#write yourself as a character

[coolearistrashcollection]

Tag Game: Write Yourself!

I've been tagged to do this challenge by @slutshamethesquirrels , so this piece is naturally inspired by her entry (GO CHECK SHAMESY NOW!)

I think I got a bit carried away tho lol, that's what 6h worth of travel and no internet does to someone bored on the notes app I guess lol

Moreover, I don't know many people so like, do it if you want?

You catch sight of her in the distance, rushing towards you, her headphones barely stuffed into that overly-decorated backpack. Every step echoes with the jingle of a dozen keychains and pins, announcing her presence like a warning bell. She's definitely more fidgety than usual, and her dark circles seem darker– no doubt the aftereffects of another late night. You've heard all about her thesis and her sworn vendetta against the university's computers. You can practically hear her voice: “I swear, the university servers are run on potatoes. My old PC is a supercomputer by comparison!”

Typical engineering student– powered by coffee and, occasionally, spite. She'd probably laugh if you teased her about the stress, eyes lighting up in that way they do when she's preparing to fire back, “Shear, tensile, or fatigue?”

She reaches you, breathless, her all-black outfit blending with the gloomy weather. Today, she's bundled up in that enormous faux-fur coat. The only speck of colour you see on her is actually from her hair, messy red-dyed streaks and racoon tails she dyed herself on impulse.

“I swear I left the house on time! Public transport fucked me again!” She says with a grin that flashes a glimpse of her sharp canines. As she speaks, her fingers find their usual targets– first picking absentmindedly at the skin around her nails, then moving to fidget with the ring she always wears. It's a telltale sign: disrupted routines make her restless, you know. That's when you notice her nails, usually painted in her signature metallic cherry, are a chipped pink pearl instead. It's rare to see her change colours, and given the already peeling polish, you figure she was either too busy to apply the top coat– or too stressed to care.

You shrug, pulling your bag off the canteen seat you saved, waving her worry away. It's lucky to even have a spot here with the recent swarm of first-years flooding the place, and you can already tell she's relieved.

She drops into the seat, immediately digging into her bag for her Tupperware, and just the scent alone– sweet, buttery, familiar– makes you salivate. You're in luck, she made her famous scones this time. You don't even get the chance to thank her before she shoves one into your hands, insisting you take it without a second thought.

As she settles into the seat, her tension seems to ease slightly. She sighs, taking in the lively chaos of the canteen around you. You notice her shoulders relax as she tucks a few red-streaked strands behind her ear, where her earrings –a mix of hoops, charms, and mismatched studs– dangle with every slight movement. She glances around, her big glasses framing bright blue-grey eyes that pop against her heavy eyeliner, giving her gaze an intense, almost electric focus.

“God, I needed a break,” she mutters, more to herself than to you, but then she turns back, studying you with that familiar glint in her eye. She takes a slow, deliberate bite of her scone, a hum of satisfaction slipping out, before raising an eyebrow at you. “So,” she begins, leaning in like she's about to reveal a big secret, “you've gotta tell me– have the scones been perfected?”

“If this is another recipe experiment, you know I'm not the only one who wants to be a test subject,” you laugh, reaching for another one. "But yes, they're even better than last time."

“Test subject? Please,” she scoffs playfully, flashing her signature toothy grin. “I prefer the term ‘lab rats'– though yes, you and the others are all my little testers.” She gives a dramatic roll of her eyes, a mock sigh of pity. “The things you all endure for the sake of science.”

You can't help but grin too, taking a bite of the scone while she watches you, her expression one of amused concentration. She may not say it, she isn't one to pour out affection in words, but you've learned to read between the lines of her cooking. This is her way of showing that she considers you a friend– testing her creations on you, perfecting each recipe like it's a lab experiment and you're her chosen subject.

“Well, I'd say your lab work's paying off,” you tell her, as the buttery, flaky pastry melts in your mouth. “Though maybe you should think about ditching chemical engineering and open a bakery after your thesis instead.”

Her laugh is genuine, and she leans back, clearly satisfied. “That's actually my retirement plan. I'll open a bakery, and always make extra for you.”

[lgbtlunaverse]

There's a version of the "don't go grocery shopping while hungry" rule specifically for writers where you should never under any circumstances be allowed to touch your draft within 3 hours of reading a really good story. Because sometimes when you read something great your head goes "fuck this is so much better than my stuff I should make that more like THIS instead!" Look at me. That's the devil talking and you should close the document NOW.

