#i do not remember what episode of Go! this is from

[i-dared-myself]

Hard to Say

Stray Kids x reader

Requested by anonymous: happy go lucky older sister figure of a skijigi that reader usually is has faded and reader is going through a ROUGH depressive episode constantly zoning out, isolated, barely eats, she doesn’t really talk to the boys anymore, gets caught crying a couple times, etc and obvi the boys help her out and remind her they’re there n all n just HEAVY angst and HEAVY comfort 

Cw: Reader is depressed and skips a couple meals. Plz plz plz don’t read if it might trigger something.

Being staff is fun. There’s pressure sure but not as much as the idols face.

Plus, you’re faceless. Your face is blurred if you are accidentally caught on camera, and you wear masks most of the time. 

But maybe… Maybe that isn’t the greatest sometimes.

You don’t really get recognized for your work. It’s just brushed aside so that the idols can shine. Which is fine. That’s your job. But it’s frustrating when no one appreciates the effort you put in.

So you work harder, and somehow end up working closely to Stray Kids. You wouldn’t say that you’re best friends with them, but they remember things about you. They remember when your lunch break is and just so happen to take their breaks at the same time.

But they’re just being nice. It’s their job, just as yours is to make them look good.

Although you find that you go on a lot more personal tasks for them. Like helping Hyunjin pick which pictures to use on his Instagram posts. Or listening as Jisung complains about a terrible anime ending.

But the working so hard has led to you being burnt out. You’re fallen into a pit of depression and can’t bring yourself to care.

You’re so immersed in your thoughts that you don’t even notice Minho until he’s settled in the chair next to yours.

“What are you doing?” he asks curiously. 

You glance over your phone at him, crossing your legs. “Uh, just looking at some stuff. Do you need something?”

“No,” he says, opening his lunch. You continue to gaze at your phone, avoiding conversation. That’s too much work and you don’t care enough for it.

“Okay,” you reply, just as shortly as him. If you have a reunion of high school friends tomorrow, do you really have to go? You just don’t feel like having to force a smile.

“-I say?” Minho waves his hand in front of your face, scowling fiercely.

You blink at him unsurely. “Sorry?”

Mingi’s eyebrows draw together into an irritated expression you recognize as worry. “That’s what I thought. What’s going on?”

“What do you mean?” you ask, absently deciding that you would have to go. Maybe it would be what you need to lift your spirits.

“There!” Minho thrusts an accusatory finger in your direction, lips tightening. “You just did it again! You keep zoning out!”

You huff and turn your face away. “No I’m not. I’m fine.”

“Minho!” Seungmin calls from the doorway. “Chan needs you. He wants your opinion on- Oh, hey.”

You force a strained smile at him. “Hi.”

Minho stands, glaring at you. “Eat your lunch. And don’t think that this talk isn’t over!”

You throw your lunch away as soon as he’s gone. Seungmin watches in mild concern, but doesn’t say anything.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The rest of your coworkers are going out for drinks. They invited you along, but you politely declined. You didn’t feel like forcing conversation with a bunch of people you don’t really know.

“Taking the bus home?” Changbin gently asks as you search your pockets for your phone.

“Yeah.” You locate your device and check the time before grabbing your non-eaten lunch. Maybe you’ll have it for dinner so you don’t have to cook or find dinner.

“Did you want a ride?” Changbin offers. “I was going that way.”

“No. I’m fine.” You turn and walk away, staring at your phone. You don’t have any texts or anything, but you don’t want to talk. It’s too tiring.

“Are you sure? Because I know that your usual route-“

“I’m fine!” Tears burn at your eyes and you wipe them away before he can see. But they’re spilling out faster than you can catch, and you’re beginning to hyperventilate. “I’m fine!”

“Hey, what’s-“ Changbin reaches out for you before drawing his hand away. “Let’s sit down, okay?”

You shake your head, but follow him to a bench anyways. The air outside the building is chilly, but you don’t care enough to pull the jacket tied on your waist over your shoulders.

“What’s going on?” Changbin softly asks. He ruffles your hair. “Did you have a bad day?”

You sniffle and rub at your eyes, avoiding eye contact. Changbin hums and doesn’t push the matter further.

The two of you sit in silence for a minute, before you see your bus drive by. You cry harder, knowing that you’ll have to wait even longer to crawl into bed.

“I can drive you home,” Changbin suggests again. “But did you want to talk about whatever this is?”

“No,” you say, shivering. “I just- I wanna go home.”

“Yeah, let’s get you home.” Changbin gets to his feet, passing his hands up your arms in an attempt to warm you. “I’m driving Jisung too if that’s okay. If you don’t want to deal with him right now, I can make him walk.”

You laugh. You laugh for the first time in what feels like weeks where you don’t have to force it out.

It feels good.

“No,” you respond, ignoring Changbin’s fond smile. “He can come.”

You only have to wait a little bit for Jisung to come skipping out of the building, grinning widely when he catches sight of you. He waves, and you muster the energy to give one back.

“We’re taking her home,” Changbin informs Jisung. “She gets to sit in the passenger’s seat and you get the back.”

“What? Why?” Jisung whines. He huffs in protest, crossing his arms. 

“No arguing,” Changbin sharply says. “Now get in the car before I leave you here.”

On the ride home, you somehow end up staring out the window in a daze. The conversation goes over your head as you zone out, not even thinking about anything in particular. 

Jisung reaches from the back to poke at your shoulder, startling you out of your state. “What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing,” you mutter, sinking into your seat more. You see Changbin glance over before focusing on the road again. “Just… Nothing.”

“Okay,” Jisung hesitantly says. “But just, like, you can talk to us. We’re cool.”

“The coolest,” Changbin agrees.

“So if there’s anything bothering you, we’re here,” Jisung finishes.

You blink to stop tears from rolling out. “Okay. But I’m fine.”

And that night as you throw yourself into bed, you cry harder. Why is it so hard to tell someone?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A night out with old friends, as it turns out, didn’t help you. You’re still in this realm of melancholy and can’t seem to figure out how to tell someone.

People keep offering, and you keep rejecting help. Why? Why is it so hard?

“Hey.” Hyunjin sits next to you, opening his lunch. “What do you have?”

“Oh. I didn’t bring anything.” You stare into your coffee dully. 

“What?” Hyunjin glances over, lips thinning with disapproval. “Why not?”

“Don’t want it,” you murmur, standing up. You walk out of the lunchroom, ending your break early. You just need to keep yourself busy.

“Oh, hi!” Chan says as you push past him. “Isn’t it your lunch?”

“I think it is,” Felix chimes in, smiling widely at you. “Where are you going?”

“Wait, we’re going out for lunch?” Jeongin pokes his head out of a nearby room. 

“She didn’t eat lunch!” Hyunjin shouts, catching up to you. 

“What?” Chan narrows his eyes at you. “Is that true?”

“I don’t want it!” you snap. Then you’re crying in front of them. “I- I want to want it, but I don’t!”

“Hey,” Felix soothes, holding his arms out. “Come here.”

You bury yourself in his embrace, sniffling. Felix pats your head and rubs your back, whispering that you’re okay.

“Whats going on?” Seungmin asks as he wanders closer. “Oh. Um, is she okay?”

“Can you tell us what’s going on?” Chan gently coaxes, peeling you away from Felix so that he can comfort you.

“I- I don’t want to,” you sob, hiding your face against his chest. Before you know it, the entire group has gathered around you, searching for ways to solve whatever it is that’s been bothering you.

“You haven’t been acting like yourself,” Minho says. He sighs heavily, frowning. “I - We, I mean, don’t like seeing you unhappy.”

“Why don’t we all take the day off and go out for boba,” Changbin suggests. “Our treat.”

“She didn’t want to eat, idiot!” Jisung hisses, smacking Changbin’s arm.

“S- Sure,” you hiccup out. You rub at your eyes, feeling exhausted and maybe a little hungry now.

“Nice idea, genius!” Jisung claps Changbin’s shoulder. Changbin shoots him an amused look.

Jeongin burrows his way between you and Chan, blinking at you with wide eyes. “Is there anything I can do to make you feel better?”

“I- I think I’m just burnt out,” you quietly say. It’s hard to admit, and now you’re crying more, but also feeling relieved in a sense.

“Let’s go get boba.” Seungmin grabs your arm and drags you away. “And then we’ll get you some time off work.”

“Seungmin is besties with JYPapi,” Hyunjin jokes, ruffling your hair. “We can make it work.”

“And don’t bottle it up next time,” Minho scolds. 

“What, you’re going to tell her what to do?” Jisung raises an eyebrow. “What would you even do about it?”

Minho cracks his knuckles. “Wanna find out?”

“So tell us the next time something like this happens, okay?” Chan softly says to you as Jisung screams and runs away from Minho. “Even if we can’t help, I want to know. We care, because we’re your friends.”

You nod, taking Seungmin’s hand in yours. “Alright.”

Jisung sprints past, followed closely by a cackling Minho.

Taglist:

@velvetmoonlght @jinnie-ret @hansmic @imeverycliche @iwuberic @strawberryscentedd @lezleeferguson-120 @mbioooo0000

[matt-murdockk]

Grief

pairing: Matt Murdock x fem!Reader

words: 2.5k

summary: When an unexpected tragedy tears their world apart, Matt vanishes, leaving (Y/n) shattered. In the aftermath, grief becomes routine, and healing feels like a betrayal. When an unexpected encounter forces them to face the inevitable, well, see for yourself.

warnings: graphic description of violence, angst, spoilers for Daredevil: Born Again

a/n: Just saw episode 1 and I am RATTLED. I had to get it out of my system, so, here you go. I am doing a third-person pov this time, not my usual reader's pov because I wanted this to be serious angst. painnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn. that's it.

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

There was a ringing in her ears. Not the sharp, short kind that comes and goes, but a low, unrelenting whine- like the world had been muted except for that one, unbearable frequency.

Everything else was blurred. Faces, lights, voices. The neon buzz of Josie’s sign blinked somewhere in the periphery, garish against the night. Her hands- red, slick, trembling- pressed hard against Foggy’s chest, where blood poured through her fingers like it had somewhere else to be.

He was gasping.

Karen was cradling his head in her lap, whispering his name like it was the only prayer she remembered. “Stay with us, Foggy. Please, please- just stay with us.”

But his eyes. God, his eyes.

They weren’t looking at anything anymore.

(Y/n) didn’t even realize she was screaming until her voice cracked. Her palms slipped, trying to hold him together when it was already too late. There was too much blood. Her jeans were soaked. She looked at her hands, trembling, soaked with the blood of her best friend. The pavement beneath them looked like a crime scene, and rightfully so.

Then it came.

The scream- from the rooftop. A sound ripped straight from the chest of something feral. Something broken.

It echoed off brick, and stone, and neon, a guttural, hollow sound that cut through the ringing.

Matt.

She looked up, just in time to catch a shadow vanishing into the dark. And then silence again.

Foggy didn’t move.

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

Three Weeks Later

The city hadn’t changed, but everything felt different.

Life went on- it always did. Taxis still honked. Radios still played. The deli on 8th still burned the bagels, and the world still spun like nothing else mattered. But for (Y/n), everything had dulled. Like all the voices around here were suddenly muffled, and all the colours had suddenly lost their warmth.

She stood outside Matt’s door again.

Third floor. End of the hall. Apartment with the busted lock and the number peeling off. Same place as always. Same routine. She didn’t knock anymore. She just leaned her shoulder against the doorframe and started to speak.

“Hey... I, uh. I know you’re in there. It's me. Again.”

Her voice was hoarse. Like she hadn’t used it in days. She hadn’t used it much, really. Not unless Karen called, or when she’d gotten cornered by Kirsten at the firm’s memorial. But even then, her words felt borrowed. Thin. Like they belonged to someone else.

“I went to Josie’s today,” she continued. “Thought maybe you would’ve... I don’t know. Shown up.”

The hallway was quiet.

“I sat in our booth,” she said, the corners of her mouth twitching up into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “The one Foggy always said had the best lighting. Which is a joke, by the way, because Josie’s lighting sucks. Always has.”

She sighed. The wall was cold against her back.

“I keep thinking about that night. About what I could’ve done differently. If I had just gotten to him sooner or... if I’d pressed harder or screamed louder or-”

Her breath caught. She shook her head.

“Doesn’t matter,” she muttered, quieter now. “None of it is going to change anything.”

For a moment, she thought she heard something shift inside- the faint creak of floorboards, the soft shuffle of movement. Her breath caught.

But nothing followed. No footsteps. No voice. Just the quiet hum of the hallway light above her. She guessed it must have been in her head. She let the silence between them marinate for a moment before she broke.

“I need you, Matt,” she said finally, barely above a whisper. “I can’t… I can’t do this alone. I’m trying, but I-” her breath hitched, words tumbling out between sobs, “Please… just… let me in. Please, Matt.”

Silence.

“You don’t have to open the door. Just... let me know you’re still in there. Please.”

Nothing.

No footsteps. No shadow under the door. Not even the creak of floorboards shifting inside.

Just silence.

She sat for a while, her arms wrapped around her knees, the hem of her coat brushing the cracked floor tiles. Time passed. Light changed. Somewhere outside, someone was yelling into a phone. A dog barked. A siren wailed in the distance.

Eventually, she stood.

Her knees cracked as she straightened. She wiped her tears and took one last look at the apartment. She paused, hand resting on the door for just a second longer than she should have.

Then she left.

The hallway swallowed the sound of her steps, and Matt Murdock’s door remained closed.

He stood on the other side of the door, motionless.

He hadn’t moved the entire time she was out there. Not when she said his name. Not when her voice cracked. Not when her knees hit the floor with that soft, painful sound that made his stomach turn.

He’d wanted to. God, he wanted to.

Every instinct screamed at him to unlock the door, to fall to his knees and wrap his arms around her and say something- anything- to make it better. To let her in. To not be alone.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he stood there. Frozen. Listening to every ragged breath, every broken sob, every word she pushed out like it hurt to say.

He could hear the tremble in her hands when she touched the door. The way her heartbeat stuttered when she said please. The way it finally steadied when she stood up and walked away, like even her heart had given up on him.

He pressed his hand flat against the door, long after she’d gone. It was warm. Faintly. From where she’d leaned against it.

And then it wasn’t.

He exhaled sharply, like it hurt. His fingers curled into a fist against the wood, knuckles white. But he still didn’t move. Didn’t open it.

Didn’t deserve to.

The guilt was louder than her voice. Louder than anything. Louder than the way Foggy had gasped for air while Matt was too far away. Louder than the way his scream had ripped through the night, raw and helpless. Louder than the ringing in his own head that hadn’t stopped since that night.

He had failed him.

Failed both of them.

And now (Y/n) was out there- grieving, breaking- and he was too much of a coward to face it. To face her.

Because what could he possibly say? I’m sorry? I know you’re in pain? Let me hold you?

He didn’t deserve to be the one she leaned on. He didn’t deserve her voice through the door. Or her presence. Or her grief.

He’d wanted to protect them. Both of them. And now one was dead, and the other came by every other day, pouring her heart out to someone who didn’t answer.

Matt turned away from the door, chest tight, fists clenched.

He hadn’t cried. Not once. Not at the funeral. Not after the scream. Not even when he stopped hearing Foggy’s voice in his head.

But now, in the quiet, with only the sound of his own heartbeat and the memory of her sobs still ringing in his ears-

He cracked.

He didn’t fall to his knees. He didn’t punch the wall. He didn’t curse the heavens or spiral into rage.

He just stood there, tears running down his face, completely silent.

And the door stayed closed.

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

Six Months Later

Six months passed. Enough time for the world to spin forward without asking if anyone was ready.

The pain stopped being sharp. That was the worst part.

It dulled- settled deep in her chest, like it belonged there now. People called it healing. (Y/n) called it survival. Grief had just learned how to wear a quieter mask.

Karen moved to San Francisco. Said she needed a break from the city. Said it hurt too much to walk past places Foggy used to haunt like he still might show up. And maybe she was right. Maybe distance helped.

(Y/n) didn’t leave.

She stayed. Got back to work. Kept her head down. Took the long way around Hell’s Kitchen whenever she could. Walked fast when she couldn’t. She’d stopped waiting outside Matt’s door months ago.

She’d told herself it was closure.

But the truth was, she wasn’t sure what it was. All she knew was that she hadn’t seen him since.

