollows of his cheeks and the darkened circles under his eyes and the pale, waxy skin of his fluttered-closed eyelids. You cover every surface until you find his lips again, and you can't help but be a bit delighted this time when he kisses you back, letting his tongue push against the seam of your lips as his hands grip onto your hips tightly.

"Jason," you murmur quietly, breaking away just enough to suck in a breath. He hums in question, his lips chasing yours, but you huff out a laugh and tap him chastisingly on the lips. "I still have to breathe, you know, even if you don't."

"Sorry, baby," he says sweetly, turning to trail kisses down your neck, instead, but you only indulge him for a moment before you're cupping his cheeks against and guiding him gently to look at you. 

"I love you, you know… completely," you say honestly, and he tries to shift and look away but you tighten your grip on his cheeks so that he's forced to look at you. You know, of course, that he could leave if he wanted to - could vanish into thin air and melt from your grasp once again. You know that he's here because he's choosing to be, because he loves you, because he worships you, but never because he's trapped with you.

"Baby…"

"No, Jay, listen. I love you endlessly, through death and beyond. I promise, baby. I'll… I'll promise you as many times as you need to hear it. I love you tonight just as much as I loved you the night that I lost you. Nothing… nothing could change that."

"You didn't lose me," he murmurs back, leaning to press his forehead against yours and let his eyes flutter shut. "You didn't. Not - not forever, at least. I'm here. I'm here, I'm - I'm so sorry for leaving you, baby."

"Don't you apologize for it, Jay," you whisper back, letting one of your hands press against his chest where his heart used to beat and feeling nothing but the dull cold that radiates from him now. "Don't you apologize for shit that isn't your fault."

"I'm story I stayed away for so long, then," he amends, and you pull back to smile at him fondly, your eyes full of nothing but love as you run a hand through his hair, as brittle and dry as it is now.

"You came back, though, didn't you? You came back to me," you say easily, and you're sure that if his lungs still had use he would sigh one of those heavy, deep sighs that he's so fond of. Maybe that really is the curse, you think. No matter how far you run, you always end up right back in this place. 

"I did, yea, I -," Jason clears his throat, tipping his head back to stare at the ceiling. You let him, smoothing your hands up and down his chest as you feel him clenching his fingers against your hips. "I'll always come back to you," he ends up saying firmly, tilting his head back down to look at you once more. There's something in him now, a promise, a passion - and it flits through his eyes so deeply that he almost looks alive. "I'll always come back to you."

"I know you will, baby," you say softly, one of your hands finding the back of his neck to pull him toward you again. "I know you will." When you kiss him this time, there's no hesitance, no fear - not from either of you. 

When he buries his head in your shoulder to weep, his face pressed against the skin of your neck so that you can feel his tears, icy and wet, trailing over your skin, you bury your hand in his hair and shush him gently, rocking him back and forth as he sobs. That night, with the storm raging outside and tearing through the winding, tangled streets of Gotham, the two of you remain in the confines of your home. That night, you learn that ghosts can still cry. You learn that they can still love. 

It's shocking, to say the least, when you wake the next morning to learn that the storm has passed and the sun's broken through the clouds just ever so slightly. The gaps in the darkened overhang filter shattering, slender beams of light onto the dark and tangled city below, illuminating cracks and crevices that have been unseen for so long. 

Ghosts can't sleep, you know, but you wake with Jason in your bed, anyway, holding you and soothing you and pulling the blanket up around you while you doze against his chest.

"Did you stay here all night?" you murmur against him, and you feel him hum in affirmation.

"Of course," Jason responds easily, his voice hushed and low as he soothes you with his hands. "Where else would I be, if not right here with you?"

"Fighting crime," you mumble, and this time his laughter shakes his chest enough that it jostles you, much to your half-asleep displeasure. "No, I'm serious," you continue. "I hear there's some crazy smuggling going on at the docks - someone even said they saw a mermaid on one of the cargo ships."

"A mermaid?" Jason muses. "In Gotham? I think you need some more sleep, baby."

"You're no fun," you quip back, but you close your eyes and curl closer to him regardless as he laughs.

