#its a matter of recognizing it and actually doing something to fix it

[uhsnail]

>be me

>make a greebtext post on tumblr?? what is this nonsense

>sorry dont know how to be a normal good person

>be selfish and brutally honest

>need to relearn empathy.

>honesty without compassion is cruelty, kindness without honesty is manipulation.

>reflect. maybe need some alone time to become a better person.

[sluckythewizard]

'I wont cry for you, I wont crucify the things you do. I wont cry for you, see, when you're gone, I'll still be BLOODY MARY'

[cameatslemons]

mouthwashing post. jimmy is a raging narcissist and im tired of people trying to give him benefit of the doubt. his inability to see two feet beyond what immediately concerns him dooms everyone on the tulpar, and even in the end, he only really cares about himself.

big list of all his narcisstic bullshit below bc im here to motherfucking prove it (mouthwashing spoilers of course)

most obviously: everything is a personal attack on him. EVERYTHING. you can see it most clearly at the birthday party; while everyone else is understandably freaking out about being laid off, jimmy starts telling curly off and insulting both him and everyone else at the table, as if being laid off is a personal attack on jimmy specifically. it doesn’t matter that anya has nothing to go back to, that swansea’s life is thrown away- jimmy is the ONLY victim here, apparently. curly is personally responsible for getting laid off, in his eyes.

i don’t actually know the words for this but the way he’s constantly going “i have to do EVERYTHING around here”- again, feeling like its a personal attack to be asked anything at all. anya asks him to take care of curly because her entire fucking life is falling apart, its her end of days, but somehow shes the villain for struggling.

also the general antagonization of anya. she’s extremely competent for the hand she was dealt! shes too poor to attend med school yet shes very knoqledgable in medication and wound care! and yeah no shit shes struggling now, someone she cared deeply about is suffering immensely and now the ship is being “run” by a man who assaulted her. no fucking shit shes breaking down. but jimmy makes it clear time and time again that this is somehow her fault, all this shit of “shouldn’t nurses EARN their titles?” while she’s having a mental breakdown.

similarly, swansea being villainized for holding the cryopod for daisuke and killing him. like, i get it, but jimmy’s whole thing of saying he can fix daisuke is… c’mon man. he’s a hero to himself, he “always” fixes things the same way he “fixed” the ship, and he will fix daisuke and claim heroism even though it’s very clear nothing else can be done for him.

“someday you’ll thank me” while forcing curly to eat his own leg. the incredible confidence that he is in the right even when literally torturing someone.

MOST IMPORTANTLY: the final scene with curly burning. jimmy doesn’t earnestly believe he has anything to be sorry for. even when apologizing to curly he says “we can BOTH be heroes!” despite everything, he still thinks he’s in the right. he STILL thinks he’s a hero, because he’s right, he’s ALWAYS right, surely. he can apologize and grovel all he wants but in the end he still thinks he’s the hero of this story; he doesn’t genuinely think he has anything to right, he’s only doing this to be freed of consequence. and/or believes a simple “sorry” is enough, that it can fix completely ruining the lives of four people with his own inferiority complex.

i do think the choice to put curly in the pod instead of himself is the only time he recognizes his own guilt, if any. maybe it’s realizing that he DOES need something more than a simple “sorry” to even begin to try to fix things, maybe it’s that he thinks this will cement him even further as a hero. even then, does this fix anything? all it’s doing is making curly suffer more. is this actually a good thing?

to him, he’s the hero here. he always is. crashing the ship is a heroic thing, putting all his crewmates through hell is a heroic thing. all because something nobody can control is somehow a personal attack on jimmy.

not to mention all the “hallucinations” he has- it’s what he thinks should happen, it’s what he wants to hear. curly still calling him a friend, the dead corpses of his crewmates praising him, even in the final cutscene with curly burning where he says “no, YOU take the pod”. none of it’s real. it’s just what jimmy thinks is “right”. despite everything, he thinks everyone should thank and praise him, because he can do no wrong.

conclusion: jimmy is a narcisstic piece of shit.

[velarisdusk]

Chapter 1 — This is Fine

series masterlist word count: 4,737 author's note: im so excited!!! this has been sitting in my drive for SO long, and in my brain for even longer. just a regular intake session, but it'll pick up, trust. also, please refer to the series masterlist for general content warnings for this series!

The waiting room smelled faintly of lavender, though it didn’t quite cover the sharper, antiseptic undertone lingering in the air. You sat stiffly in the corner chair, arms crossed over your chest, staring at the clock. Fifteen minutes early. Fifteen minutes to decide if you really wanted to do this again. 

The room was painfully quiet, the kind of silence that made every small sound feel amplified: the low hum of the air conditioner overhead, the faint creak of the chair as you shifted your weight, the soft tap-tap-tapping of the receptionist’s acrylic nails against her keyboard. 

You glanced toward the stack of magazines on the table across from you, their covers promising quick fixes and better living. They felt out of place here, or maybe you did. Either way, you didn’t reach for one. Instead, you shifted in your seat again, trying to ignore the itch to leave that was slowly creeping up your spine. 

You’d been here before—well, not here-here, but close enough. Same room, same silence. Same dread sitting heavy in your chest. Dr. Vestra had been… fine. Kind, in the way dentists were kind when they asked if you flossed regularly—it didn’t matter what you said—they knew the truth. 

You weren’t sure why you ghosted her. Well, that wasn't entirely true. It had been three months since your last session, and at first, you’d convinced yourself you were just too busy to go back. Eventually, though, it had just been easier to let it go than explain why you weren’t coming back. 

Now, here you were. New office, new therapist, same old dread clawing its way up your spine. Starting over. Again. 

You tapped your fingers against your arm, a nervous rhythm you recognized but couldn’t quite stop. Starting over was exhausting—this wouldn’t be the first time. The same questions, the same explanations, the same half-truths. How much did you share? How much could you trust someone else? And how many sessions would it take before you hit that wall again, where talking felt like a chore instead of a relief?

It wasn’t like you didn’t want help. You wouldn’t be here otherwise. But some days, the effort it took to unpack everything felt heavier than the things you were trying to fix. 

Your eyes flicked to the clock again. Five minutes to go. Five minutes to decide if you were actually going to stay or if the better choice—the easier choice—was to leave now and never come back. 

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to leave. Pretend you got the date wrong. Or the time. Whoever your therapist was could deal with an empty hour. Therapists were used to cancellations, weren’t they?

The door to the back office clicked open, and your attention snapped to it, heart lurching for reasons you couldn’t quite name. A couple emerged first, their expressions stormy. The man muttered something sharp under his breath, and the woman spun on her heel to hiss back a reply, her tone dripping with venom. They swept past the receptionist’s desk without a backward glance, leaving behind a tension that seemed to hang in the air like a cloud. 

So, not a glowing endorsement of whoever was running things here.

You shifted in your seat with half a mind to bolt out of there right behind them.

Oh. 

Oh no.

Someone stepped into the doorway. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Undeniably handsome. He leaned casually against the frame, scanning the room with dark, perceptive eyes. His inky black hair was swept back, not a strand out of place, and his sharp jawline looked like it had been carved out of marble. He wasn’t wearing a suit, but the deep grey button down and tailored black slacks might as well have been one, given how well they fit him. 

You swallowed hard. Was this a client? A consultant? He definitely didn’t look like a therapist. 

Then you met his eyes. 

He smiled, warm and easy, the kind of smile that felt like it was just for you. And then one brow arched, as though he were waiting for something. 

Had he… had he said something?

“I’m sorry, what was that?” Your voice came out higher than you wanted, your throat suddenly dry. 

“(Y/n)?” he asked, his tone gentle, but there was a flicker of amusement in his gaze now. 

Oh god. 

Your heart sank. Of course, he wasn’t a client. No, fate wasn’t that kind. Fate had a sense of humor, and this—this—was your therapist. 

Your face burned as you grabbed your purse and rose to your feet, realizing with dawning horror that he’d definitely caught you looking him up and down. Off to a fantastic, totally professional start.

He stepped aside, holding the door open for you with an easy, practiced motion. “How are you today?” he asked, his voice smooth and inviting, like the kind of person who could make small talk feel genuine. 

How am I? You hesitated, unsure how to answer. “I’m… here.”

His lips twitched, like he was fighting back a smile. “That’s a good start.”

You ducked your head and stepped through the door, realizing as you passed him that he smelled ridiculously good—something subtle and clean, like fresh rain and cedar. Great. Add that to the growing list of reasons this might be a disaster. 

“This way,” he said, motioning for you to follow as he turned down a hallway. 

The sound of your footsteps on the carpet echoed faintly in the quiet corridor, and after a few moments, he glanced over his shoulder. “It’s a bit of a walk to my office, so bear with me.”

“Yeah, no worries,” you said quickly, hoping it sounded normal enough.

As you trailed behind him, you tried to focus on anything other than the sound of your heartbeat in your ears. But, of course, your eyes had other plans. Why did he walk like that? There was a confidence in every step, his broad shoulders filling the hallway. And then there was the way his shirt clung to his back, stretching just enough to hint at the muscles beneath. It was distracting, and—damn—his pants didn’t help either. They fit too well. 

This is not going to work, you thought again, your gaze dropping to the floor before you embarrassed yourself further. 

When he finally stopped in front of a door at the far end of the hall, he opened it and stepped aside, gesturing for you to enter first.

You stepped inside cautiously, taking in your surroundings as he closed the door behind you. His office was warm and inviting, nothing like the sterile waiting room outside. The walls were painted a calming shade of soft gray, and there were a few framed prints on the walls, abstract enough to be interesting without stealing focus. A large bookshelf lined the far side of the room, filled with psychology texts and what looked like a few well-worn novels. A plush, navy sofa with a cozy throw draped over the arm sat in front of the bookshelf, accompanied by a matching armchair that looked just as comfortable. They were slightly worn in a way that made the space feel less clinical and more inviting, more like a place for comfort than formality. 

He gestured toward the sofa. “Please, take a seat. I just need to fill out a few things before we start.” He stood at his desk, one hand bracing himself on the mahogany, the other clicking away at the trackpad before he started typing. 

You nodded, making your way over to the couch and sinking into the cushions, feeling the plush fabric mold around you. The sound of his typing filled the room, a rhythmic clicking that seemed louder in the quiet space. You leaned back into the cushions, and set your purse beside you, gaze drifting to the bookshelf. 

The spines spoke of dense academic texts mixed with more approachable reads—novels with cracked bindings, their titles stamped in gold foil. Your eyes skimmed over the titles, lingering on a few. 

The Body Keeps the Score. Of course. The book having been mandatory reading in your Trauma and Recovery course, it seemed like a therapist’s staple. Next to it, Man’s Search for Meaning by Viktor Frankl, its pages slightly yellowed with age. A copy of Quiet by Susan Cain wedged between heftier volumes on trauma, resilience, and attachment theory. 

The novels, however, were harder to pin down. There was a worn copy of The Alchemist, and right beside it was a beautifully bound collection of Edgar Allan Poe’s works. 

The Count of Monte Cristo. The spine was so cracked it was nearly illegible. What kind of therapist read Monte Cristo in his downtime?

The hot kind, apparently.

You suppressed a smile, wondering how often he lost himself in stories of betrayal and redemption.

Then there was The Night Circus, which made you pause. It felt like a curveball, like he’d peeled back some layer of himself and let a hint of whimsy slip through. Maybe he wasn’t as predictable as the clinical texts and older classics suggested. 

The soft creak of his chair drew your attention, and you turned to see him settling into the armchair across from you, clipboard in hand. How cliché. He leaned back, crossing one ankle over his knee, and gave you a small, reassuring smile. 