[erinwantstowrite]

if you're stuck on a chapter there are a few reasons:

-your set up to the scene you're writing is not working. go back and check it

-you are not in the right POV. think about who would be the most interesting or the most entertaining or the most informative in that scene, depending on what impact you want the scene to have

-you're at the beginning of the chapter and the words aren't coming to you even though you have it planned out already? the solution is simple: you don't like what you have planned out as much as you think you do. do not force it

-solution to a lot of problems comes from a single question I ask myself: Do I choose the kind option, or the mean option? (Your readers will eat up either one)

-You find the dialogue lacking? Act it out

-Your scene feels boring or something just "ain't right" but you can't tell what it is? Try making yourself feel the emotion you want your readers to feel. If you didn't cry while writing a scene meant to make your readers bawl their eyes out, then you might not have connected to your character as well as you wanted to. Put yourself in their shoes, pretend you ARE them.

(And afterwards, please practice putting yourself back in your own shoes and taking care of your mental health. Sometimes the fucked up stuff might get to you. Healthy minds create healthy lives, and in turn, you get to keep creating.)

-Your environment might be bothering you. Take a look around you and see what's nagging you. Is your workspace not clean? Are your notes out of order? A clean/orderly workspace can help you organize your thoughts or get you into a more productive mood. (Trust me, I get it, sometimes it's really hard to keep it tidy.)

-Try white/brown/pink noise. Try listening to music, or to videos that create background noise you feel most productive with.

-Jumping jacks. Squats. Stretches. Wiggle around your room. That one scene in High School Musical where Sharpay and Ryan are warming up. It sounds ridiculous, but this is good for you, your body, and your mind. Release pent up energy, get yourself awake and focused. If you aren't able to do this, try something silly to wake your brain up. Do some puzzles, sing some songs, etc.

-Most importantly:

Did you do your laundry? Did you get enough sun? Did you drink enough water? Did you eat enough today? Did you get your favorite snack? Did you smile? Did you run in your yard like you did as a kid? Did you laugh with your friend? Did you see the way their eyes crinkle when they smile at you? Did you play with your dog? Your cat? Did you look at the flowers in the field near your house? Did you meet someone new? Did you learn something you didn't before? Did you try something you were scared of? Did it go well? Did you enjoy being yourself? Did you explore the world today? Did you live? Did you love? Did you feel? Did you breathe, and relax, and feel that everything is gonna be okay?

It might seem insignificant, but we write from the heart, not just the mind. Let your story sit in the back of your mind when you truly feel stuck. Take care of yourself, try getting out of your head. Notice the details around you, commit them to memory. Your story will wait for you. It might take a day, or days, or a week, or a month, months, or a year or years. But the story sits with you and you'll be thinking about it without actually thinking about it. When you come to your story again, it will be happy that you've grown, no matter how big or small

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Have you seen my little lad?

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[krow-draws]

Im obsessed with her 🫵🫵🫵🫵💥💥💥💥💥

[zukkaoru]

[ID: a tweet edited to read:

tumblr the only place where well articulated sentences still get misinterpreted.

You can say "we should appreciate the female characters that already exist in canon" and somebody will say "oh so you’re saying I can’t like male characters that my neurodivergency has made me latch onto?"

No bitch. Dats a whole new sentence. Wtf is you talkin about.

/end ID]

piss on the poor website.

[umblrspectrum]

hi heres my ramblings about a md rain world au i made up in like a day bye

[sagaduwyrm]

The reason I refuse to acknowledge any other batfam death other than Jason is because, narratively, none of the others mattered.

Jason's death shaped everything that came after it in how the batfam responded to his death and handled it, and completely shaped his character.

I don't even know about most of the other "deaths" because they were so comparatively unimportant.

[retiredteabag]

retiredteabag rant *

I cannot believe I even have to say this but: you are weird if you “age up” minors in a sexual context. It is equally as weird as simply writing smut about a minor.

None of these characters are real to begin with, and I am aware that they do not exist, still, they are not created to be viewed in a sexual manner.

Stop sexualizing a being created to represent a child.

I cannot fathom seeing a character look, think, and behave like a kid and still feel the need to write porn about them.