"I think I'll stick to the Bowery for now," he soothes. "Someone else can deal with whatever circus is going on down at the docks."

"Yea, but what about last night?" you sigh sleepily as Jason traces a hand up and down your spine. "How do you think the Bowery fared without the Red Hood protecting it for the night?"

"I feel like…" he responds slowly. "You're making fun of me."

"No," you say quickly. "Wouldn't dream of it." His finger flicks you gently on the forehead and you giggle, keeping your eyes closed and your face buried in his chest. 

"Even the Red Hood deserves a night off every now and then… right?" At the hesitance in his voice, the thin warble of insecurity seeping in, you open your eyes and tug yourself up and away from him so that you can give him one of your soft, gentle smiles and kiss him on the cheek.

"Endlessly, yes," you say simply, and it relaxes him enough that he lets his shoulders drop and he tugs you back toward him, settling you against his chest once more and coaxing you to close your eyes. His skin presses against yours as he pulls the blankets up around your shoulders and tucks them in carefully, and you can't help but hum in satisfaction and press yourself further into him.

It's not often that the sun shines in Gotham, in this cursed place that traps you and holds onto you in its choking, death-like grip. It's not often that the light breaks through. But now, as the beams shine through your window and cast patches of heat onto your back, you find that the cool feeling of Jason's touch is nothing but a comfort against you. 

Maybe this curse isn't so bad, you think, if he's here with you. Maybe this life isn't so bad, even in death. 

It's surprisingly simple, you think, for the two of you to begin to settle into this new routine, this new life after death. You're still tangled in this place, of course, still trapped beneath the weight of this haunting city and the ways that it ensnares you. But there is a safety in your home for the two of you that feels a bit less like a curse and a bit more like a choice. 

It's late one evening, the rain raging outside as flashes of lightning crack through the sky and thunder rattles the windows of your living room as it booms overhead. You're turning up the heat on your thermostat and Jason's sitting on your couch, that sullen, fidgety look overtaking him as he remembers that he's different now, that you can't curl up into him for warmth the way that you used to.

"What are you doing over there?" he asks in that dull sort of way that he slips into when he can see the fabric of your couch through his hands and he catches glimpses of his reflection in your mirrors. 

"I'm just turning the heat up, babe," you say absentmindedly, cranking up the temperature on your thermostat so that it's high. "And that's not something that you have to apologize for," you point out as you spin on your heel and turn back to him, making your way back to your spot next to him and glancing at your radiator with a huffed out breath when it rattles with newfound effort.

"How warm did you make it?" he asks, a frown tugging at his lips as you curl against him and he cranes his head around you to try to catch a look at the number on the thermostat.

"Just warm enough for me to do this," you respond easily, pressing up against his side and letting the cold feeling of his skin seep through you as you let out a delighted shiver. Sure enough, as the temperature in your apartment begins to rise, you find yourself pressing closer to him, seeking the cool touch of his hand tracing mindless patterns across your back under your shirt and the feel of your cheek pressing against his neck.

"Hm, clever," Jason mumbles in that new airy, warbling way of his, and you know that if blood still pumped under his skin he'd have a bright red blush raging across his cheeks. You coo still and poke him gently in the hollow of one of his cheeks, watching him fondly as he looks down at you with a long-suffering stare. 

"I'm just saying," you shrug, "we could do all sorts of things like this."

"Yea?" he quips, but his hand smooths down your back and grasps firmly onto your hip, his fingers dipping just below your waistband to press into your skin. "Like what?"

"Hm, I have some ideas…" you trail off, looking up at him with big, hopeful eyes. "But what were you thinking?" 

Outside, the world spins and spins and the storm rages on. Outside, the streets are dark and winding and dangerous, the maze of alleyways and crumbling roads a haunting hazard, a mass grave for those tied to this place. Outside, the city creaks and groans with a life of its own as it takes and takes and takes.

But in here, even the dead can find themselves a home. In here, even ghosts can learn to live again.

[arttheclown]

hey guys, i’m going to keep this brief. today on wednesday, september 20th, 2023, there are anti-lgbt+ protests going on in nationwide in canada (over 77 cities, last i heard). while there are many counter-protests going on in support of the lgbt community, what’s happening is still deeply alarming and deserves more coverage.

