#because I was while writing this

[sibillascribbles08]

Alright, here's some very sad dad, aka Mr. Song, aka Jase's dad. We're going back to the thing that happened before Jase stopped seeing him for like two years.

And going to give the Content Warning: This work contains some homophobic language and a whole bunch of internalized homophobia. No self harm, but there is something that's misread as self harm. Also some adult/suggestive language near the bottom (these men are sluts what can I tell you) but nothing explicit.

Anyway the first chunk is crunchier than a walnut shell so I'm just gonna go ahead and slap on that read more. Have fun??? Idk

“Birthday was going fine until you called.” 

Jae-Won didn’t know why that sentence drove such a hammer through his chest. It wasn’t the first time Jase spoke to him with such disdain. It wasn’t the first time their phone calls turned sour. 

But it became so frequent now. And this was after Jase said he was too busy to come visit for the week and Jae-Won allowed it because he didn’t want his son thinking he’d try to force him to do anything. 

He just wanted to check in, wish him a Happy Birthday, maybe talk about future plans if the kid was up for it. Why did it have to go this way? 

But he refused to break over the phone. “O-oh? Sorry.” He gave a faint laugh and began to pace around his bedroom. “I guess you’re busy right now, huh?” His fingers looped around his beaded necklace. “I can let you get back to it and check in later.” 

“Why bother?”

His steps halted, the heels of his sandals digging into the carpet. “What?”

Jason raised his voice. “I said why bother? Why do you keep doing this?”

Panic gripped Jae-Won’s throat. “Jase—” 

“Why don’t you just take all your shit and get out of my life already?” 

His hand let go of his necklace. The other one almost dropped the phone. It hung loose in his grip as his limbs went numb. 

What could he even say to that? No? I’m sorry? What would he even be apologizing for, being himself? 

Sorry that I’m like this? Sorry your father’s too queer to ever be normal? Sorry I’m a raging embarrassment to you and the rest of my family? 

Tears burned in his eyes and he clenched his fist to hold them back. No, saying all of that wouldn’t matter. Because he couldn’t change who he was, not now. He needed to think about Jase. The kid was almost an adult, and if he decided he didn’t want to see his father anymore, there was nothing Jae-Won could do to stop that. 

The kinder thing to do would be to let him go while Jase was asking for it. 

“Okay.” He finally forced the words out and cleared his throat to keep his voice from wavering. It barely worked. “If… that’s what you want, then okay. Just… if you ever need anything, you can always reach out to me, okay kiddo?” 

“Yeah,” Jase mumbled. And the silence hung in the air like a guillotine. “Whatever.” 

And that single, uncaring word was all it took for Jae-Won’s heart to shatter on the floor. 

Not that he let it show, but he certainly couldn’t breathe a word. And after another agonizing pause, the line finally cut off. 

Jae-Won lowered his phone to stare at his screen. The words flashing to say the call had been disconnected, right below a picture of his son with the first gundam figure he put together. 

He couldn’t really feel anything. The silence in his room droned on for so long he could hear the faint ringing in his ears. Tears stayed in his eyes but they didn’t fall. 

His phone remained idle for so long, the screen finally went black. 

Jae-Won stared at his reflection. At the eye-liner and eyeshadow on his face, the glitter, the stickers, the pins in his hair that he pushed back, the necklaces around his neck that just barely touched the hem of the sequin top he had on. 

Why was he wearing this? Why was he like this? 

His son never wanted to see him again because of all this garbage. His son hated him. It didn’t matter how much Jae-Won loved him. 

Why did he ever fall into all of this? He could still remember Jason’s delighted shouts when his father would come home from work. The loud demands to ���show him more robots” on TV. His rapid tapping on the table as he waited for his father to bring over the tea that they always drank before bed. 

The divorce marred all of that in an instant, and Jae-Won knew he couldn’t just blame his ex for that. He made his own choices. He chose to lean into it. And he didn’t know how to keep his son from shutting him out more and more as the years passed. 

He kept staring at his reflection. He clutched his phone tighter, watching it shake in his grip. 

“You think you’re fit to raise a son if you’re going to go around sleeping with any man you find?” 

“I’m sorry, Mr. Song, but this court rules in favor of—”

“You either take this deal, or we’re going to present even more evidence to the court that could easily keep you away from your son for good.” 

“Jae, if you show up wearing something like that to pick up our son again, I’m taking this back to the judge.” 

“You’re so damn disgusting.” 

“How could you turn out like this? Didn’t we raise you better?”

“Do you invite all those men and women over to your house? You better keep them out when Jase is there.” 

“Do you hear me? Watch it. We wouldn’t want Jase turning into a degenerate like you.” 

Jae-Won tossed his phone onto the floor as hard as he could manage. 

He didn’t linger to see if it broke or not. He rushed straight into the bathroom. The second he saw his reflection he gritted his teeth. He had half a mind to just punch the mirror in, but that wouldn’t fix the problem staring back at him. 

The problem was simple. He was too much of a fucking freak to be a father. He refused to believe that for so long, but now even his own son didn’t want to look at him anymore. 

Jae-Won grabbed both necklaces in one hand and snapped them off. His neck stung. The beads clattered onto the tile floor. 

He ripped his top off as well and chucked it to the side before turning on the sink. With a handful of water he splashed it on his face and rubbed as hard as he could. He felt the glitter and the stickers scraping against his skin. His cheeks hurt. But he didn’t let up. He glanced back up at the mirror to find he’d barely gotten the damn shit off, just smeared it around. Fucking sealer. 

Oh look at you. An internal demon that hadn’t haunted him in years suddenly whispered in the back of his mind. Who do you think you’re fooling, looking like that, you fucking freak.

These days he’d always snap back that yes, he was a fucking freak, but now that thought had his legs shaking so bad he collapsed on the bathroom floor. 

Why get so dolled up? It continued. To make you forget what a massive failure you are at being anything society expected out of you? You failed to get the job you dreamed of. Failed to keep your wife. And now you’re a failure of a father to boot. 

“Shut-up.” He tried to hiss past the pressure on his throat. He gripped the side of the sink and pulled himself up, only to be forced to look at his reflection once more. 

Face it. The inner demon’s voice shifted into his own, and he found himself mumbling along with it. “Jase always hated us, he just only now found the courage to say it.” 

That’s the truth, wasn’t it. All those years of week-long visits and Jase wanted nothing more than to get away from him, but didn’t feel bold enough to say it. 

Because Jae-Won Song was a disgusting, slutty degenerate. 

He glanced back up at his smeared make-up, and now his fist did connect with the mirror. The glass splintered, but didn’t break off. His knuckles hurt, but it wasn’t enough. 

Jae-Won jerked the cabinet doors open. He snatched every piece of make-up he could see and hurled it at the wall. Pallets of eyeshadow exploded against the tile wall of his shower into plumes of colored dust. Nail polish shattered and splattered onto the tub. Foundation, eyeliner, mascara, blush, all the stupid little brushes and sponges and his single tube of lipstick. 

He took a second to gasp for air, blinking through the tears. He stared at the mess of paint, powder and broken glass and plastic. Not enough. It wasn’t enough. 

He snatched his trimming scissors out next, ready to try and turn the metal into nothing but a ball of scrap from stomping on it hundreds of times.

“Jae?” 

The panicked shout had him looking back. He stared at Manny—one of his partners—who stared back, more frightened than he had been during any of their horror movie nights. 

Manny’s gaze darted to the scissors, then he rushed into the bathroom. 

Jae-Won leapt away from the motion, but he had nowhere to go. Manny grabbed him in a sort-of hug, pinning Jae’s arms to his sides, and held him close. Jae-Won struggled, panic and adrenaline still surging through his system. Only more so when he fully registered who was holding him. 

Disgusting. Disgusting. He was so disgusting. 

He didn’t realize he was screaming until Manny had to shout over him to be heard. “Jae. Calm down. Calm down for me, okay? Drop the scissors.” 

Jae-Won kept thrashing, kept trying to rip free. No. No. He wasn’t done. He had to get rid of the rest of it. Break it, burn it, so he could never touch it again. Shred it until he had no choice but to be someone normal and respectable and worthy to take care of the thing he loved the most. 

Manny started to drag him backwards into the hall. Boots pounded on the nearby staircase, then Angie’s voice came in. “Manny, what the fuck is going on?”

“I don’t know.” Manny told her. “Text the group to get on standby and call the restaurant. Then get some water.” 

Jae-Won thrashed again.

Manny tightened his grip. “You’re okay. You’re okay, Darling.” 

The pet name just made him angrier, even if it shouldn’t, because he started that entire trend. “Don’t call me that.” 

“Alright, done and done. Now let’s take a deep breath and drop the scissors, okay?” 

Jae-Won tried even harder to rip himself free. “Let me go!”

“Not until you drop the scissors. I’m not going to let you hurt yourself.” 

What? Is that what Manny thought he was doing? He didn’t have the space in his brain to figure out how he came to that conclusion. But fine. Fine! If Jae-Won couldn’t turn them into sheet metal he’d just do it later. 

With how little he could move his arms, he could barely throw the trimmers more than a few feet toward the bathroom door. 

Manny immediately relaxed and loosened his grip, but he didn’t let go. “Alright, good, now let’s take a deep breath—”

“Let go of me.”

“Jae, come on.”

“I said let go!”

“Okay, okay.” Manny’s grip finally vanished.

Jae-Won scrambled to his feet. In the process he stumbled into the wall. He could barely see at this point. Between the tears and his contacts everything shifted into blurs of color. He tried to step away from Manny for… some reason. His brain just screamed at him to get away. Get away from the temptation. 

More boots on the stairs just kicked his panic into overdrive. He tried to dart into his bedroom, but his head slammed into the corner of the door. 

“Shit, Jae.” Manny touched his shoulder. “Let’s at least just sit down.”

“No.” Jae-Won tried to shove him off, but then another pair of hands grabbed his arms. Angie, no doubt. “Let go. Leave me alone.”

“Like hell we’re doing that when you’re acting like this.” Angie spat. “What the hell is going on, babe?” 

“I said leave me alone!” He screamed so loud it tore at his throat.

“No!” Manny shouted back. “We love you too damn much for that.” 

Something about that sentence snapped his anger away. All of it vanished at once, leaving him with nothing but anguish. 

His legs gave out, and the only reason he didn’t hit the floor is because both of his partners held fast. They each slid an arm under his shoulders and gently guided him down to the bedroom carpet. 

Jae-Won couldn’t manage to say anything, not that any coherent words even formed in his brain. All he could do was sob, curling up so his face pressed against the floor. It hurt. It hurt. He wished he could just reach into his chest and rip out his heart and let himself bleed out on the floor. 

Manny gently shushed him, rubbing a hand along his back. “It’s gonna be alright, Jae. We’re here, okay?” 

Jae-Won tried to cling to the words, but his brain immediately shoved them away again. Stop. Don’t give in. These people were part of the thing he needed to get rid of. 