Not once.

Until now. The banner above the doors read Murdock & McDuffie- Attorneys at Law. The lettering was simple. Clean. Brand new. Still smelled like fresh paint and hope.

(Y/n) hadn’t planned to come. She’d only found out because someone from the old firm texted her about the opening- “Matt’s back,” it said. Just those two words.

She didn’t mean to stay long.

She only came to see for herself. Just once. Just from afar.

To know he was okay.

That was it.

She stood at the back of the crowd, tucked behind a column, far enough that he wouldn’t notice her unless he was looking. And he wouldn’t be. He never had.

(Y/n) had told herself it wasn’t about needing anything from him. Not closure. Not a conversation. Just... proof. That he was still here. Still breathing. Still trying.

That something survived that night.

So when she saw him- standing near the podium in a black suit, smiling politely, nodding to the people around him- it should’ve felt like relief.

But it didn’t.

It felt like weight. Like something heavy had been quietly pressing on her chest for months, and seeing him again made it real.

He looked good. Not whole, but... steady. Composed. The Matt she remembered in the courtroom. The Matt who could hold a room with a few words and a slight turn of his head.

She didn’t want to hate him. She didn’t.

But she couldn’t go up there either. Couldn’t walk into that room like nothing had changed. She’d spent too long stitching herself back together in the quiet to rip everything open again now.

So she turned. No drama. No second glances. Just a quiet exit, like she was never there to begin with.

One step. Then another. Down the stairs. Away from the lights and the noise and the name painted on glass that wasn’t supposed to ache the way it did.

But Matt had already noticed.

Not with his eyes. With the shift in air. The faint, familiar stutter in her heartbeat. The sudden sharp inhale when she saw him. The way it faltered again when she turned to leave.

He followed without thinking.

And in the stairwell, when she finally stopped- when the weight of it all finally caught up and she sank against the wall, silent tears streaking down her face- he found her.

He said her name softly.

“(Y/n)...?”

“Matt, hey,” she said, wiping her tears quickly with the back of her hand. Her voice was too casual. Too controlled. “I was just leaving.”

Matt stood a few steps up from her, hands at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them. “Yeah. I... I noticed.”

She nodded once. That was it. No hug. No accusation. No warmth.

“I didn’t know I'd run into you,” she added, voice thinner now, trying to pull it together. “Didn’t plan on it. Just... wanted to see how things were going.”

“They’re going,” Matt said, and the silence that followed was awkward. Foreign. Like two strangers forcing conversation at a wake.

She sniffed, trying to brush past him. “Well. Looks like you’re doing fine.”

He moved slightly to block her. “(Y/n) -”

“I said I was leaving.”

“Can you just stop for a second?”

“Why?” she snapped. “So we can pretend to be civil and make awkward small talk in a stairwell? I think we’ve done enough pretending, Matt.”

He flinched. “I’m not pretending anything.”

“Oh, right. You’re rebuilding. That’s what this is, isn’t it?” she laughed, bitter and sharp. “New firm. New name on the glass. A clean slate.”

His voice raised before he could stop it. “What do you want me to say?”

She turned to him then, eyes shining but angry now. “I don’t want you to say anything! I didn’t come here for this.”

“Then why did you come?”

“I don’t know!” she shouted. “I don’t know, okay? I thought maybe seeing you would help, but it didn’t! It just made it worse.”

Matt’s jaw tightened. “You think this is easy for me? I hear you crying before you even hit the stairwell and you think I’m fine?”

“You didn’t hear me for months!” she threw back. “Not a word. Not a text. You shut me out and left me in the wreckage like none of it mattered!”

“(Y/n), I was grieving-”

“So was I, Matt!” she screamed, cutting him off. “So was I. You’re not the only one who lost him!”

That stopped him.

The silence hit hard. Echoed against the stairwell walls like a slap. They stood there, breathing hard, tears threatening both of them now. Not angry ones- not anymore. Just shattered. Tired.

“I kept showing up,” she whispered. “I needed you, and you were right there and I still couldn’t reach you.”

“I didn’t know how to let you in,” Matt said, quieter now, but raw. “If I let you in, I would’ve broken. I couldn’t protect you. I couldn’t save him. I failed, and I thought if I let you see me like that ”

“You think I wanted to be saved?” she asked, voice shaking. “I knew you were hurting, Matt. So was Karen. So was I. I wanted to hurt with you. That’s what people who love each other do, Matt. They stay, even when it’s ugly.”

The word love hung in the air between them, fragile and broken and too late.

Matt took a step toward her, his breath catching. “What happened to us?”

Her face twisted, like the question physically hurt. “We stopped talking. You stopped letting me see you. And I- I didn’t know how to be in the world without you and without him.”

“I didn’t want to be in the world at all,” Matt said.

And that was it. The final crack.

(Y/n) choked on a sob, and suddenly she was moving- not away, not anymore, but toward him- and Matt caught her like she was the only thing he’d ever been certain of. She buried her face into his chest and he wrapped his arms around her like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to again.

They didn’t speak.

They just held each other, trembling, broken, sobbing into the fabric of each other’s coats as the last six months poured out all at once.

No more pretending. No more silence. No more closed doors.

Just two people who had spent too long holding it in.

And now, finally, letting it out.

Together.

[midnight1nk]

So, this week's episode...

[spoilers below cut]

*GASP*

...

how come the Team does this to me? They get me every. single. time. chat, I don't even want to click on the episode BUT I HAVE TO KNOW IF MY THEORY WAS RIGHT OH WHYYYY

(the following is my live reaction:)

starting off already? well no complaints from me

it's giving "Trust No One" from WOTFI 2023 arc

PFFT HAHAHHAHAHAHA

ok ok ik it's supposed to be serious, but that "wha happen?" audio clip from Mickey Mouse Shorts really caught me off-guard. Who in the Team did that? I want to say thank you

anyway, Mario dude you gotta tell everything, especially to Karen

...well, the minecraft part isn't wrong but he's not telling the whole story

omg 4 really is doing the same thing as 3 did a year ago

which is crazy considering that 4 wasn't in 3's interrogation on Mario. They're so cosmically linked that they came up with the same interrogation method, well it's also Mario we're talking about

yeah, we'll let Karen do the rest

might as well give in, Mario. it ain't worth hiding any secrets

...4?

he's so silly I love him 💙

idk 4, maybe you should be an inspiring VA (4 would be the type of parent who would do all the characters' voices when reading bedtime stories 😌↕️)

oh. oh holy shit.

well at least you're getting it out of your system, Karen. but I do feel genuinely concerned you. I still understand but worried.

the shadows making it look like she's stabbing Mario isn't helping with my concerns

...what was that?

*wheeze* no 4, it's not the IRS

OH we got a sniper here, folks. WPNZ?

AND A ROBOTIC HAND? yeah, we're not just guessing anymore. the anon from my inbox who said that WPNZ may be a cyborg, you nailed it man

Ain't no way, Mario died (he literally cannot)

THE GMOD GUN IS BACK

HOLY SHIT nice save Karen

it's confirmed: 4 doesn't pay his taxes

Mario: "I am..." [*Invincible title card*]

he still got the walkie-talkie.... what the hell did WPNZ say to him?

YEP now we're putting the pieces together

*wheeze* Mario what was that run?

pull some strings, you say? perhaps... CONNECTIONS?

GET EM GIRLS /ref

secretive, ay?

what's with the dark room?

*flashback* I just remembered a traumatizing experience in my past, hang on I have to stim and I'll feel better. /ref

damn Mario ok

oh wait, I recognize this animation style. Anaidon, did you work on this scene? :D

PFFT THE DISTRACTION DANCE FROM THE HENRY STICKMAN SERIES OMG

I did not see that coming, ok who in the Team did that bc that was good haha. nostalgia go brrrrrrrrrr

No, WPNZ, it really did work ngl

oh shit

yep it's a cyborg hand if it's compatible with an actual arm

Gear up, it's for a swell battle!!!

FLAMETHROWER?! even Mario's not liking this

no, 4! this isn't Mario, it's Mr. WPNZ

😦

*pauses episode* ...chat, can you do something for me?

hold me back, and don't let go until I'm done. ready?

*ahem*

...WPNZ YOU SON OF A BITCH WAIT UNTIL I GET MY HANDS ON YOU AND I SWEAR YOU'RE NOT GOING TO LIVE TO SEE TOMORROW— *10 minutes and a nuke explosion later*

ok I'm good.

4 I'm going to need you to wake up buddy. c'mon you can't die, especially not you. 4 don't do this to me, you can't. you faced way worse stuff before, this can't hold you down now. your friends, your family, they're waiting for you to come back home. you can't leave them. 4 please

WE GOT A PULSE OH THANK GOD

IT'S A WEAK ONE THO, WE NEED TO GET HIM TO A DOCTOR NOW

I KNOW YOU DIDN'T MEAN TO, IT WASN'T YOUR FAULT 😭

at least Karen could finally get some answers

...a surprise?! OH HELL NO that guy nearly got them killed for ENTERING, it's a trap for sure

LET'S GO GET YOUR KIDS BACK but do be careful, we still don't know what we're up against

😭

get 4 outta there!! oh god, is the Crew gonna see 4 in critical condition? Beeg4? *head in hands*

I swear the Team is out to get me (also Mario carrying out 4 strangely reminded me of a scene from a fic I read long ago)

and ofc the whole building on fire goddammit

(btw that fall reminded me of the insomniac spider-man teasers ifykyk)

no Karen, hun you aren't. you're like one of the best parents of the entire show

you're trying to be better and give your kids the life you didn't get to have, that pretty much makes you a good parent overall

YEAH LOCK IN

alright, the moment of truth

huh? radio interference?

I FUCKIN KNEW IT YEP IT'S CONFIRMED

MR. WPNZ IS KAREN'S EX LOVER AND FATHER OF THE KIDS

(well nicc, looks like you get you keep your script after all)

oh, so he's pretty much a psycho, good to know *starts curb-stomping him*

I TOLD YOU ALL THE "HALF PINTS* NICKNAME WAS TOO SPECIFIC

what kinda monster? oh the mentally-messed-up yandere ass one, yeah that kinda monster

HE'S AT THEIR HOUSE?! FUCKFUCKFUCK

ok yeah I see how it is. violence isn't enough, time to commit crimes :)

no, don't end it there. please don't

*flips desk* AND THE MUTED-COLOR CREDITS OH C'MON

looks like I got something else right, it was a mini-arc. it's all within the math

Congrats to daekim_26 for your art being featured at the end credits! 🎉 hey, I recognize this, Ben reblogged this over on Twitter. ig the Team really liked your art

.・-: ✧ :--: ✧ :-・.

I. I'm just speechless omg. Like what am I supposed to say to that? Shadow, is this what you meant when you said we're not prepared for this? I need to walk out a sec, hang on.

ok I'm back. I guess first off, Team, wow. What an episode, it is absolutely insane how good it all was. Especially the writing and the voice acting for Karen, it tugged on my heart strings. And Anaidon, I KNEW YOU ANIMATED THAT SCENE haha!

Genuninely, bravo 👏👏👏 and my calculations were right after all

Actually, for me to post my theory hours before the episode was dropped, I'm surprised how much I got it right. Most of it, yeah, though I didn't expect how insane Mr. WPNZ is. More so doing it for himself and not the corporation, but still a lot of dedication was put into this. And he got a robotic arm! Not exactly like Clench (who has a mind of its own and can talk) but definitely advanced. So, the point could still stand that the tech, skills, and resources were based on his job at Hitman Inc.

Poor Karen, you can tell she's been very desperate in finding her kids by the voice acting alone. You can't blame her for going to these lengths. Like I said, understandable, but I do still feel concerned for her. And then, her psycho ex on top of everything smh, I won't be able to handle it.

And you can't even blame Mario either. He did the mission thinking it would help Karen, and Mr. WPNZ told him what to do. Then with the prosthetic taking Mario's arm, it wasn't even him. It was WPNZ, but I do feel like Mario's going to feel so guilty for what he did to 4.

Wrong things for the right reason 😔↕️

Speaking of 4, NO NOT MY BOY. Chat, I'm not okay. Like I knew he wasn't going to die, he's literally one of the main characters, but my heart dropped at that scene. Through the floor and 6 feet underground. I did ask for 4 angst, yes, but damn. Can you imagine how the Crew would react? Since 3 & 4 are cosmically linked, would 3 feel that 4's in critical condition? Oh Beeg, 4's his dad dude. Beeg may be pretty tough but he still cares for 4, hope he gets a bit of revenge for it. (and a sprinkle of mar4 angst)

...am I going to bring in goop!4 into this?

Who do you take me for? ofc I am. As I mentioned, the parasite would still be in 4, and because of what happened to him, it might be the necessary trigger for it to activate. After everything that had happened to him, the explosion really knocked him out. This is taken seriously, this mini-arc starts really close to the IGBP anniversary.... I wouldn't be surprised if the Team tease for the future goop!4 arc. Not immediately after the Hitman arc, far later. Baby steps, chat. If the Team drops at least ONE frame, a SECOND, about goop!4, I'll take it!

Anyway, since it is a mini-arc, we're not getting another teaser or a trailer. BUT we are getting an episode special, so we'll have to look out for that. In meantime, that's all from me. I'll see yall next time and remember, folks: numbers always go first!

man, Ben. I gotta say, the thumbnail you made, it was a cool reference to the Parasite movie poster. Awesome job!

...huh.

[thoughtfulchaos773]

The Bear Is a Love Story: Told by Richie, Directed by Storer

Also told through pasta

This is just me piggybacking off @outmakingmoonshine's amazing meta add on of sydcarmy romance being planned since the beginning and goddamn do I see it during my rewatch.

From the outside, The Bear is about grief and food and Carmy trying to keep The Berzatto Family restaurant going. But underneath, it’s a love story, and the person telling it?

Richie.

Richie is the surrogate observer, and in many ways, Chris Storer’s emotional stand-in (Currymungese genius brain was the first to theorize it—R.I.P. to the blog). Also shoutout to @whenmemorydies.

If Storer was influenced by Alfred Hitchcock’s romantic irony, then Richie would be both an emotional witness and a narrative guide. He doesn't know everything, but he feels everything—and we, the audience, experience the love story through his point of view.

A Quick Note: Romantic Irony & the Director Surrogate

An Alfred Hitchcock Film cameo in 3x09 Apologies, which seals the deal of Storer's inspiration.

(Romantic irony is inspired by insights from Offscreen and CineVerse)

Romantic irony is when the audience sees the emotional truth of the love story before the characters do. Romantic Irony is also a way for a director put in their own view on rkmance in the story through the surrogate character

With Romantic Irony, the audience and director are in on it, but the characters involved haven’t caught up yet.

A director surrogate is a character who reflects the creator’s emotional voice. Think Nick Carraway in The Great Gatsby. In The Bear, that’s Richie. He’s not the lead, but he emotionally frames what we see. Richie is Storer’s way of telling the real story—not just how to run a restaurant, but how to live.

"This is your brother's house, remember?"

The Beef belonged to Mikey. He ran it with chaos and love, and Richie was there for all of it. Carmy was pushed away—working in fine dining, so when he comes back, he brings restaurant experience to the table, but Richie remembers the soul of the place.

That’s why in Season 3, we get this subtle but essential detail: The Bear was Carmy’s idea, not Mikey’s. Mikey didn’t want Carmy to take on pressure. He wanted him to experience love. That’s why he was so excited about Claire. He wanted Carmy to live. But now that Mikey’s gone, Richie tries to carry that forward through food, family, and more specifically, by wanting Carmy to "make the pasta".

Pasta is Romance

More on what @outmakingmoonshine explained-

In 2x02, we get that apartment scene. Just Carmy and Syd. She opens up. He’s making pasta. There’s no touching, no flirting but intimacy is building and Carmy is loosened up and he’s kneading dough while she talks about her past. And as Carmy told Marcus—maybe he does know how to make a fucking pasta.

But here’s the thing: the pasta doesn’t turn out right. Because it’s not time yet.

Later, he reconnects with Claire, and yeah—he tells Richie she’s his girlfriend in the bolognese episode. But let’s be real, I’m pretty sure he’s using store-bought pasta when making Claire dinner. It’s convenient. It’s not handmade. The metaphor couldn’t be louder.

Sydney is who Carmy should be making pasta with—and Richie is (subconsciously) aware of that as early as Season 1.