• here you can donate to canada’s first trans legal defence fund, which was set up to counter rampant anti-trans discrimination. it’ll be used to fund constitutional cases, support individual plaintiffs in suing anti-trans actors in courts of law, and provide direct support to trans people (in the form of grants, to help pay for their name changes, as well as other court fees).

• list of counter-protests going on today can be found here.

• for my fellow canadians, you can sign this petition to tell the government of canada to #act4queersafety. there is also an option to donate here.

• you can also write to your MHAs and MPs about rise in hate and to demand action! current members of parliament and where they are located can be found here.

for those in need of support right now, here are some hotlines you can call:

• lgbt youthline: www.youthline.ca/1-800-268-9688 txt 647-694-4275

• trans lifeline: translifeline.org +1-877-330-6366

• crisis services canada: crisisservicescanada.ca +1-833-456–4566

• hope for wellness hotline for indigenous people: +1-855-242-3310

• canada suicide prevention services: +1-833-456-4566 or txt 45645

please spread this if you’re able, thank you! 🙏🏻 🏳️‍🌈 🏳️‍⚧️

[smellygorilla]

Hello! Today I will be ranting about why shipping the bullies and delinquents is wrong. Let’s get into it!

I don’t even know why this ship is a thing. I don’t understand the love for enimes to lovers. Like why would you go a date someone you hate so much?

I’m gonna give some context on the groups and the backstory to get my point across more clearly.

The Bullies:

The Bullies are a group of preppy girls known for gossiping and spreading rumours. They’re the reason the delinquents are who they are today (More on that later) I love the bullies, their design really projects who they are. If I saw them I really life I would think of them as mean girls,gossip girls, etc.

Group members:

Musume Ronshaku (Leader, Blue sweater)

Kashiko Murasaki (Purple sweater)

Kokoro Momoiro (Pink sweater)

Hoshiko Mizudori (Green sweater)

Hana Daidaiyama (Yellow sweater)

The Delinquents:

The Delinquents are a group of guff, aggressive boys who carry around blunt weapons for self defence. I’m not a fan of the delinquents designs solely because of their spikey hair, but that’s kinda their thing so I won’t judge. (Yes I will)

Group members:

Umeji Kizuguchi (Substitute Leader, Yellow shirt)

Hokuto Furukizu (Purple Shirt)

Gaku Hikitsuri (Red Shirt)

Dairoku Surikizu (Blue shirt)

Hayanari Tsumeato (Black shirt)

The Delinquents weren’t always “The Delinquents” Theh were bully victims. They would be like this if the counsellor took action when the bullying reports were being made. (Hate to drop her in like that but she said it herself 🤷)

Gaku was bullied for having a broken arm, he was seen as weak and vulnerable.

Hayanari was bullied for showing signs of a receding hairline.

Hokuto was bullied for his feminine mannerisms and standing up for Hayanari. (Hayanari felt so bad for this he developed a smoking habit)

Dairoku was bullied for being quiet.

Umeji’s profile doesn’t specify what he was bullied for but based his design I’m gonna say he was a very shy and timid student.

It was rumoured they were going to start a suicide pact, but overlooked because there was no concrete evidence.

On day, a girl named Osoro Shidesu was approached by a group of students from another school. She disrespected them, and they weren’t going to have that. Their plan was that they were going to beat her up, little did they know she was gonna take them all down, alone.

It’s unknown how she managed to accomplish this, but all stories end the same with Osoro covered in blood and taking the jacket of on of the students and drapping over her shoulders as “trophy”.

The delinquents were present for this event. They idolized her for it. They wanted to be like her. They were hopeful this could stop the bullying, they started following her around like ducklings. They dyed their hair blonde like her’s, they spiked their hair to be seen as relentless punks, they became more aggressive,rude and more disrespectful of faculty, and they started carrying around blunt weapons with them everywhere. This did stop the bullying, but students started to refer to them as “The Delinquents”. Students started to fear and even hate them, but maybe this is what they wanted. Maybe it was better to be feared and hated then bullied.

You see, they changed their personality and appearance just to avoid being bullied. Do you think they would really go on a date someone that traumatized them to this extent?