There is rarely an instance where someone need justify their rightful actions, so if you do need to come up with loopholes to objectify a child, I would recommend rethinking why you are doing it.

At the end of the day, it is wrong to see a character- in high school, and lust after them.

If you need to “age up” a character to the age of 18 simply to have sex with them without any character development I cannot see how you wouldn’t find that unnerving. This should not be normalized.

To some extent, I do understand an argument that it is not “harming anyone” but I don’t believe this is necessarily true. Normalizing the sexualization of a child is never good.

The saying “just let people enjoy things” often ignores valid criticism and shows defensiveness toward something that, by all accounts, is repulsive. Even when reading fanfiction, as silly as it sounds, we should be thinking critically. Do remember that absorbing criticism about something you enjoy does not magically ruin it. (more in-depth article cited below if you are interested)

And at the end of the day, if the author does not canonize the aging of a minor, then they remain a child.

Don’t be a creep.

Wagner, K. (2019, May 9). Don’t Let People Enjoy Things. The Baffler. https://thebaffler.com/latest/dont-let-people-enjoy-things-wagner

[blackblooms]

I just really wanted to talk about VS yourself from the Hit Single Real mod of Friday Night Funkin.

It does a great job of communicating the essentials of its story through the way the song is presented. At first, boyfriend is meant by a creepy figure, which players would assume is some kind of evil doppelganger, but as the song progresses, you start to connect with yourself and eventually come to understand what he really wants as the song reaches its climax. Everyone of course talks about the amazing vocal part, but i think an underrated part of the songs are those brief but very hype segments where Yourself and Boyfriend begin singing and moving in sync. It's an obvious fit for the mirror imagery but i think it's also a great way to symbolize Yourself and Boyfriend managing to connect for a moment. Knowing the lore of Yourself definitely adds to the experience, but i think the essential part of the story is perfectly communicated through the song itself. Simply someone reaching out to an alternate version of themselves, seeking to find a voice that can empathize and relate to his pain and allow him to feel understood...

[mishy-mashy]

Bruce is actually really attractive, and I have enough reasoning to make a list

He's:

Tall (. Tall enough to hit his head on the vault doorframe)

Long-legged

Has a straight nose bridge

Has high cheekbones (more noticeable in 2nd pic below)

Has a strong jawline

Sharp eyes, but they aren't small (plus eyebags if you're into that)

Overall, he has strong, attractive facial features

Has broad, refined shoulders. You can tell he works out (or he did, when he was alive)

Even has a thick, muscly neck

He has MUSCLE. Is SCULPTED. NOICE. VERY NOICE. (nice arms. Nice shoulders. Nice neck. Nice legs. Nice butt-)

(There are actually panels where you can see some of his muscles. Other than those already shown here, he's got bricky thighs-

-and in the panels where we first get his name dropped, he's got those shoulder blades too-)

The one time we see him smile, and he actually has a scary one

Has small, kinda sharp pupils, and his eyes remind me of a cat. We only ever saw him tense or defensive, so his resting/listening face is really cute

Other than the physical appearance stuff, he also:

Takes shit without batting an eye (patience, knowing it's just how Kudo is, etc)

Kudo being all "Cut the crap Bruce and give it to me straight", after Bruce tests his blood and is rightfully Concerned because they just faced AFO

Put up with Kudo's experimenting and testing over Yoichi's transferable Factor

Did ya'll see the look on Kudo's face when he realized he had Yoichi's Factor/will? Kudo was going to start in nonsense and Bruce just dealt with that.

Also something I noticed when looking back at the images here; Bruce has bandages on his arms in the void. But not when he faced AFO in the sewers.

Were he and Kudo cutting their arms open in their experimenting over Yoichi's theory? Is this why Kudo has two gauntlets instead of his one? Why we never see his bare arms in the void? That he always keeps his arms down so there's no slip?

Is smart enough to run blood tests, plus has enough common sense to pick Shinomori as his successor

He picked a guy who avoids society, has an Ability to detect danger so he can always stay away from AFO, is also a coward so he's never going to go throw himself into danger, even without knowing instinctively he stands no chance, etc.

Meanwhile, Kudo chose Bruce, who he played Hot Potato Yoichi with; but he did also trust Bruce, and put the only pure combative Ability in OFA through Bruce.

These two made their choices based on what they valued and saw the Factor needed.

Is logical, analytical, and calm.