Which brings us back to the ending of Season 1.

In 1x08, Sydney comes back. Carmy is lovestruck while Richie director—invites her to open the cans. That’s huge. It’s a symbolic gesture: she’s welcomed into the kitchen, family, and story.

Carmy, meanwhile, tries a different approach. He brings in fine dining. The world he knows (tabletops? booths?) and he hopes it’s enough to keep Sydney there.

But fast-forward to Season 2 and especially Season 3: is that way of “wining the girl” working? Absolutely not.

Because it’s not fun anymore. The joy is gone. The soul is missing. Richie sees it. And the magic? It disappeared when Carmy stopped trying to make the right pasta with Sydney. It also left when he pushed Richie away at the end of season 2, and continued in season 3. But Richie still plays director, writing notes, character analyzing Carmy, getting closer with Sydney (I believe if Mikey were still alive, the dynamic would have been Carmy-Claire-Mikey, but now that Mikey is gone, the family is repurposing- it's Carmy-Sydney-Richie dynamic).

Which is why Richie will be there when Carmy and Claire fall apart—and why he’ll be there when Carmy and Sydney figure it out. Because he’s the director, after all.

TL;DR:

The Bear is a love story.

Richie is telling it—even if he doesn’t realize it.

Pasta = love.

Claire was fine and convient. Sydney is the real connection.

Richie’s arc is about helping Carmy love—and live.

This fandom is honestly genius. The layers being pulled from this show? Insane. I love it here.

By the way, for Season 4: do you think they’ll finally make the perfect pasta dish in Carmy and Sydney’s vibrant collaboration? (In the Network Sunday script, Sydney thinks of a short rib pasta. 👀)

[rosecoloredsunshine]

hot ones — evan peters

masterlist

PAIRINGS: evan peters x female!reader

SUMMARY: you and evan decided to take on the hot ones spicy wings challenge.

REMINDERS: please be reminded that this is a work of fiction. meaning that all events and occurrences in this story are all fictional and all are part of my imagination. any resemblance to actual life events and people, living or dead, are all purely coincidence.

WARNINGS: no use of y/n, wedding talks, established relationship, reader is an 'unofficially retired' actress, fluff attempt, and minor typographical errors.

WORD COUNT: 1.6k

AUTHOR'S NOTE: this has been written more as a self-indulgent fic lol. my requests for evan fics are open, so if you have any, just send me an ask. hope you'll enjoy this one! :)

You and Evan are inside a sleek, industrial-chic studio of Hot Ones, and sitting across from Sean Evans with a row of perfectly arranged and intimidating glazed wings between you and Evan. The set’s familiar aesthetic—black brick backdrop and neon accents, brings a grin to your face. You have seen countless celebrities get wrecked by these fiery wings. Now, it’s your turn.

“You sure you wanna do this, babe?” his eyes glinting with playful concern. “I know how you feel about spicy food.”

“I’ve survived worse,” you quipped, but your grin falters slightly when you glance at the perfectly arranged wings. “Besides, I couldn't let you have all the fun.”

“You’ve got a very loose definition of fun,” he chuckled, corners of his mouth twitching with amusement.

Evan’s hand finds yours beneath the table, fingers intertwining together like second nature. Sean smiled with the kind of enthusiasm that comes from years of watching people suffer through the gauntlet, and clasped his hands together.

“Welcome to Hot Ones, the show with hot questions and even hotter wings. Today, we’ve got a special couple’s episode with none other than one of Hollywood’s most beloved couples!”

“Beloved,” you repeat with a laugh, leaning into Evan’s shoulder. “I like the sound of that.”

“Right?” Evan grins, giving your hand a soft squeeze. “We must be doing something right.”

You and Evan turned towards the camera, with Evan giving a little wave to the camera, while you offered a sheepish smile.

“So,” Sean continues, “before we get into the heat, I gotta ask, how did you both end up agreeing to this? I know, from what I’ve heard, you’re not exactly a fan of spicy food.”

You laughed, already feeling your nerves dissipating. “Well yeah, I’m definitely not a fan. But I thought it would be a fun experience. Plus, Evan wanted to do it, and I couldn't let him suffer alone.”

Evan chuckles, squeezing your hand gently. “She’s braver than she thinks. I’m just here to make sure she doesn't regret it halfway through.”

“That’s true love right there,” Sean grins. “Alright, let’s start with the first wing.”

You and Evan each take a wing. It’s barely spicy, just a hint of heat, and you manage it with ease, earning an approving nod from Evan.

“That’s not bad,” you say, a bit more confident. “Famous last words.”

The three of you let out a laugh. Sean glances at his cue cards. “So, let’s kick things off. You two have been together for six years and recently got engaged. Congratulations!”

“Thank you,” you and Evan said in unison, making Sean laugh.

“Was the proposal a surprise?” Sean asked.

You glanced at Evan, a fond smile appearing on your lips. “Completely. We were on a trip to Japan for my birthday, and I thought that it was just a celebration for that occasion, but it turns out that Evan had this whole plan. I was completely caught off guard.”

Evan grins, remembering the memory. “She kept saying, ‘are you serious?’ like five times before actually saying yes.”

You nudged him lightly, laughing. “It was just a lot to process! I wasn't really expecting it.”

Sean leans forward, intrigued. “Was it nerve-wracking, Evan?”

“Oh absolutely,” Evan admits. “I was more nervous than when I go on set. But when she smiled, I knew that it was the right moment, and she did say yes, eventually.”

You roll your eyes playfully. “Yeah, eventually.”

The next wing has a bit more kick to it, and you’re starting to feel a tingle on your lips. Evan had noticed immediately, and turned towards you.

“Doing okay?” he asked softly.

You nod, breathing out a little. “Still manageable.”

“You’re doing great,” Sean coaxed. “Since we're on the topic, you have any wedding plans set?”

You had exchanged a look with Evan, both of you smiling. “We’re keeping it small and intimate,” Evan says. “Close family and friends. We’re still working out the details, but we know it’ll be somewhere meaningful to us.”

“Can I expect an invitation?” Sean jokes.

You laughed softly, surprising yourself. “Sure, why not. We’ll make sure you get one.”

“Oh really? Thank you!” Sean smiled. “Okay, before we dive into the next wing, I have to ask, who’s the better cook between you two?”

Evan chuckled before you even got the chance to respond. “She is, hands down.”

You smiled. “You cook fine, babe. When you’re not burning grilled cheese.”

“Which happens?” Sean prompted, eyes gleaming with interest.

“Often enough that the smoke detector hates him,” you said with a laugh.

Evan raised his hands in surrender. “Okay, true. But her cooking is on a whole other level.”

Sean laughs. “I’d love to see you two do a cooking show together in the future. Maybe some spicy dishes next time?”

You groaned playfully, eyeing the next wing on the table. “I think after today, I’m going to avoid spice for a good while.”

“Speaking of the future,” Sean says, reaching for another cue card. “Since you’ve taken a step back from acting, and Evan’s still heavily involved, has that changed anything for you two? I mean, with you being away from the industry and all.”

You glanced at Evan and smiled softly. “I thought it would be difficult at first. But Evan’s always been supportive, and I decided to step back because I wanted to focus on other things. It’s given me time to explore other passions.”

“She still visits me on set, though,” Evan adds, eyes softening. “And everyone always loves having her around. I think the crew likes her more than me.”

You smiled softly. “They just like the cookies and muffins that I bring.”

Sean chuckles. “Seems like you two have a pretty solid dynamic. Which brings me to my next question, what’s the secret to making it work for so long? Six years is impressive in Hollywood years, it’s hard to reach that kind of longevity, especially that you both are in the industry.”

Evan turns to you, eyebrows raised as if the answer is pretty obvious. “We just get each other, and honestly, I think being best friends at first really helped. We’re ridiculously comfortable around each other.”

“Ridiculously is right,” you agree, smiling. “We’ve been through everything together. The good, bad, utterly chaotic, you name it. But we always talk things through.”

Sean nods thoughtfully. “Communication. A classic, but always true.”

The next wing awaits, and you hesitate before taking a bite of it. Evan watches you carefully, waiting to see how you would react.

When the heat hits you immediately, your eyes widen. “Oh, my god.”

Evan laughs, though he’s wincing through his own bite. “That’s…oof, wow.”

You reached for your water, but Evan already has the glass of milk ready for you. “No baby, drink this instead. The water makes it worse.”

You took the glass of milk gracefully, fingers brushing as you sip. “You’re the best.

“Always,” he replies, gaze lingering on you.

Sean smirks, taking in the moment. “Alright, I think we need to dig into something else before you both pass out from the heat.”

You can’t help but laugh, even as your eyes begin to water. “Yes, please.”

“Evan, you’ve been killing it in all these dramatic roles. But do you ever see yourself doing something lighter? Maybe a rom-com?” Sean asks.

Evan shrugs, wiping his lips with a napkin. “Honestly? Maybe. I think it would be fun, why not. Especially if I could work with her again.”

You raised your brows in surprise. “Really?”

“Absolutely. I mean, you’re an amazing actress, and I do miss working with you.”

The sincerity in his voice leaves you momentarily speechless. Sean seems to pick up on it, leaning forward with a mischievous grin. “So, any chance we’ll see you back on screen soon?”

You laughed nervously. “Maybe. I mean, I’ve been tempted, especially with Evan constantly trying to rope me back in.”

Evan smiled brightly. “We’ve joked about it a couple of times. But she’s hard to convince.”

“More like you haven't pitched me anything compelling enough,” you teased, taking a sip of the water. “You’d have to really sell it.”

“Oh, I can sell it,” Evan laughs. “Just wait, one of these days.”

The last wing was brutal. The second that you bite into it, your entire mouth feels like it’s on fire. You clutch Evan’s arm, face scrunching in pain as you try not to let the heat overwhelm you.

“Oh my god,” you gasp, chugging the milk Evan hands you. “Why did I agree to this?”

Evan is faring only slightly better, tears pooling in his eyes. “Because you love me?”

“I might reconsider that after this,” you joked, voice a little hoarse.

Sean was laughing, clearly entertained by the chaos. “You guys survived!”

“I’m just glad I did this with you,” Evan says, rubbing your back gently as you recover. “Even if you hate me for it now.”

You glanced up at him, slight tears streaming down your face but still managing a smile. “Could never hate you.”

Once the video had wrapped up, you and Evan found yourselves hanging out backstage of the Hot Ones studio. You collapsed onto a couch with a tub of ice cream between you, as Evan watches you like you’re the only person in the world.

“I’m so proud of you,” he says, voice low and sincere.

“I did it,” you say, mostly to yourself than anyone else. “I actually did it.”

Evan leaned in, pressing a kiss to your temple. “You did, and you were amazing.”

“Guess we have to cancel our sushi dinner, because I’ll be feeling these spicy wings on my mouth for a good couple of hours,” Evan laughed as you rested your head on his shoulder, still working through the lingering heat. “Next time, let’s just do a cooking show.”

Evan laughed again, wrapping an arm around you. “Deal.”

© rosecoloredsunshine, 2025

[0bticeo]

An amber x mark truther you say? Sooo real they had the chemistry and the potential but were forced to break up just for plot rip

exactlyyyy omg. thank you for dropping in my askbox anon, i needed to get a few things off my chest. keep in mind that i'm a show watcher only that managed to get the comics spoiled within an inch of her life bc um. that's my special skill. also, i'm not here to hate on markeve, i know it's a very popular ship and they have cute moments. sleep-deprieved rambling below the cut, don't like don't read.

but. markeve ties in with one of the many issues i have had with season three as a whole. the format (eight episodes... please give us twenty two episodes back, i beg) makes it so that they have to rush to adapt comic storylines, and they've been doing a good job, yes, but god damn does it feel rushed. the action scenes may be impactful, but the character beats and emotional moments fail to reach me personally.

and in comes the major problem i have with markeve: it, too feels rushed. like. yeah okay there were a few moments in earlier seasons were you could tell that they mayyybe were into each other, but that's it. and all of the sudden, in eight episodes, i'm supposed to believe that they're each other's soulmates after little to no time for the watchers to get used to their dynamic as a couple. (because we have had time to watch them interact as friends and they were very sweet together. highkey would have wanted them to remain friends)

by comparison, mark x amber had much more time to grow. we saw them get together, date, fall in love, try to salvage their relationship against all odds (because cecil sure as hell isn't going to give mark a breather), hang out with friends, before ultimately breaking up. and all that happened over the course of 16 episodes, wich is short, but we as viewers have had time to get attached. add in the fact that there was one year between each season iirc and boom. time to get used to their dynamic.

and from a character perspective? amber knew what she wanted. she had her goals in mind and wasn't afraid to call mark out on his bullshit. she stood up for herself, and had so much chemistry with mark it hurt. like damn, i tend to binge watch shows and only remember a few lines, but the "handsome mark grayson" line stayed with me for a reason. amber feels like her own character even when she's dating mark whereas eve as a character is much more interesting than eve as mark's girlfriend. to me, her character traits (ie wanting to figure out how to help ppl outside of superheroism/teen team/the gda) get sidelined and she ends up acting as a therapist for mark.

so yeah, mark x amber is the superior ship to me. it feels organic in a way markeve fails to be, mark and amber both stay true to their character and boy. the conflict around their relationship? "our worlds are too different for us to bloom in our relationship and i love you enough to let you go even if it kills me to not share your life?" peak drama.

[ilikekidsshows]

Marinette and Adrienette discourse aside, what I find very off-putting about Miraculous since season 3 is the inability to differentiate between secundary characters and background characters. It’s very contradictory because none of the Miracuclass aside from Alya, Chloé and Nino are compelling enough to warrant any meaningful interest. I distinctly remember people giving Nathaniel a bigger role during season 1, putting him in situations and even shipping him with Chloé, but that doesn’t really contradict my statement because it showed people’s willingness to latch onto a narrow scope of characters and expanding on them. Realistically no one is interested in a wide set of characters that account to what, fifteen people? I didn’t even count them all because I can’t remember them. Are the miraculous all interesting to watch? Yeah. But why give them to every single person who ever breathed in the same room as Marinette? There is a reason why the cool stuff happens to the MC and their crew. People don’t have the time to invest in a dozen different characters who aren’t even flashed out properly past one or two quirks (if we’re lucky). 

I remember when Ladybug started giving away the miraculous like they were candies, some people said you don’t have to give a character a miraculous to flash them out. I agree, but this isn’t even about that. I think you don’t need to flash them all out, period. At least not all of them. Also because the flash out part in question boils down to “Oh no my partner/sibling/friend is in danger and for some reason two perfectly capable superheroes need my help.” I’m like, why. Who cares about Kim or Max or Mylène getting a power-up. Genuinely, I’ve never seen a single fanart of them dressed up as superheroes. I’m sure some of them exist, but the fandom at large does not care.

If you want to compare ML to MHA, while MHA is not perfect, there are undoubtedly some characters that are more important than the rest of the class and the story focuses on them. But the thing is, it is *required* that they all be the heroes because that’s the plot. It’s a school designed for that purpose, the very best in fact. But Miraculous? Just let this class be normal. Let us see Marinette hang out with her girlfriends and Adrien play with the Kitty Section and Adrien and Nino actually being bffs (remember when Nino was still worth something?) and have Adrien and Chloé’s supposed friendship actually hold value (whether or not you like her it’s up to you, but to show had Adrien keep insisting she was his only friend growing up only for that to go absolutely nowhere). 

Also they could’ve just showed the powers by having Marinette and Adrien use them. Hell even the Alya-Nino-Chloé trio. We actually have that! But then we also have… ten different heroes. For whatever reason. 

---

Another scorching hot take: giving a character a Miraculous isn't even fleshing them out. Almost any one of these episodes could be written without the side character being focused on getting a Miraculous. All the tertiary heroes do in any episode after transforming is blindly follow Ladybug’s orders without question. They jump when she tells them to jump and use their special power when she tells them to. They're merely extensions of Marinette's plan to make her look smarter and not characters in their own right. The same effect could be gotten with Marinette or Adrien (but let's not kid ourselves, Marinette will only ever share power with her partner once to appease him after treating him like crap for weeks) used the Miraculous instead. It really shows how bad the writers are at long term planning when they had Unification have no actual setbacks in practice.