“But smelly._gorilla, smelly._gorilla! How can we be sure the bullies were the ones that caused all this?”

Really? First of all, the bullies are called “The Bullies” because they bully people! Second of all look at this photo.

This is Umeji’s reaction (Along with the other delinquents) to a bullies corpse or you stabbing a bully directly infront of them. Oh yeah totally perfect couple. (I’m being sarcastic)

I’m all for canon stuff in lore and I hate ships unless it canon or like Taro x Ayano. Seeing videos of bullies x delinquent shivers my timbers. This ship is extremely toxic. The lore behind the delinquents is so deep, and you’re will to throw it all away just because they look cute together? That sucks, you shouldn’t do that.

Anyways, I hate this ship and I have my reasons. If you ship them that’s kinda werid. (Sorry 😬) Thanks for reading of you did!

Bye ♥️♥️

[fake-married-my-dead-fiance]

I was scrolling through The Double tag and someone was complaining that Xue Fangfei never learned self-defence even though she was attacked so often and I was like, "No, I loved that they didn't pretend that a tiny stick of a woman could take on men twice her size because as much as I understand this genre isn't terribly complaint with physics (or biology), it would have been ridiculous."

We had two women who knew how to fight, Poison Princess and Arrow Friend (Lui?) so it wasn't like all women were portrayed as 100% helpless. But since a lot of Fangfei's revenge quests were about injustices that happen to women, who are generally weaker than men, her only have "soft" tools felt in keeping with the themes.

(We shall ignore that Fangfei managed to shoot Shen at like, 60 meters in the hand with a bow. That was for catharsis. There is no way that woman could shoot someone IN THE HAND, a super small target, after five minutes of sexy archery lessons.)

But back to my point, Fangfei's weapons are self-control, quin-playing, intelligence, diplomacy, and suicidal-risk taking. When attacked, she either is helped by an alliance she has formed (with Duke Su or her cousin), or by her words. She talks her half-sister into hitting her one attacker with a rock, which was great! It wouldn't have been half so satisfying if she just started pulling out martial arts moves that she'd learned in the like, six months max that this series happens over? Especially since many of the men have clearly been practising martial arts/sword-fighting their entire lives and have um, muscle tone and at least a foot of height on this tiny, tiny woman. There is a reason professional sports have weight classes.

I mean obviously it's not a bad idea to learn self defence, but if you learn it from a genuine expert the advice is, "Break out of their grip and run like hell" which wouldn't have worked in about half of the situations where Fangfei finds herself in danger. She was better served by sticking to what she was good at and delegating the physical fighting to people who knew what they were doing. It doesn't make her pathetic, it just means she knows her strengths.

[bean-bean2000]

The Maid - Part 7

Pairing: Loki x reader

Warnings: Angst, mentions of violence, depression, mentions of suicide, despair, feeling trapped. Mentions of abuse and rape.

Please read at your own risk. Your own media consumption is not my responsibility. Please read and review the warnings before proceeding.

Thank you and enjoy!

Part 6

Series masterlist Main Masterlist

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The tears in your eyes cloud your vision. Loki stares at you in shock. All he can see is a shell of the woman he met before. The woman with fire and passion, cursing out a king, purely feeding off of bravery and survival instinct. He realizes that it was a defence mechanism created to hide her true pain beneath.

You feel the walls within you building back up, brick by brick around your heart. Closing yourself off from everything. Until you feel nothing again. The tears stop, your heart rate slows, your hands are dry. All you can do is blink and stare out the window. It's like your brain goes into autopilot; shielding you from the trauma and pain you've endured.

You rise from the chair quickly "I apologize, your highness. This has all been an overreaction. I am sorry for bothering you. I will now take my leave." You turn towards the door but you're met with a blank wall.

What?

You feel his hand gently grab your wrist.

"I know what you're doing. You're shielding yourself from the emotional pain. I know that look all too well. I mastered it, myself." He approaches you slightly, closing the gap between you.

"So you're solution is to lock me in here?!"

His eyes glistened as he spoke "Stop. Please, don't push me out, believe me. " Your breath hitches in your throat.