But why was he even lying to himself? He couldn’t get rid of that, or them. 

The tears finally slowed down just enough for him to speak. “Why am I like this?” 

“What?” Angie held his hand. “Like what, babe?” 

“Why am I like this?” He forced himself up so he could put a hand on his chest. “Why did I have to be like this? Why couldn’t I just be normal?” 

He still couldn’t see clearly, but the horrified expressions that Manny and Angie exchanged were still obvious. 

“Jae?” Manny reached out and held his face, lightly brushing away tears. “Hey, listen to me. I don’t know what’s going on, but there is nothing wrong with you.” 

“Did your parents suddenly call you back?” Angie growled. “I told you to block their—”

“Angie, wait until we get the story.” 

Jae-Won shook his head and pushed Manny’s hands to the side. “If there was nothing wrong with me, then my son wouldn’t be so disgusted with me.” 

His partners fell silent. 

So he continued, even if he struggled to get the words out between sobs. “He told me to finally get out of his life. Just how long has he wanted me to do that? Just how long has he been stuck coming over to my house wishing he never had to see me again?” He tried to wipe his eyes, but the tears didn’t slow down. If anything they got worse. “All because I can’t help being anything but a filthy, disgusting, de—”

“Hey!” Manny’s voice boomed through the room. “Don’t you dare talk about yourself like that.”

“It’s true!”

“It’s not.” Manny held his shoulders tight. “I’m sorry, Jae. I’m sorry that your son can’t see what a fucking gorgeous person you are. I know I’m not a parent. I know I can’t even begin to understand how you feel. But you cannot blame yourself for the choices he’s making.”

“Maybe not.” Jae-Won sputtered. “But I can blame myself for mine. If I hadn’t made that stupid choice right after the divorce. If I tried to just stay away from it maybe this rift never would have shown up.”

“You don’t know that.” Angie insisted. “You could have just made yourself so miserable trying to keep all of this under wraps that it would have just created a different kind of rift.”

“I could have tried.” 

“Well you didn’t.” Manny sighed. “You didn’t, and we’re here now. And even if you tried to rip that part of you away and bury it, would anything even change? Do you really think Jase would suddenly change how he feels about you?” 

No. Jae-Won didn’t, but he couldn’t say that out loud. Just the thought of it left him in another fit of sobs. He tried to curl up onto the floor again, only for Manny to pull him onto his lap instead. 

“Sorry,” Manny gently played with his hair. “That was probably a bit harsh. But I don’t want to watch you destroy yourself for something you may not even be able to get back.” 

“Besides.” Angie held his hand again. “If he doesn’t love you for who you are, does he really love you at all?” 

Once again they were right, but Jae-Won turned away from the reality that stared him in the face. Not right now. He couldn’t bear to look at it right now. 

His son—the center of his universe, the first thing that made his life stop feeling aimless, a bundle small enough to rest in one arm while Jae-Won promised him the world a hundred times over—never wanted to see him again. 

Jae-Won just kept sobbing into his boyfriend’s leather pants until his thoughts stopped all together.

-------------------------

The first thing Jae-Won was aware of when he woke up was that his eyes burned. They felt dry. He could tell one of his contacts slid out of place. He rubbed them to get rid of the crust and tried to open them, only for that to hurt too much to manage. He then noted the mild headache, like he was dehydrated, and the fact he was in bed.

How did he get here?

Without opening his eyes he sat up and felt around. He still had on his denim shorts, still topless, and his hair was an absolute nightmare right now. 

He got to the edge of the bed and stood. Just how did he get here? What even happened? 

Then his memory came back, and he stopped walking towards the door.

Right. 

Jase was gone. 

His chest still hurt an unbelievable amount, but he didn’t cry. He probably just couldn’t at this point. 

He heard footsteps in the hallway outside and turned his head, even though that was pointless because he still couldn’t see. 

“Oh, you woke up.” Manny said before he came closer. “How are you feeling?” 

Jae-Won didn’t know how to answer that. He could practically hear the screams and wails that echoed from his heart to his ears. 

“Physically, I mean.” Manny added. 

That was a bit easier to answer. “My eyes burn. They feel dry.” And now his throat did too. He could hear the cracks in his voice. Did he really scream that much earlier? “Guide me to the bathroom?”

“Bathroom? Uh, yeah sure, the sink should be okay.” 

Jae-Won let his boyfriend take his hand and guide him around the walls and to the sink. He didn’t hesitate to run the water and wipe down his face and his eyes. When the dryness subsided enough for him to open his eyes, he took some time to remove his contacts. Getting the one that managed to slide to the side was a trial of frustration and pain, but eventually he managed it. He put them both back into their container and finally tried to look at himself in the mirror.

Hard to do with the cracks that ran along it, but his makeup was still smeared all over his face. He never took out the pins in his hair, and decided to do so now before messing it up even further so it would start laying flat again. 

The clink of glass made him look toward the shower and…

Oh.

Manny was carefully picking things out of the tub. A mess of broken glass and color that extended from the bottom all the way up the tiled wall. 

Jae-Won knew he did that, but his memory of it was so hazy now. Like something else took hold of his brain and piloted him around for a few minutes. 

“Y-you don’t have to pick that up.” Jae-Won coughed from the dryness in his throat. “I can—”

“Jae.” Manny stood and tossed whatever he was holding into the tiny trash can. “I’ve got it. It’s fine. But I should leave the rest for later. Where’s your makeup remover?”

“The vanity in my room.” Jae-Won went to go get it, but Manny moved ahead of him.

But they didn’t reach the bedroom. His boyfriend suddenly stopped walking.

“Right, almost forgot, Angie’s going to go out to get some food. Anything you want?” His soft smile then turned serious. “You are eating something.” 

Yeah, Jae-Won knew that tone. There’d be no sense in arguing. And truthfully, as hollow as he felt, he at least didn’t feel nauseous. “Comfort food, without a doubt.”

“Emalia’s tacos or Smokin’ Andy’s burgers?” 

Jae-Won almost cracked a smile at the nickname. “Tacos.”

“You got it.” Manny leaned over the stair rail. “Hey Angie!”

“Yes Babe?” Angie called from the kitchen. “Is he up?” 

“Sure is, wanna pick up our favorites from Emalia’s?” Manny dug a few twenties out of his pocket. 

“On it.”

“Here, take my cash.” Manny tossed it over the railing and down to the first floor.

Angie huffed. “Throwing money at me like I’m a stripper.” 

“You are a stripper.” 

“Only some nights.” 

Jae-Won could easily imagine her sticking out her tongue. Quite likely since Manny was doing the same. 

“Alright, I’ll be back.” Her boots headed toward the backdoor. “Take care of our darling while I’m gone.”

“You know it.” Manny shouted after her. “Drive safe.” With that he spun back around and gestured to the bedroom. 

Well, Jae-Won’s bedroom. The other bedroom, the guest room, the place where Jase always slept, had its door open still further along the top floor. From here he could see the pixel-like bedsheets, the handful of transformer stickers on the window, and on the desk sat— 

“Jae.”

His boyfriend���s voice was the only thing that kept the pressure in his chest from shattering it all over again. Jae-Won tore his gaze away from the room and stepped into his own. 

He aimed for the package of make-up remover wipes, but Manny snatched it up first.

Jae-Won frowned. “Manny, I can—”

“Sit.” Manny pointed to the chair and pulled one of the wipes out. 

“Manny—”

“Sit.” He repeated.

Jae-Won let out a frustrated sigh and did so, crossing his arms in the process. “I know I’m a disaster and I’m definitely having a crisis, but you don’t have to baby me.”

“I’m not babying you.” Manny gently held his chin and started cleaning his left cheek. “If I was babying you, I’d wrap you up in a blanket burrito and put you on the bed. Then I’d do this while singing some obnoxious lullaby.” 

Jae-Won refused to laugh at the joke. “You know what I mean.”

“Do I?” He tossed the used wipe aside and got another one. This one ran over the eyebrows. “Or is this one of those times you meant to say ‘I don’t deserve your kindness.’” 

Jae-Won’s nails dug into his skin. Damn it. Manny knew him too well after all these years. 

“So I’ll just say what I always say. I don’t give a damn if you deserve it or not, you’re getting it. Because I love you.” 

That word made Jae-Won’s teeth clench. His skin tingled and itched, to the point he wanted to tear it off. 

Disgusting. Disgusting. Disgusting.

Manny stopped cleaning and let go of him. “Hey, you alright?” 

“Sorry.” Jae-Won breathed in through his nose and out of his mouth. Just breathe, don’t spiral. 

“Don’t need an apology. I just need to know if you’re okay.” 

Jae-Won squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. “Of course I’m not, Manny. You’ll have to be more specific.” 

“Fine, is something I’m doing upsetting you?” 

Yes? No? “It’s not your fault.” 

Manny let out a frustrated sigh. He paced around the room a few times, hands on top of his head. Jae-Won just kept focusing on his breathing before his self loathing caused him to do something else he’d regret. 

“Alright, let’s try again.” Manny stepped back over and knelt down, placing a hand on Jae-Won’s knee. “Can you try to tell me what’s going on in your head?”

Where did he even begin with a topic like that? The question alone prompted a wall of thoughts that he couldn’t keep up with. 

“Right, be more specific. What were you thinking about when you tensed up like that?” 

He let out a pathetic whine and pressed his hands against his cheeks. He could still feel all the powder coating the right one. “I don’t… I don’t know how to explain that without upsetting you.” 

Manny rested his other hand on the same knee before putting his chin on top of them both. “You know what’s upsetting? Coming in here to find out why my boyfriend isn’t coming outside for date night to find him clutching a pair of scissors in a wrecked bathroom like he’s about to stab himself.” 

Jae-Won blinked, his hazy memory clearing up just a bit. “That wasn’t what I was doing.”

“No? It sure as hell looked that way.”

“I’m not going to hurt myself.” 

“I think you are, Jae, just not in a physical sense.” Manny squeezed his leg. "Trying to shred parts of yourself is hurting you." 

He let out a shaky breath. "I know, and I'm trying not to, but it…" 

Another squeeze. "What's going on in your head?" 

Jae-Won clenched his hands together to keep the emotions in his chest from reaching his throat. “Jase is disgusted with me. He probably always has been. I managed to get past the insults from my ex, her boyfriend, and most of my family, but him shutting me out of his life just makes me disgusted with myself all over again.” 

He tightened his grip on his fingers and then relaxed them again, watching the faint wrinkles on the back of his hand. “So every time you’re affectionate with me… my head doesn’t like that. It keeps trying to convince me I need to get away from it before I get any more filthy.” 

Manny let go of him and leaned back. “So, you’re more or less back in the rut you were in when we first met?”

Hah, such an odd memory. Ignoring the fact he’d been too plastered at the time to actually remember all of it. It always sat in his mind as something joyful and something painful at the same time. 