I actually think Miraculous' wide and varied cast used to be more of a strength. The world feels so much more real when our protagonists’ classmates all have their own things going on, even if it's just one or two things per character. It makes sure a wide variety of interests kids might be into can be included in the stories. The Kitty Section episode, ‘Silencer’, worked the best for this, tackling topics to do with the entertainment industry while Marinette was along for the ride because she was helping them out. Similarly, we have two episodes where the cast is filming a movie, although I only like the first one, ‘Horrificator’, because the latter is just Chloé being annoying. But it's a fun excuse to get the large cast together for an episode.

In an ideal show with Miraculous’s format, the classmates would be the vehicles to introduce Marinette and/or Adrien to the Problem of the Episode, which will have our heroes there when the conflict causes an Akuma to pop up, giving them an understanding of what’s going on, and making them able to have some dialogue at the end about what just went down, the “what did we learn today?” discussion or some other self-reflection moment. Like, with Kim you could tackle competition topics, sore losers, cheating and even throwing a contest for some reason. With Nathaniel you could tackle worries about not being original or eye-catching enough, of wanting to chase trends in order to get noticed and how to deal with the frustration of putting so much effort into your craft and not being appreciated. The fact that we have actually gotten a few episodes like that makes it so annoying when the writers insist on their lazy options of “Chloé is a jerk” and “Marinette concocts a crazy scheme around Adrien, casualties ensue” for most of the series.

The issue, I feel, is that the writers are constantly failing to utilize their large cast for storytelling, mostly due to their laziness and lack of ambition. As of the retool, we almost never see the characters taking part in their established hobbies, instead obsessing over the main couple even more than Marinette does. It’s just like how the hero selves exist merely as tools to be used for Marinette’s schemes, their civilian selves exist merely to tell the audience that Marinette and Adrien are meant to be. They’re pure utility with no character, and the utility is the same for every single character.

That last bit is how this relates to what you said; how Miraculous doesn’t differentiate between secondary characters and background characters, because the writers refuse to elevate any character to secondary status and actually keep them there / commit to it. The best any character not named Marinette can hope for is being a recurring supportive character, and those are barely distinct from background characters. There are some bits that make us think Alya in the retool or Adrien in the earlier seasons are supposed to be secondary characters, but they just don’t get the focus necessary to make them pop from the rest of the cast. These characters have gone through some big life changes, but we barely know how they feel about any of that. Despite their plot importance they have the emotional depth of a spilled glass of water. It’s annoying.

The main reason that Miraculous’ cast feels bloated is that the writers can’t use a variety of characters imaginatively to justify needing a cast that big, and they have no concept of a character tier list or how to signal character importance to the audience. Giving all the classmates Miraculouses makes them seem equally important, or just more important than Recurring Akuma Victim Number 72, when they just blatantly aren’t. Freaking Mr. Pigeon has more emotional depth than Minotaurox. Freaking Rooster Bold is nothing more than a punny reference to an actually entertaining superhero.

[zany-lil-detective]

GUYS! It has happened! It took like, seven seasons, but as of my mom watching the infamous, "Buck, Bothered, and Bewildered", she has clocked Buddie! She spent the entire episode cringing and saying how bad she feels for Buck, cause it's obvious to everyone, even my mom, how specifically close Eddie and Buck are. But then!

Tommy came for his talk with Buck about not needing to be jealous and then when Buck was talking about wanting Tommy's attention and then the kiss. Right after the episode ended my mom physically paused the TV and turned to me, and said, and I quote cause I was on the edge of my seat the second she paused the TV, "In what world was he trying to get Tommy's attention? He was doing that workout thing at the station when Tommy wasn't even there! He spent the entire day trying to get Eddie's attention, if he likes anyone it's Eddie!" then there was a whole thing where she had me look up the age for Tommy's actor cause she said he looks old, which again, coming from my 52 year old mother.

I've been doing everything in my power to not sway my mom's opinion, which means not prompting anything so I'm counting this as the win. My mom agrees (cause that conversation I did prompt after she brought it up herself) that it doesn't make sense for Buck to be jealous of Tommy. She even brought up how Buck was talking about how he was jealous of how much Chris likes the guy, which really makes it sound like he felt worried about his favorite people liking Tommy more.

Whether or not she thinks Buddie is going to be canon (tho I'm sure once she gets to season 8 it won't take much longer since the idea is now there) she has now officially clocked Buddie as a thing. We reached the part in the next episode and Eddie's like "This doesn't change anything between us." she said "Maybe it should.", though this may at the moment be more of a joke cause she doesn't like Tommy. I already told her (after she asked) that Tommy is not permanent and I think she's already counting down the episodes for that to happen. (She, like many, isn't over Tommy being racist, or at the very least complicit in racism, in the past at the 118.)

Outside of the (huge) Buddie news, she's happy Ravi is back at the 118 again, and is very, very, very excited for the upcoming Madney wedding! (Cannot wait for her to hear Jennifer Love Hewitt singing 'Island's in the Stream'.) I'm not sure if this will be my final update since the whole thing was my mom clocking canon; when Buddie canon happens (tho remember my mom is gonna be behind for a while after that) then I may do another, for sure final update on my mom's whole Buddie journey!

Guys, guys, guys. My 52 year old mother has started watching the show with my favorite gay firefighters. So far, her favorite is Hen, she loves their song selections chosen to fit the situtation (ex. Bad Moon Rising in Full Moon (Creepy AF) and she thinks Chimney and Maddie are adorable (she's currently on the Christmas episode in season 2) and I'm mainly trying to see if she'll spot Buddie coming. My mom can spot a TV show mystery plot twist a mile away, has already clocked that 'Jason Bailey' is Doug the second he approached Chimney in the movie store but she has the gaydar of a rock. She thought the 'you two have an adorable son' was funny, but has no other thoughts (very focused in on the Maddie and Dough plotline to be fair, Maddie is her second favorite so she's getting worried). I plan to wait patiently, she's still got a few seasons to clock it. May or may not give updates on the situation.

[kitmarlowe]

hey hope it's okay to ask but i'd like to know ur takes about the simon says episode of inside no 9 being about male fandom in particular? cause ive always enjoyed that ep and how it read some fandoms for filth lol but in my experience fandom is pretty female dominated so i'd be really interested in hearing about the specifically male side of it

sure. this probably would be more coherent if i'd rewatched the ep to remember things properly, so we're relying on my brain.

this is just my experience of viewing the difference between male and female fans (if we can understand these are generalisations and there's often crossover), so it’s likely this does not apply to all fandoms, but HERE WE GO.

to start, despite what I’m saying, simon is absolutely an amalgamation of a lot of things in fandom, both male and female. I expect much of it has come from mark’s experience on sherlock (shipping in particular). his worst traits come from all sides, but I don’t think it would work as well as an episode if it was about a female fan. his actions absolutely stem from the male side of fandom.

female fans, on the whole, seem perfectly happy just discussing the material with other fans. they form little groups and friendships, sharing jokes, discussion, art, fanfic. the men absolutely do this too but there’s an interesting difference in the way it happens. I don’t see men refer to their writing as fanfic, because fanfic is a female-dominated area and it has a reputation outside of fan spaces for being frivolous, out of character, and full of sexual fantasies about the male characters. male fans seem to view themselves as above it and need to legitimise their work. they’ll make short films, publish the their fanfic as short stories, interpretations, bonus episodes - anything to separate it from ‘lesser’ works. in the episode, when spencer dismisses gavin’s work as fan fiction, simon is clearly hurt by it and says, “well, no, it’s more sophisticated than that.” even though it absolutely is fanfic. men don’t want to be lumped in with the women because they view themselves as serious creatives, not obsessive fans. (all fanfic is creative, never change.) the men are also obsessive, they just don’t want to be viewed that way.

simon clearly sees himself as above other fans. he thinks running a podcast legitimises him and puts him on a level with spencer rather than the fandom he’s doing this for. he’s a content creator. the podcast is for the fans, I don’t think he views it as just a fan podcast. this is a kind of superiority I’ve seen in the male side of fandom. running a podcast validates them and brings them closer to the original material and makes their views, in their eyes, more intellectual. they, to paraphrase simon himself, actually know their stuff in a way that other fans do not. and if they can get a creator on, well… they’re a bridge between the two. they become part of it. simon believes he’s deserving of a co-writing credit, he thinks he deserves to be in the episode because he has risen above the other fans. he is a creator, just like spencer.

while most male fans I’ve seen manage to remember that they are just fans, they’re also more likely to seek the approval of the creatives. not just a “glad you like it” but a mark of recognition, for them to almost say, “yes, you are like me.” while they’re not awful like simon, they still have that same need to be seen as more legitimate, sophisticated and intellectual than what the common fan is viewed to be. I don’t think the women care as much about that. male fans need people to know that they understand the material on a deeper level — they need the creatives to know that.

simon feels entitled to the ninth circle because of the time he’s invested in it, he believes his view counts as if he’s in the writers' room with spencer, even before he blackmails him into the real thing. so do other male fans I’ve seen. I don’t think they’d ever quite go to the extent that simon does, but they’re certainly further down that path than female fans are.

and that’s why it had to be a male fan in this episode. look at doctor who — all three modern showrunners are men from fan spaces (as is mark himself). you know there were women from the same era who were writing their own stories, within their own communities, but isn’t it interesting how they didn’t become ‘legitimised’ through work on the show? what is big finish if not fan fiction legitimised?

and to end: all sides of fandom can be toxic (and they've touched on several areas in this episode) but it is also more often just an absolute blast. gavin's speech is in there for a reason, to recognise the good side. so whilst it sounds like I’m being negative towards the male fans, they're also a big part of that.

[anadrym]

Extended Author's Notes for Left Behind Ch13.

Spoilers!

Chapter title is from "Monster" by Starset. I've held off on Starset for long enough. We're gonna be seeing more of their songs going forward because I love their music.

I absolutely hated the paragraph about Cait getting the window open so she could sneak in. I reworked it several times before giving up. I still hate it.

I said this last week, but the reason there are so few guards at the mansion is because the Baroness essentially just walked into the territory of an "ally" she doesn't trust. She takes quite a few people with her to make sure Chross doesn't try anything.

The scene of Caitlyn questioning and killing the handler and the other guy was inspired by Joel interrogating David's men in The Last of Us.

This has absolutely no bearing on the story, but I want you to know that I thought of it: Vi has (had) two handlers. They worked in shifts, five-day weeks, and had nights off. Worker's rights. :)

At first, I had Caitlyn trying to find the door to the basement and couldn't get it to work without her seeming... omniscient? And then I realized I could just make the guy tell her.

"She reloads her rifle and descends" - character descending into the darkness in the desperate hope of saving their loved one? At least Cait will be more sucessful than Orpheus.

Ah, the maid. Last week, I mentioned that I had originally meant for Vi's intended victim to be a maid the Baroness suspected of being a mole? This is her! She's also the voice on the radio from the end of Ch11. Not to worry, sparing her was absolutely the right decision.

I do love it when POV characters lose time. Easiest transition ever. Great way to pass over boring bits. 10/10, would recommend.

Remember how I mentioned that Caitlyn can pick locks? The entire purpose of that was to emphasize her panic here; she doesn't even bother trying.

Can shooting a lock unlock it? Can a person pump a rifle one-handed? It's impossible to say for sure, but that's fanfiction, baby! (Also, this scene was brought to you by Terminator 2. Terminator 2: it was cool how he did that.)

Yes, the whole sequence of Cait killing the doctors was practically stolen from The Last of Us. Even down to the three people. Also, ruthless Caitlyn is so badass, it's so much fun to write.

Pretty much everything from Cait finding Vi on the table to the part where she starts to dress her has been finished for months. I think it was one of the first things I wrote for this fic.

Also, because a few of you brought this up: it was absolutely necessary to me that Caitlyn see what Maintenance did to Vi. We all know Vi downplays her own pain so she doesn't burden others. Now if she tries to say it wasn't that bad, Cait can say "No, I saw what it did to you. I know how bad it was."

Cait puts the pistol on the table because she's in too much of a hurry to holster it. :)

When I imagine how bad Vi looks right now, especially coughing up blood, I think a lot about the episode of The Walking Dead where Glen gets sick at the prison? It was a long time ago, but a very nice piece of whump.

Vi does have a catheter port on her chest for the nutrient feed, but the Maintenance injections are just done straight through the skin and into the veins, kinda like drawing blood? That's why the one on the inside of her left thigh is infected.

Caitlyn, bandaging Vi's wounds while being terrifyingly aware of their time limit: "Wow, I'm doing a terrible job. My dad would be disappointed."

The ring! Vi was so desperate to hold onto herself that she's managed to mangle her thumb. Caitlyn doesn't realize the significance of the ring, she only knows that Vi's been hurting herself with it. Honestly, she wants nothing to do with it. Thankfully, she pockets it instead of tossing it. Also, I got a question about why Cait didn't recognize the ring. There are two reasons: 1. she didn't take any time to look at it, they're in too much of a hurry, and 2. I really like the idea of Cassandra and Tobias having very simple wedding rings, just a solid gold band each, with nothing distinctive about them, so she probably wouldn't have recognized it anyway. She'll find out about it when Vi tells her what it is; the scene is very sweet. <3

"There you are." - It was so important to me that, even in all of this fear and chaos, our girls got even a brief moment where they could just take comfort in each other and the fact that they're both alive and together again. Also, forehead kisses, my beloved.

Ugh, the amount of trust here. Vi is cold and weak and hurt; she doesn't know what's going on and she doesn't understand words that she knows she should. But none of that matters, because Cait is here and she trusts Caitlyn to get them out. I'm ill.

And then Caitlyn repaying that trust by telling Vi what she's doing and giving her as much autonomy as she can. :'(

Vi is barefoot. Just for the drama.

Mmm, when the character who uses their body as a human shield is then shielded by someone else? *chef's kiss*

The part where Caitlyn tries to hold off the bottleneck at the door and then Vi saves her at the last second was inspired by the scene of Rex and Ahsoka from the finale arc of Clone Wars.

I want to clarify: Caitlyn is not out of bullets for her rifle, she just needed to reload. She's still got both guns.

Hey, wanna hurt yourself more? Imagine if Cait did get shot here. They'd definitely hook Vi back up. But also, the Baroness would absolutely do the same thing to Caitlyn that she did to Vi five years ago.

I'm quite fond of the idea of Vi teaching Cait the basics of boxing and Caitlyn teaching Vi how to use each of her guns. Power couple sharing weapons is an amazing trope.

Wow. Thank god there was only one guy left when Caitlyn's rifle ran out of ammo. ;)

You might think that Caitlyn's greatest strengths are her marksmanship and her intellect. But actually, it's her ability to compartmentalize and give herself a very strict schedule for feeling her emotions. Three seconds is perfect for mentally recovering from almost being shot.

Vi is doing her absolute damnedest to stay conscious and aware here. She doesn't want to slow them down, and she's going to do her best to protect Caitlyn too. She's desperate not to be left behind again (not that she blames Cait; there's just a lot of trauma there).

Teaser for next week:

As she claws her way back to reality, she hears muffled thumps, a sharp cry of pain, and the choked sound of a breath cutting off. Vi pries her eyes open to see two figures just a few feet from her, locked in a struggle over Caitlyn's rifle. The larger figure has his arm wrapped around the other's throat.

Caitlyn makes an awful, breathless noise as she squirms in the man's grip, but her movements are weak and uncoordinated. Her eyes, wide and bloodshot, meet Vi's with terrified desperation.

[realityjoey]

SEASON 1, EPISODE 3: “THE GOOD, THE BAD, AND THE UGLY.”

The buzz of a new workweek vibrated through the precinct. Phones rang. Radios crackled. The hum of conversation and the occasional barked command created the usual chaotic symphony that made the building feel alive.

For the first time in three weeks, Detective Dylan Jenkins stepped back into it.

She wore her full uniform for the first time since the shooting—crisp blues, her badge catching the light on her chest. Her left arm was no longer in a sling, though she still moved it carefully, the stiff way someone does when their body remembers trauma before their brain does. The bruises had faded, but there were remnants in her posture, the tightness in her eyes, the way she instinctively scanned every room like something might explode.

Still, she looked sharp. Focused.

And she was glad to be back.

Sort of.

Her first stop wasn’t the bullpen, or the break room where Lucy had probably already stashed a welcome-back donut. It was the Watch Commander’s office—where she now stood outside the open door, knocking twice on the frame.