“Before we get into the formalities, let me introduce myself. I’m Dr. Rhysand Hale, but you can call me Dr. Hale, Dr. H, Rhysand, whichever you’re most comfortable with.”

You nodded, the casual offer catching you off guard. “Uh, Rhysand’s fine.”

His smile was warm but brief, just a flash of reassurance before he moved on. “Rhysand it is, then.”

He picked up a pen from the notepad in front of him, toying with it between those long, slender fingers. “Now, I want to go over a few things before we start. Everything you share here is confidential, except in situations where—”

“I know,” you interrupted, waving a hand dismissively. “I’ve been through this before. Confidential unless there’s danger to myself or someone else, mandatory reporting, whatever else. I agree to all of it, it’s fine.”

His brows lifted, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he lowered the pen slightly. “Straight to the point. Got it.”

“Sorry,” you mumbled, heat rising to your cheeks. “I just… know how this goes.”

“That’s okay,” he said, voice soft but steady. “I appreciate your honesty.”

You nodded, trying to mask the way the words slid off you like water on glass. His voice had taken on that practiced softness. It was all so rehearsed—the tone, the pauses, the words that sounded more like something ripped from a manual than a genuine conversation. You didn’t blame him, really. It was part of the job. But that didn’t mean you had to like it.

It wasn’t the words themselves that grated on you but the way they sounded, so carefully crafted to put you at ease. 

It didn’t put you at ease. 

You hated this part. You weren’t here for a script, or for someone to tread so lightly around you it felt like you might shatter under the weight of their words. You just wanted to talk. Like real people.

Your arms tightened across your chest, and you resisted the urge to sigh. If he kept this up, you weren’t sure you could sit through a whole session without snapping. But snapping would mean starting over again. Explaining yourself. Apologizing. You weren’t sure you had it in you to do that—not today. 

“Does that make sense so far?” he asked, his voice still wrapped in that practiced softness. 

You blinked, realizing you hadn’t been paying attention. “Yeah,” you lied, shifting slightly on the couch. 

His lips quirked again, just barely. Not a smile, but close. It was… pretty. 

He nodded and glanced at whatever sheets he had on his clipboard. “Good. We’ll revisit some of it later, but for now, I want to focus on why you’re here. No pressure—whatever you feel comfortable sharing.”

There it was again, that tone. And the same loaded question as always. What had brought you in? It wasn’t the lack of sleep, or sparse meals—those, you’d just been dealing with. And, sure, working at the lab with your course load wasn’t great, but neither one really was to begin with. Maybe it was your roommate telling you she felt so much better supplementing her therapy sessions with medication. Maybe you’d finally caved and decided it was worth a shot. 

You realized you’d been quiet. 

“Uh… A lot, I guess? I haven’t been feeling like myself,” you said finally, knowing it was vague but hoping it was enough to satisfy him.

He tilted his head slightly, considering you. 

It was not. 

“What does ‘not like yourself’ mean to you?”

You looked away, your eyes drifting back to the bookshelf, to the well-worn novels and the spines of dense psychology texts. “I don’t know. Just… tired. All the time,” you muttered.

He nodded again, his expression calm and neutral. “Tired can mean a lot of things. Physically? Emotionally?”

You exhaled sharply through your nose, crossing your arms tighter. “Both.”

The word came out more clipped than you intended, and for a moment, you braced for some kind of reaction. But he just leaned back slightly, his pen poised over the paper. “That sounds exhausting,” he said simply. 

This was the second time he’d caught you off guard—it sounded genuine. Not loaded with pity or false empathy. Just an acknowledgement. 

You shrugged, the irritation in your chest easing just a fraction. “Yeah. It is.”

The silence that followed felt heavier, but not suffocating yet. He didn’t rush to fill it, which somehow felt worse than the scripted reassurances. It gave you space to think, and thinking wasn’t exactly what you wanted to do right now. 

You shifted again, feeling the weight of the silence pressing on you now. The warmth of the room was almost too much, and you glanced around, finally letting your gaze settle on the lamp in the corner. It cast a dim, almost tired glow across the space, shadows stretching across the walls. 

You hated that lighting—why did it seem like it was the go-to for these spaces? It wasn’t even about the warmth of it; it was the dull, suffocating dimness that made your eyes strain and the room feel like it was holding its breath. Combine that with having to unpack everything wrong with your brain…

Your gaze flicked back to Rhysand. He was writing something down, his posture relaxed but focused. No judgment, no impatience. Just waiting. 

You sighed, your arms loosening just slightly as you sank further into the couch. “It’s like… everything feels heavier than it should. Getting out of bed, brushing my teeth, cooking. I do it, but it’s like I have to drag myself through it.”

He glanced up briefly from his notepad, his gaze steady and unintrusive. 

“It’s not just the big things, y’know? It’s the little stuff too. Answering a text, picking what to wear, deciding what to eat.” You hesitated, suddenly self-conscious about how it sounded out loud. “It’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid.” His voice was firm but not harsh, and it startled you enough to meet his eyes. “When even the smallest tasks feel overwhelming, it’s not about the task itself. It’s about what’s behind it.”

You blinked, thrown again by how matter-of-fact he was, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Your gaze dropped to your hands. “I don’t know. I just… I feel like I’m running on empty all the time. Even when I sleep. Even when nothing’s wrong, it's like my brain is just—” You gestured vaguely, searching for the words. “Static.”

He nodded again, not interrupting. Letting you stumble your way through it without stepping in to finish your sentences. 

“And then there’s the sleep thing,” you added, the words spilling out now, faster than you intended. “I stay up way too late because it’s the only time I feel… I don’t know, quiet? But then I sleep in and feel like shit because half the day’s gone. And then I’m pissed at myself for wasting time, but I’m too tired to do anything about it.”

Your throat felt tight, your fingernails digging into your palms. “I know it’s all connected. I know it’s probably not even that hard of a fix. But it just…” You trailed off, your voice barely above a whisper now. “It just sucks.”

Rhysand’s pen stopped moving, but he didn’t look at you right away. He let the silence stretch out for a moment, long enough for you to wonder if you’d said too much too fast. When he finally met your eyes, his expression was unreadable—but there was something in his gaze that made your chest feel just a little less heavy.

“Thank you for sharing that,” he said softly. “It’s not easy to put into words, and I’m glad you did.”

You stared at him for a moment, weighing your options. You could keep playing along, nodding and pretending the carefully chosen words didn’t grate on you. Or you could… not. 

You exhaled sharply, sitting a little straighter. “Okay, look,” you started, your voice a touch hesitant but firm enough to hold his attention. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do here. I really do. But…” You paused, searching for the right way to say it without sounding like an asshole. “Can we skip the part where you pull out all the standard counseling techniques?”

His brows rose slightly, but he didn’t interrupt. 

“I mean, I get it. You’re building rapport, making me feel heard, all that. I’ve read the same textbooks. I’m a semester away from a psych degree, and I’m about to start a PhD program. So, I know what you’re supposed to do and say to make me feel comfortable.” You let your hands fall to your lap, your tone flat. “But, honestly? It just makes everything feel… fake.”

He tilted his head slightly, his expression thoughtful. “Fake how?”

You hesitated, trying to put it into words. “Like… I can tell what’s from the script. I know it’s part of the job, and I’m not saying you’re doing it wrong or anything. It’s just… Not gonna work for me? I don’t know, I’d just rather talk to an actual person than feel like I’m answering a list of pre-written questions.”

For a moment, you worried you’d overstepped. But then, to your surprise, he smiled. Not the practiced, reassuring kind, but a small, genuine curve of his lips. “Fair enough,” he said, leaning back into his chair. 

His posture shifted slightly, less formal and more… natural. When he spoke again, his voice had dropped a fraction, shedding the careful softness he’d used before. “How about this: I’ll leave the ‘textbook therapist’ voice behind if you answer two questions for me.” You looked at him expectantly. “How many times have you tried counseling before this?”

You couldn’t help how your shoulders tensed at the question, and you knew he’d seen it as well. No point in lying. “Five,” you admitted after a beat. “Including the one I ghosted three months ago.”

“Five,” he echoed, tapping his pen lightly against his notepad. “And why do you think those didn’t work out?”

The way he asked wasn’t accusatory. There was no judgment, no insinuation that it was your fault. Just curiosity. 

You finally uncrossed your arms, tucking your hands beneath your thighs. “I don’t know,” you said at first, but the words felt too dismissive. He didn’t rush to fill the silence, and somehow that made it easier to keep talking. “I guess… the first one wasn’t a great fit. She was fine, but it felt like she was checking off boxes the whole time. The second one…” You paused, cringing inwardly. “We just didn’t get along. He kept trying to dig into my childhood, even when I told him it wasn’t relevant.” You ran through the rest, trying not to wince at how overly critical it made you seem.

Rhysand nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful. “Sounds frustrating.”

“That’s one way to put it,” you muttered. 

“And yet, you’re here.”

You met his eyes. There was no smugness in his tone, no implied congratulations for showing up. Just quiet curiosity. 

“Yeah,” you said, lips twitching wryly. “I guess I’m not ready to give up on it yet.”

“Good,” he said simply, and the warmth in his tone surprised you. “Because here’s the thing—this only works if you’re honest with me. About what’s working, what’s not, and when I’m being an ass without realizing it.”

That drew a startled laugh from you, and his smile widened just a fraction. 

“I mean it,” he added, his gaze steady. “This is about you. Not the textbook. Not the manual. Just you. So, if you ever feel like I’m missing the mark, tell me. Deal?”

For a moment, you just looked at him, weighing his words. And then, slowly, you nodded. “Deal.”

“Good,” he said again, his tone lighter now. “Then let’s start from there. No scripts, no soft talk, no bullshit. What’s something you want to get out of this?”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The cursor blinked at you, waiting. 

You stared at the half-written sentence on your screen, the words blurring together as your mind drifted. For the past hour, you’d been trying to finish this paper—Behavioral and Cognitive Influences on Decision-Making: A Modern Analysis. It wasn’t exactly light, but usually, you could bury yourself in the subject. 

Not tonight. 

No matter how hard you tried, your thoughts kept circling back to Rhysand. To the way he’d leaned forward slightly when you spoke, his pen poised but never quite moving until you were finished. To the quiet weight of his question: “What’s something you want to get out of this?”

At the time, you’d said the first thing that came to mind: “I just want to feel normal again.”

But now, in the solitude of your room, the words felt inadequate. What did normal even mean? You couldn’t remember the last time life felt anything close to it.

You sighed, pushing the laptop away and resting your head in your hands. His face flashed in your mind again, the way his voice had softened—not in that rehearsed way therapists did, but genuinely, like he wanted to understand. You weren’t delusional; you knew he was only doing his job, that he didn’t really care about your depression. Still, the way he’d spoken made it hard not to believe, just a little. 

The silence in your room felt too heavy, curling at the edges like a headache you couldn’t shake. Pushing back from your desk, you stood, stretching briefly before heading toward the kitchen. Maybe a glass of water—or something stronger—would clear your head. 

As you padded down the hall, you caught the faint sound of music drifting from behind a closed door. Gwyn. Of course; her eclectic playlist was a constant in the apartment, swinging from soft folk ballads to gritty guitar riffs without missing a beat. You paused for a moment, smiling despite yourself at the muffled chorus of some indie anthem you couldn’t quite place. 

Your roommate always seemed to radiate energy, even through the walls. She had this way of filling every space with her presence, even when she wasn’t trying. You weren’t sure how she managed it, but Gwyn’s personality was as vibrant as the bright tapestries and fairy lights strung up in her room. The contrast between her and your quieter, more subdued energy never failed to make you wonder how the two of you had managed to live together so seamlessly. 