It’d been only a few days after the custody case came to a close. Jae-Won decided, fuck it, and found himself back at another local queer bar where he proceeded to drink way more than he should have. 

Manny had to fill in the blanks of his god awful flirting with Angie, which somehow devolved into gross sobbing and then completely passing out on the booth seat. 

A miracle the pair decided to do the kind thing and let him sleep it off at their apartment. It’d been frightening at first, waking up in a strange place with people he barely recognized, but as they chatted over breakfast, things started to click into place. 

They’d been his first friends in his new lifestyle, and somehow they stuck around ever since. Sometimes he’d crack jokes that the sex must be that good, but he knew Angie and Manny both saw him as more than just a long term friend-with-benefits. 

“Kind of pathetic, isn’t it?” Jae-Won mumbled. “All those years of biting back fear and guilt so I could walk comfortably in heels and an open back dress and it’s undone with one conversation.” 

Manny tilted his head. “Jae, that kind of stuff is never really gone forever. Especially in the world we live in. Sure, New York City makes it easier for us to be ourselves, but it’s still part of a bigger world. We can fight systems, stick in groups, and decide every morning that we’re going to unapologetically be ourselves, but that doesn’t mean it’s not scary. I mean, was that incident with the guy whose ear you ripped off not a reminder of that?”

Jae-Won frowned and finally unclenched his hands. “I think I was too angry at the time to be frightened.” 

Manny laughed. “Yeah, I can believe that. Your temper is unbelievable for someone of your size.”

“I’m not that short.”

Manny stood, probably to emphasize a point, except it didn’t count because Jae-Won was sitting. “Short to me and Angie.” 

“You’re literally only seven inches taller.”

“In more than one place.” Manny wiggled his eyebrows.

Jae-Won glared and lightly kneed his boyfriend in the crotch. 

“Ow, hey, no.” Manny jumped back. “See what I mean? This is why even Angie avoids pissing you off.” 

Jae-Won slumped in his chair. “I think we’re getting off track.”

“Yeah, probably.” Manny snatched up a new wipe. “Pretty easy to do when it comes to us though, right?”

Jae-Won didn’t reply to that. He just sat still as his boyfriend continued cleaning his face off. 

“My point from earlier,” Manny said, “Is that all these negative feelings you have about being queer, have probably been sitting in the back of your mind for a long time. Especially if Jase has always been getting farther and farther away. It can’t be the first time in all these years you’ve thought about it again.”

No, it wasn’t. It happened almost every time Jase came to visit. Jae-Won would always clean up his house, making sure to stuff away any pictures, art, flags and all sorts. He’d shove away the dresses, the glitter, the t-shirts covered in dirty words, and the high heels into a storage box that he’d put in the back of his closet. Just be normal for a week, he’d tell himself, or Jase will either leave for good or be dragged away. For an entire week Jae-Won would be suffocating on the inside and in the end it’d been for nothing. It hadn’t even worked. 

Maybe Angie was right. Even if he’d kept himself away from all this, would it have really stopped the rift? 

“There, all clean.” Manny announced and tossed the last wipe in the bin. He leaned forward, likely aiming for a kiss on the cheek, but then stopped. “May I?” 

He almost never asked for permission, because by this point they’d known each other so long they knew all the signals. 

Jae-Won appreciated it, and ultimately decided on a yes. He let his boyfriend kiss his cheek before he turned his head and met his lips.

Manny sighed into the contact, like he’d just gotten his first sip of water after being lost in the desert. Jae-Won put a hand on the back of his boyfriend’s neck, sliding it up so his fingers got caught in the tight curls of Manny’s hair.

Another sigh. Manny leaned over him, and one of his knees rested on the chair next to Jae-Won’s thigh. 

“I said it before,” Manny murmured against his lips. “But I’ll say it again. You’re the most gorgeous guy I’ve ever met.” 

Jae-Won rolled his eyes. “We both know Smokin’ Andy is way hotter.” 

Manny laughed, the vibrations easy to feel as he pressed their noses together. “That’s not what I mean, even if you are pretty as fuck. I met you in a bar when you practically lost everything just because you dared to dip your toes into something you wanted. Most people would backtrack so fast from that, but you kept going, and you went hard.” 

Jae-Won felt his cheeks heating up. “It wasn’t that—” 

Manny pinched his cheeks. “This stuffy little nerd who stuttered and blushed the second anyone cute tried to talk to him. You know I used to be able to whisper the word ‘penis’ in your ear and you’d immediately go red.” 

Jae-Won rolled his eyes. “Maybe that’s because you were so embarrassing to be around.” 

“And now look at you. You throw open the doors to a room in whatever wild outfit you decide to rock that evening and command the attention of everyone there. You walk everywhere like you own the place. You see someone you want and you go after them, even if they turn you down.” 

Jae-Won wished he could sink into the chair. This was getting to be too much. 

“My point is” Manny gave him another kiss. “I watched you enter this world frightened out of your mind, but you refused to give up. And watching you wrestle down all of that fear piece by piece is the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen.” 

Now he felt warm everywhere. Emotions twisted in his chest, because at this current point in time he just felt like a coward again. Letting his mind talk him into trying to throw all of this away. But now his boyfriend was in front of him—on top of him—whispering much kinder words in his ear, and that inner voice couldn’t manage to talk over it. 

Jae-Won grabbed the collar of Manny’s jacket as he pulled him back into the kiss and kept trying to tug him closer. Manny let out a short growl, his knee sliding further up the chair. 

“You know you taste like whatever cleanser is on those wipes.” Manny muttered between smooches. 

“Then stop kissing me.” 

“No.” Manny bit down on Jae-Won’s lip.

He gasped and twisted the leather jacket in his grip. “Going to play dirty, huh?” 

“Try and stop me.”

Jae-Won had half a mind to lift one of his legs and press it against his boyfriend’s dick, but just then the downstairs door opened.

“Boys, dinner’s here.” Angie called. “I better not come upstairs and find you two making out on the floor.” 

“You won’t.” Manny shouted back. “Jae’s in a chair.”

Angie let out a shriek, probably to mimic an offended gasp. “You two starting without me? Unbelievable.” 

Manny just kept chuckling and got off the chair. He took one of Jae-Won’s hands and pulled him to his feet. “Do you want to change, by the way?” 

Jae-Won looked down at his denim shorts. Literally the only thing he had on right now. “Uh, might be a good idea.” 

“Unless you want me to lick taco sauce off your chest.”

Jae-Won snorted and playfully shoved his boyfriend to the side, hand on his face. “Jeez, you’re all over me tonight. Is watching me have a breakdown just that sexy?”

“Nah,” Manny answered in a serious tone. “Just trying to see if it gets you back to normal, even if it only lasts for so long.” 

Yeah. No doubt trying to sleep tonight he’d be plagued by negative thoughts all over again. No doubt his conversation with Jase would turn into an endless loop until the voices of the rest of his family joined in. 

So for now, he should at least try to focus on just his partners and eating some dinner. 

[densewentz]

rookanis players: why isnt Lucanis' romance more passionate, more physical!! Why is he so subdued and quiet!! You barely even kiss!! Lucanis, fresh out of a year in a demonic torture pit, having just had one of his two remaining family members taken from him just as he's freed, almost losing Treviso to the elvhen gods which are a) apparently real and b) that he's apparently now responsible for killling and who, oh yeah, also is always literally on the brink of exhaustion because he can't sleep or his spite demon goes around causing mischief and sniffing people: rook, mi vida, please give me a break

[lilislegacy]

*percy seen from a far, wearing a suit*

piper: do my eyes deceive me or is percy jackson wearing formal clothes? since when does he have the ability to look like a domesticated human being?

frank: how come HE, percy of all people, king of untidiness, can wear a cream linen suit and look like a celebrity, but when i tried one on i looked like a man-child going to a high school dance?

hazel: sweetie it’s just because it’s such a casual suit, and you’re much more elegant than percy is!

annabeth, turning to them: um okay, hi percy’s best friends? can you guys compliment him without insulting him?

leo: his ass looks incredible.

grover: has he been working out?

annabeth, side eyeing them:

annabeth: okay, you have all now either insulted him or hit on him. how about from now on, you do neither?

rachel: how about we do both? because i’ve actually just perfected doing them at the same time

[serpentface]

The pylidaigh, a type of vampiric snow ghost, as imagined in folklore in and around the Highlands.

This is a ghost believed to come into being when a person dies in the snow and their body is not found before their soul (still trapped without its funeral rites) 'freezes' inside of it. The body then reanimates into a pylidaigh's twisted form. It looks like someone who slowly died of starvation, just a thin layer of flesh over bones. Its skin is as white as the snow itself, so pale it can blend seamlessly into a blizzard. Most of its body appears subtly stretched and lanky, save for its exceptionally unsubtle long, skinny arms, which drag on the ground behind it when it walks. After a big meal of blood, its belly swells like the abdomen of a tick.

A pylidaigh can only tread across snow and ice, and so doorways and windows are best kept clear of snowfall during the winter in order to prevent it from reaching inside. It mostly comes out to hunt during blizzards when there is little that can prevent it from catching its victims.

In spite of its fragile appearance, a pylidaigh is supernaturally strong, and can run at great speeds when it wants to. No mortal weapons can pierce its body, nor can any bonds known to craftsmen hold it in place. It is usually said that chains forged like iron but made out of ice can bind a pylidaigh and render it immobile, but this smithing technique remains tragically elusive to the average joe.

This ghost is either cast as a wildly dangerous but tragic figure, or one that is more simply malicious. In either case, it is described as experiencing nothing but bitter cold. It shivers endlessly. It retains distant memories of what it was to be alive, and it is motivated by a futile desperation to experience the feeling of warmth again.

In more sympathetic framings, it is described as using its freaky gibbon arms to capture its victims and pull them into an embrace, rather innocently trying to warm itself against their body. This inevitably fails, and the embrace becomes a bone crushing squeeze. When that too fails to warm the ghost, it rips out the person's throat and drinks their blood until the victim is as cold and drained as the pylidaigh itself.

In other cases, this more pitiable narrative of a ghost seeking warmth with no comprehension of its actions is discarded in favor of making it purely monstrous. Here it is a type of vampire with an insatiable thirst, practically a physical manifestation of the worst of winter itself. Some tales acknowledge both variants, suggesting a pylidaigh's violent attempts to warm itself may be initially devoid of malice, but turns into an act of furious jealousy of the warmth of the living after years of suffering.

The only (more or less) surefire method to permanently kill a roaming pylidaigh involves trapping it with fire. They are attracted to any source of heat, and will attempt to warm themselves with the flames (if not tempted away by a juicy living human body). The fire itself cannot kill them (as the sheer cold of their body is more powerful even than flame) but they can be trapped if kept near the fire long enough for the snow it depends upon to melt. This does not kill the pylidaigh either. The monster will remain in stuck in place (and potentially become a threat again if it snows more) for the duration of the winter. Only when the spring comes and all the snow melts does it revert into a normal human carcass (though mysteriously invulnerable to decay), at which point it can be cremated.