He tried advising Midoriya on their Abilities in One For All, especially his own.

Midoriya then tried ignoring him about using Fa Jin for the first time, but found he was right, thinking: "Dammit!! I had [Lady Nagant] right where I wanted her, but... ugh! The Third was right. My parallel Quirk processes are all screwed up!" (ch. 314).

Plus, when Midoriya fixed his processing mistakes, Bruce was analyzing the way he reached his new conclusion. Pure facts, no bias, very calm, just saying it as it was.

We never see him panic. When he's caught by surprise in the sewers by AFO, Kudo, and Yoichi's little bubble event, he immediately reacts. He doesn't falter, he just knows he has to do something right now.

Was more willing to listen than Kudo to Yoichi's beckon, and probably was just following Kudo's rejection of Midoriya

While we don't see Kudo's face, we see Bruce's eyes when Yoichi calls on his heroes. Bruce was more open and receptive, or at least more impacted.

Bruce was also the one to start talking, while Kudo just kept quiet.

He actually communicates a lot

When Yoichi called them to support Midoriya, Bruce started talking to paint a picture of why they thought the way they did, so Yoichi understood where they were coming from.

(Though he seems to beat about the bush sometimes, since Kudo spoke up to be direct on how they couldn't just put their trust in some starry-eyed teenager. Plus, when Kudo tells him to just tell him what's wrong [double Factors])

When Midoriya first used Fa Jin against Nagant, Bruce came out just to tell him he knew what he was trying, but that Midoriya wasn't ready; and Midoriya found he was right. Midoriya just didn't want to listen to him then.

He asks Kudo for clarification after finding Kudo had two Factors in him after the sewer incident ("Just to be sure, All For One didn't touch you, right?") Kudo knew him well enough to go "stop beating around the bush and tell me", so Bruce was probably gonna start with questions, theories, and trying to understand everything in general, before saying "yeah you have two Factors. Don't know why".

Is strong-willed and loyal.

He followed Kudo, even to death, carrying on the cause he started until it ended with him.

Plus, when talking about how AFO needs a strong will to override OFA's own, we first see Bruce, Kudo, and Yoichi.

AFO couldn't steal OFA because the will was too strong for him, and that was back during Banjo's time. Since Shinomori never actually tried opposing AFO and just hid, we can assume the first Three (Yoichi, Kudo, Bruce) already had an accumulation of strong willpower that made OFA un-stealable. Those three are a strong enough foundation, and the main wills, that the other users just become bonuses.

Kudo, also saying that Midoriya needs allies with the same will and drive as him... hey Kudo, you're talking about yourself and your old allies, aren't you? That's why you look at Yoichi and Bruce when you say this.

Not only is Bruce attractive, but he's got good character. THE END.

[mamanbou]

i joke about ociel thinking he's his dad's age a lot but like really he does. something so heartbreaking about the fact that whenever ciel references his own age it's like he's making an inside joke- dryly reminding the dinner party in book of murder that children have early bedtimes, for example. as if his age is a mere technicality, it's inaccurate on some level but is still a loophole he can exploit when convenient. Feigned innocence.

Because in kuro youth primarily functions as an axis of powerlessness. Ciel can't act his age or he's delegitimized. It's just another wall he's built between his persona and his actual self. To be Earl Ciel Phantomhive The Queen's Guard Dog he buries his age, his name, his illnesses........ idk it just always gets me that he isn't only borrowing from his brother, but his father as well. Anybody but himself. He really believes it, too, that any lie can become the truth with enough dedication and hard work.. He's so good at deluding himself. But he's not a grizzled 34 year old detective :( hes just a baby :(

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Advanced Hall Monitor Technique: Go To Detention

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[hardly-an-escape]

Stormy Weather, or: Outside, the Wind (Inside, the Light) | Dream/Hob | 1600 words | Rated T

tags: I recently spent an evening without power therefore I must put the blorbos in a Situation, love confessions, first kiss, getting together, power outages, Hob Gadling throughout history, gratuitious use of mildly accurate Middle English

The wind tears around London like a living thing, a wild animal, a predator, intent on the hunt. It chases birds into their nests and people into their homes, moans around corners and rattles shutters, sending piles of leaves whirling into miniature hurricanes and whipping branches into a frenzy, sharpening its claws on roof tiles and telephone poles.