The music faded as you moved into the kitchen, flipping on the light. You opened the fridge, scanning its contents without really seeing them. A half-empty bottle of wine caught your eye, and for a moment, you considered it. Fingers wrapping around the neck, you pulled it partway off the shelf before hesitating. With a sigh, you pushed it back and grabbed a glass instead, filling it with water from the fridge.

As you leaned against the counter, sipping slowly, you heard Gwyn’s door creak open, followed by the sound of her bare feet padding toward the kitchen. A few seconds later, she appeared, leaning against the doorframe with an amused smile. 

“Burning the midnight oil again?” she asked, noting the dark circles under your eyes. “What’s this one—‘The Psychology of People Who Don’t Do Their Dishes’?”

You shot her a dry look. “Ha-ha. Behavioral decision-making.”

She raised an eyebrow as she grabbed a mug from the cabinet, her gaze flicking to the glass of water in your hand. “You know, for someone studying decision-making, you take a suspiciously long time to decide what to drink.”

“It’s just water,” you muttered, taking another sip.

Gwyn tilted her head and a few reddish-copper strands of hair fell over her face, her expression pointed. “Uh-huh. Don’t think I didn’t hear the wine bottle clink from my room.”

“And yet, here we are. Me with water.” You glanced up, raising an eyebrow in mock defiance. 

She smirked as she leaned against the counter beside you, unfazed. “Do you always make drinking water look this dramatic?”

You rolled your eyes, but the corners of your mouth twitched in spite of yourself. Something about her made it difficult to hold onto irritation for long.

“So,” she said casually, eyes narrowing slightly as she studied you. “What’s the verdict? Is Dr. Broody worth the copay?”

You stiffened slightly, then turned to face her, trying to keep your voice neutral. “He’s not broody,” you muttered.

Gwyneth tilted her head, clearly not buying it. “You said he’s a ‘Rhysand.’ That just sounds like a guy who broods in a corner looking mysterious. Or like a failed perfume line. Let me guess—sharp jaw, dark hair, probably devastatingly handsome?”

Yes…

You groaned, setting your glass on the counter. “Oh my god, can we not?”

“What? I’m just painting a picture. And hey, if therapy doesn’t work out, at least you’ll have some eye candy to distract you.”  

“Gwyn,” you warned, though your lips twitched again despite your efforts. 

“Alright, alright,” she said, waving a hand. “Speaking of distractions, though—The Hawk this weekend. Cassian’s meeting me there. You should come.”

You shot her a look. “I’ll pass.”

Gwyn crossed her arms, her grin widening. “You’re no fun.” She glanced away for a beat, then added—far too casually, “He, uh… he asks about you, you know. He worries.” You raised an eyebrow. Subtle as a brick. 

You bit your lip, unsure how to respond to that. Cassian worrying about you always felt strange—too much, in a way. “He has better things to worry about.”

Gwyn shook her head, teal eyes softening just a little. “Maybe. But you’re not as good at hiding as you think,” she said with a small smirk. “Cassian’s not the only one who picks up on things.”

You felt a tightness tug at your chest, but this time, you didn’t try to hide it. Instead, you just let the silence hang for a moment, knowing she wasn’t going to push you further—at least, not tonight.

Eventually she sighed, breaking the tension. “Come on. It’s just a few drinks. We could use the company. I’ll make sure he doesn’t corner you.”

You stared into your water, tracing the edge of the glass with your finger. The idea of getting close to Cassian again felt like a fine line you didn’t want to cross right now—not because you didn’t want him, but because you couldn’t bring yourself to risk pulling him in when you couldn’t even figure out where you were. “I’ll think about it.”

“Good enough,” Gwyn said, grinning. “I’ll let you stew on it. You owe me a drink at least for being so patient with you.”

You snorted softly. “Fine, deal.” Even if you flaked last minute, the way you always did these days, you’d give her 10 bucks for a sweet, fruity drink. But maybe a night out was exactly what you needed. Glancing at the clock on the stove, you saw it was nearly 2:30 a.m. With a sigh,  you made your way back to your laptop. The paper wasn’t going to write itself.

[angelpuns]

Donnie practically pushed Mikey out of the way to get through the door, squeezing past him just in time to see the fading blue of one of Leo's portals. 

He’d barely had time to grab his bo, head still fuzzy from sleep and pajama pants uncomfortably askew from Being woken suddenly. 

Mikey was in a similar state of disarray, his shirt riding up his shell and his eyes wide and glancing around the room wildly. 

They'd both been woken by Leo's shouting, rushing out of bed to help their brother only to find Raph in a Leo-free train car. 

“Raph? What happened? Why was he yelling?” 

As his brain woke up, he was reminded of their mission for the day: reverse Leo's ‘family-forgetting’ curse or whatever it was. 

So it probably had something to do with that. 

“I dunno! I came ta wake him up like he asked me to yesterday and he just- he started shoutin' at me!” Raph turned, holding his hand to a small cut on his arm. It bled sluggishly, and Donnie quickly opened a drawer in Leo's desk that he knew had band-aids. 

“ He musta had a nightmare or somethin’, I tried to help but I think I only made it worse “ Raph worried, letting Donnie slap the band-aid over the cut, “ he didn't seem ta recognize me or know where he was or anythin' “ 

They were silent for a moment, before Mikey piped up. 

“ But he’s never made a portal during a panic attack before….are you sure it was that, I mean-”

“ oh my banana pancakes,” Donnie slapped a hand to his head. His mind had been running through every possible Leo could have ‘woken up and chosen violence’. 

It could have been a nightmare. But the answer was so obviously related to their current curse-relted predicament. 

“ The curse! It’s not- He didn’t just forget us the one time, “ He explained, starting to pace. An uncomfortably hot feeling pooled in his stomach, anxiety bubbling up from there. He shook his hands out in an attempt to dispel the feeling, the lingering worry about Leo now being somewhere totally random making him nauseous. 

“ It's- its like he resets! He must have forgotten again when he went to sleep- like- like he just got reset overnight!” He rambled, grimacing, “ This complicates everything, how’re we gonna get him to cooperate if he wakes up with a different reaction to three strangers every single day!? How are we gonna fix this is if he forgets the curse even exists!?”

Raph stopped him, hands on shoulders. 

“ Donnie, take a breath,” he sighed, and Donnie reluctantly stopped and shut his eyes for a second, taking a deep breath in and letting it out slowly. 

“We can get him back, no problem,” Raph smiled, “ ya still got that tracker in ‘im, right?” 

Donnie blinked. Right, how could he forget? 

“ of course! TO THE LAB!” he whipped around and hurried for the door, trusting they'd follow him. 

“ I'm sure ‘Nardo can fend for himself, he does have his swords,” He noted, if only to make himself feel a little less anxious, “ but I would rather him not be wandering the streets of NYC without half of his memories.” 

He continues to ramble, even as he stepped into his lab and  whipped out his keyboard, quickly pulling up the tracking device coordinates and corresponding map. 

“What if he doesn't come home before night? Will he just forget us again?” Mikey asked, swiping some stuff off of Donnie's desk and taking a seat on the surface.

Mikey suddenly gasped, grinning, " this is just like that one movie! With Adam Sandler and Drew Barrymore!"

Donnie grimaced, but he had bigger concerns right now. Even if those were parts to a pretty important project. He opted to ignore that and just think harder about the actual matter at hand. And the plot of 50 First Dates. Just in case it could actually help them somehow.

“ I assume so, yes. And that amnesia-riddled plot is more medically related, so sort of but not really."

"What's more concerning is that he probably won't remember why he's out there, and that will probably introduce more anxiety to the mix,” Donnie murmured, watching as Leo's indicator moved slowly through the streets of New York. He was on then other side of the river, and seemed to be hopping rooftops for now, “ like I said, he can take care of himself, but we should at least try and convince him to come back to the lair before nightfall. I don't know if his amnesia is progressing or not yet, which is also concerning.” 

Silence again. There was also the obvious concern about Leo being gone. Which, unfortunately, seemed to be one of the more difficult things they'd been collectively working through. 

The first six months or so, Leo was never left alone. Not for lack of trusting him or thinking he wasn't capable of taking care of himself ( although he was fairly injured for most of that time ) but for the fact that none of them seemed to want to let him out of their sight. It was partially why Donnie had upgraded the trackers to track their vital signs down to their blood pressure. He didn't like not knowing. He didn't like remembering the feeling of Leo being gone after- 

Donnie let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. It was gonna be okay. Leo wasn't gone, he just wasn't in the lair. And he couldn't possibly know how anxiety inducing that was due to the aforementioned amnesia-curse. 

But they knew where he was, and they knew he was okay for now. 

The computer suddenly let out a beep. then another. Donnie looked up, watching as Leo's dot stopped moving. His heart rate increased, and the beeping increased with it. 

There was one thing that they hadn't really accounted for, after all. 

The chance of Leo ending up in a fight.

-----

Part 3 to the unnamed fic/au/whatever this is

I don't like this part as much, but I really am just trying to get the idea out of my head and into writing, haha! So I hope the OOC-ness of everybody isn't too bad :)

I think this would def work better as a fic, but I am kinda wanting to explore it as a comic too. Comics just take a lot of time and I can't do all the fun thought-stuff I like to do on fics so :/

Ah well I will simply keep doing whatever I want, so enjoy.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 4

[sunderwight]

SVSSS AU where Shen Yuan transmigrates as usual, except it's to find that his system is freaking out because it's been several years since Luo Binghe was supposed to show up at the sect trials to start his plot but so far there's been no sign of the protagonist, the Protagonist Halo Features aren't working correctly, and there's another transmigrator who arrived earlier, somehow hacked into the system, and erased its ability to track or punish him before disappearing into parts unknown (it was Airplane).

So Shen Yuan, now Shen Qingqiu, reasons that anyone who was trying to interfere with the plotline had either rescued or killed Luo Binghe while he was still young. Hoping for the former (but braced for the latter) he uses what scant knowledge the novel provided about Luo Binghe's origins, plus his new skills and some of the sect resources available, to track down Luo Binghe.

Turns out, in this version of events, some "random benefactor" showed up and gave Luo Binghe's mother some life-saving medicine. So she didn't die. But her health remained poor and Binghe never left her side, instead doing as much of her work as he was able to. So teenaged Binghe is basically a seemingly average, run-of-the-mill servant.

Shen Qingqiu is like "well this is pretty easy to fix actually" and approaches Luo Binghe as a wise immortal master type, says he sees Binghe's potential, and offers to take him on as a disciple. Luo Binghe is thrilled and kind of gobsmacked, but won't abandon his mother. Not a problem! Shen Qingqiu figured he wouldn't, so he offers to make arrangements to have Mama Luo comfortably set up in one of the villages at the base of the mountain. Sure, having her be alive and letting Binghe visit and write to her would be a deviation from the usual tragic backstory, but not a huge one! Shen Qingqiu is ready to mark this problem solved (and start dealing with all the other problems it creates for him) but the system is weirdly unsatisfied.

Turns out that even though Shen Qingqiu has found Luo Binghe (and a few discreet tests confirm that he has some sort of seal in place, and what are the odds of some other random orphan found on the Luo river, raised by a kindly-but-ill laundress, and named "Luo Binghe" exists in the same region?), the system still can't detect the Protagonist Halo Feature. The stupid glitching thing can't recognize the protagonist without it, so it keeps insisting that Shen Qingqiu locate him, even when he's kneeling right there and performing the tea ceremony for his initiation!

It's really annoying!