Pylidaigh in the wilds also revert to a human corpse during the snowless seasons, but will roam again each following winter unless it is burnt in the interim. It is of critical importance that any human corpse found in high mountain pasture is cremated- not only out of respect for the poor soul trapped as an earthbound ghost, but to prevent the threat of the possible dormant pylidaigh emerging next winter.

[haztory]

where you are.

— continuation to bias. (yes, i am making a series. yes, i am making us work for it) — jack abbot x fellow f!reader; attending/fellow dynamic, age-gap (unspecified but reader is late 20s and up, jack is mid 40s), heavy plot, slow-burn, angst, mention of patient death, gore, medical descriptions, descriptions of c-sections and premature birth, medical inaccuracies, jack and city girl being a formidable unit together in the ER then a LONG stint of pining, yearning, and embracing of domesticity, these two taking care of each other without realizing, please heed the warnings there are descriptions of invasive and traumatic birth — word count: 4.5k — summary: The sight of you instills a relief akin to a cool splash of water on Abbot—something he notes and stores on the shelf of things to deal with later. A shelf that is starting to pile up these days with things he’s avoiding. Things that all, concerningly, relate to you.

The night had been going fine up until this point. Maybe it was that faulty line of thinking that led to this. The sudden implosion, the shatter of the steady. 

Jack isn’t one to brag much about himself. There’s no grand honor in being a doctor. Private practice, sure. Maybe. In the ED, it's shit work in shit situations where actual shit may or may not be involved. He’ll tell that to anyone who asks. When the inevitable question comes—are you any good at it?—he’ll shrug and tell them, depends on the day. 

He’s seen enough, done enough, worked with little more than two plastic straws and a boning knife to do a crike in the middle of a firefight in Afghanistan. He knows his way around the block, and can do more than the average ED can—that he will admit. But it's still a shit job sometimes. 

He hates all of the tragedy that rolls through the doors. They all eat away at the sinews of the mortal coil, but pregnant traumas? They get to him. It’s unsteady ground, the one type of call that he’s always shown a physical reticence to handling. 

There’s too much variability, too many unsuspecting errors, too much divided attention in the multidisciplinary approaches where focus has to be split for the sake of mom and baby. Crack open a body and you’re in for a world of hurt. Throw pregnancy into the mix, and now you’re one step away from God’s door asking what kind of games he’s playing. 

Aching despair is wedged in each part of an obstetric trauma that makes someone as battle tested and weathered as Dr. Jack Abbot sweat and cringe with a grief too profound for words. 

They wheel the young woman into Trauma One and the adrenaline surges through him like a needle straight to veins. His eyes, cold and hurried, press into Lisa. A terse instruction is barked out, your name in his lips.

“Get her in here now.”

Lisa is quick on her feet, stepping out of the OR to find you just as he cuts open the young girl’s shirt. In his survey of her body—the distended stomach dark with bruising from her injuries, blood staining every part of her body, most notably her inner thighs—his eyes find her face, shining a light in her eyes. 

The pupils remain unilaterally fixed in their dilation, non reactive. And it’s then that he notices how much of a child she looks. 

The sudden slam of the trauma doors welcomes you into the room, a rush in your step as you tie the surgical gown behind your back. A readied focus on your eye. The sight of you instills a relief akin to a cool splash of water on Abbot—something he notes and stores on the shelf of things to deal with later. A shelf that is starting to pile up these days with things he’s avoiding. Things that all, concerningly, relate to you. 

“Tell me.”

A resident presents with speedy construction as Jack oversees the tracheostomy. Young female ejected from an MVC, tachycardic, extensive blood loss and apparent extreme cardiovascular collapse and hypoxia. Non reactive pupils indicating neurological nerve damage. EMTs conducted an ultrasound to confirm pregnancy and baby’s length at 30 weeks. Dr. Hudson, the OB-GYN specialist, is on the phone, her own hands wrapped up in an emergency delivery upstairs, asking for details just as they’re presenting them to you. But there’s value in having you in the room—you’ve told Abbot enough about your New York residency. He knows just how much knowledge you have in obstetrics for this. 

The decision is made by you without further delay. Sure and serious. 

“We’re getting this baby out, now.” Your suggestion meets no rebuttal from Dr. Hudson over the line.

“CT has been ordered, we’re next in line.” Dr. Basu, the attending surgeon, speaks from the side of the bed.

“For it to confirm what we already know and waste more time?” You explain, not meanly. Just direct, intense. “We’ve got vaginal bleeding, likely dealing with placental abruption and the longer we wait, the longer the baby is not getting oxygen. We get this baby out now or we lose both of them.”

Dr. Hudson’s voice rings on the other end of the line, “I agree. Keep me updated.”

Abbot’s a good soldier, takes direction without problem. He’s heard your directive loud and clear, the specialist’s agreement is just icing on the cake. 

“You heard them. Let's move.”

You fall beside him in perfect time, meeting his movements quickly as skin is cut, hands move, and a baby—small, pink, and too pure for how he’s born—is introduced to the world. 

The baby is passed to a resident for care, a separate team filling up the connecting OR to secure baby boy before getting him up to NICU. Your attention remains fixed on attempting to stabilize mom, or at least getting her stable enough to be put on life support so that her family can see her and make the call. Jack is by your side, equally intent as you. Grounds his feet to the floor, keeps himself firm as you speak directions to one another, pass steady compliments at performance, grit out expletives of frustration.

Intent to share in the dread of this one. 

It’s not going well. The injuries are so severe, compounding on each other that right when you think you get something halfway resolved, another crash of vitals sounds through incessant beeping. 

He says your name softly, an hour and fifteen minutes into the procedure, after her pulse is lost for the third time and three units of O-Pos have been pumped through her. A gentle echo in the orchestra of chaotic beeps. You look at him, blood staining your forearms, sweat beading on both of your foreheads, the dismay creasing on your face mirrored on his own. 

“Anything else you want to try?” He asks. It’s not a test of knowledge, a sudden pop-quiz from your attending, but true deference. 

You hardly imagine he’s had to do many emergency c-sections on the floor, much less when he was on the field, but seeing the monolith of a man equally lost like you is hard hitting. You shake your head, tired.

“Call it.” He gently issues.

“Time of death, 3:07.” The words heave out of your mouth in a shuddered breath. It’s through shot nerves and sheer adrenaline that your hands shakily pull the bloodied gloves off of them. You toss them to the floor in defeat as the respiratory therapist stops her manually pumping of the bag valve mask and Lisa shuts off the monitors. 

It’s the same punch to the gut every time the words are uttered. You still struggle to get used to it.

“Thank you all for your work on this one.” Jack says to everyone in the room. The team seems to deflate at his words, solemnity a gaseous cloud that poisons the crowd. 

“Let’s take a moment and honor her and the life that was here.”

It’s a tense and desolate moment of silence. They always are. It’s broken by the sound of the sneakers in the hallway and the opening of the operating doors. 

“Dr. Abbot—” Bridget’s whisper stirs the room, “Your patient in two is vomiting.”

That’s all that can be afforded. The room breaks, everyone filtering out as the world continues to revolve beyond this room. As everyone makes out for the doors, he notices you stay. Staring. Reviewing. 

Going through it all over, and over, and over again. 

“We did everything we could.” He calls to you, ritualistically. Because it’s the right thing to say, not necessarily the one he believes.

“I know.” You tell him, because it’s true, but not because you believe it. You stay focused on the girl’s face, childlike features marred with contusions. “I just want a moment.”

“Course.” He offers quietly, “Anything you need.”

Your lips tilt at the shared mantra, a settled phrase that you find each other saying more often these days. You nod, appreciatively at him, your blessing for him to take his leave. Still, he hesitates. Holds. Waits. Staying close in case you voice a need—in case you say you need him. 

He forces himself out of the room before he makes a fool of himself. 

—

Abbot finds you in the aftermath. When a clean blanket is covering the girl's face, and she’s been wiped of the blood and fluids, and moved to an observation room waiting for her family’s arrival. After you both have moved forward through the night in other cases. He finds you outside of the vending machine, your gaze stuck flicking between the number of options.

“You’re supposed to put money into the machine in order to get something out.”

The sound of his voice hardly surprises you, even from behind. Almost like you anticipate him throughout the night, expect to find him somewhere nearby—these days, you practically hear him in the swirl of your own thoughts. Guiding you, teasing you, comforting you. 

“I’m fighting a battle against the urge to gorge on chocolate.” You tell him succinctly, eyeing the trail mix hesitantly.

“How’s that going?”

“I’m losing.”

He huffs a breath then pulls out his card from his wallet. He steps up behind you, close enough where his chest brushes your shoulder as he reaches around and taps it against the machine's card reader. You don’t move from the innocent meeting of your bodies, out of some curious interest in seeing if he will. 

He doesn’t. You shove the desire to lean into his subtle touch with a ten-foot pole, beating it until it's nonexistent. 

He punches in ‘B6’ on the keypad without hesitation and watches as a Snickers bar is dropped from the rack. He bends down, reaching his hand through the slot and raises back up with a grunt, handing the chocolate bar to you.

Your stare is scolding, but you take the bar anyway. Ripping the wrapper and taking a bite of the candy. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Cushion before the blow.” He warns. Your chewing slows, eyes widening in dread at him.

“Our pregnant mom’s parents are here.” Jack explains and you sigh heavily. “She was sixteen.”

Solemnly nodding, your eyes find comfort in fixating on the tile floor. “We have her name?”

“Kerina Jackson.”

“Okay. I’ll head over now.”

“You want me in there?”

“No. I made the call, I can do it.”

“I don’t mind.”

He watches you think for a moment. Weighing the pros and cons of it all, before you meet his gaze. Looking into him as if searching for any insincerity or any indication that he might take your acceptance as weakness. 

Finding nothing, you nod slowly. “Yeah, okay. Please.”

The walk to the observation room is harrowing. Your candy lays half eaten in your hand before you eventually tuck it into your pocket, appetite lost. You both convene one final look at each other at the door—a quick check-in, an agreement to step in before doing so. Jack moves, his hand on the handle of the door and holds it open for you, following in after you. 

You speak first, introducing the both of you to the parents as the doctors responsible for overseeing their daughter. They hang onto your words with fevered worry. You tell them the outcome as softly as you can. Life shatters for them in an instant. 

Through their heaves and sobs, you manage to croak out. “The baby is stable, for now. He’s been sent up to NICU for care. One of our nurses can take you to go see him.”

“And our daughter, where is she?” Her father asks. 

Jack speaks then, “We have her ready for you in an observation room. You can see her whenever you’d like.”

“I speak for Dr. Abbot and I when I say that we are so sorry that this has happened.” You continue. They ask a few questions—what killed her? Severe blood loss. Blunt force trauma. How long were you operating on her? An hour and fifteen minutes. Are you sure you did everything you could? No. But that part stays quiet. 