The king is pleading me to believe him?

Before you can answer you feel his thumb gently grasp your chin to lock in your gaze.

"I promise. He will pay for everything he did to you. I will seek it myself. However, I need to know what he did..." Loki softly says to you, his eyes burning with pure sincerity.

You don't know why but the glare in his eyes lit a fire in your heart you thought was extinguished and irreparable. When you looked at him, you could see a green aura surrounding him. You weren't afraid, you were enamoured by it. You felt this gravitational pull...You felt... warmth and tranquility; something you haven't felt in a very long time.

"Okay. I believe you." you breathe out.

The intensity of your words weighed heavy on Loki's heart. He knew a woman like you, trusted nobody but herself.

You don't know why but you feel this urge to tell him everything, from the moment you reached the castle until now. The abuse, the attempted rapes, the whipping, the pain and suffering.

When you finish explaining your truth, living as a maid, all Loki could do was listen to you intently, absorbing everything you say, never faltering. You had his undivided attention.

"Why didn't Banner ever mention it?......" Loki questions aloud.

"I told him not to. He promised he wouldn't. Banner keeps his word."

"Why didn't tell anyone? Why let yourself suffer all this time?" his green eyes are bright with emotion, almost as though he can feel your pain.

"Do you think anyone would believe me? Even if I did, Why would they say anything to oppose him? He is the pure essence of evil. Everybody fears him, nobody defies him without consequence. He says every action is ordered by YOU, the KING, might I remind you! Do you think ANY of us even THOUGHT of questioning that? Do you think anybody would bat and eyelash if I were to suddenly disappear? They would replace me the next day with no further thought. I've been gone for so long by now, they probably have done just that. We are enslaved to the crown. We have no rights. We are treated as objects who are easily replaceable. When you need this job to survive with basic necessities on a daily basis, you become numb to it all."

Loki stares at you, mouth slightly agape. His mind couldn't wrap itself around the fact that he failed you, he failed his people.

The king is speechless. That's a first.

Loki was calm on the outside but raging severely on the inside. He could not fathom how this could be happening within his castle walls without his knowledge.

He suddenly felt this uncontrollable rage bubbling up inside him. His hands began to glow green as he attempted to contain his emotions.

What is happening? I haven't reacted like this since I was a teenager.

Your story was replaying in his head, over and over again as he stared out his window, trying to contain his powers to not scare you away.

How DARE HE touch even one hair on her head. I will make him pay for this.

His hands grew brighter with every thought of you suffering by his hands. He felt this intense urge to protect you, to regain vengeance on the pain he has caused you.

He suddenly spins on his heel and walks towards you, placing a gentle hand your cheek. "Believe me when I say that none of this was my doing. I never ordered any of these commands. They are foolish dogs who managed to loosen their leashes without me noticing. I will make him pay. All of them." he hissed through gritted teeth.

Before you can retort he cuts you off.

"You shall stay in the chambers besides mine. You will be safe." he says before he disappears into the thin air and you appear into chambers you do not recognize.

What did I just do?

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Part 8

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[sonik-kun]

"If Jiang Cheng is all about debts, he should repay his debts to Wen Qing and Wen Ning!"

What debts? The two were from a sect that decimated his own. Be it willingly or not, they occupied the burned remains of his sect and helped the war effort on the Wen side (whilst assisting WWX and JC, but bear in mind, WQ only did it begrudgingly due to the risks associated with asissiting them. It's funny that y'all would jump to her defence whilst shitting on JC when she was in the exact same position he was in btw. But that's a debate for another day~).

Expecting him to pay a debt to the people that were, to at least some degree, complicit in numerous genocides is pretty messed up.

Even then, JC DID vouch for them to express his gratitude for helping him and WWX to escape and get their parent's remains back. But the other leaders shut him down when he did and scoffed at him. I feel like I've said this so many times on here, but he was in no position to argue any further on the matter. Especially when a more established sect leader like LXC was shut down, too.

As for the core transfer that he didn't consent to, how can he thank someone for that when he never knew it had happened in the first place?? Or asked for, for that matter?? The whole thing made him feel shitty anyway when he found out about it.