Especially since this means that the system won't actually safeguard Luo Binghe from harm. Which means it's up to Shen Qingqiu to make sure that his little white lotus disciple lives long enough to become the ruler of everything. This is easier said than done! Between the skinner demon side quest, and the demonic invasion, and various other side missions to build up the protagonist's potential, Luo Binghe is constantly getting into trouble and Shen Qingqiu keeps getting poisoned or injured trying to drag him back out of it in one piece!

Matters come to a head at the Immortal Alliance Conference (as they so often do). Shen Qingqiu is not planning to yeet Binghe, of course. Like this there's no guarantee of survival, and the system isn't even demanding it of him (because it still doesn't recognize the protagonist), but it seems to be demanding they turn up for the event anyway. Shen Qingqiu is a nervous wreck and fighting the urge to hover, because as expected, there is still a demonic invasion. Except this time Mobei Jun is there, and so is a mysterious cloaked figure who seems to be searching for something.

As soon as Shen Qingqiu claps eyes on the figure, the system chimes happily.

Protagonist Halo successfully located!

Turns out, part of Airplane's hacks involved stealing the halo and reassigning it to himself. Except that means that narrative destiny still wants him to hit certain plot beats, so he's been busily conquering the demonic realms -- in MBJ's name of course -- and mostly doing the bare minimum to satisfy the requirements while evading the system's efforts to regain contact. But now he's gotta go get Xin Mo somehow, except the minute Shen Qingqiu spots him so does the system.

The system, which immediately reassigns Airplane as the protagonist, and orders Shen Qingqiu to throw him into the Endless Abyss.

Which is like, better this rando than Binghe, so okay, but Mobei Jun is not cooperating plus the mysterious hooded stranger also seems pretty resistant to the idea (Airplane is NOT a heavenly demon, Protagonist Halo or no he's still actually a relatively squishy human cultivator, and he does not want to go into the hell pit), and between one thing and another Airplane manages to fall int the Abyss with Luo Binghe.

Not ideal. Which is to say, Shen Qingqiu is emotionally devastated and almost convinced that Luo Binghe has died for real and that Mysterious Halo Thief is going to come out somehow in a few years and chop off all his limbs, and Mobei Jun is extremely distressed because the man he intends to marry just fell into the Endless Abyss, and that seems like a difficult thing to somehow Evil Vizier your way out of.

The other peak lords arrive to keep Mobei Jun from killing Shen Qingqiu, and so everyone just kind of despairingly returns to their separate corners of the universe to wait and see what will happen.

Meanwhile, down in the Endless Abyss, Luo Binghe has unlocked his heavenly demon blood and is now constantly trying to kill Airplane. But thanks to the transferred protagonist halo it just doesn't work. The system interferes and creates a last-minute unlikely survival route for Airplane every time. They eventually reach an impasse where Airplane can't die but only Luo Binghe is strong enough to actually fight most of the creatures in the Abyss, and all this "fighting" between the two of them (generous description) keeps attracting big monsters.

So, Airplane offers a deal. He knows things about this place. Including how to get out. If Luo Binghe helps him fend off the monsters, then he'll help Luo Binghe survive and escape as well. He even offers to help him get away from Shen Qingqiu and make a place for himself in the demon realms! Luo Binghe tries to kill him again for that, so he drops that line of attempted bribery really quick and switches tactics. He knows more things! Things about Shen Qingqiu's past! Secrets he'll share if Luo Binghe helps him!

Is this the start of a beautiful new friendship?

No.

Turns out Luo Binghe and Airplane have exactly the correct combination of shared traits and differences to find one another mostly intolerable. But not intolerable to the point of not being able to manage teeth-clenched teamwork. By the time they get out of the Endless Abyss, Luo Binghe never wants to hear about cup noodles or tax collection or Mobei Jun's tits ever again, and Airplane feels much the same about anything at all to do with Shen Qingqiu (and either Shen Qingqiu is a fellow transmigrator now or else Luo Binghe has inserted a shockingly vivid delusion over the scum villain he wrote). But they're both alive and in joint custody of an evil sword.

Unfortunately, due to the bickering and the complexities of Shang Qinghua's sketchy memory for his own plots, it takes them even longer to get out of the Abyss than it took PIDW Luo Binghe to manage on his own.

And, uh. Well.

They don't find things in great shape, considering how they left them...

[chigirizzz]

↳ ❝ teddy bear ❞

megumi, fluff, post argument, wrote this when i was sick lol

the plushie that was once in your arms was suddenly kicked by you, resulting in hitting the wall and falling on the floor, its face staring at you as if mocking you. the scene perhaps would be comical if it weren’t by your annoyed mood. no matter which plushie or pillow you hugged, no matter how many times you turned around in your bed, it seems that sleep wasn’t a thing you’d accomplish tonight. no matter which plush or pillow you hugged, nothing could replace the warmth of your boyfriend’s embrace…

it was your fault. it was your fault that you and megumi had an argument and now he’s on the couch just so he could give you some space.

your mind replayed the moments before and during the argument, hoping to find comfort in the pillow that you just grabbed. none of you raised your voices to the other—that is something neither of you could ever do—, but you still disrespected him.

you needed to apologize. he didn’t deserve to sleep in any other place that wasn't your shared bed.

megumi couldn’t decide which was more annoying: his arm going numb because his head was on it, or the stupid background laughter coming from the series on tv.

he couldn’t sleep. he didn’t want to anyway. the male pretended to not be affected by the argument earlier, however, knowing you were in your shared bedroom without him made him feel cold and lonely. the words that came out of both your mouth and his made him feel like his heart was being squeezed.

the facial expression you did when he offered to sleep on the couch described regret. it meant that, despite the stupid and unnecessary fight, you wanted your boyfriend to be by your side the whole night. however, he felt like this was the best option; to give you space and time to clear your head (and his too).

arguments between you two had happened before. it's a normal thing in any type of relationship, after all. but they still hurt.

a shadow appeared by the corner of his eye, making his fight or flight mode activate.

“oh.” it was all it escaped from his lips. it was you, not far from the couch, with your hands behind your back. it was hard to read your emotions, mainly because of the fact that the only source of light was from the tv. why were you still awake?

“did i scare you?”

“yes, you did.” the dark haired male scratched the back of his neck and fixed his posture. “need anything? did you have a nightmare?”

“no, no. i’m fine,” you answered, shaking your head. your voice and body language were way more calmer than earlier. “uh… actually, i came here to give you something.”

he frowned, confused. “what is it?”

you sat close to him. really close. your arms and knees touching, making his cheeks get painted by a light shade of pink. it was a nice and warm sensation.

megumi was never the type of physical touch until he met you. in fact, he's still getting used to it. he always appreciated his friends in silence, but never hugged them or anything (even a simple ‘i miss you’ or ‘i love you’ couldn't be heard from him). that was until your presence was written in the book of his life, adding a new chapter that completely changed his story.

“here.”

it was a teddy bear. a teddy bear holding a red heart and…a piece of paper taped to its arm?

megumi recognized the teddy bear. he offered you on valentine's day the previous year. he was all shy, scared that you were gonna think the plush was too corny. but all you did was grab his cheeks to pull him closer to you so you could kiss his forehead. i love you no matter what present you give me, is what you told him.

he caressed the bear’s ears. good memories flew over his mind, his heart now untangled and warm.

your arms were now around his arm, head resting on his shoulder. “read the note.”

sweet words could be read from the note. the handwriting was pretty and the choice of words was well done. you did you best to describe how sorry you were and how you wanted to fix things.

“i’m sorry megumi. i really am.”

“no… i should apologize too.”

“come to bed.” you tugged his arm so he could get up. “i'm tired but i can't sleep. today was tiring.”

“i don't know, the couch is actually really comfortable.” an attempt to hide his smile was made after telling you his joke.

“is this how you wanna play?”

he chuckled at your reaction. his laugh was music to your ears especially because it wasn't a very common thing from your boyfriend.

“not funny.”

all he did was ignore you and walk towards the bedroom. pretending to be offended, you jumped on his back to scold him. however, only laughter could be heard from you, making him smile even more. you will never let an argument ruin another day. you prefer moments like this one.

[madameisaacpereire]

i'm devoted to you (sick, and i'm a fool)

❝ He watches you in a way that is both patient and calculating as you place the cigarette between your lips haphazardly and swat at another maple bug crawling over your skirt. Your hair blows in front of your face again. Henry pulls the strands back behind your ear with a tender, methodical sort of care this time.❞

The time you gave Henry a tarot reading.

read on ao3 + guardian angel masterlist.

angel was not herself in this, fixed it the best i could omg it's crazy to see how underdeveloped she was here

 “Humor me,” You gracelessly collapse onto a crimson chenille blanket in the grass, just barely avoiding all the books and papers splattered across it. 

 Henry has been working out here for hours and you’re certain he needs a break— you watched him snap the angelic looking blonde that he’s done everything in his power to be physically closer to for months. The one he buys boxes of chocolates for and angles his entire body toward in every room. This simply won’t do.

 You drop a small blue boxwith a vaguely Egyptian looking illustration and Cagliostro Tarot printed in a white faux medieval font across the face of it in front of him. You know this is likely to catch Henry’s attention— he’s the single most superstitious person you’ve met in your 21 years of life, which is saying a lot considering the fact that a good chunk of your friends at Hampden are in the theater program.

  He looks up at you, blue eyes bright and rimmed with distrust. A curling yellow leaf lands on his left shoulder. It tips back and forth like the scale on the tarot box and a single strand of his dark hair dances lightly in the late September breeze, tilting this way and that until it comes to a stop on his forehead. 

   He fixes it the moment it lands and the leaf tumbles from his shoulder, reminding you of the way a shark or a big cat on the nature channel might be still one second, only to strike the next. You draw your hefty borrowed overcoat tighter as a shiver slithers down your spine. 

“Are you a spiritualist now?” He asks, looking through instead of at you.

“I prefer medium, actually.”

A brownish black bug with red stripes down its body lands on your skirt. Boisea trivittata, you think. You recognize it from an old field guide you read last autumn, curled in the corner of Francis’ aunt’s library. You gently brush it to the blanket and watch it crawl a few tiny paces before taking flight.

“And what precisely do you propose to do with these?” Henry asks, a dark brow quirked up— in amusement or annoyance, you aren’t sure.

 You reach over and run your finger over the side of the box, where it reads ‘Fortune Telling Cards.’ Your cherry red nail polish is chipped at the corner in a neat triangle— you’ll need to fix that later, but for now you don’t mind. For now, all that matters is putting Henry in a better mood. 

 “I’ll tell you your fortune, of course.” 

“All forms of divination are to be rejected, you’ll remember. Recourse to Satan and his demons. Curious of you to suggest, angel. I thought you more pious.” He speaks monotonously as ever, even as his voice sticks, honey sweet, to your nickname. 

It’s difficult not to laugh at this, but you manage.

“And superstition is the deviation of religious feeling and practices,” you open the box and tip its contents to the blanket gingerly, “yet you leave milk out for passing spirits and keep a rabbit’s foot in your glove box.”

He smiles and your breath stills a moment. His smiles are so infrequent these days that it always feels like a precious gift, one he grants only to those most worthy. It splits his face open and renders him handsome— it is the sort of smile, you think, reminiscent of the sort of Dawn Homer describes. The sort of smile that brings the spun gold of new light to deathless gods and mortals alike. 

“Touché.”

He reminds you of a Robert Frost poem like this. You tear your eyes from him before you can say or do something stupid and move the booklet— faded blue with grainy swirls— to your lap. Henry watches, frigid blue eyes locked on your hands with such intensity that they tremble faintly. You wish they wouldn’t but wishing is pointless, it never does anything, so you stack the red backed cards into as neat a pile as you can and hand it to him.