The room descends in a choked mood. Tempered by the soft sobs to two mourning parents who have no questions to ask but to the God that decided to take their child. 

“We will be here for any other questions you have or help you may need.” Jack speaks amidst the tears. There’s gratitude at his insertion as you find yourself at a loss of what else to say. But Jack knows. He always knows. “If you let one of our nurses know, they’ll come get us.” 

His hand rests on the small of your back as he guides you both out of the room. It’s a welcome feeling, a steady rock on shaky ground. As soon as the touch is there, it’s gone. He’s rounding on you, staring intently into you. 

“You good?”

“No.” You shrug. “You?”

He crosses his arms, tendons in his forearms stretching for a moment as he opens and closes his palms. For a moment you see the sliver of the man—the one that is becoming more and more familiar to you. That he’s revealing slowly, a new crack into the armor each time you happen to be around when these things happen. Weary and upset in a way that stretches beyond anger at the unfairness of life. Targeted almost in judgement, in disappointment at choices—his and beyond. 

It touches depths of sadness and hurt in ways that he doesn’t often let show. Visible only in the slow nod of his head and the downturn curl of the corner of his lips. 

A slew of questions sits in his mind—What was she doing out on the road so late? What did she run into? Why wasn’t she wearing her seatbelt? Why the fuck was she pregnant at sixteen? Each is more devastating than the last, sticking a knife into his back and drags down, down, down the seam of his skin until he feels like he’s split into two.

His leg aches, loudly, but admitting that is forsaking a life that this young girl doesn’t get to have anymore. 

“Gotta keep going.” He says, plainly. But his lips curl downward and his stare says more than he thinks it does.  

Your fingers itch to grab onto him and hold him tight.

—

The sun rises slowly and with it comes the harrowing end of the shift. It couldn’t have come sooner.

You should run—make for the streets of Pittsburgh and never turn back. Let your heart race in adrenaline from something other than tragic chaos. Run for nonexistent hills that whisper a promise of calm and levied bliss as you leave PTMC and all that it holds. It’s an amusing thought. If you were stronger, more committed, you would. But the clock ticks past your scheduled exit time, your bag slung over your shoulder and yet, your feet remain firmly planted to the ground at the loading bay. Stuck, held, waiting. For something.

A sign, maybe. A reminder of why you’re here. 

“I need a beer.” 

Much like he’s done all night, Jack sidles up beside you. Appearing out of thin air and standing next to you. You’re brows furrow in question, having thought he had made for the rooftop like he usually does after a long shift. 

“Isn’t it too early for that?” You ask. 

“Never too early for a good thing.” He shrugs. “Isn’t that a ‘city that never sleeps’ specialty?” 

“Touché.” You nod in concession. Silence befalls the two of you as the world sounds around you. Cars drive by as people wake up, sirens from an ambulance ring only a hair’s width away. The air is cool on your skin and you take the moment to breathe. The urge to run wanes, slightly. 

“I’ve got some beer at my place.” You offer, casually. “Wanna head that way?”

Jack turns to meet your gaze. It's an innocuous invitation, smeared with exhaustion and nonchalance. Nothing untoward. Like you wouldn’t be offended if he didn’t take you up on it, just as you wouldn’t make it a big deal if he did. Your thumb points south, gesturing to your apartment, the complete opposite direction of his home. 

He tilts his head after a thoughtful moment of consideration. “You take the train?”

“Bus.”

“Fuck that. I’ll drive us.”

— 

Your apartment is deep in the strongarm of the city, right at the crossing between loud and hectic, and just past the Allegheny River. The building is as quaint as it is quiet, which isn’t saying much. A big, tall eyesore and Jack can’t help but scoff. 

City girl staying close to what she knows.

He follows, woefully out of his element, as you guide him past the concierge and through the modern and minimalist decor of the lobby into golden elevators. You press twelve on the buttons and the elevator ascends in a quiet hum—lulled only by the whir of the machine. 

Comfortable silence emphasizes the line that’s been drawn in the sand. Work staying at the steps of the hospital, far from a desirable topic of conversation, even farther from being a worthy disruption of the tranquility. Rehashing the night, wondering what could have been done differently is a task you both save for personal time in the privacy of your spaces when no one else is looking. 

“Bienvenido a mi casita.” You sing, tired and a feeble attempt at jovial, as your keys unlock the apartment door. 1224, he notes. Puts it up on the crowded shelf with everything else about you he pretends he isn’t storing. He steps inside, eyes scanning the home with barely concealed interest. 

It’s a small space, clean—save for the mail you have scattered on the counter and the stray bottle of cleaner that you have yet to put away. The apartment is decorated modestly, color popping in the pillows on your couch, the rug you have in the living room, the dinner mats on your two-chaired dinner table. Photos of friends, family, your nieces hang on every wall in a pleasant array. It’s lived in, alive, warm, yours.

He doesn’t realize he’s studying the place until you call from behind him from the kitchen, your head deep in the pantry. “You still want that beer? I can make some coffee instead?”

“Coffee’s good. Bl—”

“Black. I know.” You look at him over your shoulder, a twinkle somehow emerging in your eyes. From the ash of a smoldering fire that burned all that was sane, you still rise—sparking anew.  He watches, curious. You grab coffee grounds and move through your kitchen, filling the machine and starting a brew. 

“You hungry?” You ask. 

“Are you?”

“I could eat.” 

He didn’t come here to eat breakfast. He’s not sure why he even came in the first place. But he nods despite the uncertainty that makes him feel idiotic. “Sure.”

He wades awkwardly into your apartment. Unsure where to stand, how to take up less space, if he should bid his goodbye now or later. His eyes fall to a box leaning against your living room wall, beside your television that sits pathetically on the floor. 

“What’s going on here?” He asks, gesturing to the cardboard with black lettering that has too many umlauts above them. 

“A TV stand that I’ve been procrastinating building.” You respond, the sound of eggs cracking on the counter and into a bowl ringing throughout the room. 

“How long?”

“‘bout a month.”

“Christ.” He scoffs. “You waiting for God to show up?

“Something like that.” He hums. His eyes narrow for a moment, before deciding resolutely. 

“Got a tool kit?”

The morning unfolds slowly, comfortably. Jack sitting in your living room, building your TV stand to create a reason as to why he’s here. He pauses only when you plate up some breakfast. Eggs, toast, and a cup of coffee. He eats in a steady quiet with you, unsure when the last time he had breakfast with someone was.

Conversations are interspersed infrequently. Mostly unimportant; something about this new hot sauce you got from the farmer’s market and the plans you have for redecorating. He tells a stupid story about the billboard outside your apartment window that used to have the picture of the two twin lawyers and their fish man.

(“Their fish man?”

“Shenderovich, Shenderovich, and Fishman. 1-888-98-Twins.”

“Shenderovich to the second power. God, that’s awful.”

“You’re telling me.”)

Quiet things, small delights that bring the slight quirk to his lips and the gentle huff of laughter from you. The small things the diffuse the tension of the night, that force the slow revival into becoming a human again.

You take both plates when you finish, humming at his quiet thanks and returning to the kitchen to clean while he returns his attention to the stand. And it’s normal—so pointedly normal and domestic it’s a wonder this hasn’t been a routine occurrence. Jack is sore thumb in his scrubs sitting on your living room floor, your measly excuse for a toolkit beside him as he fits wooden slabs together and builds. An entirely new sight, certainly not something the version of you a few months ago would’ve thought you’d ever see, but it's a welcome one. 

Weirdly, he fits. His figure, his presence, him. Makes your home feel whole, meaningful.

Time passes with little recognition. It’s a relatively simple stand—easy and mindless to put together. The Swedes are built off of functional efficiency and he sends a quiet hail mary to the Scandinavians. One moment, Jack is scanning the instructions, his eyes glancing to yours as you place a glass of water beside his mug on the coffee table next to him. Then he blinks and the stand is assembled, only the quiet hum of the morning news sounding from your television. 

It’s a welcome thing. He’s never able to fully turn his mind off but in the mundane, the easy turn of the screw and the pleasing click of pieces together, the turmoil dulls to a quiet chatter and he can breathe easily. Zoned in so readily that he lost touch with reality for a second. Forgot where he was, what he was doing, who he was doing it for. 

He pushes the stand into the place where your TV sits on the ground, then lifts the TV onto its surface. Settling the furniture into the place that he supposes you would want—the place he thinks it looks best. 

He’s turning, content at being useful and ready to ask for your approval. Then he realizes that he’s heard very little from you while he was building.

He finds you on the couch behind him. Eyes shut, mouth slightly open as your breaths are softly and evenly exhaled in your sleep. Your hair is released from the tie you had to hold it back throughout the shift, the strands messily framing your face as you lay against the pillow of the couch. Still clad in your scrubs, your face settles peacefully as you rest. Not scrunched in frustration or stony in your focus. 

Under the soft of the morning light, a sharp contrast to the fluorescents he’s always seen you under, exhaustion resounds on your face. Tamed only by the sweetened sighs of your slumber that remedy the ailment. You sleep, sweet and easy.

A stray strand of hair crosses over your nose, moving with the rhythmic rise and falls of your breaths. A twitch aches in his fingers. Spurned by need and the deep rooted ache of loneliness that craves the taste of tenderness. 

He brushes the strand away from your face, eyes focused on the action, watching your face remain peacefully asleep. Relishes in the brief moment of softness he’s been afforded. 

There’s a twinge of guilt as he has to disturb the solitude, yours and his, when he taps your leg gently. You stir in tired confusion.

“Lock the door behind me.”

“You’re going?” You ask, wiping your mouth, sounding disappointed at the notion. 

“Yeah. You need to sleep.”

“You sure? You can stay.”

The excuse is on his tongue fighting against the urge to read into that. There was hardly a reason for him to be here today, much less one for him to linger around. Insist and bore drill into the cracks of his thick skull that this shouldn’t happen again. That this is inappropriate. 

It’s pointedly not, though. He built a stand for you, you made him breakfast. That was all there was to it. That’s all that was being expected by you, because why would you expect anything further?

(You wouldn’t. Because there’s nothing going on. Despite the stares from the nurses, and the whispers of a rumored bet, and the lingering glances that get sent between you two—nothing is going on.

He’s sure of it.)

But, Jack doesn’t do things flippantly, without purpose. And walls don’t get torn down, softened, for just any reason. In the ingrained pattern that Dr. Mott insists is a defense mechanism and that Jack believes is just normal human condition, he feels the walls so carefully erected find their place once more. Fortified to shut out the possibility of some inane want for something burn without restraint within him. 

The armor that’s been slowly cracking back settles onto him and he aims for a neutral expression. Curt, succinct. No room for error. “Thanks for breakfast.” 

“Thanks for the stand, you didn’t have to do that. But it looks great.” You trail behind him slowly as he walks towards your front door. “I’ll be calling you for all of my furniture builds. I’m spoiled now, old man.”