Sergeant Wade Grey looked up from behind his desk, his hands steepled over a manila folder.

“Detective Jenkins,” he said with a nod. “Come in.”

She stepped inside, arms crossed loosely, giving him that standard Dylan smirk that she used to deflect anything remotely emotional. “You called me in here to personally inspect my battle scars?”

Grey didn’t even blink. “No. I called you in here because before I send anyone back out onto my streets, I need confirmation they’re not just physically cleared—but mentally ready.”

Dylan sighed and dropped into the chair opposite his desk. “So, therapy mode today. Fantastic.”

He opened the folder and tapped the paper inside. “You passed your medical clearance. Shoulder’s healing well. Range of motion acceptable. No nerve damage. But none of this tells me what I actually need to know.”

“Which is?” she asked, already bracing.

“That you’re ready to come back and not pretend like getting shot didn’t affect you.”

Dylan scoffed. “Come on, Sarge. I’ve been through worse. This isn’t my first traumatic Tuesday.”

“I’m aware,” Grey said calmly. “I read your London file. The forced entry that went sideways. Your partner who bled out. That time you were held at knifepoint by a domestic suspect and refused to stand down. Your brother.”

Dylan’s smirk faltered. Just slightly.

“This,” Grey continued, “isn’t about what you can survive. You’ve already proven that. Repeatedly. This is about how you survive it. Whether you’re going to let this job eat you from the inside out like it has a thousand others who thought they were invincible.”

She shifted in the chair. “I’m not one of those people.”

“No?” Grey leaned forward, voice low. “You dragged a bleeding officer out of a gunfight while you were bleeding yourself. You didn’t tell anyone. You didn’t even notice—because your adrenaline was pumping so high, and your focus was so external, you ignored your own life being on the line. That doesn’t go away when the stitches come out.”

Dylan clenched her jaw. Looked away for the first time.

Grey studied her a beat longer, then softened—just a touch.

“You’re good, Jenkins. Damn good. But you’re not made of steel. Neither is Bradford.”

At that, her eyes flicked up. Sharp.

“He needs to take it easy too,” Grey said. “You both do. That kind of bond—what happened out there—that’s not just something you walk off. You took a bullet for him. He watched you go down right in front of him. You think either of you came out of that untouched?”

Dylan swallowed.

“No one’s telling you not to be here,” Grey added. “But slow down. Be smart. This job doesn’t reward martyrs—it buries them.”

She was quiet for a long moment.

Then: “You done psychoanalyzing me now, or should I get horizontal and talk about my childhood?”

Grey leaned back, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “Just go easy on the hero complex for a few weeks.”

She stood slowly, the sarcasm already returning to her voice like armor. “I’ll try. Can’t promise anything if Tim gets sentimental again, though. Might have to throw myself into traffic.”

Grey smirked. “Welcome back, Jenkins.”

As she left the office, Dylan’s expression was unreadable—wry on the surface, but something quieter underneath.

Maybe Grey was right. Maybe flipping the switch didn’t work like it used to.

But if she was going to do this job right—again—she might need to start learning a different way to survive.

The moment Dylan Jenkins stepped out of Grey’s office, her head was buzzing — but not in the way it usually did before a shift. It wasn’t adrenaline. Not nerves. Just… noise. The kind of internal hum you get when someone touches a nerve you didn’t realise was still raw.

Grey’s words echoed behind her eyes: “This job doesn’t reward martyrs — it buries them.”

She tucked them away, buried deep behind her usual smirk, and headed toward the briefing room, where the rest of the squad was already beginning to filter in. The place was half-full when she slipped in and leaned against the back wall, one arm hanging loosely by her side, the other still stiff from the injury, though she was pretending otherwise.

At the front of the room, Sergeant Grey stood with his usual quiet authority, clipboard in hand. The second she walked in, his eyes met hers. A single nod.

Then, in his no-nonsense tone, he spoke.

“Alright, listen up. We’ve got a priority case from last night. Armed robbery, downtown. Citizens’ Bank on Seventh. Five masked suspects. Got away with over eighty grand in cash.”

A few murmurs rippled across the room.

Grey held up a hand, then motioned toward the aide next to him, who began passing out photocopied stills from CCTV footage. Blurry, grainy images showed figures in tattered, grimy clothes — makeup smeared across their faces, fake blood splashed over ripped shirts.

Zombies.

Dylan squinted at the grainy image as the sheet landed in her hand. “Oh, for f—”

“Yeah,” Grey said, hearing her before she finished. “Halloween came early.”

A chuckle floated from somewhere near the front. Tim Bradford, seated with arms folded across his chest, gave Dylan a look — amused, knowing — but said nothing. She returned it with an eye-roll.

“These five suspects,” Grey continued, “stormed the bank at 2:37 a.m., full ‘undead’ getup, armed with handguns. One fired into the ceiling. No casualties, no injuries, but they cleared the vault in under four minutes and vanished before patrol arrived.”

“Witnesses?” someone asked.

“Only one worth anything,” Grey said. “Night janitor. Said they moved like they’d done it before. Coordinated. Not amateurs.”

Dylan tapped her sheet with one finger. “So we’re looking for a pack of criminal thespians?”

Before Grey could respond, the door at the side of the room opened, and in walked Captain Andersen — composed, elegant, eyes sharp as ever.

The room stiffened slightly. Her presence always commanded attention, not through volume, but precision.

Her gaze scanned the group quickly — and then stopped squarely on Dylan.

“Detective Jenkins,” she said, her voice firm but warm.

Dylan straightened instinctively.

“Glad to see you back on your feet.”

“Ma’am,” Dylan replied with a respectful nod.

“If you need anything,” Andersen continued, walking toward the front of the room, “you come directly to me. Any resources, any support — medical or otherwise. Understood?”

There was a beat of silence. Dylan could feel a few heads turn in her direction. Not pitying — just… watching.

“I appreciate that,” she said, calm and measured. “But I’m good.”

Andersen studied her for half a second longer, then gave a curt nod and turned to the group.

“Regarding the robbery,” she said, taking over from Grey with seamless authority. “Intel suggests the suspects are part of a fringe performance collective — formerly tied to small-time theft and vandalism. They call themselves the ‘Dead Awake’ Crew. Most of their previous run-ins have been harmless. Art school dropouts with a flair for dramatics.”

Someone near the front snorted.

“They’re not a joke anymore,” Andersen said coolly. “They’re armed. Organised. And they’ve just pulled off the cleanest bank robbery we’ve seen this year.”

Tim’s brow furrowed as he glanced at the photo again. “Why now? Why escalate?”

“That’s what you’re going to find out,” Andersen replied. “Grey will coordinate the ground work. Jenkins — I want you plugged in on the criminal psych angle. Dig into their previous group affiliations. Bradford, you’ll partner.”

Dylan blinked. Her eyes shifted sideways — and locked with Tim’s.

He raised an eyebrow.

Of course.

Grey clapped the clipboard shut. “You know your assignments. I want updates by end of shift. Dismissed.”

Chairs scraped. Conversations bubbled. Officers began filing out, some excited by the bizarre case, others rolling their eyes at the thought of chasing down zombie-costumed robbers.

As Dylan folded her copy of the CCTV stills, Tim walked by and smirked at her.

“So. Back on the clock.”

“Back in the frying pan,” she muttered.

“You know, if you wanted attention, you could’ve just worn a cape,” he added, falling in step beside her as they walked toward the exit.

She shot him a sidelong glance. “I’m saving the cape for the press conference. Think it’ll match my bullet scar?”

Tim chuckled.

And just like that — the day began.

But beneath the sarcasm and weirdness of zombie crews, Dylan felt something settle inside her. She was back. Still healing. Still raw.

But back.

And this time, she wasn’t doing it alone.

The afternoon sun cast long streaks of light through the windshield of the patrol car as it cruised slowly down Melrose, weaving through a maze of street vendors, graffiti-tagged alleyways, and the occasional jaywalker with a death wish. It was the kind of shift that felt deceptively calm—no high-speed chases, no shootouts, no chaos. Just simmering tension beneath the surface.

In the front seat, Dylan Jenkins sat slouched with one leg bent against the dash, flipping through case notes for the “Dead Awake” robbery. Her shoulder twinged every now and then, but she ignored it. She wasn’t about to mention it. Not after the looks she’d been getting all day.

Beside her, Tim Bradford drove with one hand on the wheel and the other resting near the radio, gaze scanning the street with practiced calm.

For a while, the only sound was the distant chatter of dispatch and the occasional rustle of paper in Dylan’s lap.

Then Tim cleared his throat.

“You uh… bleeding out again, or just brooding dramatically?”

Dylan’s eyes flicked toward him, unimpressed. “Wow. Subtle.”

He didn’t look at her. “Just asking. You’ve been quiet.”

“Because I’m reading.”

“You hate paperwork.”

“And yet it still makes better company than you.”

Tim smirked, but she could tell he was still watching her—really watching. His eyes drifted toward her shoulder, toward the way she shifted every so often, like the seat wasn’t quite right. She could feel it—his concern tucked beneath sarcasm, like it always was.

“I’m fine, Tim,” she said flatly.

“You sure?”

“Don’t start,” she snapped, sharper than intended. “If one more person asks me if I’m okay like I’m made of glass, I’m going to scream.”

Tim raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t say you were made of glass.”

“Didn’t have to.” She dropped the files onto her lap and turned slightly toward him, the fire behind her voice impossible to miss. “I wouldn’t be here if I couldn’t handle it. You think Grey would’ve cleared me if I wasn’t ready? You don’t see me fussing over you, and you got shot too, or did we all just forget that part?”

Tim was quiet.

The tension between them hung in the cab, thick and heavy, until finally—he exhaled.

“Alright,” he said, nodding slowly. “Fair.”

Dylan looked away again, jaw tight. Her fingers drummed against the case file, restlessness creeping in. She hated this part. The hovering. The worry. People thinking they were being kind when really, they were just picking at the scab before it healed.

A beat passed.

Two.

Then, softly—almost too soft to hear over the hum of the engine—Tim said, “Good to have you back.”

Dylan turned her head slowly.

Her expression shifted, just a touch. Still guarded. But something about his tone caught her off guard. It wasn’t a joke. Wasn’t performative. Just honest. A little raw around the edges.

Her lips curled into a slow, smug smile.

“Of course it is,” she muttered, turning back to the window. “Your life’s boring without me.”

Tim let out a short laugh. Quiet. But real.

“I’ll give you that.”

They didn’t say anything more for a while.

Didn’t have to.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward, or heavy. It was something else. Something earned.

The kind of silence that lives between two people who’ve been through something together—and come out the other side still on the same page.

Not partners in name only anymore.

Something deeper.

Something real.

The call had come in just after lunch. A Code 44 — entrapment. Unusual location: a bank ATM vestibule. Even more unusual? The trapped subject was not a thief, but a repair technician who’d somehow gotten wedged inside the back of an ATM overnight after crawling in to fix a malfunction.

By the time Tim Bradford and Dylan Jenkins pulled up in their shop, the sidewalk outside the small neighborhood bank was buzzing with confused onlookers, two twitchy bank managers, and one extremely muffled voice yelling something about “airflow” from within the ATM booth.

“Only in L.A.,” Tim muttered as he slammed the door shut.

Dylan squinted at the glass-walled enclosure just off the main lobby, where the clunky metal ATM sat bolted into the wall like an angry refrigerator. “How the hell does someone get stuck inside an ATM?”

“Apparently he crawled in through the maintenance hatch, the latch jammed, and no one noticed he didn’t leave last night,” Tim replied, reading from the report. “He’s been stuck in there for almost twelve hours. And his oxygen’s running out.”

Dylan blinked. “There’s no air vents?”

“Not proper ones. Machine’s designed for security, not comfort.” Tim turned to the flustered manager. “Fire department?”

“On their way,” the man said, wiping sweat from his temple. “But ETA’s another ten minutes. They’re dealing with a multi-vehicle pileup on the 101.”

Tim glanced back at the ATM, then at the tiny speaker where a garbled voice was shouting something about “suffocating in here!”

“Ten minutes is too long,” he muttered. Then, to Dylan: “Get the breaching kit from the trunk. We’re breaking him out.”

Dylan’s eyebrows shot up. “You want us to hammer down the wall of a bank?”

Tim was already striding toward the shop. “The part of the wall surrounding the ATM, not the safe. Don’t get dramatic.”

“I’m British. We invented dramatic,” she muttered, but followed him.

Moments later, both of them were back in the vestibule, geared up with mini sledgehammers, crowbars, and a tactical pry bar. The bank staff looked uneasy. Tim ignored them.

“Start on that left panel,” he instructed, “right where the power cables meet the base. It’s weakest there.”

Dylan nodded and braced herself, gripping the sledge with her good arm and using the injured one for balance. She swung — once, twice — and felt a sharp jolt of pain sear down her shoulder and into her chest.

The third hit didn’t come.

She stood still, breathing hard, jaw clenched, her body locked in place by the flare of agony. The old bullet wound pulsed beneath her skin, deep and raw despite the healing. She stared at the wall, not moving, her hammer gripped tightly in one hand.

Tim’s voice came from beside her. Calm. Steady.

“You good?”

She didn’t look at him.

“I’ve got it,” she muttered, teeth gritted.

Tim watched her carefully. “You’re compensating. Your grip’s off.”

“I said I’ve got it.”

She lifted the hammer again — but stopped halfway. Her shoulder gave a warning throb, and she knew: one more hit, and she’d be down.

Silence lingered for a moment.

Then, without a word, Tim stepped forward.

He gently took the hammer from her hand. Didn’t meet her eyes. Didn’t mock. Didn’t offer sympathy.

Just got to work.

Swing.

Swing.

Swing.

With practiced rhythm, he drove into the panel where Dylan had started, the metal groaning under each impact. Cracks spread through the drywall and insulation until, finally, a panel gave way with a crunching pop.

A loud gasp came from inside the ATM as fresh air rushed through the opening. “Oh thank God! I thought I was gonna die in here!”

“Hold tight,” Tim called, grabbing the crowbar to widen the gap.

Within two minutes, they’d peeled away enough of the surrounding wall to slide the technician out — drenched in sweat, wide-eyed, and babbling his thanks like he’d just been reborn.

EMS took him from there.

Tim set the tools aside, breathing hard. Dust clung to his sleeves. Sweat beaded on his brow.

He finally turned to Dylan.

She hadn’t moved much. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes were fixed on a spot on the wall that no longer existed.

“I was fine,” she said quietly.

“I know,” Tim replied, brushing dust off his vest. “That’s why I didn’t say anything.”

She looked at him then. Not angry. Not even annoyed. Just tired.

And grateful, in a way she didn’t say aloud.

Tim didn’t push.

Didn’t press.

They walked back to the shop in silence.

And though she wouldn’t admit it — not even under interrogation — letting him take over just this once didn’t feel like weakness. It felt like partnership.

The kind built one busted ATM at a time.

The drive back from the ATM call had been quiet.

The kind of quiet that wasn’t awkward, or even heavy — just tired. They both smelled like drywall dust and sweat, and Dylan’s shoulder still pulsed like it had its own heartbeat. But she didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to.

They were almost back on patrol, cruising down a wide East L.A. street, when Tim’s phone buzzed.

He glanced at the screen, and the change was instant.

His knuckles whitened around the steering wheel. His back straightened. His whole body seemed to lock into place — like a building bracing for an earthquake.

Dylan noticed it immediately.

“You good?” she asked, brows furrowing.

He didn’t answer. Just clicked on the Bluetooth and answered with a tight, “Yeah. It’s Bradford.”

A voice crackled through. Too muffled for Dylan to make out the words. But she didn’t need to hear them to understand.

His jaw clenched.

Then: “Which hospital?”

More garbled words.

Tim’s entire demeanor shifted. A flash of something in his eyes — fear, fury, panic. He ended the call with a stiff jab of his finger and floored the accelerator.

The car lurched forward, tires screeching slightly as he cut across two lanes and gunned it through a yellow light turning red.

Dylan gripped the dash. “Jesus — Bradford. What the hell’s going on?”

His voice was clipped, dry. But underneath, it cracked. “Emergency Room. County General.”

Dylan didn’t ask questions. She just buckled her seatbelt and braced.