He takes the deck, dwarfing it almost comically in one large corpse-pale hand. His eyes raise to meet yours again, stilling your heart in your chest when he tips his head to the side as if to ask ‘What now?’ 

You shift onto your knees and lean closer to grab his other hand. The contact brings goosebumps to the surface of the skin on your arms, but you ignore it and guide his hand to rest on top of the cards, curving your fingers to press into and subsequently curve his. When he’s cupping the deck like a lightning-bug, you settle back onto your heels and press your fingers into the blanket as if to erase the feeling.

“Commune.” You instruct.

“Speak with them?” It’s hard to tell if he’s pulling your leg or if he really doesn’t know what you mean with the way amusement streaks like lamb’s blood across his face. 

“Just…  okay, close your eyes,” His eyes slide shut obediently, “Now, focus all of your energy on your hands. Like you’re trying to send every thought and feeling you’ve ever had into them.”

His forehead wrinkles with focus as he does so. You resist the urge to smooth it out with your thumb even though you might have done as much three or four years ago— physical contact feels different now; nearly everything does, frustratingly enough.

 “You’ll stop when the deck gets heavy.” At least that’s what your roommate, Ashley, told you when she read your cards a few days ago. 

   Your reading had almost entirely been in the suit of cups (Ace, 9, 10) which— she had shared, her bubblegum and tobacco scented breath wafting into your face as she noisily chomped on a large pink wad of it— suggested you embrace your emotions in order to allow your deepest desires to bloom.

You don’t believe a word of the reading. Of course you don’t: you’re reasonable about these sorts of things. Pragmatic. You don’t let emotion or superstition override ration— or, at least, you try not to— it’s a point of pride; one which Henry has a habit of stretching and bending as he sees fit, finding entertainment in getting you to snap. He’s successful in that a touch more often than you’d like.

He looks younger with his eyes shut. So young that you could almost believe you’re back in Maine on vacation, or sitting on the grass in the backyard of his Missouri house. Beneath his hardened, proud spirit, he’s still the boy he has always been. You don’t know whether this fact makes you want to laugh or cry. You don’t have time to do either.

 His eyes slip open beneath his wire framed glasses, hands dipping with the weight of the cards. Your fingers brush against his wrist as you take them from him, and his skin is warm and soft as it always has been; further proof that he’s mortal still, that his classical studies haven’t lead to an offer of becoming some sort of otherworldly entity. 

You split the deck in two just as your roommate did and tap the sides of those halves together in an ‘X’ shape. When you’re satisfied with how many times you’ve rapped them against each other, you begin to shuffle. The cards are clumsy in your grasp, stumbling and knocking into each other like drunk students at a house party. 

You keep on anyway, trying not to show how much harder it is than you expected. You don’t mind being bad at things normally, but being bad at them in front of Henry is a different beast entirely. Then one flips out, followed by another, and another.

You both lean over them, peering at the cards. A sword, green foliage peeking from behind it. Three of spades.  A red winged flower, marigold yellow, with a red pom pom topping it like a cherry. Six of spades. A man in an ornate crimson and gold outfit, clutching a scepter over his chest. King of clubs— the only upright one in the entire spread.

You set the deck aside and open up the booklet, flipping through with frenzied speed to locate each card’s meaning. You don’t want him to go back to his work while he waits for you; that defeats the entire purpose of this exercise. Henry traces a finger along each card while you mark each card’s page to refer back to, studying the pictures and mouthing the short inscriptions as he reads them.

A few more yellow leaves float down around you, gentle as snowflakes. The reversal, you learn, makes each card mean its opposite. It’s far more complicated than your roommate let on. A page slides down your thumb as you try flipping past it and sharp warmth slices through your finger. A paper-cut. You press your bleeding thumb into your skirt and a minute line of watery blood forms beneath it, marring the white cotton. 

It isn’t the first time you’ve bled for him and it won’t be the last, either. You know this as innately as you know how to breathe— it doesn’t concern you as much as you know it ought. You glance up at him before you begin to speak, as if asking if he’s ready. You wait for him to notice and nod in indication that he’s ready to listen before you go on.

   “It says,” You flip between card meanings, marking them with your fingers so as to return to each meaning easily, “You might be experiencing a shift away from sorrow or resentment, perhaps finding some sort of clarity in forgiveness- that’s the three of spades- but somehow you still feel trapped.”

 He sits up straighter as he listens. You didn’t know he could go any more rigid— it’s a little funny.

  “It’s temporary, however, and this king card instructs you to lead your life with surety and a long term view. You will, it says, leave a legacy of some sort.” You flip the booklet shut with a dramatic flair and toss it to the ground.

He’s quiet and more guarded as he ponders this. The afternoon sunlight glows against his skin, creating a fuzzy halo. It’s beautiful. When isn’t he? You open your pack of cigarettes and perch one between your lips. Henry hands you his matchbook without seeming to think about it for a second. It's a soft yellow thing, marked from The Polo. You light up. Smoke plumes out, smooth and elegant in cloud and scent— at least, compared to Henry’s preferred cigarettes. He wrinkles his nose. 

   “I don’t know how you can smoke those things.”  He takes his matchbook back and fishes out his own cigarettes, chill distaste stamped across his features.

  “Number 1 Reds, dear,” You blow a healthy cloud of smoke his way, a teasing smile on your lips, “Consistently excellent.”

  “Consistently quisquiliarum.” He speaks around his cigarette while he lights it. Consistently rubbish.

You laugh dryly, as if his insult doesn’t injure you in the slightest. But it does; you both know it does.

  “You’re hardly the pinnacle of refinement where tobacco is concerned, Mr. A-Pack-of-Your-Cheapest-Please.”

  He shakes his match out and tucks it into his breast pocket along with the matchbook. Then, with two fingers, he pulls the cigarette from his mouth. 

  “I still have better taste than you, at any rate.” His eyes linger on your lips a second too long.

 You scoff derisively and direct your attention elsewhere, ignoring the way your stomach flips at just the thought of his looking at your mouth. The prospect of him wanting to kiss you is undeniably pleasing, but it isn’t something you dwell on. You stare instead at the way Bunny lounges on the front porch, teapot of champagne between himself and Charles. Charles is reading a forest green clothbound book as he smokes, and it looks— from here— like Bunny is trying to engage him in a conversation Charles has no interest in.

   “Where’d you scrounge up that coat?” Henry asks like he knows the answer, voice cool and measured— though you could almost convince yourself that jealousy lives there, too. Maybe some kind of protectiveness. You could almost convince yourself that he cares.

You take a deep pull from your cigarette— enjoying the way it gums up your throat and makes your lungs feel smaller— then let it out as slowly as you can, making him wait for an answer. Your enjoyment of this perceived jealousy is petty and childish, but you’ve watched for weeks as he shines his spotlight of attention on Camilla— fetching her drinks, surprising her with a book she once mentioned wanting to read— which you don’t blame him for, exactly. 

She’s pretty and sharp, just as witty as you— if not more. She’s also so very similar to him, detached from most visible emotion in a way you know he finds irresistible.Yet you haven’t been able to rid yourself of that ugly prickling feeling beneath your skin when you see them together. It’s a feeling you’re unsure of, one you’ve never felt where Henry is concerned, and you don’t like it one bit. 

You breathe in smoke once more and shift to fuss with your coat buttons. He’s watching you, you know, even as he begins to collect the cards to fit back into the navy box. You still don’t think about why you feel such a thick, black, tar-like burning nagging at you when you see the two of them together. You out and out refuse.

Because, of course, there have been times where you find him irresistibly attractive—  but everybody does. That can’t be helped. He’s Henry, who you’ve known since before he took his first breath, who is smart and unintentionally funny more often than not and sweet, when he’d like to be. He deserves to be with someone like Camilla, if he chooses. He does. 

“I borrowed it from Francis.” You finally answer. It feels lame on your tongue. Pathetic.

“You didn’t need to,” He says like he finds it all ridiculous, “I have a coat I’m not using by the door. You know very well that you’re welcome to it, angel.”

There it is again. Angel. The two syllables that sing through you, head to toe, sticking like saccharine sweet syrup between bone and sinew; the nickname that leaves you stripped bare, stupid, and vulnerable. 

You balance your cigarette between two fingers as another breeze steals by, and take in the comforting crinkle of paper bending as it kisses the pages; you watch the leaves tumble across the grass, in rusty browns and yellows, a select few still bright green. Your hair blows over your face and a single strand of blonde sticks to your lipstick. You tuck it back behind your ear disdainfully, ignoring the cherry colored stain you know clings to it. 

 “You say that as if you’d like me to go change my jacket.” The words tumble out hot and fast, gliding one into the other before you can stop them.

  He pauses.

 “Well, angel, I can’t honestly say I wouldn’t be pleased about it, if you chose to.”

Sometimes you think he does all of this on purpose, just to watch you come unglued. He’ll address you as nothing, not even by name anymore, only to blitz attack with the rapid succession of angel, angel, angel. It leaves you nearly defenseless against him. 

Your cigarette burns so low it almost scorches your fingers, and Henry moves faster than you can even think to, reaching over and pinching it out before an ember can even touch you and smoothly replaces it with a freshly lit Lucky Strike. You don’t like Luckies very much, yet mystifyingly always end up smoking them in his presence; on occasion because you’ve picked one up before you think about it, but most often it happens like this. Him pressing one into your grasp, firm and insistent. You taking it from him obediently, like a child.

You have a similar sway over him at times, at the very least— you’ve gotten him to take a break from working, after all, just to oblige your desire to give him a tarot reading. And he often seems ashamed, even remorseful when you deign to raise your voice at him. You are the one he asks for when he doesn’t feel well; the person closest to him, for all intents and purposes, regardless of how much time you spend apart. 

But this weakness he shows for you, however shocking it is to others, is nothing compared to the soft spot you have for him. All he has to do is call you ‘angel,’ and you keel over yourself; so tender it’s painful, so quickly you bruise.

He waits while you think, watching you in a way that is both patient and calculating. Silence is never awkward with Henry and even this is no exception.  You place the cigarette between your lips haphazardly and swat at another maple bug as it crawls over your skirt. Your hair blows in front of your face again. 

Henry pulls the strands back behind your ear with a tender, methodical sort of care that makes your head spin. You don’t think about the way your blood boils and lurches, or why your cheeks feel so hot under this attention. 

You aren’t a weak person. Not really. You aren’t sure how he does it to you— how he makes you feel sick with fever and foolish as a fawn. How he manages to make you feel so silly and young all over again, as if you’re still a little girl on the verge of pelting him with apple slices over a small disagreement.

You unbutton the coat and let it slip from your frame, accepting the inevitability that is you, giving in to his whims, however senseless they may be. Your white dress serves as a flag of surrender. You stare down at the slim red line of blood, so small, streaked across the skirt. It feels symbolic in a way you can’t explain. Like there’s a metaphor there that you could worry out from it if only you found yourself able to think at the moment. 

Henry places the tarot box on top of the blood stain as if nothing transpired here at all, and begins sorting through papers once more. 

 “Would you mind it terribly if I asked you to bring me a drink?” He asks without sparing you another glance. 

“Of course not.” You take the tarot deck in hand and push up onto your feet, Francis’s coat over your arm.

“Thank you.” His pen begins to scratch against his notebook once again.

You nod and amble back toward the house. You don’t think about it when you agree to do something for him, you just do it. This is always how it has been, and how it will probably always be. That extra card from your reading last week, the one your roommate gave you, helpfully propels itself forward in your memory.

'Careful', she’d warned you, 'You might have the upper hand now, but that balance can change completely at any time.'