Here’s the chance. Stop it here, smother the budding growth of a tender seed before it takes root and spreads into his lungs. Prevent the tendons from reaching up his throat, crawling into his brain, and mold the perfect image of you into the grey matter. 

He should tell you, firmly, that this will not happen again. Throw in a degrading tease, diffuse the sincerity of the moment. Get you to stop looking at him like he means something.

“Anytime, city girl.” He says, instead. 

You smile— warm, relaxed, gentle and he’s ready to aim gun to temple at the realization of how much he likes it. He can only do what he knows best, what he does with everything else he stupidly seems to notice and grab onto with you, and puts it on the shelf. Half ready to lock it in a chest deep in his mind and toss the key into a cavernous abyss. 

“I’ll hold you to it.” You say, content. And he nods.

He drives back in silence and the promise forged in tired smiles and quiet closeness chokes him all the way home.

a/n: i would like it known, this is the fastest i have ever put out work in a series. im just so bewitched by this middle aged man, i want him inside me.

know this is a quick one and not much happens but i'm a true believer in slow burn being both slow and burning :)

next one will be fun, promise!

[cloudbends]

something I feel like isn't nearly appreciated enough about mob's arc in mp100 is that his background is... Completely normal. I see a lot of people interpreting mob's parents as neglectful or distant based on the few scenes we've seen of them, which greatly baffles me because their few scenes aim to establish his family life as.. completely normative. They have the normal, average quips of a normal family. And I think it's very unique and refreshing because it means mob's troubles and internal hardship isn't a product of his upbringing, it's a byproduct of a traumatic experience and of his own personality and how it coalesces with his psychic powers. And I personally think more media should acknowledge that some people, even with perfectly normative and healthy familial dynamics and circumstances, will still develop very complex internal issues and personal psychology. and on the same note, some people with perfectly normal upbringing won't feel comfortable to confide in their parents and seek an external authority figure to look up to, which doesn't necessarily mean them and their parents are estranged. I dont think mob's (or ritsu's) life have to be unhappy to legitimize or explain the fact he has the personal struggles he does. Embracing normalcy is the main theme of this series.

[zombolouge]

The thing is, it's not about the Therapy Speak. It's not that everyone who disliked DAV hates healthy communication as a dynamic in fiction. It's not even about only being allowed to be a good guy, really, because most of us did do that anyways (though the option not being there is a loss I grieve even if I never chose it myself, but that's another rant for another day).

It's that DAV does all that stuff at the expense of being believable. At the expense of characters being permitted to have personalities. At the expense of emotions behaving the way emotions actually work for people. At the expense of letting the plot build tension through the stakes we're forced to grapple with.

Half the fics out there take the conflicts between the characters in the previous games and resolve them. I do it myself ALL THE TIME because I like to find a path to resolution through just about any conflict, that's what fascinates me about telling these stories. But the higher the stakes, the harder a conflict is to resolve. You CAN resolve any conflict, you CAN communicate healthily through any emotion, but you can't skip the time it takes to process it all to even be able to communicate it. As someone whose got CPTSD and recovered from many Traumas, I can tell you that the TIME it takes to work through it is not something you can fast track, and the ups and downs of your emotions on that journey can't be skipped. It doesn't matter if you know exactly how to do it, exactly how it's going to feel, or exactly what the end state will be, you CAN'T speedrun it.

DAV has stakes that are astronomical, but nobody treats them that way. Nobody experiences denial - a common psychological reaction to being presented with information that shatters your worldview. Nobody expresses any distrust in the establishments handing out this information - something common among cultures that have at times been at war, even if those wars are "resolved" in the present. Nobody really ever breaks down - something that any person is capable of under extreme circumstances, especially when facing multiple crises of faith that challenge everything they thought they knew about themselves. Nobody blows their lid because they've been repressing the hell out of everything. Nobody grieves for southern Thedas, the entire thing dying off screen and giving you, the player, NO way to engage with it in any way.

Not to mention there are barely any inter-party conflicts, when there should be a lot more. Why is everyone (except Spite) fine with it if Emmrich sacrifices Manfred to become a lich? Why is everyone fine with Illario potentially being set free if he was working with the venatori and Elgar'nan, two sources that have actively attacked everyone in the party? Why doesn't Neve resent Lucanis if Treviso is picked? Why doesn't Harding get pissed off at Nevarra for having a secret society of liches that never helped during the Inquisition's war against the breach and corypheus? Why doesn't Harding feel ANYTHING about Ferelden and the rest of the south? Shouldn't Harding resent the fact that she's stuck in the north while her home dies?

All of these conflicts ARE resolvable, but not easily. And it's not believable that they're never brought up. It's not believable that these characters skip through everything that happens with like, barely a frowny face most of the time. In DAO, Alistair leaves if you don't treat his conflicts with respect. In DA2, your party members try to kill each other if you don't pay attention to their conflicts/emotional needs. In DAI, people can leave or betray you, Cassandra throws a chair at Varric and tries to body him out a window. ALL of these can be resolved but it takes effort, and the characters get to SHOW that they're bothered by them and struggling the way a person would when faced with those emotions.

The problem isn't the therapy speak, or that everyone is loyal and won't leave, or that they aren't mean to each other enough. It's that it's toxic positivity. It's toxic as fuck to imply that anger or grief should be smiled over or else you're giving up, and it's damaging to people to avoid engaging with their own negative emotional responses to extremely negative stimuli. It's pasting optimism over very real, very weighty issues, sweeping it all under the rug, and you keep waiting for the lid to blow off the pressure cooker that creates, but it never does. It never becomes anything that emulates real emotions, which is why the whole damn thing feels hollow. Everything's dying and nobody cares, not even about themselves, and that's NOT healthy communication.

It's bullshit, half-assed storytelling that didn't tell us the actual story, just the vague idea of what it could have been.

[thatpunnyperson]

According to NBC here in the US, the missing titanic sub has been found. As debris. Off the bow of the Titanic wreckage.

And it looks like the sub suffered what we all suspected, and what was undoubtedly the more merciful of the two options: a catastrophic implosion from the pressure.

Also, more info has come to light about the fishing trawler with the hundreds of migrants that sank cataclysmically off the coast of Greece, indicating that the greek coast guard knew about the vessel AND how much trouble the vessel was in, and were towing it at a speed that made it capsize, at which point they unhooked the tow line and watched the trawler sink without helping the passengers to safety. Despite a bunch of other ships trying to help as well throughout the whole ordeal.

So a lot of people are dead, all because of regulations (and the lack thereof) regarding sea-faring vessels and rescue protocols. People shouldnt be allowed to make a business charging a ton of money for a ride on an uncertified, unsafe, un-seaworthy ship going deep into the ocean with no distress beacon or tether to the mothership. People also shouldnt be allowed to enact laws that criminalize the ferrying of refugees, which then force the refugees to hitch rides on fishing trawlers, and which also prevent people from helping those fishing trawlers full of refugees due to fear of legal consequences.

Hopefully BOTH of these events spark changes on an international scale in terms of what is legally allowed to be sailed, who is legally allowed to be the passengers, and what the rescue protocols are in the event of disaster for any seafaring vessel, illegal or not. It shouldnt be just the global 1% who get 24/7 search parties and remote-operated submersibles helping rescue them.

[hi-there-buddies]

“The cell saga is bad because the z fighters were idiots the entire time”

that’s the POINT

THE CELL SAGA IS ABOUT ARROGANCE

EVERYONE IS BEING STUPID BECAUSE THEY THINK THEY KNOW WHATS GONNA HAPPEN

THEY THINK THEYRE AHEAD OF THE CURVE

BUT THEY AREN’T

THIS IS LITERALLY SHOWCASED MULTIPLE TIMES THROUGHOUT THE SAGA

IT STARTS WITH TRUNKS AND BUILDS FROM THERE

GOHAN LITERALLY LETS CELL LIVE BECAUSE OF HIS ARROGANCE

THE ONLY REASON CELL IS DEFEATED IS BECAUSE GOKU, GOHAN, AND VEGETA ALL LET GO OF THEIR ARROGANCE AND PRIDE AND FIGHT TOGETHER

GOKU STEPS IN TO HELP GOHAN, WHICH HE DIDNT DO BEFORE BECAUSE HE THOUGHT GOHAN COULD DO IT HIMSELF

VEGETA HELPS GOHAN AND LANDS THE PENULTIMATE BLOW ON CELL, DESPITE WANTING TO BE THE ONE TO END CELL HIMSELF

GOHAN FINALLY FINISHES HIM LIKE HE REFUSED TO DO BEFORE

THEY ALL LET GO OF THEIR ARROGANCE AND FINISH THE JOB

THATS THE THEMATIC POINT OF THE SAGA

RAHHHHHHH🦅🦅

[shepscapades]

Thanks to artfight, I’ve finally finished a detailed, official dbhc cub reference! :D

(I’ve put his Artifight description below the cut, which has a more detailed explanation of his timeline, lore, and aesthetics! >:3)

-ˋˏ ༻ ❁  OVERVIEW ❁ ༺ ˎˊ-

Name: C.B.F.N.4000 (Cub) Pronouns: He/Him Species: Android Height: 5’9’’ Associated Visual Themes: vex, ghosts, explosions, mischief, scientist aesthetic, potions, potionmaking, sleepy/tired aesthetic, conspiracies

-ˋˏ ༻ ❁  ABOUT ❁ ༺ ˎˊ-

CBFN4000 is an au version of MCYT Hermitcraft’s Cubfan, set in my DBHC (or Detroit Become Hermitcraft) AU! This au is inspired by the 2018 game Detroit Become Human, but not because it really has anything to do with DBH—I simply yoinked the android mechanics and incorporated them into the world of Hermitcraft. It began as a S8 au, and has roughly followed the hermitcraft timeline up to the present! 

Cub was the last android made during Season 8. While many of the hermit androids were made at the beginning of season 8 and a few were made for season 9, Cub was finished and activated mid-late Season 8, around the time when Hermits started noticing the Big Moon. Cub’s model ended up being a sloppy experiment in deviation, as Doc suggested they try to transfer deviancy to an android upon activation to try and avoid traumatic situations that might cause an android to deviate violently or upsettingly, such as Etho’s, Tango’s, or Mumbo’s experiences. While this went relatively well initially, it clearly wasn’t very thoroughly thought out, as Xisuma (who is normally so adamant and detail-oriented when it comes to assuring the androids’ safety with experiments like this) wasn’t truly himself due to external manipulation and mostly left a relatively young-deviant Doc to carry out the project himself. 

Cub, though adjusting to sentience rather well at first, very quickly became wrapped up in the Big Moon happenings on the server, new personality and inexperience to emotions like fear and ignorance completely overwhelming his young system. He became obsessive over the implications and consequences of the Season 8 Moon Apocalypse, joining the Mooners and spreading his conspiracy theories religiously throughout the server as he descended into madness. The insanity was like a virus to his programming, pervasive and all-engulfing, and Cub’s final attempt to free himself from the Moon’s impact with the Earth—to launch himself on a llama into space via potion-powered TNT(insane btw)— left his hands and feet singed and cracked to ruin.