They pulled up to the emergency bay minutes later, the cruiser barely in park before Tim threw open the door and stormed into the hospital. Dylan followed at a slower pace, more cautious — watching him from behind, watching his shoulders tense with every step.

Inside, the fluorescent lights were brutal, and the waiting room buzzed with distant cries, the rustle of paperwork, and the low wail of someone down the corridor.

Tim went straight to the front desk.

“I’m looking for Isabel Bradford,” he said, voice steady but barely contained. “She was brought in maybe thirty minutes ago. OD.”

The nurse didn’t even blink. “Room 14.”

He didn’t thank her. Just turned on his heel and marched toward the hall.

Dylan followed — a few paces back now, unsure of where she stood in this. But instinct told her not to leave. Not yet.

As Tim reached Room 14, the door opened — and there she was.

Isabel.

She looked even worse than last time. Gaunt. Pale. Her skin had a yellow-grey tint, and her eyes were dull, ringed in dark bruises like smoke. She was wearing hospital scrubs now, thin socks on her feet, arms trembling slightly as she moved.

She froze when she saw Tim.

Her lips pressed together in a bitter line. “Oh. Of course.”

He didn’t hesitate.

He reached for her arm — gently, but firmly — and guided her back into the room, closing the door behind them.

Dylan was left in the hallway, just outside. But the walls were thin. The door wasn’t fully latched. And the moment Tim spoke, she heard it all.

“You OD’d.” Tim’s voice cracked — not with rage, but with heartbreak. “Do you have any idea how lucky you are that someone even found you?”

“I didn’t ask to be found,” Isabel replied, her voice hollow, tired.

“Yeah, no kidding,” he snapped. “You’re trying to disappear, and if you keep doing this — you will.”

There was a long pause. Then he went on, voice rising, emotional.

“Do you know how many dead junkies I bring in every month? Alone. Blue-lipped. Ice cold. No ID. No family. Just another bagged body someone has to zip up while the rest of the world shrugs.”

“Tim—”

“No. You don’t get to cut me off this time.” His voice cracked. “You think I don’t get it? You don’t want to come home. You don’t want help. Fine. I can’t drag you back. But what do you think this is doing to the people who still love you?”

Silence.

“To me?” he added, voice low now. Broken. “You think this doesn’t rip me apart every time I wonder if the next OD call I get is going to be you?”

Another pause.

Then Isabel spoke, flat and cold.

“Save the tough love for someone else.”

Tim’s breath caught.

“I’m not your responsibility anymore,” she went on. “I stopped being your wife the day I left. You don’t owe me anything.”

“I don’t—owe—you?” he echoed, stunned.

She laughed bitterly. “Stop trying to be my white knight, Tim. You couldn’t save me then. You can’t save me now. Just let it go.”

And then the door burst open.

Isabel stormed past Dylan without even a glance, scrubs flapping, hospital socks skidding slightly on the tile.

Tim stood inside the room, staring at nothing. Shoulders heaving.

Dylan didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

She just stood outside the door, quiet — still.

The hallway outside Room 14 still buzzed with fluorescent light and low murmurs, but Dylan didn’t hear any of it.

She was frozen, eyes locked on the corridor where Isabel Bradford had just stormed off, shoulders tense, body vibrating with the sting of what she’d heard behind the door.

Inside that hospital room, a silence had fallen — sharp and echoing.

Then—

BANG.

A crack echoed through the wall, deep and jarring. Dylan flinched.

She didn’t wait.

She pushed open the door to see Tim, standing in the center of the room, fist buried in the drywall, knuckles scraped and red, his entire frame heaving with barely suppressed rage.

The wall had dented around the impact — a jagged, angry wound matching the look in his eyes.

“Tim,” she said quietly, closing the door behind her.

He didn’t turn. Just stared at the wall like he might punch it again.

Her voice was lower this time. Calmer. “You alright?”

He yanked his hand from the hole, shaking out his fingers. The skin over his knuckles was already turning red, the kind of bruising that would bloom purple by morning.

“I’m fine,” he snapped.

Dylan blinked. The sharpness in his voice wasn’t surprising — but it was too sharp, too immediate. It wasn’t defense. It was deflection.

She took a step closer. “Yeah, okay, but if you’re planning on breaking every hospital wall we visit, I’d appreciate a heads up. I’ll bring gloves.”

He turned sharply toward her, jaw clenched. His face was pale with fury and frustration, his eyes rimmed red — but no tears. Tim Bradford didn’t cry. He just imploded quietly.

“I said I’m fine.”

“Sure,” she said coolly. “Which is why your hand is bleeding and your jaw looks like it’s about to snap in half.”

He shook his head, biting down the snarl of emotion bubbling behind his eyes.

“You didn’t need to follow me in here.”

“No,” she replied, crossing her arms, “but I did.”

His eyes met hers then — a flicker of something raw and barely contained.

That was when it hit her.

He was exactly like her.

Stubborn to the bone.

Too proud to admit when something cut too deep.

Too afraid of what would happen if they stopped to feel it all.

And maybe that was why she didn’t back down.

But before she could say anything else, his radio crackled.

Dispatch, crisp and cold:

“7-Adam-19, Units in the area respond.”

Tim grabbed it instantly.

“7-Adam-19 responding. En route.”

Dylan stared. “Seriously? After that?”

He was already heading to the door. “We’re still on duty.”

“Tim—”

“I’m fine, Jenkins.”

He didn’t wait for her. Just walked out, leaving her in the quiet wreckage of a hospital room that had seen too many kinds of pain in one day.

She looked at the hole in the wall. The dust still floating in the air. The smudge of blood on the plaster.

Then she exhaled, grabbed her jacket, and followed him.

Because stubborn or not, he didn’t need to be alone right now.

Even if he didn’t say it — especially if he didn’t.

Echo and Franklin wasn’t exactly the glitziest part of town on a good day — but tonight, it looked like trouble had parked itself and cracked open a few beers.

As Tim Bradford and Dylan Jenkins pulled up to the curb, they were greeted by the low thrum of engines and the roar of masculine laughter. Chrome flashed under the streetlights. A pack of six bikers, all thick-necked, denim-vested, and clearly drunk, stood outside a rundown bar, smashing bottles against the curb and revving their bikes like they were gunning for a drag race in the middle of the sidewalk.

The Dead Bastards.

Dylan eyed them through the windshield. “Charming.”

Tim didn’t respond right away. He gripped the wheel tighter than necessary, jaw still locked from the hospital. His expression was unreadable — which told Dylan exactly what she needed to know.

“You sure you’re good to do this?” she asked quietly.

He unbuckled his seatbelt. “Yeah.”

She didn’t move.

“Tim,” she said, softer now. “After Isabel—”

“I said I’m fine.”

His voice wasn’t sharp this time — it was flat. Cold. Like he was trying to cut off the feeling before it reached the surface.

Dylan glanced out at the bikers again. One of them was already watching the cruiser, arms crossed, a toothpick hanging from his mouth like a dare.

“This group have a rep?” she asked.

Tim nodded once. “Dead Bastards. Local outlaw motorcycle club. Half of them have records. Guns, fights, DUI, some armed robbery. But not all of them are in yet.”

Dylan raised a brow. “Prospects?”

“Exactly. The way it works,” Tim continued, finally slipping back into his calm, informative rhythm, “is that to earn your patch — full membership — a prospect has to commit a felony. But not just any felony. It has to be done in front of patched members.”

Dylan’s eyes narrowed. “So this isn’t just some drunk guys posturing.”

Tim shook his head once, eyes still on the group. “No. This is an initiation waiting to happen.”

Dylan leaned back in her seat, scanning the cluster of bodies, the barely-contained aggression. One guy — younger, twitchier — kept flexing his fists. He didn’t have a vest. No patch.

She followed the logic quickly. “The unpatched one’s going to swing at us.”

“Probably.”

“Then we should call backup.”

Tim turned to her, expression unreadable. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Dylan gave him a flat look. “That’s not an answer. That’s a reckless one-liner.”

He was already opening the door.

“Bradford.”

He looked back at her. That edge of fire still smoldered beneath the surface, his knuckles bruised from the wall, his heart still bleeding from the hospital.

But his voice was calm when he said, “I’m not letting today spill into this. You cover my six, I’ll cover yours.”

Dylan didn’t believe him. Not fully. But she knew she wasn’t letting him go in alone.

She stepped out of the car.

The bikers turned toward them like wolves scenting blood.

“Evenin’, officers,” one of the patched men called, voice oily. “Come to join the party?”

“Party’s over,” Tim said, approaching with hands raised just far enough to show calm, not submission. “You’re loitering, you’re drunk, and you’re blocking the sidewalk. Get on your bikes and leave.”

The young prospect stepped forward.

Exactly as predicted.

“Or what?” he sneered. “You gonna arrest me for breathing too loud?”

Dylan stepped up beside Tim, her hand hovering near her belt. “No. But the minute you take a swing, I’m going to be the one putting you face-first into the asphalt.”

The biker grinned, stepping closer. “You sound fun. Maybe you cuff me nice and slow.”

Tim’s voice dropped. Low. Dangerous. “You make one move toward her, and you won’t like how I handle it.”

Tension snapped like wire pulled tight.

The moment the prospect stepped forward, chest puffed and nostrils flared, Dylan could feel it.

Tim Bradford wasn’t diffusing the situation.

He was feeding off it.

The tight set of his jaw. The way he squared his stance. The way he looked at the younger man like he wanted him to make the first move.

Then came the words.

“Alright,” Tim said, loud enough for everyone to hear, tone razor-sharp. “Here’s the deal. We fight. If I win, you get cuffed and booked. If you win, you walk. No charges. Just me and you.”

Dylan’s head snapped toward him. “Bradford.” She warned, for what felt like the hundredth time that day.

He ignored her. Eyes locked on the prospect.

The biker’s lips curled. “You serious?”

“Dead serious.”

It was reckless. Impulsive. So stupidly out of character it chilled Dylan’s blood.

The biker didn’t hesitate. He lunged.

Fists collided with ribs. Boots scraped against gravel. Tim and the prospect slammed into each other with the weight of barely-contained violence, grunting and growling as they swung.

The crowd surged, forming a circle of shouts and jeers. Dylan tried to push through, hand on her radio, “10-10 in progress,” already in her mouth — but something about the look in Tim’s eyes stopped her cold.

This wasn’t just a fight.

This was a man bleeding out emotionally, and trying to stuff it all back inside with his fists.

Tim took a hard jab to the side — right near his healing bullet wound — and staggered. His grunt of pain was sharp, but he kept going, ducking low and driving his shoulder into the biker’s gut, both of them crashing to the ground in a scuffle of limbs and curses.

The prospect landed two more punches — one to Tim’s ribs, another to his jaw — before Tim rolled, mounted him, and slammed his fist down hard enough to split the guy’s eyebrow.

Blood sprayed.

The cheering stopped.

And in the hush that followed, Tim yanked the biker’s arms behind his back and cuffed him, breathing like a warhorse, face flushed with fury and pain.

The silence between Tim and Dylan was deafening as they walked back to the cruiser.

Dylan’s boots stomped hard against the pavement. Tim moved slower, one hand pressed discreetly to his side — trying, and failing, to hide the fact that he’d reopened something beneath the stitches.

They reached the car.

Dylan spun on him.

“What the hell was that?”

Tim said nothing at first. He reached for the door, wincing. Then, without looking at her: “Handled it.”

She stepped in front of him. “That wasn’t handling it. That was picking a fight with a wannabe criminal so you could bleed out your emotions on the sidewalk.”

He looked up then — eyes sharp, defensive. “It worked, didn’t it?”

“No,” she snapped. “It didn’t. It made you reckless. It made you stupid. And it made me watch while you tried to implode because you can’t deal with the fact that Isabel OD’d.”

He stiffened.

“You think that was police work?” she went on, relentless. “That was a fucking therapy session with fists.”

Tim said nothing.

Dylan stepped closer, her voice low now — tighter, furious, but barely trembling. “I’ve seen what this kind of thinking does to good cops. First you chase the adrenaline, then you start believing it’s the only thing that makes you feel anything. You’ll stop calling for backup. You’ll stop thinking about protocol. And one day, someone’s gonna end up dead.”

Still, he didn’t look at her. Just kept his eyes on the cruiser.

So she hit him with the last card.

“If you ever pull something like that again,” she said, voice cold and sure, “I’m telling Grey.”

That got his attention.

He looked at her now — really looked.

She didn’t blink.

Didn’t flinch.

And behind all that righteous anger was something else — fear. Not just for him. But for the version of herself she recognized in him.

Finally, after a long, taut moment, he nodded. A shallow, heavy nod.

“Got it,” he said quietly.

Dylan exhaled and turned away, opening the car door.

“Good.”

And as they sat in the silence of the cruiser, neither of them spoke.

But something had shifted.

Because for the first time, Tim Bradford had been slapped with the truth — not from a superior, or a therapist, or an ex.

But from someone who actually saw him.

And wouldn’t let him fall.

The sun was beginning to dip behind the haze of downtown L.A., casting long shadows across the cracked concrete and flickering neon signs. Tim Bradford pulled the shop into a grim-looking side street just south of Pico — the kind of neighborhood that reeked of hopelessness and long-faded ambition.

Dylan Jenkins sat in the passenger seat, gaze flicking between Tim and the crumbling apartment block they’d parked in front of.

“Where are we?” she asked cautiously.

Tim didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a small white box, sealed and labelled in bold: NARCAN – NALOXONE NASAL SPRAY.

Dylan’s heart sank.

“Tim…”

“It’s nothing,” he cut in, already unbuckling his seatbelt. “I’ll be two minutes. Stay in the car.”

“Seriously?” she said, her voice sharp. “You brought me here without telling me? You’re just going to march into a junkie den with a gift bag of Narcan?”

Tim paused, his hand on the door.

“It’s not a gift,” he snapped. “It’s life-saving.”

“And it’s enabling,” Dylan said, matching his tone. “You’re not helping her — you’re just keeping her alive long enough to do it again.”

He turned back toward her, the heat rising in his face. “You don’t get to stand there and judge me. You don’t know how it feels.”

“Don’t I?”

That silenced him.

Dylan opened her door and stepped out, letting it slam behind her. She faced him full-on now, her voice quieter but dead serious.

“You think you’re the only one who’s ever watched someone you love disappear into an addiction? My dad drank himself into a seizure when I was seventeen. I found him. I smelled the blood before I saw it. He didn’t want saving either. But I didn’t go bringing him whiskey just because I wanted to feel close to him.”

Tim’s shoulders rose and fell with shallow breaths. He looked away, jaw tight.

Dylan kept going. “I get it, Bradford. You love her. You feel responsible. And you think if you can just keep her alive a little longer, maybe one day she’ll pull herself out.”

“She might,” he muttered.

“Or she might die, and you’ll have spent the last six months slowly destroying yourself trying to stop it. She left, Tim. She left you. And I am not going to let you throw yourself into her fire and drag me in after you.”

His eyes flashed. “This is my choice. Not yours.”

“No, it’s not,” Dylan snapped. “You’re supposed to be training me. Showing me how American policing works. Not dragging me into some twisted vigilante-style Florence Nightingale routine because you’re too angry at yourself to let go.”

The silence between them was brutal. A slow-building static that hummed against their skin.

Tim looked down at the Narcan box in his hand like it was both a weapon and a lifeline.

Dylan stepped closer, her voice lowering. “You don’t want to see how she’s living. You don’t want to see what she’s let into her life. You’re holding on to a version of Isabel that doesn’t exist anymore.”

She held out her hand.

“Give it to me. I’ll take it up.”

Tim looked at her, torn — the internal battle playing out behind his eyes: love vs logic, grief vs duty, past vs present.

Then, reluctantly, he handed her the box.

Dylan nodded. “I’ll be back in five.”

She turned and walked toward the building, shoulders squared, eyes forward.

And Tim?

He stood frozen beside the cruiser, watching the woman who was supposed to be his trainee step into the kind of mess he’d tried so hard to clean up — and finally realized:

Maybe she was training him too.

The stairwell of the apartment block smelled like damp concrete and stale cigarette smoke. The kind of building where the light flickered overhead, and you kept one hand near your weapon, even when things seemed quiet.

Dylan Jenkins climbed slowly, the Narcan box tucked under one arm, her free hand brushing the railing. She didn’t like being here — not just because of the building or what she might find, but because it wasn’t her mess.