You had laughed and pushed off her bed, floating back towards your closet to change— you don't even remember what for— because you had believed, of course, that tarot was utter bullshit. You still do, mostly. But now you think you might understand what she meant about ever changing balance. There’s one between you and Henry. There has been for years. 

You hang Francis’s coat and busy yourself with Henry’s drink. You feel silly and ashamed for it. What’s worse is that you don’t care. You’re happy to do him a favor of any kind; you always have been, ever since you were children. 

  ‘Careful, you might have the upper hand now…’

Not for the first time, you wonder if you ever have, or if he has just had the grace to allow you to pretend it is so. You slip Henry’s coat on before you head back out. It’s significantly larger on you than Francis’s was, but it is also warmer and it smells like him. Like home, if it were a person.

  ‘…but that balance can change completely at any time.’

And if your chest caves in on itself when you find Camilla sitting where you were not ten minutes prior, you pretend it doesn’t make it any harder to breathe. You’ve grown very good at pretending not to love him, after all.

[nhaneh]

Growing ever more frustrated with the use of the term "AI" and how the latest marketing trend has ensured its already rather vague and highly contextual meaning has now evaporated into complete nonsense. Much like how the only real commonality between animals colloquially referred to as "Fish" is "probably lives in the water", the only real commonality between things currently colloquially referred to as "AI" is "probably happens on a computer"

For example, the "AI" you see in most games wot controls enemies and other non-player actors typically consist primarily of timers, conditionals, and RNG - and are typically designed with the goal of trying to make the game fun and/or interesting rather than to be anything ressembling actually intelligent. By contrast, the thing that the tech sector is currently trying to sell to us as "AI" relates to a completely different field called Machine Learning - specifically the sub-fields of Deep Learning and Neural Networks, specifically specifically the sub-sub-field of Large Language Models, which are an attempt at modelling human languages through large statistical models built on artificial neural networks by way of deep machine learning.

the word "statistical" is load bearing.

Say you want to teach a computer to recognize images of cats. This is actually a pretty difficult thing to do because computers typically operate on fixed patterns whereas visually identifying something as a cat is much more about the loose relationship between various visual identifiers - many of which can be entirely optional: a cat has a tail except when it doesn't either because the tail isn't visible or because it just doesn't have one, a cat has four legs, two eyes and two ears except for when it doesn't, it has five digits per paw except for when it doesn't, it has whiskers except for when it doesn't, all of these can look very different depending on the camera angle and the individual and the situation - and all of these are also true of dogs, despite dogs being a very different thing from a cat.

So, what do you do? Well, this where machine learning comes into the picture - see, machine learning is all about using an initial "training" data set to build a statistical model that can then be used to analyse and identify new data and/or extrapolate from incomplete or missing data. So in this case, we take a machine learning system and feeds it a whole bunch of images - some of which are of cats and thus we mark as "CAT" and some of which are not of cats and we mark as "NOT CAT", and what we get out of that is a statistical model that, upon given a picture, will assign a percentage for how well it matches its internal statistical correlations for the categories of CAT and NOT CAT.

This is, in extremely simplified terms, how pretty much all machine learning works, including whatever latest and greatest GPT model being paraded about - sure, the training methods are much more complicated, the statistical number crunching even more complicated still, and the sheer amount of training data being fed to them is incomprehensively large, but at the end of the day they're still models of statistical probability, and the way they generate their output is pretty much a matter of what appears to be the most statistically likely outcome given prior input data.

This is also why they "hallucinate" - the question of what number you get if you add 512 to 256 or what author wrote the famous novel Lord of the Rings, or how many academy awards has been won by famous movie Goncharov all have specific answers, but LLMs like ChatGPT and other machine learning systems are probabilistic systems and thus can only give probabilistic answers - they neither know nor generally attempt to calculate what the result of 512 + 256 is, nor go find an actual copy of Lord of the Rings and look what author it says on the cover, they just generalise the most statistically likely response given their massive internal models. It is also why machine learning systems tend to be highly biased - their output is entirely based on their training data, they are inevitably biased not only by their training data but also the selection of it - if the majority of english literature considered worthwhile has been written primarily by old white guys then the resulting model is very likely to also primarily align with the opinion of a bunch of old white guys unless specific care and effort is put into trying to prevent it.

It is this probabilistic nature that makes them very good at things like playing chess or potentially noticing early signs of cancer in x-rays or MRI scans or, indeed, mimicking human language - but it also means the answers are always purely probabilistic. Meanwhile as the size and scope of their training data and thus also their data models grow, so does the need for computational power - relatively simple models such as our hypothetical cat identifier should be fine with fairly modest hardware, while the huge LLM chatbots like ChatGPT and its ilk demand warehouse-sized halls full of specialized hardware able to run specific types of matrix multiplications at rapid speed and in massive parallel billions of times per second and requiring obscene amounts of electrical power to do so in order to maintain low response times under load.

[sparklyskies0]

crawling back to you, c.s

( in which ) Despite the love chris has for you, he’s perfectly fine with not taking action and making you his to end both of your suffering.

disclaimers: mutual pining, smut (unprotected p in v), kissing, miscommunication, slow burn, NOT EDITED! :)) 2,256 words

You swear you can feel him before you even see him. It's like your body recognizes his presence before your brain does─before your eyes lock onto his across the room.

Chris is leaning against the wall, head tipped back, the silver chain around his neck catching the dim glow of the LED lights. His hoodie is slipping off his shoulder slightly. He looks good─too good.

And you hate it, it's killing you.

You hate the way your stomach clenches when he exhales a slow drag from the joint between his fingers. Hate the way he only half-smiles when his eyes land on you, like he's been waiting, like he already knew you'd show up.

You shouldn't be here.

But you are.

And he's looking at you like that.

The party is loud, voices blending with bass-heavy music, but it all feels muted, like the world has shrunk to the space between you and him. You take a sip from your drink, something cold and sharp that does nothing to steady your nerves, and when you look up again, he's already moving.

Chris doesn't touch you when he stops beside you, but he's close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off of him.

"You came," he murmurs, voice low, just for you.

You dont know what to say to that, so you shrug.

"so did you."

Chris huffs out something that might've been a laugh if it didn't sound so bitter.

"I always do."

It's the truth, and its sit heavy in your chest. Chris is always there─always lingering just outside of reach, close enough to make you feel like you could have him if you really wanted, but far enough that you know better than to try.

You don't ask why he never says anything. You don't ask why he lets you have him in every way except the one that matters. You already know the answer.

Because he's too scared of what happens if he actually asks the question neither of you are brave enough to say out loud.

Do i wanna know?

"wanna get out of here?" he asks instead.

And you do. You always do

His apartment is quiet when you get there, the only sound is the low hum of the city outside. You shouldn't be here either. But here you are, following him inside, watching as he shrugs off his hoodie, runs a hand through his hair like he's trying to shake off whatever this is.

Like he doesn't know it never goes away.

But you want this, you want him and you've made that abundantly clear. He has too, in his own way. But yet again, you don't ask questions of why you can get close but never close enough.

You swallow hard, your throat dry despite the drinks, despite the haze of everything unspoken between you.

Chris watches you, jaw tight, fingers twitching at his side. Like he wants to touch you. Like he wants to do something about it.

But he wont.

You step closer, heart hammering, and press your palms to his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin through his shirt. His breath catches, but he doesn't move, doesn't push you away.

"You gonna keep pretending this isnt real?' you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

Chris swallows hard, his hands ghosting over your hips, like hes debating whether to grab you, whether to pull you in or let you go.

"You already know the answer," he murmurs.

His lips are so close, a breath away, and when he finally, finally presses his mouth to yours, it's not sweet, not gentle─its desperate. Like he's been holding back for too long. Like he's giving in just this once, even though you both know it won't fix anything.

His hand slips under your shirt, fingertips burning against your skin, you arch into him, gasping when he nips at your bottom lip. Its messy, its reckless, its everything you both pretend you don't want.

But you do.

You always do.

And it's never enough.

Chris kisses you like he's trying to memorize the way you taste. Like if he kisses you hard enough, long enough, he'll finally stop wanting you the way he does.

(It won't work. it never does.)

His hands slip beneath your shirt, fingers skating over your ribs, warm and familiar. He knows your body like a map, but only in stolen moments like this─only when the weight of not having you becomes unbearable.

You press closer, chest to chest, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, but chris is the one who slows it down. One hand curls around your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth like hes savoring you, like he knows this will end the same way it always does.

A sigh. A goodbye.

A space between you that neither of you have the guts to close.

"Chris," you breathe, and its not a question, not an accusation─its a plea. One he hears loud and clear.

His forehead drops to yours, chest rising and falling against yours in sync, and you think for a second─just one─that maybe this time, he'll say something. Maybe this time, he won't just let you leave.

But then he exhales, slow and shaky. His fingers brush over your sides before pulling away completely, and just like that, its over.

You blink at him, still caught in haze of it all, lips still tingling from his, body still buzzing with heat and he just looks at you.

Like hes sorry. Like he hates himself for this.

But also like he's okay with it.

You let out a sharp breath, shaking your head as you step back, arms crossing over your chest in a weak attempt to shield yourself from the cold rush of reality.

" this is getting old, chris."

He flinches like the words sting, but he doesnt argue. He never does.

Instead, he just nods, dragging a hand down his face before looking at you with something that might be regret.

Might be love.

"I know."

And the worst part?

So do you.

You should leave. You should walk out of his apartment and out of his cycle, let the door shut behind you and pretend like you don't know exactly how this will go.

But you don't.

Instead, you stand there, arms crossed, waiting for him to say something, anything─but Chris just stares at you, jaw tight, hands flexing at his sides like he wants to reach for you and doesn't trust himself not to.

His eyes never leave you. He looks at you like you're the only thing keeping him standing, like if he doesn't do something right now, he's going to lose his mind.

And maybe that's why you do it.

Why you grab the front of his hoodie, fisting the fabric and yanking him toward you. Why you crash your mouth against his like you need to feel him now, before he disappears again.

Chris stumbles back slightly but recovers fast, his hands landing on your waist, gripping like he's scared you'll pull away. Like he's still trying to figure out if he's allowed to have you.

You part your lips, exhaling against his mouth, and that's all it takes─Chris breaks.

A low groan rumbles from his chest as he tilts his head, deepening the kiss, his tongue sliding against yours in a way that makes your knees weak. His fingers tighten on your hips, pulling you flush against him, and─fuck─he's hard, pressed up against your stomach like he's been waiting for this longer than he'd ever admit.

You don't even realize you're backing up until your shoulders hit the wall, and Chris is on you, caging you in, his hands everywhere─your waist, your back, your face. He kisses you like he's starving, like he's been dying of thirst and you're the only thing that can save him.

His teeth scrape against your bottom lip, and you whimper, tilting your head back. That sound─it does something to him.

Chris's breath is ragged as he dips his head, mouth latching onto your neck, sucking just hard enough to make your stomach flip. His hands slip beneath your shirt, fingertips dragging up your sides, warm and rough, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

"Fuck," he mutters against your skin. "You don't─" he exhales sharply, shaking his head. "You don't get it."

You tilt your head, gasping when his tongue swipes over the mark he just made. "Get what?"

Chris pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark, pupils blown.

"How bad i want you."

Something in your chest tightens─because you do get it. You've always gotten it.

And you're tired of pretending like you don't want him just as bad.

Your hands slip under his hoodie, dragging up his stomach, nails scratching lightly against his skin, and Chris shudders, his breath hitching.

"Then show me," you whisper.

Something snaps.

Chris surges forward, kissing you so hard your head knocks against the wall, but you don't care. His hands are on you, desperate and unrelenting, as he tugs your shirt up, over your head, tossing it somewhere behind him. His hoodie follows, hitting the floor with a soft thud.