The experiment, considered a horrific failure by a deeply shameful—and more awake—S9 Xisuma, left Doc and Xisuma with the decision to reset him for the new season, and they ended up pairing him with a hermit like they had done with the other androids, to give him a chance to find deviancy on his own terms. So, at the start of season 9 and fresh after a reset, Cub was paired with Scar. Naturally, because Scar is… Scar, Cub deviated almost instantly after being given to him, and very quickly adopted the iconic lazy, stoic, amused attributes normally associated with Cubfan. Scar’s tendency towards mischief and general shenanigans grew instantly on Cub, and the two were an immediate inseparable pair. So much so that when Scar began rambling one day about his Season 5 Hermitcraft Shenanigans (where deals with the Vex may or may not have been involved), Cub immediately stated he was interested in being in on it. Whatever “it” means. It’s unclear if Cub also made a deal with the vex or became connected to them in some other way, but… well, he got Doc’s help to trick out his eyes, hair, and back to best fit the part. Scar is very jealous that he can't magically make himself have the same features to match.

Cub is closest with Scar (there's something there, I think), but he gets along just as well with any of the other hermits! He’s close with Jevin and many of the other redstoners like Etho and Doc, who are the other two androids I’ve put on artfight!

-ˋˏ ༻ ❁  EXTRAS ❁ ༺ ˎˊ-

Cub's eyes can light up in the dark, and he’s the only android who has edited his programming so that the default state of his LED is white, not blue. It still will go yellow and red if his processors are working particularly hard, but he’s replaced the blue setting on his LED with white to better match the Vex vibe. Cub has all of the vibes of a fae. If that’s anything <3

[unicornpopcorn14]

Chuuya's reaction to Dazai getting hurt during the Lovecraft fight has always been so interesting to me...

Because it's the kind of worry you'd never expect from a character as gruff as Chuuya, who had displayed nothing but hostility towards Dazai so far. Usually, characters that are labelled as "angry" or "anger issues" (which Chuuya is much more complex than that but you get my point) act more as a tsundere type of way when the one they "don't care about" gets hurt. And show their care in very, very subtle ways (ex. their eyes widen, their mouth parts and closes again, etc) before putting up their front once more.

Chuuya, however, is open, and vocal about it. His worry is clear not only to us, but to Dazai himself, the one he shouldn't be displaying the concern to (as per the cliche). Shouldn't it be some sort of secret that Chuuya does care? Isn't that what skk's dynamic has been shaping up to be until now?

I'm telling you- the way my mind blanked when Chuuya just casually.... showed concern not once, but twice, was a sight to see.

Besides, the context makes it much more confusing, because Dazai isn't some rookie, and Chuuya knows that more than anybody. He was the youngest executive in Port Mafia's history, of course he can handle a hit or two. Of course he'd seen him handle a hit or two, sometimes without batting an eye.

Heck, Chuuya himself was hurling Dazai like a ragdoll in their reunion, which was their last meeting. And you could argue that he was going easy on him, but Dazai has mostly withstood the same damage (as far as I could see), and Chuuya was as bitter as ever.

So that kind of contradicts both what we knew of Chuuya so far, and how their dynamic was shaped to be. I mean, that just makes Chuuya a hypocrite, yeah? What makes him care now, all of a sudden? What makes him care at all?

Well, to me, this backasswards reaction implies one (or more) of the following:

- Dazai rarely got physically hurt during their partnership and thus this is an unexpected thing for him to see (during a mission).

- The four years of separation made Chuuya unsure of how much Dazai can withstand physically now. Also the fact that he isn't in the mafia anymore, aka fighting enemy organizations on the weekly, would naturally make Dazai lose his touch in a way, what prompts Chuuya's reaction.

- Dazai getting taken off guard took him off guard which led to panic. Especially since the situation was (momentarily) out of their depth. Seriously wtf even was Lovecraft?

- During the dungeon scene Dazai was an enemy, while in the Lovecraft fight he was as an ally. The difference might be significant to Chuuya.

- This has always been Chuuya's reaction to Dazai getting hurt regardless of the situation.

- "Only I can hurt him like that" ahh logic

- Asagiri was still experimenting with their dynamic and thus there are some inconsistencies.

This scenario didn't play out again (after their reunion) for me to exactly determine which one is more plausible, but it is 100% canon for Chuuya to shamelessly show his concern and run to Dazai to check on him before properly dealing with their opponent, which I find to be such an appealing layer to their dynamic, and a good spin on the type of character he gets stereotyped as.

Bonus: Dazai also becomes a softy when Chuuya's hurt, especially post corruption. Dead Apple alone displays that multiple times.

All in all, Skk are doing a terrible job at maintaining their 'hostile' and 'antagonistic' relationship post their reunion. Freaks.

[keferon]

Two Peas in a Pod: part 4/?

Hopefully the dialog isn't confusing.

______________________________

"Still dizzy?" 

"Not really," Jazz answered with a comfortable smile, though stole a quick glance over to the gate. The first since Blaster had arrived for the morning routine. The other mer wasn't awake yet last he saw, but he was shifting more. The medication had obviously long worn off by now, but Jazz still hoped they weren't in too much pain. 

But Blaster noticed and it prompted him to pause his checks to ask, "did he wake up last night?" 

"Kinda? He could have been talking in his sleep though." 

"Hm, there's a good chance he'll be up soon, then." 

Jazz's expression of his usual cheerfulness shifted, just slightly and if it had been anyone other than Blaster, they would have missed it. He flipped the clipboard over in his lap and rested his elbows against his crossed legs. 

"You're nervous," Blaster pointed out gently and gave Jazz an encouraging smile. "Is this about their injuries, or is this about making a friend?" 

The mer's face soured and he looked away. "I thought I wasn't supposed to ask." 

"That was about the gate, and I'm sorry about that." It was just the two of them on the pier, but Blaster still practised a surveying sweep of the area with what looked like stretching. Then with a lower voice, he continued, "The Vet Chief wanted to fully isolate them from you, to keep them in a transfer-crate, at least until the injuries had a low risk of reopening. I argued that it would put them under a lot of undue stress, and you because you knew the Mer was here. Which is part of why it took so long for–" 

"–and it's fine to say this now?" Jazz snapped and turned back to him with a small scowl. 

"Jazz, how many staff members were in your area yesterday? When we talked about the gate?" 

He paused, trying to recall. Blaster was with him and the group that went into the bay had five… seven? 

"There was thirteen, Jazz," he supplied, knowing that any answer coming would be incorrect. It was a lot of people, and with Blaster already known for making waves on the regular, the sudden addition had eyes and ears on him. That, and because he had fought so hard against the 'great idea' brought up in the first meeting after emergency treatment had ended. "You didn't even clock the vet on standby at the pier entrance." 

Jazz huffed and laid out flat, resting his chin on his crossed arms. Okay, so he wasn’t paying attention to who was around. "Then what is it about the gate? I get the bit about climbing the walls, but…" 

"That one is on me, I was – am – being overly cautious. Not of you, but of others misunderstanding your excitement or anxiety as aggression. And I know how persistent you can be when something catches your interest. But that's not the point, what is, is that if the team reports you showing signs of aggression, they'll… remove him." 

Now looking worried, Jazz glanced from Blaster to the gate. "But what if he shows aggression?" 

"We're expecting that, at least at first." Blaster wanted to reassure him, but there were still too many unknown variables. "Unknown place with an unfamiliar face, and likely limited communication. There is bound to be backlash." 

Jazz looked down with an expression of growing despair, before dropping his face against his arms. His words muffled, "so whether he stays or not depends on me being able to talk with him." 

Blaster reached out and placed his hand on the orca's shoulder. "Listen, buddy, this might be hard to hear. But let me explain, okay? … So far it looks like there are no issues and the current plan is to have him released once he recovers." As he feels Jazz tense, Blaster frowns in understanding and begins to rub his shoulder to comfort him. "There is only one reason that the aquarium wouldn't go through with it, and honestly, I don't want that to happen. It's all sorts of fucked up and would only make things worse– but I don't want you to distance yourself from him. I want you to try and befriend him." 

"… why," Jazz asked weakly, cursing him for telling him the truth – for reminding him of the truth – for breaking his small piece of hope of not being alone anymore. If he was going to be taken away, if he was just going to lose him no matter what, then it would hurt less if he just ignored him. 

All sorts of answers bounce around in Blaster's mind. From wishful thinking – because I want you to go with him. To long term goals – anything we could learn could help Mers everywhere. But he settled on as close to the truth as he could. "Because I'm trying to make sure that no matter what happens, it's the best result for both of you. But I can't do that if the two of you can't at least work together. So, I'm asking you to try." 

"Right," because he doesn't need to be kept here to survive… he just needs time to heal. Where I – "–right. Okay, I'll try… but where do I even start?" Jazz took a deep breath to compose himself before he lifted his head. 

"Well, why don't we see if sleepy-head is waking up? Maybe he'd like breakfast." Blaster offered, first with a reassuring smile, but then twisted it into something more mischievous. "And maybe you could find out if he's got a beautiful name, too." 

It took a second to realize what Blaster was getting at, and for the first time in his life Jazz felt bashful. "W-what are you talking about?" He hid it terribly. 

"He's beautiful~" he whispered dramatically, and Blaster learned that mers could in fact blush. 

— 

When Blaster left to get food for the wild mer, Jazz calmly made his way over to the view port. Only to be taken by surprise, he was looking directly at Jazz. Though, glaring, might be more accurate with how his face was pulled tight with focus and the sheer intensity of his stare. 

But otherwise, they were completely calm. Jazz wasn't sure if that was a good sign or bad. Yet, it didn't stop his nervous excitement from returning. He waved with one of his best smiles – one without teeth – and greeted him with a friendly, "hello!" 

What he got in return was a slightly more intense furrowing of their brow – irritation or confusion? 

"Oh! Sorry, habit." Jazz switched to mer. {Hi!} 

The tension didn't leave his face, but there was slight movement and, again, Jazz didn't know how to interpret that. But he did answer, {||၊|။||||•။၊|။|။|၊|။||၊၊၊|?} 

"Uh…" Yep, didn't understand any of that. 

Then the door opened on the edge behind them and Jazz for a moment thought that it would startle the wild mer. But they didn't even flinch. And while their eyes remained on him, Jazz was fairly sure now that they had been using their sonar to track the human's movement. 

"Are they still asleep?" Blaster asked, puzzled. 

"Nope, very much awake." He shifted lower to try and get more than the man's boots in his sight. 

"Ah…" He sounded uneasy and began to make small careful steps around the edge closer to Jazz while he spoke as calmly as possible. "Well, I'm going to keep talking, just so you don't think I'm trying to sneak up on you." 