WQ and WWX, although both had good intentions, still had no right to experiment on him like that and keep this very invasive secret from him for so long, too. You can't just do something for someone without them knowing or consenting and expect them to repay that "debt" when you find yourself in a pinch. That's kinda like blackmail and is very coercive.. Something WWX and the Wen sibs are certainly not..

Then there's the situation with WN. Sure, he could be thankful for WN helping to get him to safety and treating his wounds (which, see my earlier point, JC did express gratitude.) But that opportunity kinda all fizzled out when WN killed JZX (I know it was an accident due to him being under the influence of DC but let's be real. That resentment is going to be there. Espeically since the topic greatly upsets JL soooo).

Even all that aside, you seriously can't expect JC to "repay his debts" and help WN and WQ out of that situation when the whole CW was against them. Helping them was suicidal and would bring on the wrath of the other major sects. And we all saw how that went for WWX (as JC rightly predicted)..

Had JC sided with the Wens and took them in to "pay his debts," he would have dragged the whole of his sect into the siege that happened soon after. This would mean more innocents would have been involved, and it would be the destruction of Lotus Pier all over again (and quite possibly the destruction of the Jiang, too). JC had to prioritise his own people. He would be a shit leader otherwise.

I feel as though some of y'all put some unrealistic expectations on JC when assessing his character. Especially when you compare him to the others in the story (returning back to my point I made earlier about him and WQ and how similar they both are).

On the topic of "debts" though, I would also like to argue that doing a good deed out of the kindness of your heart shouldn't be seen as a debt. And if you do something with the expectation that someone would do something for you back in kind, wouldn't that make you a shitty person? Is that what you're implying the Wen sibs are (or should be) ? Self-serving people who only help others if something is to be gained? 🤨

But what about the "debt" JC goes on about, you might ask? Oh, you mean the PROMISE that WWX made HIMSELF? That he would stay by JC's side? And be his subordinate? To fulfil his role as promised and expected of him?

That wasn't a debt.

WWX construed it as being one, but it doesn't fit the criteria, honestly. What WWX had was an obligation. He made that promise himself, and JC held him to it. It wasn't one JC forced him into as some form of servitiude, nor was it made in return for bed and board or something.

We know JC isn't truly about holding debts over others. If he was, he would have dangled his own sacrifice over WWX and used that to guilt trip him instead. Or force him to pay him back in kind. But he never did. Why? Because he loved WWX, and he didn't want him to feel "indebted" to him. Especially when WWX revealed his feelings of "letting go and moving on" to him.

You could go on forever about debts and who owes who what, but the thing is, each of these characters have hurt eachother in one way or another that at this point, the notion of who owes what doesn't matter anymore. The situation is far more complex than that. That's why all "debts" were dropped at the end, and JC and WWX just moved on. I feel that was the message MXTX tried to convey in her work. About moving on and letting go of grudges. Perhaps JC antis should take on that advice? And move on too?

[palmviolet]

true detective s1 rewatch: thoughts on the finale

— our theme for this final masterpiece of an episode is: fiction. the series has skated near this before, of course, with its context themes of seeing and image, but this is the episode that really dives into an awareness of genre and storytelling. we begin with an in-depth look at errol childress and his home, the way he lives. he truly inhabits the southern gothic archetype — the grand, decaying house, the incestuous dynamic with reference to the 'cane fields' (something i haven't really discussed yet is the role of louisiana's history of slavery, which hangs over the narrative most conspicuous by its absence; angola, for example, that fabled threat used most often to imply sexual violence, is named after the slave plantation that once occupied the same plot; the place they filmed carcosa was an old civil war fort), the faceless dolls and the mummified father kept in a shack with horrors literally inscribed on the walls (including 'cassilda', another reference to the chambers work).

— childress also watches the television and apes the aristocratic british accents on display. he absorbs fiction and inhabits it, in the same way that he puts on an irish accent to flirt with betty, in the same way that he has her tell him the story of her assault while they are 'making flowers' (a metaphor that once again suggests we are beyond the realm of reality). he and betty are deliberately, exaggeratedly gothic, full of rot — they are designed not as fleshed-out characters, as most of TD's cast is, but as avatars for a gnawing belief in the void that consumes all in its path.