Your fingers trail down his stomach, grazing the waistband of his jeans, and Chris exhales a sharp fuck, his head dropping to your shoulder.

"Don't tease," he rasps. "Not tonight."

You nod, slipping your hand past the waistband, palming him through his boxers. He groans, hips jerking into your touch, and the sound alone sends heat pooling between your legs.

Chris suddenly grips your thighs, lifting you effortlessly, and you yelp, wrapping your legs around his waist as he carries you toward the nearest surface─his bedroom.

The second your back hits the mattress, he's on you again, kissing down your body, his hands rough and greedy as they tug at your jeans, dragging them down. You help, kicking them off and then its just him and you, bare skin against bare skin, all warmth and need and desperation.

Chris pauses for a second, hovering over you, his chest heaving. His eyes search yours, something unspoken lingering between you.

You nod, reaching up to cup his jaw, "im yours, Chris."

And thats all he needs.

He kisses you slow this time─deep, consuming, like he wants to take his time memorizing the way you feel beneath him. His hands roam, learning every inch of you, before he finally gives you what you both need.

And when he pushes into you, stretching you open, filling you completely─

you let out a strong moan. A gasp.

Your back arching off of the bed. Chris grips your hips, he bottoms out inside of you , groaning softly.

"Fuckk.."

He thrusts into you like hes trying to carve himself into your bones. Like if he presses hard enough, you'll never be able to forget the way he feels.

His forehead drops against yours, breaths tangled, his lips brushing yours with every sharp thrust. Your nails dig into his back, dragging down the smooth skin, desperate to ground yourself because its too much─but at the same time, not enough. "oh my godd─chris.."

"Fuck," chris mutters, voice ragged. "You feel─" He groans, finger gripping your waist so tight you know you'll feel it tomorrow. "You feel so fucking good."

Your body arches again into him, heat coiling low in your stomach. "chris─"

"i got you, baby." the words slip out, quiet and unintentional, and chris freezes for half a second─like he wasnt supposed to say that.

But you dont let him pull away.

Your hands cup his jaw, forcing him to look at you, and the moment your eyes lock, something shifts.

Its not just about the desperation anymore. Not just about the frustration, the push and pull, the months─years─of unspoken tension.

its about this.

Chris and you.

Together, for the first time without hesitation, without pretending like this isn't exactly where you both belong.

His pace slows, hips rolling against yours with an intensity that has your breath catching in your throat. Its deep, slow, devastating─and suddenly, you feel the weight of it, the way he's holding you like you might disappear, the way he presses his lips to your temples like he's scared to say what he's thinking.

You pull him closer, wrapping your legs around him tighter.

"Chris.." you breathe, titing your chin up to kiss him. He groans into your mouth, his grip on your waist tightening as he picks up the pace again, thrusts growing rougher, more desperate.

He's losing himself inside of you. The slick feel of your tight pussy clenching around him and pulling him in.

"i know," he whispers against your lips, voice wrecked. "I know, baby."

Your stomach tightens, pleasure twisting dangerously low,, and you can feel it building, seconds away from─

Chris's fingers find your clit, rubbing slow, deliberate circles, and─

Everything shatters.

Your head tips back, his name falling from your lips in a broken, needy whimper, and chris follows right after, his stuttering, his grip on you bruising as he cums with a low, drawn─out groan.

You both stay still, neither of you moving. Chris stays pressed against you, his forehead buried in your shoulder, breath still ragged. Your fingers find his hair, nails scraping against his scalp, and you feel him shudder.

And when he finally lifts his head, looking at you like you hung the fucking stars.

Your'e not sure if you want to say anything,

Not sure if you wanna know what happens next.

ᥫ᭡ Authors Note

this is so long lmfao

chris saying what he said abt being

in love def inspired this so 👅🤘🏾

xoxo paris

[room-surprise]

TRANSLATION ERROR: HOW DO HALF-FOOT NAMES WORK?

So, there are several translation issues in the official English release of Dungeon Meshi. One of them is the information about how half-foot names work.

Original text: 名前と後名・父親の名前の前名＋スあるいはズで構成する。チルチャックを例に挙げると、前名 (チル)＋後名 (チャック)・父親の名前 (ティム)＋ズ。チルチャックの娘のファミリーネームは“チルズ” か “チルス”となる。なお、前名だけ呼ぶのは親しい間柄だけである。 Official translation: Names are composed of a first name, a last name, and their father’s first name plus “s” or “z.” For example, Chilchuck’s first name is “Chil,” his last name is “Chuck,” and his father’s name is “Tim”+s. Chilchuck’s daughters’ family names are either “Chilz” or “Chils.” Only people who are very close to an individual call them by their first name on its own. Machine translation, confirmed by a human translator: It is composed of the first name, the second name, the first name of the father, and then either "u" or "z". For example, Chilchuck's first name is "Chill" + "second name" (Chuck) + "father's name" (Tim) + "s". The family name of Chilchuck's daughter is "Chilz" or "Chils". Only close friends call each other by their first name.

In Japanese, first/personal/given names are called mei (名, name) or shita no namae (下の名前, lower name). Family name/last name/surname can translate into three different Japanese words, myōji (苗字), uji (氏), and sei (姓).

The original Japanese text doesn’t use any of these standard words for first or last name at all, most likely to try and avoid exactly this confusion.

For Chilchuck, it uses 前名 (“before” + “name”) and 後名 (“back” + “name”), which are not normally used in Japanese to refer to a person’s personal name and family name, and when used together like this implies a two-part personal name (Chilchuck).

So Yen Press incorrectly states that “Chuck” is Chilchuck’s last name when the Japanese says 後名 (back name), and then correctly translates that his daughters’ family name (ファミリーネーム, family name written phonetically in katakana) is Chilz/Chils.

Kui most likely purposefully used the katakana phrase “family name” to make sure people understood that when she called Chuck his back name (後名), she did not mean last name/surname/family name.

So this caption should have been translated as something like:

“Half-foot names are composed of a personal name, which is made of a first part and a second part, followed by their family name, which is their father’s first name plus “s” or “z.”

Something that would have made this much easier to translate would be if Kui had called Tims and Chilz/Chils patronymics, which is the real world terminology for the type of name she's describing. As it is, the translators probably weren't familiar with patronyms and didn't recognize what Kui was talking about, and didn't proof-read their work sufficiently to catch that their translation was confusing and misleading.

A patronym is a name based on the personal name of one's father, grandfather, or an earlier male ancestor. Traditional patronymics like this change with every generation, which is what Kui describes the half-foots doing.

Over time a patronym sometimes gets “stuck” and becomes a hereditary patronymic surname instead of just a patronym. For example, the hereditary name Johnson originally meant that someone was the son of John, but the name became a fixed, hereditary surname, and now every generation of the family is called Johnson, no matter what their father’s personal name was.

If the half-foots had patronymic surnames/last names/family names, then Chilchuck's daughters would also be named Tims, but they're not, so we know that the last part of their names are actually just traditional patronymics.

So which part of Chilchuck Tims’ name is his last name/family name/surname?

Though it's really not a last name, Chilchuck's patronymic, Tims, functions the same way as a hereditary surname would function for someone else. Tims is the patronymic that he inherited from his father’s first name, which was Tim. It’s the name that connects him to his father and shows that they are related. For his daughters, their patronymic is Chilz/Chils, the name they inherited from Chilchuck, and that shows that they are related.

BONUS

Half-foot culture appears to be predominately Irish and Hebrew. This is interesting, because Irish is a Gaelic culture. Welsh is another Gaelic culture, and the way Welsh patronymic surnames developed is similar to Kui's half-foot naming system.

Historical Welsh names sometimes included references to several generations: e.g., Llywelyn ap Gruffydd ap Morgan (Llywelyn son of Gruffydd son of Morgan), and which gave rise to the quip, "as long as a Welshman's pedigree."

During the Anglicization process, ap Gruffydd was turned into Gruffydds; i.e., the "ap" meaning "son of" was replaced by the genitive suffix "-s", but there are also cases like "ab/ap Evan" being turned into "Bevan."

In some cases the "ap" coalesced into the name in some form, like ab Rhydderch becoming Broderick, ap Rhys becoming Price, and ap John becoming Upjohn.

(This is an excerpt from my essay on real world cultural and linguistic references in Dungeon Meshi. See chapter 8 for more information about Chilchuck and his daughter's names, and the real world influences in half-foot culture.)

[headspacedad]

My (current) Top 5 Manhwa Guys

Today we're going to do something new. I'm going to pick my favorite 5 manhwa guys. As I was figuring out my list I realized I haven't actually reviewed ANY of these manhwa. I will need to fix that. But right now - on with the show. And just as a warning - I really like my dark haired Northern Dukes (look I have a type and no, I'm not going to apologize for it. Y'all should know me by now).

Emperor Cardan Zeon from I Became the Tyrant's Dishonest Adviser.

Tyrant, war hero, dangerous and allergic to the top three or so buttons on any shirt, Cardan is completely enjoyable to read. He is also, most of all, insanely clever and capable - which, if I have buttons to hit, are the biggest reddest buttons out there for me. This man is on the ball with his ability to observe and put the puzzle pieces together quickly and he acts just as quickly the second he does. He is a stunningly competent ruler and an expert at navigating his surroundings, whether that's court intrigue or out in the wilds. Competent men are my weakness. But he's also playing the roll of 'pretending to be one thing while he's another' which is delicious character reading and he's a very snappy dresser as well. Not to mention when he makes up his mind, he goes all in and he loves unwaveringly. Double bonus, this man is confident to the edge of arrogance but he's earned it and never fails to prove he's got a right to be that way. Flaws? 'Hurt you to spare you pain in the future' and a tendency to snap when pushed past his patience (which, too be fair, has been spread about as thin as a complaints department call-center worker on double shift the day after Christmas). Art? The artist understood this assignment. There isn't a single panel where this man looks bad. Double bonus? Hand scars!

2. Grand Duke Sylvester Regen, Lord of the North from Honey, Why Can't We Get A Divorce?

Sylvester was in my top spot up until Cardan showed up. He's got so many of the traits I adore. Clever, competent, confident plus he's the villain of the story and he really enjoys being that. He's the equivalent of an elegant mob boss and the fact that he's terrifying at that is delicious. So is the fact he absolutely adores his wife. You see, his wife is the character the story is centered around - the usual 'got dropped into the body of the villainess and I'm trying desperately to reform my image'. And Sylvester? Sylvester backs his wife up 110%. Does he have his own reasons? Absolutely. Does that change the fact that he tells her to stop worrying about other people and do what makes her happy? Not at all. He revels in her being a villainess and supports her no matter how horrible she is. And when she suddenly starts wanting to be 'good'? Well, he's suspicious of her motivation but he supports her there too. If his wife wants to rule the world, he'll back her up and if she wants to adopt an orphan he'll - be very suspicious but end up picking up one for himself as well. His wife's change of attitude absolutely fascinated him and he's cheerfully along for that ride. He's also one of those 'never loved by anyone before' characters and its so enjoyable watching him becoming more and more intrigued by his wife's new lifestyle. The opposite of 'God forbid women do anything' Sylvester is getting more and more happy to go along for her ride. Flaws? The reason Cardan passed Sylvester for top spot is that Cardan recognizes how he feels, deals with it, loudly announces his state of mind to the world and then acts on it. Sylvester is a lot slower on the draw in that area (as most guys in manhwa generally are). He's falling in love with his wife but good luck getting him to realize or admit it. Art? Sylvester has a pirate vibe under the gleaming refined exterior and the artist catches it well. Double bonus for the entire chapter that was just him pulling on his clothes that fascinated me even more than the plot that was going on while he was doing it. He also fully embraces the fur lined Northern Duke cloaks and the DTF half gloves. Double bonus? Pointy ears!