It was Tim’s.

But someone had to clean it up today.

She reached the third floor, found apartment 3B, and knocked.

It took a moment before the door cracked open, chain still attached. Behind it, Isabel peered through with glassy eyes and a hollowed-out face that seemed even thinner than it had a few hours ago.

She blinked. “Oh.”

Dylan held up the box. “Delivery.”

Isabel stared at it, then slowly unlatched the chain and opened the door.

Dylan stepped in — cautious, controlled — and took in the room.

It was… not what she expected.

There were no needles on the floor. No filth. No blaring music or strangers passed out on the couch. In fact, it was tidy. The curtains were drawn, the air stale but not rancid. Still, it had that quiet, sterile kind of sadness that Dylan recognized from her dad’s flat back in London, the way addicts sometimes lived in limbo between pretending to function and slowly dying.

She placed the Narcan box on the counter.

Isabel lingered in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed tight over her chest. Her hoodie swallowed her, sleeves tugged over shaking hands.

“He send you to check on me?” she asked.

“No,” Dylan replied. “He told me to stay in the car. I decided not to.”

Isabel huffed a soft laugh. “Sounds like him.”

There was silence for a moment, thick and pulsing.

Then Dylan said, “You used to be a cop?”

Isabel’s head lifted, eyes narrowing. “He told you that?”

“No. You’ve got old certifications on your fridge. CPR expiry. Defensive tactics flyer. Something told me you didn’t just pick those up for fun.”

Isabel’s posture sagged slightly. “Yeah. I was LAPD. Before everything went to hell.”

“Is that how you met Tim?”

“Academy,” she said, voice dull. “He was the uptight one. I was the wild one. He said it balanced us.”

Dylan nodded slowly. “And now you’re here. Getting Narcan hand-delivered by the next woman stuck cleaning up your mess.” That hit. Isabel flinched. Dylan didn’t soften. “He got shot, you know.”

Isabel’s eyes widened.

“Saving someone. Because that’s what he does. He saves people. But today he almost got himself killed again, and I think part of him would’ve been okay with that if it meant not feeling this anymore.”

Isabel blinked fast, lips parting like she wanted to speak — but no words came.

Dylan stepped closer.

“You’re not just ruining your life. You’re ruining his. And the worst part is — he’ll keep letting you.”

There was a long pause, full of brittle tension.

Then Isabel whispered, barely audible: “Tell him not to come back.”

Dylan stared at her for a beat. Searching for something — maybe regret, maybe fight. But all she saw was emptiness. A hollow shape of someone who used to be something else.

She nodded once. “I will.”

Then she turned and left.

Back at the cruiser, Tim was waiting behind the wheel, one arm resting on the window. He didn’t look at her as she got in.

The silence stretched.

One minute. Two.

Then Dylan said, “She was a cop.”

Tim exhaled sharply, like someone had pulled the air from his lungs.

“Yeah,” he said after a beat. “Met her at the Academy. Thought I was lucky. She was… smart. Sharp. Wild. I thought she was just tired all the time. Out late. I assumed she was having an affair. Never thought it was the drugs.”

He looked out the windshield, eyes distant.

“By the time I figured it out, the hook was already in deep.”

Dylan stared ahead too, resting her arm along the door. “Her place is alright. Clean. Tidy. Doesn’t look like a trap house.”

Tim mumbled, “Thanks.” They didn’t speak again for the rest of the drive.

But the air between them had changed. Less fire. More gravity.

Tim had let her in, even just a little.

And Dylan had seen the truth up close — the thing eating him alive.

And now?

Now, it belonged to both of them.

The sun had long dipped beneath the skyline when they finally returned to the precinct.

The bullpen had thinned out. Radios quieted. The sound of ringing phones had faded into an eerie hum of end-of-shift exhaustion. Overhead, the fluorescent lights buzzed softly — too bright for a room this tired.

Dylan Jenkins slipped away toward the locker room first, her movements sharper than usual, jaw clenched just a little too tight.

It wasn’t until she tugged off her outer shirt — stained from dust, sweat, and the day’s chaos — that she saw it.

Blood.

Her white undershirt was soaked along her shoulder. A fresh bloom of deep red.

“Shit,” she hissed, digging into her locker and grabbing the nearest wad of paper towels she could find. She pressed them over the reopened wound, swearing under her breath, trying to slow her pulse — trying to stop the bleeding.

It had torn. Probably during the scuffle. She’d felt the pull, the ache, but ignored it.

Because of course she did.

She pressed harder, gritting her teeth.

The door creaked behind her.

She didn’t look up — didn’t need to.

Tim Bradford’s voice was quiet. “Dylan?”

She didn’t answer at first, too busy trying to mop up the blood, the tissues already turning crimson.

When she finally turned around, he was already halfway across the room, his expression falling instantly from its usual stoicism to pure concern.

His gaze flicked from her face to her shoulder, where blood was now sliding down her bicep in slow, stubborn rivulets.

“You’re bleeding,” he said.

“No shit, Detective.”

“You tore it.”

“Mm-hm.”

“You need to sit down.”

“I’m fine—”

“Sit down.”

His voice was firm, not angry — not yet — but threaded with something else.

Guilt.

Tim crossed the room in two strides and grabbed the first aid kit from the wall without waiting for her permission.

She sat on the bench, annoyed, breath shallow. “You don’t have to—”

“You shouldn’t have been in that fight.”

Dylan flinched — not from his touch, but from the truth in his tone. “I didn’t even fight. It must’ve just twinged during the heat of the moment. Maybe I got shoved… I don’t know. I was fine until I wasn’t,” she muttered.

Tim knelt in front of her, opening a sterile pad. “That’s not good enough. You should’ve said something earlier.”

She looked down at him. “And what? Have you tell me to take another week off while you fight your way through every emotionally-charged biker gang in the state?”

He looked up at her, eyes narrowed.

“Touché.”

She smirked, despite herself.

Then winced when he dabbed at the wound. “Ow. Gentle.”

“You’re the one who took the bullet for your T.O.”

“You’re the one who was so dramatic I had to focus on you.” She teased.

He sighed, shaking his head.

But the moment didn’t last long.

The door opened again.

Sergeant Grey walked in, arms crossed, brow raised, surveying the scene with all the practiced disappointment of a father finding his kids elbow-deep in trouble.

“Well,” he said. “Is this the part where I get to say ‘I told you so?’”

Dylan didn’t miss a beat. “If you must.”

Grey walked in slowly, eyes locking on the blood, then drifting to Tim’s face.

He didn’t need to say a word. He knew what kind of day it had been. Knew about Isabel, knew the pressure Tim was under, and now saw his officer bleeding again because neither of them could stop throwing themselves into things they weren’t ready to face.

Grey rubbed the back of his neck. “You’re both a pair of stubborn idiots, you know that?”

“Absolutely,” Dylan said, deadpan.

Tim was still focused on securing the bandage, but his hands slowed slightly.

Grey exhaled. “I was going to give you two separate lectures.”

Dylan arched a brow. “Still planning to?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Grey said. “But I’m thinking we do it over three pints instead of one. I have a feeling it’ll go down smoother.”

Tim looked up, a flicker of gratitude behind his worn-out expression.

“Your treat?” Dylan asked.

Grey smirked. “You wish.”

And for the first time that day, in the still of the locker room with bloodstained gauze and raw emotion still in the air, Tim and Dylan laughed — not because things were okay.

But because for once, it felt like maybe they weren’t carrying it alone.

[that-was-tedious]

Parent rankings of 911 (a personal scale):

0. Eddie Diaz. I originally wasn’t going to include him, but I think that I should. He deserves it for trying to break his generational trauma and raising Chris to be a kind, empathetic, and good kid. He makes mistakes like everyone else because he’s human, but he’s an amazing dad and deserves more recognition for that. He’s 0 for two reasons. He’s actually a good dad. A lot of the other parents are bad parents inherently, but he’s a good parent that makes mistakes. Also I wrote this one last and I don’t want to go back and change all the numbers.

1. Toni Wilson, Hen’s mom. Did the work to deserve having a relationship with her daughter. I kinda miss her. (Hen’s dad….imma skip. Idk where he would place cause we know next to nothing about him but he sucks)

2. Athena’s parents. They’re….fine? Controlling and stuff, but it seems to be out of genuine care and probably has a lot to do with their upbringing more than them. Also one of my favorite episodes is Athena and Bobby trying to solve the murder at her parents house. That doesn’t get talked about enough. Bobby and Athena: dream team.

3. Bobby’s parents. It’s no secret that Bobby’s dad was kind of a piece of shit, and that he felt abandoned by his mom. But you have to remember, Bobby was a kid when that all happened. Kids aren’t always rational with stuff, and he was close to his dad, terrible or not. Bobby’s mom seemed more lost and they had a lot of miscommunication more than anything. Maybe if they ever delve deeper into his relationship with his mom and what happened this would change, but for right now, I think sometimes parents make choices their kids don’t understand, but it was for the best at the time even if they don’t see it that way. I also think that Bobby WANTS to forgive the people around him. That includes his mom.

From here it gets MUCH harder. Especially the last two.

4. Chimney’s dad. I KNOW HE SEEMS TOO HIGH ON THE LIST HEAR ME OUT. He’s a shitty dad. He left his kid, he was terrible, hate that for Chim. BUT Chim ended up being blessed with the Lee’s, and they seriously love and care for him. I also hate the other parents much more.

5. The Diaz parents. IT WAS HARD TO CHOSE, but in some twisted and fucked up way, I do think that his parents (well his dad jury is out on his mom) love him. But they’re incredibly selfish and short sighted. They basically raised Eddie to be Helena’s husband-son, and then decide when he’s an adult that “actually no you were terrible at raising your sisters”??? (For the record I don’t think they considered this I just think it’s interesting). I have hated them from “don’t drag him down with you”. They were not looking out for their grandson, just their own interests. At this point they had zero proof that Eddie was a good or bad father, they just wanted a do over. The longer it went on, the better of a dad that Eddie obviously is, they got weirder about it. They don’t visit when he gets shot (a throwaway line about his parents I would have taken, but it seems deliberate they weren’t there imo) NOT EVEN to mention the whole thing where they just take Chris without really consulting him. He lets them because he’s shock and he loves his kid, but I would have said no to that. I fully believe if he said no to Chris going to Texas they would have sued for custody or something. This is before the Eddie/Helena ‘showdown’ that we were promised, so idk what we’ll unpack there, but I hate them and would fight them on sight.

6. The Buckley’s I hate with such a strong passion it’s not even funny. As a kid I often felt feelings of being unwanted and a nuisance, and I have great parents who love me a lot (I’m autistic I think it had a lot to do with that, but we’re not here to unpack my trauma thank you very much.) I cannot imagine what it was like to not be loved and cared for by your parents at all. He was emotionally neglected by them his entire life, and he acted out for attention and they barely cared then. Also I think having a savior baby is gross and unethical but I do understand why people do it so let’s not go there. The ‘effort’ they put in after their huge argument is surface level and performative at best, and no matter what Buck’s coma brain thinks, I don’t think they would have loved him properly if Daniel had lived either. They’re selfish people who can’t see past their own noses. Sometimes I think that Phillip would be redeemable, but he encouraged and enabled his wife’s behavior for years and I think sometimes we cut dads too much slack in that regard because of societal expectations of fathers (in general they’re less ‘caring’ than mothers, especially in fiction, and so we see any amount of caring as redeemable). I have decided that they’re both equally terrible and I wish them nothing but misfortune and unhappiness. Love your kids. That is VERY easy to do. Grieving is different for everyone, but you still had a son! And Maddie. She was marrying a man you knew was terrible and you abandoned her?? You could have supported her and been there for her, been a way out so she wasn’t stuck with him for years, but nooooo you had to be selfish dicks. And unless I see otherwise, I feel like they could be vaguely racist and homophobic. It’s a feeling. I have many opinions on the Buckley’s I don’t think I could even put into actual words.

ANYWAY, breaking generational trauma is a really big part of this show, even if the shitty parents keep getting weird redemptions. Fiction/TV is weird like that.

[vivid-dreamscapes]

Two months. It’s been two months since…everything happened. The final fight. Everything was at peace now. It was just your average night as Ekko sat on the top of the bridge connecting Zaun and Piltover. He watched the sun set before turning to you with a smile. “Isn’t it such a pretty night out?” He asked, and you nodded. “It’s easier to enjoy the nights with all the threats gone. And with you.” The boy said, turning back to the sunset.

After a few more minutes, Scar came climbing up to the top where Ekko was. He sat down next to the Firelight leader, tilting his head. “Ekko, what are you doing?” He asked, voice gruff.

“Oh, Y/n and I are enjoying the sunset. We never really had the time to look at it before.” Ekko responded calmly, watching the sunset. His friend just sighed, pinching his nose bridge.

“Ekko, they’re dead. They died with Jinx, remember? You can’t keep doing this. You need to let them go.” Scar said, resulting in Ekko looking at you. But you were gone. All that was left was the small ring you always wore on your pointer finger, a gift from him. He didn’t even notice the tear rolling down his face.

!not proofread!

Sorry if it’s shitty, it’s 3:29 and I had this idea, like, five minutes ago. And I’m tired. Also, of u can’t tell, I haven’t gotten to the very final episodes of arcane yet. Idk if the bridge is still there or if scar is alive or not, but oh well. Gnight you guysss

[locksnrocks]

Secret Relationships Show vs. Manhwa - how the main four differ

Spoilers for both!

I made a grave error and decided to start the manhwa last night. binged it all straight to 4 am aaaaaaa

Daon: Show Daon- reserved, soft spoken but not a doormat. Obviously carrying internal trauma brought on by an irresponsible family (but sympathetic, at least Da-Suel was in the show) + his two obsessive "suitors" manipulating everything in his life. We see the breakdown and his "I don't deserve to love or be loved" mindset - but holy shirtballz is Manhwa Daon in his own league. That boy is deeply, deeply unwell (I say 80% Jaemin's fault 20% his family- his family is straight up pathetic in the source material. Like, that's their role, even his sister- just pathetic people and I really did not empathize with them). M!Daon just makes seemingly bad decisions one right after the other- and you catch yourself saying 'girl just run' multiple times, and 'didn't your mother ever teach you- oh that's right, your parents didn't teach you crap because your entire family is pathetic- the parents especially'. This dude just did not have a chance. That's a source of reader frustration from what I saw in other comments ('oh he just sleeps around, what an idiot, he causes all this himself, etc.' - which, alright, but guess who hates Daon the most? Daon. He straight up states these criticisms of himself plainly - he warned Seong exactly what was going down), but like, of course he is like that- do you not see what he has been dealing with because!!!! hot damn, Jaemin what the hell

Jaemin: Show Jaemin - great acting, unhinged, wow what an escalation, he's the real danger, what a manipulative person. BUT MANWHA JAEMIN???? Every single thing/action that happens to/about Daon can have the tagline "and then Jaemin ruined it." The Creep factor is up'd to 200% - like heavy breathing 'he's in your walls' levels. There's something so utterly... pathetic + legitimately dangerous about M!Jaemin. If Daon stayed at that vacation house with him any longer, we may have gotten the show's wedding themed murder/suicide and not a single soul who read the webcomic would be surprised. I kept waiting for it because Jaemin pulling that seemed like such a natural next step for him to take.

The line "I can't wait for you to grow up and be an adult" <- some variation of it, can't remember the exact quote - Jaemin to/about Daon during a flashback with exactly the negative connotation you can associate with this particular sentiment is used. Hggn. There's more to say about him but I can't organize it all

Soohyun: Show Soohyun - hair trigger temper (great acting), the frustration is boiling over, impulsive, uses fear to get his way (and if there's remorse later, the lack of emotional regulation ensures that it is forgotten), does have a form of redemption in the end, a genuinely incompetent Director. Manhwa Soohyun - the temper is there, but the character is waaaaay more calm with interactions, snarky rather than mean, calculating, no involvement with Daon's workplace, clocked what Jaemin was doing almost immediately, he and Daon I think hook up the most consistently (and yes, it happens when Soohyun and Jaemin are fake dating but good grief I just can't be a "wow Daon is trash see he knowingly slept with Soohyun while Soo is dating Jaemin" because girl, wut - they have a stage during college (?) where they are pretty much dating without ever verbalizing it (and then Jaemin ruined it) because no one verbalizes anything when it comes to honest to goodness feelings beyond a trembling confession that you know is going to be pummeled into the ground - which I recognize is a plot point since communication would cause every drama ever to go from multi episodes to about 5 min of content.