Except in Hob Gadling’s flat.

The New Inn, and the cozy home above it, is in one of those old buildings that’s actually been loved and maintained – thanks in no small part to Hob’s own care and attention. The walls are thick and strong, the roof is solid. The shutters may rattle, but the windows are double-pane; the curtains and carpets are warm and soft, and no drafts encroach on the sanctity of his living room, where Hob and Lord Morpheus, King of Dreams, are having a movie night.

It’s part of Hob’s concerted effort to introduce the Prince of Stories to the stories he’d missed during his imprisonment. Tonight it’s Blade Runner – the final cut, of course – which isn’t necessarily one of Hob’s personal favorites, but seemed to fit the stormy, rainy vibes of the weather. They’re installed on the couch, with hot chocolate and wine and snacks, which Dream has deigned to pick at. Harrison Ford is eating noodles and wandering through wet, moodily-lit streets. The wind is howling outside, but they’re safe and warm and surrounded by soft things and life is about as good, Hob thinks, as it ever gets these days.

And then his lights flicker. Once, twice; there is the impression of a sort of electrical last gasp, and the room is plunged into darkness.

The wind whips and the shutters rattle. A volley of rain spits itself against the windows.

“Bugger,” says Hob.

Dream says nothing, merely brings his wineglass – which had already been cradled in one elegant hand – to his lips.

“Hang on,” says Hob. “I’ve got some candles around here somewhere.”

He gropes his way to the kitchen. In one drawer he unearths some beeswax tapers and several tea lights, which he arranges on a plate. He rummages in one of the deeper cabinets and makes a triumphant noise as he discovers his prize behind disused mugs and a fondue set from the 1980s: a pair of old-fashioned brass candlesticks equipped with round reflectors, highly polished to catch the light and bounce it back out into the darkness.

“You are remarkably well-prepared for an event such as this,” says Dream, as Hob lights his various prizes and returns to the living room with his hands full of flickering flames.

“Well, you know,” Hob demurs. “When it comes down to it, I’ve lived a lot more of my life without electricity than with it.” He arranges the tea lights on the coffee table and sets the brass candlesticks on a nearby bookshelf. “You never really get out of the habit of preparing for the worst. Although I will say, these beeswax ones beat the hell out of the old tallow jobbies we had when I was young. Got ‘em from a local bloke who keeps bees not half a mile away, isn’t that cool? A beekeeper in the middle of London. There, now,” he says, and having arranged the lights to his satisfaction he plops himself back down on the sofa.

Outside, the wind wails. The lack of lamps on the empty street below and the gentle candlelight within make the night seem even darker, and turn Hob’s living room into something even softer and cozier than it already is.

Dream’s face, in the flickering candles, seems even more otherworldly than usual; and Hob, for his part, truly looks as though he belongs in another century. The very shape of his face has changed, somehow, into something older; taking on a new appearance in the candlelight the way a man’s tongue might curl differently around the syllables of another language.

“I miss it, sometimes,” he says lowly. “This kind of world. Before the wires and the phones and the cars. It was… quieter.”

“You speak often of your delight in change and progress. Do you truly long for your past lives?” asks Dream.

“Yes and no,” answers Hob. “Some things are better now, no question. Antibiotics, wouldn’t want to live without those again. Vaccines and X-rays and chemotherapy and antidepressants – almost all the medical stuff. Mass transportation. Cars and planes have never been safer. Honestly, I’ve never understood the people who moan about the olden days and oh, life was simpler back then. Don’t they know how many people died? How many kids? Because they caught a cold or fell out of a tree or had a case of the runs that lasted a little too long?”

He leans forward to adjust one of the candles, which is dripping unevenly, and when he sags back into the couch there is just the hint of a frown between his strong brows.

“And yet…” he says, staring into the flames, voice quiet. “Nights like this. I do sometimes think…”

Hob trails off for a long moment.