— this is the crux of rust's own beliefs about the futility of selfhood — that identities are illusory defence mechanisms against the void, that all we are is 'sentient meat'. (will be talking more about this line in my reply to an excellent ask by @queixumes, so look out for that.) that life is just a story we tell ourselves. and so with the childresses the veil grows thin: as rust follows childress into carcosa, childress's impossible taunts ("come die with me, little priest") echo around him less as character moments and more as authorial interjections, a manifestation of rust's own nihilistic belief and suicidal ideation. thus when rust does not complete the narrative ("take off your mask"; rust doesn't say the corresponding, "i wear no mask") he is breaking type, paradoxically defying the vacant literary formula in which he's trapped by expressing a self.

— the final scenes of the series entail rust's struggle with this newfound self. he has turned away the offering of the cosmic void; more than that, he has been to the void and found it not as empty and personality-less as he thought, but rather a void 'like a substance', a darkness that held the love of his daughter and his father in one. their selves persevered after death — and now finally he begins to recognise his own selfhood as well.

— this is reified by marty as a sounding board. for the first time, rust experiences recognition through the other with marty as that other — marty who listens to him cry ("talk to me, rust"), marty who encourages him to tell his stories of the stars. this is the other side of storytelling — the side that is not corrupt or empty, the side that has meaning because it is sincere, because it is earnest and with feeling. childress's storytelling is directly opposed to rust's, with childress an empty caricature of the rotten southern gothic and rust as a person looking to the stars: storytelling that does not suck inward to the void but looks outward to the world.

— i think it's significant that our final image of marty and rust is marty helping rust escape the hospital several days early. marty reifies rust's selfhood by something so simple as recognising what he likes — buying him his brand of cigarettes. but this is also in opposition to the medical institution. should someone with a hole in their guts be smoking? doubtful. but that's not the point — the point is that they have to "get out from under this [hospital] roof" in order to see the stars, that rust's lasting glimpse of hope ("the light's winning") is as he flees the institution, propped up not by its mechanics, in the form of the wheelchair, but by marty himself.

— as i've discussed in the past, TD's implications of the medical institution as a further corrupt branch of the state are very veiled, but they are present. there's a further signal of this in one of the hazy, slowly cross-fading shots towards the end: we see a doctor in the hospital hallway, carrying the image of a human body, fading into a shot of the childress shack with a human body drawn on it.

placed directly one after another, this is a juxtaposition that only associates the two. the shack is where childress keeps his desiccated father, talks about bringing him water, hosing him down — in some perverse way, treating him as a patient. this isn't designed to say explicitly that the hospital is involved in the conspiracy to the same degree as the tuttles, but it implies a broader institutional sweep of wrongness. within the medical institution is where most of us will experience ourselves at our most powerless; out of necessity, medical treatment strips identity and agency away, regimenting schedules and meals and visiting hours, labelling patients with identifying bracelets. in the same way that childress's narratives of southern gothic were a seductive call to the void of nothing, the absence of selfhood, the hospital, too, denies personality and self.

— this is why we finish with marty bringing rust his cigarettes against medical advice; this is why rust leaves the hospital, if not exactly on his own terms then at least on his and marty's. it is a final reclamation of the selfhood he has been denying himself all along — and an escape into a world that contains only one story, "light versus dark", as our final shot is of the stars winking into light. he is beyond our (potentially corrupting, as sight and image has been throughout the series) interpretation; he is in the void, yes, but it is a void with substance, a void with love.

[sophsun1]

I've seen a few people say it took them a while to warm up to and start to love brian when they started watching qaf. But honestly for me and it's not just me speaking as the captain of his defence squad, I loved him from the pilot. Because for all you see on the surface - a seemingly selfish, cocky asshole who only wants to fuck and forget etc you also see there's so much more to him.

He literally has suicidal ideations over his life, his softness and love for gus as soon as he's born, the gentleness that he extends to justin over his first time, the way he speaks about his own first time that conversation haunts me and the hint of protectiveness we see when he stands up to the guy making fun of justin after he drops him off at school. Idk, I took one look at him in 1.01 and knew he was my blorbo for life.