Honestly, since my moral compass is not built on the morality/ethics of bl series, I can comfortably say that I was rooting for both Soohyun and/or Seong simultaneously. Either of them over Jaemin. At least exactly why Soohyun agreed to the contrived 'fake date' plan is marginally better explored in the manhwa. He also legit strikes Daon (past) + chokes him (present)- again, his temper is a very real factor, it's just not as outwardly explosive as in the show. Daon has genuine fear of Soohyun hurting Seong/himself in present time. Both versions of Soohyun are royally screwed over by Jaemin's manipulations, but M!Soohyun had the attitude of "I'm going abroad now, so Jaemin better shoot his shot while I'm gone because once I'm back, I will go all in." By the end, his 'redemption arc' is legit "I have no regrets. You better erase me from your mind entirely." and he goes back abroad to be with his family (his mother's religious but his family is not 'point a gun at him' terrible from what I could tell - he actually wanted to introduce Daon to them at one point). That 'erase me' bit just convinced me that if Soohyun had not removed himself, he (and Daon) knew full well that they would slide right on back to each other eventually. Heck, Seong probably knew it, too.

Speaking of Seong and the many, many 'poly is the answer' lines the show spawned - the real throuple that could have been??? Soohyun x Daon x Seong. Right at the end of the manhwa - legit if Soohyun didn't back down, with how Seong was written and how Daon was written, if Soohyun pushed and Daon caved, I could see Seong eventually settling at 'if this is what it takes to have (a chance with) you, then I will accept this' to be with Daon. Because he already had nearly the exact same sentiment earlier.

Seonghyeon: Show Seong - so gosh darn earnest and charming, clingy in an endearing (but a bit boundary stomping) way, a flawed real human with flawed reactions but I can't hold it against him because this situation is not normal, not a lunatic but has a bit of emotional manipulation going on, but again, he's human. Manhwa Seong - yes to all that, but I propose that while Jaemin and Soohyun where displaying black/red flags consistently, Seong had his own brand of obsession going on. He's not clued in immediately, but he does get a picture of what is going down, especially once he meets Jaemin. And armed with this information + a Daon who is pretty transparent ("You say you like me and I like you. But I also like Jaemin, who I confessed to and he rejected me. But those feelings are still here. Also, Soohyun is here now and we are hooking up and probably will continue to do so as I don't have much agency in that matter. I am a terrible person. It would be better for you to not pursue me." - wildly paraphrased and condensed, but you get the gist). And Seong, armed with all this information, ultimately takes the approach of Patience. Like, he is going to outwait the other two lunatics - he will wait for Daon to sort through the absolute crapshoot that is his life, work through whatever that is with Jaemin, sprinkle in a tiny bit of cold-shouldering here and there, a drunken kiss or two. And even once Daon makes the definitive choice and goes to Seong over Jaemin, that whole "Don't turn around" scene!! If it was Jaemin in the background making whatever expression that Seong acknowledge would cause Daon to waver, Seong still may have come out on top. But if it was Soohyun? Seong might not. Again, the throuple that could have been...!

Reading the manhwa in it's entirety till 4 am really made me appreciate the show. They hit a lot of the narrative beats and did it with style. I can see why tweaks to the characters were made, particularly Soohyun, as having his temper so prominent rather than the 'hidden under the surface' approach of M!Soohyun would make it harder to move things along, especially since Jaemin already checks off the subtle background manipulation thing.

poly could have saved Show dudes and/or made the whole thing messier but we all would have enjoyed the ride lol

no amount of poly would have saved M!Jaemin, do you know why?? because he ruins things.

[brokenwinebox]

Marcus, Mikey, Sydney, & Claire

This will be talking about Marcus, Mikey, Sydney, And Claire. It’s a deep dive on the song [Nice Dream] by Radiohead. This is the second part to my meta, “What’s Your Character’s Theme Song?” Highly recommend reading that before this one!

What’s Your Character’s Theme Song?

Text / Spoilers for s3 below

In this commentary of the Legacy episode with Lionel Boyce, he talks about Marcus following the ghost of Carmy's footsteps. I've had thoughts on Carmy being the older brother to Marcus but hearing him talk about this episode really solidified it for me.

I quote tweeted the post on Twitter that involved this particular video with this:

This is so interesting. This definitely feels like Carmy is the older brother to Marcus. How insane is it to say he could even heal from a dynamic that’s similar to Mikey and his relationship? Only this time, Carmy is at the other side of it and wants to do the opposite?

Then, I remembered after the scene between Marcus and Carmy (3x01), They had a song play as the credit rolled that talked about being loved like a brother.

I went back to reconfirm this and did some research on the song, [Nice Dream].

They love me like I was a brother They protect me, listen to me They dug me my very own garden Gave me sunshine, made me happy Nice dream Nice dream Nice dream I call up my friend, the good angel But she's out with her answerphone She says that she'd love to come help but The sea would electrocute us all

Marcus And Mikey

On one analysis of the song, they talk about how Radiohead describes being loved like a brother as someone protecting you, listening to you, and giving you a garden and sunshine.

Mikey had struggled deeply with addiction and his connection with Carmy. We even understand that Mikey felt resentment towards Carmy for being able to go and explore his dreams to which Mikey pushed him to do.

It feels like because of it, the resentment goes both ways. Carmy didn’t really care about being in high prestige restaurants. It was always his family; more specifically Mikey, that he dreamed about. Mikey himself, being shackled to The Beef, would dream the things he pushed Carmy to do, if he allowed it.

I’ve always wondered if Carmy would’ve been happy staying at The Beef or feel adrift to doing something bigger than the family restaurant.

Carmy and Marcus having a potential similar dynamic to his and Mikey’s relationship makes me feel very hopeful about what season four can bring. Especially if Carmy wants his dynamic with Marcus to be more healthy than what Mikey let it be.

Since we didn’t really have that much of an arc for Marcus in season three, it would be so nice to have Marcus fully hitting his stride for season four if it’s the last of the series.

“Take us there, Bear,” could be the significant moment for Carmy and us, making the audience realize that he’s in the role of being an older brother like Mikey. It’s a beautiful thought that Carmy would heal from a similar dynamic he has with Marcus because he has the opportunity to understand his older brother and change the choices Mikey made.

Desperately wanting to be connected to his older brother but Carmy ultimately found out he didn’t even really know Mikey at all. Only after becoming an older brother does he have more of a grasp on who Mikey is than he initially thought and embraces Marcus in the way Carmy wished Mikey did him.

A full circle moment.

Sydney And Claire

Doesn’t this feel like the discussion they had on legacy? In this meta about the best meal Sydney ever had, it talks about how the restaurant is a metaphor for family with Sydney even having a “family tree” behind her.

What gets me the most about this is how they talk about the importance of listening. How it’s a key aspect for a loving relationship.

I did a deep dive on a forum and there’s so many different type of thoughts about the potential meaning for the song!

Essentially I find this to be the most evidently sarcastic song in the history of Radiohead releases. We all know the feeling of being discarded under the false pretense of , " I'm not ready for a relationship," or " We are such good friends...wouldn't want to spoil it." And now here is a song about this scenario. The " Nice Dream" in this song is the presented illusion from a girl-friend who has given many excuses to why a relationship will not work, a diversion from the truth. the last two lines, "...if you think that you're strong enough/if you think you belong enough." are in reference to the personal strength and honesty one must have to realize all of the excuses, are lies. ....and so it's a nice dream, when you don't know.... (x)

Another interpretation of the song’s meaning is certainly interesting. (X)

It’s already been talked about how Carmy said Claire is peace and I’ve been pondering over that for a while. I’ve always been very sure that Claire isn’t Carmy’s peace but what if she is really his peace to some extent? After it said peace, it said security.

Security doesn’t necessarily have to mean good things. I’ve been navigating if comfortability (settling) and peace align in meaning for the sake of this show.

Security is about the things you’ve already known, so could Claire be his peace?Sydney are new emotions and something that demands change from him but Carmy has been fairly consistent in not doing that. Instead, he’ll change the menu, a substitute, to deny himself the opportunity to love someone who doesn’t invoke emotions from the past.

I’ve also heard discussion around Carmy being self aware in his feelings for Sydney, which is why he puts himself in that fridge to apologize to Claire out of guilt. Burying himself in this fantasy of Claire to attempt to ignore his feelings for Sydney makes sense in this context then.

He’s willing to change the menu/change his thoughts of Sydney to Claire.

Another thing is that Carmy is used to his dynamic with his family. I don’t think it’s out of the realm of possibility that the dysfunction of his family is what gives him some sense of “comfort” because it’s quite literally the only thing he knows. He talks about how he hates surprises and I think it extends to his love life as well. He gave Claire a fake number but once she had his number and basically invaded in his comfort zone, it could’ve reached to a point of understanding that Claire has the familiarity of breaching his protective barrier like his family. (I could be wrong about this though.)

A Sea Apart

I actually made a prediction of the water between Carmy and Sydney and how they are a sea/lake apart. This part of the article is so fascinating because it discusses that if the narrator gets shocked out of their fantasy, they’ll realize that the friend can’t help them in the way the narrator wants. I try to flip alot between Claire and Sydney when it refers to this friend in the article to see what makes more sense.

With the recent thought I’ve had in my meta about Carmy and how he could run away from kindness, would he also run away from it because he’s cemented in a strange fantasy?

I briefly discussed how season three’s theme is about isolation, guilt, and regression. Carmy felt fairly isolated from the whole group. It was so strange. Carmy was basically this roaming ghost that could talk, touch, and feel but was stuck inside the shackles of his own mind. A prisoner of his own creation.

It’s important to note the analysis talks about how the narrator desires to be nurtured by loved ones because of a potential worsening mental illness.

Carmy’s potential desire to be taken care of makes me think of the metas that we’ve discussed before.

I’ve explained before that Carmy may want to be taken care of but perhaps he feels like he needs to be fixed first. The tumultuous emotions could be a lot of things he’s been dealing with internally. It’s quite sad to think that Carmy might believe that his worsening mental illness could be alleviated but instead of reaching out, he isolates himself with it.

Hopefully in season four, Carmy tries to be more open to being vulnerable to his loved ones.

Carmy [Nice Dream]

As a person in my twenties, I’ve tried to be more introspective and have come to learn that certain situations should’ve been handled with more care and consideration. All of that to say, I’ve thought about how Carmy thinking that Claire is peace shouldn’t be fully shut down just yet.

Comfort, peace, and security could also have negative connotations. I did some research to see if anybody could describe it better than my constant struggle with pinning my thoughts and putting it all together in coherent sentences. I ended up finding something that I instantly thought of Carmy and Claire in an aspect.

Ever heard of the saying, “I’ve made my peace with it.” ? What if this is what’s going on?

make (one's) peace with (someone or something) - To reconcile or come to terms with a person or thing that was a previous source of stress, conflict, regret, etc.

Carmy could be resigned to any dynamic that’s similar to his family. With that growing comfort, it’s interesting to think about how going into the fridge could be his prison from reaching out. It’s making me think that Claire might be his bridge to preventing himself from truly connecting to others. Was he also getting comfortable in his guilt in season three?

Season four might have that answer.

I have one more part to this to tie it all together and I’ll be done making this series! Thanks to whoever read this and I’m very sorry it took so long to make lol! Feel free to disagree with any of these thoughts!!

I would absolutely love to hear your personal interpretation of this song! I wrote most of this back in August.

[bnprime]

i think the question should be: if a chatbot can mimic intelligent conversation, does this make it intelligent. and i would argue, that no. it doesn’t. it’s possible to make a computer which reasons, but that doesn’t mean that a chatbots is reasoning. it’s possible to make a neural net which thinks, but that doesn’t mean that a chatbots is thinking. like. we know they aren’t reasoning. it’s build on associations. quite a bit of thought, when it comes to the public conversation of ai, is spent discussing thinking. because it!s fun to imagine the unfathomable, but getting lost in the imaginary dreamscape of what kinds of thoughts a god would think can keep us from recognizing when we are being fooled. i would argue that we have seen superhuman intelligence before: it comes from the collaboration of tens to hundreds to thousands of humans collaborating together on projects which simultaneously manage the small and large scale details, making thousands to hundreds of thousands of judgements a day. it looks like a library, it looks like a company, it looks like a city, it looks like an automobile, it looks like an automobile, it looks like a network of trains which never collide. do these superintelligences think about things beyond the tasks we have set for them? are the traffic waves passing through he roads of a city during rush hour thinking about philosophy and aesthetics? who knows? how could we even tell?

but let’s get back to the topic. the op was criticizing critics of ai, which is fair. criticize whoever you want. but i personally do think that…

okay, listen. there’s this episode of father ted where the three shitty priests get visited and inspected by some fancy church people. i can’t remember what the deal was, but they decide the only way to survive is to trick the inspectors into thinking that they aren’t terrible. one big problem is the elder priest, father jack. father jack is an alchohol who barks like a dog as he requests drink and smokes, instead of speaking. so they train him to say “that would be an ecumenical matter” in response to any theological question. now, are there ecumenical matters? yes. do smart people discuss big theological questions and determine that this is the answer to the question? sometimes? does anyone know what it means to be an ecumenical matter? not me. i don’t. anyway, this is what’s going on with large tech companies and “ai.” they’ve got these chatbots, and the chatbots do not think (because that’s not what they do, they mimic conversation). and they’re passing it off as a service, they way they used to sell encarta encyclopedias. and it’s vapourware. it’s software whose abilities are overpromised (it is marketed as general intelligence, and knowledgeable), incapable of doing what is promised, and which is heavily heavily marketed. i.e. it’s a marketing scam. and i think the complaints regarding the energy use of this kind of ai must be interpreted in the context of it being a scam. we live in an era of global warming. the externalizing of the costs of fossil fuel use are coming home to roost. our cities are burning down and washing away, and our crops are failing. it is in this context that we very much should criticize a waste of electricity. bitcoin, nfts and ai: scams which we are dumping power into, and which will not bring one valuable service to their societies for all the cities which they will burn. in the end, i wager neural nets of various sorts will indeed make their weilders very rich and very powerful. the capacity to quickly, efficiently and automatically recognize patterns may indeed change the world in the near future. and also, surely we will get a general intelligence ai, which can reason and learn and refine itself and see out to a horizon we can only dream of. but uh, this generation of chatbots ain’t it. of course, i might be wrong. perhaps we should just agree upon it being an ecumenical matter.

a lot of people don't like AI and that leads them to claim that it can't possibly work, which is silly as they don't have any good reason to believe that and we know for a fact that human-level intelligence is possible because we've seen humans do it.

technically we don't know that superhuman intelligence is possible as we've never seen that before (although we have seen it in specialised domains, like chess, go, general recall and so on), but I have a hunch that there are machines that can think better than humans can as they aren't subject to the same design constraints, can be built from alternative materials, don't need to eat, their brain doesn't need to fit through a human pelvis, etc.

however even if we can only make a machine as smart as Einstein then that would still be pretty cool, I mean Einstein couldn't figure out quantum mechanics but it would be neat to have an Einstein available on demand to tutor you at school or handle your customer service requests or whatever it is you needed.

people who don't like AI also claim that it will destroy the environment, which is unlikely, not least because we know that AI doesn't need to consume more resources than people do and probably a lot less: you should be able to run a couple of Einsteins on your laptop and you're already using that now for sillier things.

another claim is that the companies currently pushing AI will lose money, and that's more plausible as companies lose money on big projects all the time; but it seems like a good outcome for everyone else? let overly optimistic investors fund the research and development of AI while we all get the benefit, that's great!

of course the ultimate fear is that AI works too well and the people who own it now end up owning everything else too, the smug bastards, but wealth disparity is a problem unrelated to AI and one that we should already be trying to fix right now.

it's important not to base your political activism on false claims as they can discredit your platform; the best reason for doing something is ideally true.

we have had ample warning that human-level machine intelligence is coming -- it was inevitable as soon as electronic switches were developed, and Turing's famous paper on the subject turns 75 this year -- but people have resisted the idea in the same way that they resist the implications of humans being assemblages of molecules that can be analysed mechanistically, a resistance that compromises their comprehension of the world and their ability to shape it.