“There was a rhythm to life, back then,” he says finally. “You counted hours by the church bells and days by the tasks that needed done. And there was so much that needed to be done… cows milked and fields planted and clothes knitted or mended. And it was all so important, so… necessary. Regimented. But in the in between time – Christ! your time wast thine.” As he speaks, his voice has slipped into an older register: his Rs grown rounder, his vowels longer, curling from his mouth to mingle with the candlesmoke hovering over his coffee table. “I remember fair hours as a lad, even into my manhood, of which I spent lyende in th’ fields, watching ants in th’ grass. And later, too, we’d hie us to bed with the sonne, the fire banked in the hearth. An’ it happen that if we awakened before dawn, ’twas a simple thing to pass the time in simple ways, be it in prayer or in pleasure…”

The innuendo in his words is clear, but Hob is not looking at Dream; his eyes are unfocused as he stares into the middle distance, revisiting the past via candlelight. Until one of the wicks lets out a small pop, and flares, and he shakes himself, coming back to the present.

“God, sorry,” he says, voice back in the 21st century. “Woolgathering. I’ll go on for an age, me. More wine?”

But Dream’s eyes have also gone unfocused, his lips parted slightly, chest rising and falling with unnecessary breaths as he stares – no, gazes – at Hob. He, too, must shake himself into the present moment at Hob’s offer of more wine. He silently holds out his glass.

“May I ask you a personal question?” Dream says.

“Anything. You know that.”

Dream pauses. Sips. Outside, the sound of the wind has not abated; has grown, if anything, even more dramatic. There is the muffled sound of branches scraping against the side of the building.

“Why,” asks Dream finally, “do you pretend to yourself that you do not want me?”

Hob chokes. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Why do you pretend thus to me?” Dream pursues. “Who has known you longer than any being on this planet or any other; who can know your innermost dreams?”

“What do you mean, other planets?” Hob demands. And then: “Have you been peeking at my dreams?”

“I need not peek, as you put it, to see the truth of the matter. It is writ plain on your face and in your every word and deed. I merely wonder why this truth has hovered before us for over six hundred years and you have yet to press your suit. Do you doubt, after all this time, my affection for you? Do you find me – unworthy?”

Dream sounds, impossibly, almost uncertain. Even vulnerable. Hob sighs heavily and leans forward, elbows on his knees and face in his hands.

“I – God. Dream,” he stammers. “Yes, Christ, I am full of doubts. You stormed away from me when I implied you might be lonely, I… I have never, once, thought I had a suit to press at all. What on earth has brought this on? Now, of all times?”

“I do not know,” Dream murmurs. “Perhaps… this darkness is working on me, as well. Perhaps I am as susceptible to candlelight and nostalgia as the next anthropomorphic personification.”

He smiles, a little quirk of the mouth that contains worlds, and Hob leans over, listing helplessly into Dream’s space as the tapers flicker.

“Fuck,” he whispers, pressing their foreheads together, turning his head to butt his cheekbone against the sharp line of Dream’s nose. “Art thou rēal? Speak you treue?”

“Aye, my Hob,” answers Dream. “Min herte is treue and bilongeth to you.”

A sob catches in the back of Hob’s throat at the words. “Fuck,” he whispers again, “Dream, I’m yours. I am. I always have been. My Dream, min sweven, my leof. Alwei, allesweis…”

Their mouths find each other, then, finally, lip against lip and breath against breath. They kiss for a long, long moment, desperate and hungry and soft all at once, as outside the wind howls coldly around the corners of the New Inn, and inside the light cast by Hob’s candles bathes their whole little world in a cozy glow.

“Take me to bed,” murmurs Dream against Hob’s mouth. “Make me your lover. Show me how you pass the time by candlelight, and in darkness.”

“Oh, darling. Dearheart,” Hob answers. “Nothing in this world or any world past could make me happier.”

And he suits his actions to his words.

[kryptonbabe]

I can't believe DC is giving Theater Doorman James Hunter a solo miniseries while Blind Student Don Blake gets nothing??

From Best of Blue Ribbon Digest 15 (1981)

[aalghul]

did anyone else see the "I suffered, why shouldn't they?" - "I suffered and I'll do my best to help people because of it" with jason & cass respectively on twitter. did anyone else laugh because a) the first is NOT jason, b) the second is cass and 99.9% of heroes in the dcu, and is such a bland explanation of her unique motivations. "she wants to save people" no duh? but through saving people she felt a connection to people equal to & stronger than the one she felt when she killed a man and becoming batgirl gave her an identity and she gained a family and a name even outside of batgirl and she felt like she was atoning by risking her life to save others' (and didnt think it was adequate and had to go on and on until she died in service of The Mission). all you've got is "cass good, jason bad xoxo" is that as far as your analysis can go.