When he reached the point where he was straight across from the wild mer, they lifted their head to turn their glare on the human. Blaster to his credit did not flinch, but he did freeze. "Whoa– that's – wow, t-that's quite the look." 

A series of slow clicks came from them, but their lips did not move. Jazz didn't think it was echo-speak, as it reminded him of his own searching clicks when he was trying to get a better picture. "Oh! I think he's trying to see what you have." 

The wild mer glanced to Jazz, becoming silent once more before looking back up at Blaster. 

"Fair enough, alright new buddy, I'm going to be real slow about it okay?" Back to narrating his actions calmly as he knelt down. Showing the long pole with a thin, blunt hook, "just an arm I don't mind losing if you decide that you don't like the breakfast I brought," and poured out the fish from the bucket. 

Still the wild mer glared, unblinking and watching every little movement. 

"Okay… I'm not sure what to make of this, so far everything has been nothing like previous encounters." 

"Ya, didn't you say he'd be freaking out?" 

"You got anything to calm or reassure our new buddy here that I ain't going to hurt him?" Blaster was doing his absolute best at trying to remain calm, but even his hands were starting to tremble under the pressure the wild mer was giving him. He wasn't even moving, just watching, but it felt like the human was being stalked. 

Honestly, Blaster was probably one bad move from being lunged at. Though, if that was the case, he had maybe one chance to get away. The hammock would throw him off on the first strike, the supports could probably take two or four hard thrashings before it snapped under the mer's strength. Injuries be damned, this mer was in peak physical condition. 

Jazz gave a small chirp to try and gain the other's attention, and failed, but continued with trying to talk. {It's okay, you're safe.} 

He was given a very tiny dip of his finial facing the gate – a tell that he had heard him? 

{You're safe,} Jazz repeated. 

The mer didn't look away, but he did at least respond. {•၊၊|•|၊|။။၊|။•|||။||||။၊|။•၊၊||၊|။||||။•၊|။•၊၊||၊|။||||။၊|။•} Though, far too fast for Jazz attempt to understand. 

"I'm hoping you two are talking about your favourite fish." Blaster joked to cover his nervousness. 

Jazz sighed and admitted the truth, "I haven't a clue to what they're talking about…" 

"Just let me know if I should run, kay?" He shifted slowly on his knees, trying to find a comfortable spot without making himself too vulnerable. 

But Jazz hadn't given up yet. {Hungry?} He tried instead. 

More chirps and clicking that didn't translate. 

{Hungry? Yes? No?} 

The heavy huff that came from them caused Blaster to flinch, but the mer finally focused on Jazz. There was clear irritation in their face now on top of glaring. And the damns broke, he started ranting at him loudly. 

"Hey, don't yell at me, I'm trying okay!?" Jazz glared back, not backing down. Though wasn't all that intimidating with him just having a little porthole to look through. 

"Jazz, buddy, please don't aggravate him." He, after all, was the one in the room with the wild mer. 

"He fuckn' started it!" 

Silence came quickly as the wild mer plunked his face into the soft floaty that had been his pillow. Blaster would have found it utterly hilarious if not fearing for his life currently. With another heavy and long huff, the wild mer looked back at Jazz, still glaring, but slightly less than before. {•|||။||||။၊|။•၊၊||၊|။? Yes? No?} 

Jazz blinked at him for a moment, depending on the question, no could be a yes. {No…?} He answered tentatively instead. 

{It's safe? Yes? No?} And he pointed his nose towards Blaster briefly, but clearly wasn't happy about it. 

{Yes!} Jazz nodded vigorously and smiled for extra encouragement. Out of all the staff, Blaster was safe, Jazz held some trust in the human after all. {[Blaster] safe.} 

"What about me?" 

"He asked if you're safe and I told him you were. Relax a bit or something to show him." 

Easier said than done. Blaster cursed, but did his best to ease the tension from his shoulders and smile a little. Even, daring to slowly lift a hand to wave. 

The mer did not seem convinced, but his glare lessened some more and looked over the human with more curiosity than before. 

{Hungry? Yes? No?} Jazz tried again. 

There was a long pause, but they sighed and answered. {… yes.} 

"Progress!" He cheered and then stuck his hand through the little window. "Blaster, hand me one of the fish. He's hungry, but I have a feeling that he'll trust you more if he sees me eat what you have." 

"Okay." He made sure that it was clear as possible what his intentions were. Taking a fish under the gills, Blaster looped the blunt hook in and out the mouth. Then, very slowly, began to feed the length of the pole towards Jazz's waiting hand. Once Jazz felt the tail touch his palm, he grabbed it and waited until Blaster twisted enough for the fish to slip free. Then the pole was just as slowly drawn back. 

The whole time the wild mer watching the exchange intensely. 

Jazz pulled the fish over to his side, chirped for the other's attention before he swallowed it whole. Smiling once more as he said, {safe.} 

Blaster had to admit, he was surprised when the mer shifted slightly in the hammock, and then cautiously held out his right hand. The glare never left, but this one felt like a threat, that if he messed this chance up, there would not be another. 

Though this was the first time Jazz had been able to see any of his injuries. The colourful tape-bandages almost covered every inch of his skin from his hand up to his bicep. It reminded him that just yesterday he had been mortally wounded. Which was probably a key reason the wild mer seemed so calm, they had only started to recover and every action was either painful or exhausting. Likely both.

Jazz watched closely as Blaster went through all the careful steps as he had with Jazz and held the fish out. The only difference, was that the human's grip was loose, just in case the wild mer decided to try and yank him into the water with it. But they didn't, doing exactly as they saw before, allowing Blaster to release the fish and retreat. The whole process was so slow that the wild mer's arm started to shake from being held out. 

But both Jazz and Blaster let out a breath of relief as there had been no backlash. 

He eyed the fish in his grip with a mild sneer before he swallowed it and then held out his shaky hand for another. It was clear that the pain was getting to him, but nothing in his expression showed weakness. 

The feeding got easier and quicker as Blaster relaxed a bit, not fearing that a normal pace would come off as threatening to the wild mer. 

When the shaking got bad enough, the mer rested his arm back in the hammock, but kept his eyes on the remaining fish. As if to convey he wasn't finished, just needed a break. Blaster was more than happy to comply and gave him a few praises, even if they didn't understand. 

"Hey," Jazz called gently, chirping for the other's attention. He waited until they looked his way, then pointed at himself. "Jazz," and then to the human, "Blaster," and back to himself once more, "Jazz," before pointing to the other mer with a questioning tilt of his head. He hoped it was clear what he was asking for. 

When the silence stretched on for a bit, the human also joined in. "Blaster," to himself and to his mer, "Jazz." 

There was a brief moment that Jazz could see that they were working over something, opening their mouth a few times before the sound of a sharp zip came out. "… 'tzz?" 

Jazz snorted, before breaking into a few chuckles. "Ya, missing the Ja, but you'll get there. I'm Jazz." He placed a hand over his heart. 

The gesture was reflected, {•၊||၊။} 

It was his turn to try and work out the sound in his head. Jazz tried the word out soundlessly on his tongue once. It was like a popping roll? {•၊||၊၊၊၊၊?} 

{•၊||၊။} they repeated, firmly correcting him. 

"Nice to meet ya, {•၊||၊၊၊၊၊}!" While the mer scowled at him for not even trying to fix his pronunciation, Jazz just smiled brightly.  

"So... what is his name?" Blaster asked for a translation, very interested in the development between them.  

Jazz laughed, "I have no idea." 

______________________________

Don't ask about my attempt to make sound-wave-like-text, it's gibberish, lol, and going forward only •၊||၊။ (Prowl) & •၊||၊၊၊၊၊ (Prowler) will be used until Jazz has a English (common?) name to attach an understanding to.

Keferon, I just wanted to say that every comment or tag you leave on the fic is like serotonin being injected into my veins. Every silly little image is like rolling down a grassy hill in the warm sun while I laugh with manic joy. When you add art, it's like an adrenaline shot to the heart that makes me want to run across the globe just to frantically wave hello with both hands, give you a hug and run back to get started on the next part.

And the next part will be Prowl joining Jazz in the main pool and Jazz learning just how fast he is, even while injured. >:)c

-GLC

𓆝 Previous 𓆟 Next

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Me looking in my inbox and seeing that there's two peas in a po

Odjndgdjdkfhdkm PLEASE. Blaster is so nervous EVERYONE IS SO NERVOUS Ooohhhnooo he's gonna freak out and kill everything he can reach oh no we all know how all those wild stupid creatures are oh no watch out While Prowl is trying to blow their pancakes with mind

And I juswannasay I love it so much ehehejgknfbfkdn THE SOUND WAVE SPEACH? I LOVE THE LOOK OF IT EHEHEH

Always a big fan of creative ways of showing imaginary languages. This thing?? ||ll•|Il It looks hella stylish >:O

Aaannnndd I got excited and made some art hehe

[harmonysanreads]

Anaxa : Stalking? I was just... educating myself on your lore.

[deerspherestudios]

Hi! I just wanted to know if in the following days to come if mychael would follow more intense Yandere traits or instead mellow more out?

Hello! I feel like I ramble a bit here for such a simple question, but for those interested, spoilers under cut!

I've teased in asks before he will get intense as the story progresses, though for the sake of managing expectations, don't expect him to go all out just because it's Day 4.

Initially, I've considered multiple routes and endings for the next update, and by endings I mean True Bad Endings, but I might push them back so the pacing of the story doesn't feel jarring. Plus it lightens my load of writing multiple branches, something I always wanna avoid so I don't complicate things for myself.

I just feel that between the five sundowns after they separated at the end of Day 3 it'd be enough time for him to sort through his thoughts and come to a conclusion on how he feels. Nothing drastic, but there's definitely something that changed in him if that makes sense.

So while he's not fully unhinged (the door still functions so to speak), he's definitely growing loose,,,, I started out with the intent of writing a slow burn and I'd be remiss if I mess that up!

[bujlililu]

Oh, look who I found in my bed.

Features include:

Removable shoes and jacket! And pants... (nothing to see under though)

Jacket! With zipper (not working), fluff on the hood (not fluffy), pockets (unusable)

He has gloves

Stupid cute little empty eyesockets that stare into your soul when you wake up covered in sweat at 4 am

Goop leaking out of eyes (don't worry it doesn't stain anything)

Perfect size to be squeezed (demonstrated in picture above)

No, the red thing is not a button, don't press it

It is recommended not to leave him in the kitchen, or anywhere with easy access to sharp objects. For no particular reason of course.

[kingofmyborrowedheart]

Begging swifties to understand that Taylor didn’t write reputation and Lover with the knowledge of how the relationship was going to end and that trying to “excavate” those albums for evidence to prove a specific theory as to why it ended is not how they should be viewed. Taylor wrote those songs feeling a very specific way because that’s what she was experiencing and she is now reflecting on them with hindsight and relates to them differently than when she first created them. These conflicting emotions can exist; how she views it now doesn’t diminish how she felt about it when she first released it.