3. Belzeon (Velzeon) Basilian from The Baby Fairy is a Villain

Okay, this one may be a bit confusing and its why I specifically had to use 'guys' in the title instead of men. But I utterly adore Belzeon and he deserves his spot on this list. He's talking to his father in the above picture btw. So Belzeon is thirteen - and his father's obsessed with bringing back his dead wife, Belzeon's mother. Which means Belzeon is shouldering a lot of responsibility as heir. In other words - he's an oldest child with an unreliable parent who has to take care of the house plus his two, now three, younger siblings. Sound familiar? Because a lot of us had to step in and step up as kids because our parents couldn't be counted on either. Belzeon just also has to deal with an entire dark forest full of monsters only his bloodline can kill as well as the trying to keep an entire kingdom up and running. Which - I would already feel for the kid that's trying so hard to be an adult and fill the giant shoes he feels his father kicked off and ran away from. He's an incredibly intelligent kid, dangerously competent and he's trying so hard to protect his siblings from what he views as his father's madness as well as the way the rest of society fears and loathes them. So my heart was with him already but then - wow, recent chapters. That kid is viscous! I mean, in the way that only someone with a completely cold and calculating mind could be and it was to fuck with his dad and I was HERE for it!! Like, kid has a heart of gold that's constantly bleeding thanks to his father and when he decides 'fuck it, we ball' he is NOT joking around. He rocketed into one of my all time favorites and I now want a story entirely about him (which, honestly, may be coming, the manhwa is really hard to decide who's the ML). Anyway, Team Belzeon all the way. Art? I'm not a big fan of the bowl cut but kid can pull it off. Also for someone with such an intentionally straight face, the artist manages to pack a LOT of emotion into those eyes. The manhwa really knows how to play around with color and they use his red eyes magnificently. Double bonus? I just want him to be happy okay? Is that too much to ask? (probably)

4. Duke Raffaello Kidrey from The Villainess is a Marionette

This is, by far, the prettiest manhwa I've ever seen and I'm going to admit that its one of the reasons I enjoy Raffaello so much. He is darned pretty to look at. His costuming is by far and away the best too - we had one outfit with high boots plus DTF half gloves plus a harness plus a corset. Like - guy does NOT fool around when it comes to clothing options. He's another of those intelligent characters. This whole manhwa is all about the political intrigue - so much so that when they introduced magic I was annoyed because it seemed to pointless to the really important part of the plot. Raffaello is a Grand Duke trying to keep his land safe from scheming royals, having to chose which of the many sides he's going to align himself with and he's not stupid about it. As such, he starts off as a very standoffish and closed off character and yet he's never truly cruel about it. When he gives his loyalty though, he's all in and there's no holding back. He's not only the FL's partner but he also watches out for her emotionally in a way no one else does or even thinks to. He trusts her even when she doesn't tell him why and he doesn't try to take the lead from her. He's the perfect knight to her princess. He also doesn't hesitate once he realizes he's in love. I would have liked to see him given more chances to be bad ass in battle because its very obvious he knows what he's doing to. What puts him on this list though is his constant monitoring and caretaking when it comes to the FL's emotional needs. She may ignore them but he won't. He becomes her safety in the storm and its a job he's earned. Art? So pretty, gang. Just so, so pretty. I am going to buy this manhwa when it releases just because its so pretty. Raffaello absolutely shares this and he's ornamented and solid and the perfect counterpoint to the FL's more airy and ethereal vibe. Double bonus? did I mention the corset/harness/half-gloves? Dude knows how to dress to attract a partner.

5. Duke Rubellian Florence from Anyone Beats the Original

The last spot was a hard one. I had a lot of guys I liked but it was hard to find one that just stood out from the rest. I had to go with Rubellian in the end though. He's another of those competent, clever, dangerous characters so he matched a lot of the others but - Look, revenge is a really common theme in these types of stories. Usually its the FL that has the revenge plot but sometimes its the ML doing his stuff in the background and that's the case with this story. Rubellian has a serious and completely understandable and legit reason he's plotting his revenge. I full support his revenge. He deserves a little revenge - as a treat. But what puts him in the number five slot - is he's going to give up that revenge because it could endanger the wife he's just married. Something that's driven him since childhood and he's willing to set it aside and exchange it for his new driving goal. To make his new wife so happy she never regrets marrying him. She didn't have to persuade him either, he decided this entirely on his own. Twenty plus years of surviving just for revenge for a horrible crime and he is smart enough to realize that what he has in the present is too precious, and relying on him too much, to endanger it for the sake of the past. That kind of priority making puts him easily in the fifth slot. Wifely love FTW. Art? This man's got the hair that lives to be tousled and the artist knows it. Plus his expressive face, especially the way the eyes are drawn, speaks volumes with very little exaggeration. He's a 'still waters run deep' kind of guy and his deadpan faces are worth it. Double bonus? Man drinks his 'respect women juice' and his married couple team dynamics with his wife are pure joy.

bonus: hugs

feel free to reblog and make your own list or just comment on my own. Or request a top five list. I mean, go nuts. We're all just doing this for fun.

[hazshit-hotel-hater]

Rewatching “All 2 U” and under the contexts of how I personally perceived Stolas’s songs in “Look My Way” and “When I See Him” theres so much potential here for this to be actually interesting and its so far just being thrown away. In every song I have mentioned Stolas has moments where he stops and thinks “maybe I was the problem”.

Examples being:

"Unless it's me, and no matter what in this world I could give; it's not enough to get through the walls you've conjured up to live"

"I will try to make amends for making you means to an end"

"Am I doing something I can't take back? Would he want me if he was free? And if he's only here as a prisoner what kind of monster does that make me?"

"But maybe it's all on me for missin' every sign and every glance and every turn."

"Maybe there's somethin' here for us to glean for you to teach, and me to try to learn."

All of these imply so much that Stolas could be coming to the conclusion that he was one of the biggest issues in their relationship. Yes Blitz also hold fault, but thats a post for another day. I so truly believe Stolas could be so so interesting even if I personally think Helluva Boss should NOT be a romantic story, there’s still so much potential to it. I’ve mentioned before that I was in a very very similar relationship to whatever “Stolitz” is, and while I both hate my ex and how she treated me, it was not a one sided issue. Yeah she was abusive but also I can’t just say I wasn’t a bit rude at times. Getting off topic though, what I’m trying to say is even if one person is the main issue and you hate them, in certain circumstances you can still have part of your mind that wishes the best for them. I think my main point is that for people like my ex who have mental problems that get in the way of relationships and can result in abusive behaviours, I want the chance for them to see themselves in a character that has done the same things, recognized it, forgiven themselves, and made an attempt to be a better person.

I myself have been in many relationships where my mental problems got in the way and ended up separating me from people I care about in one way or another and I know how dogshit it feels when it happens, especially when you are the problem. Many people don’t like acknowledging that they may be the problem and then when they eventually do realise it, they struggle on trying to fix the issue.

This spans to the people you surround yourselves with as well. Just for example in “All 2 U” Stolas is not the first person to call Blitz a “motherfucker” he explicitly goes to “I don’t think you meant to hurt me” meanwhile Verosika and Tex push the implication that Blitz is the problem and during the rest if the song, as stated before, we see Stolas point out “maybe I was the problem” to which Verosika and Tex immediately but in with blaming Blitz instead. And honestly they have reason to (at least Verosika does and Tex is going by word of mouth I assume) but it plays into the idea that a bad person or abuser cant also be abused.

You can see every time Stolas considers something isn’t Blitz’s fault Verosika and Tex are so quick to step in and tell him he’s wrong. He’s just surrounded by yes people right now and i really believe thats something that could be used in the narrative. Stolas getting away from these people to take in reality and then finally be like “no it was me i was right about it”. And idk it could even lead into more Verosika development where she acknowledges that Blitz has now seen how shitty one-sided and abusive relationships can be and they talk more instead of just like 3 minutes on the stairs. This is a topic I touch on with my Vox rewrite but thats in a different way. I just think with so much buildup to Stolas realising he was a huge issue they could do so much helpful representation in certain ways for people with problems like BPD, bipolar, ROCD, and a bunch of other things. I suffer from the last two and I hardly EVER see these portrayed respectfully or how they actually affect people. It’s always just “im happy and then in 2 seconds im going to be mildly upset :(“ or “omgg I love cleaning!!” with OCD. It’s just so infuriating to see Vivzie not touch on so much potential again.

Also “stolitz” should not get back together even if Stolas became a better person, just to clarify.

[glamour-crusher]

Been thinking about the implications of replaying hotline miami after finishing both games

How different events and dialogue are both in the sense of “Oh I know what this is referencing/alluding to now!” but more strongly the almost timeloop-esque experience of “Why are you doing all of this again?”

When I was replaying the first game I kept getting caught on Beard’s dialogue when you see him in the shops. How they both hint to his earlier death but also Jacket’s avoidance to address it directly. When you first see him he’s excited and goes on about having not seen Jacket in a bit and references the last conversation they’d had together about Jacket’s ex, but then vaguely goes “Don’t remember seeing you after that…. Maybe we should talk about something else”. It’s cryptic the first time but going back to it after playing through 2 you have a new realization of what its referencing. And Beard getting squirrelly about it and quickly shuffling the conversation along is just Jacket’s mind trying to squash the memory down again. And then later on when you see him again after fighting Biker, Beard talks about how there’s a bad sort of energy in the air, something he “hasn’t felt since San Fransisco”, which the player connects later as being tied to Richter and Jacket’s girlfriend’s murder. While you don’t really understand Why Richter does what he does originally, after the context of 2, you recognize that it was directly because of Jacket and Biker’s fight and his own involvement. Beard’s dialogue serves as both an omen of what has already happened that you don’t find out until 2 with his death and with Richter, but it also sets up as a warning of what’s to come with his girlfriend, something comparable to the events in San Fran

But more to my actual thesis of this rant cause that was mostly just one specific thing that made me flinch whenever I was experiencing it

Throughout the whole game once you replay it, there’s a stronger air of. Judgement, going on. Richard’s warnings and commentary hits twice as hard when its reframed as “Why have you come back? What do you stand to gain from redoing all of this?”

Another thing that stuck out to me was the gametip “Tip: She’s already dead” that comes up right when you start Trauma. In the first playthrough it already feels like a warning of sorts. She's already dead, there's nothing you can do, don't continue down this path you're on, there's nothing for you. But then a second time playing the game and seeing it it has a more. "She's dead, remember? You can't change that, doing this again won't change that, you're not going to fix what's already done". So many actions in a replay of this game feel like a desperate attempt to try to rewrite what has already happened and what cannot change, its set in stone and all you’re doing is reopening those wounds.

And yeah there’s the judgement angle of the whole “Do you like hurting other people?” being a sort of metaphor for the player replaying the game and killing everything again for shits and giggles, but there’s also a. Sadness to it, almost. Like a larger entity watching somebody who is aware that they are stuck in a timeloop, and despite all odds being convinced something may change this time.

And it just kind of ties in to some themes that I’ve previously thought about between both games. Generally speaking I feel like their messages are a mix of empty nihilism in the first game, “what do you even gain from all of this? What does it matter?’ and the second being a warning of “Don’t overcorrect on that nihilism and become so consumed and obsessed with your goals that it ruins your life because it might have been for nothing in the end anyways”. The first game in particular ends on a note of letting go, of finally finishing what you set out to do and getting some degree of closure. Why would you go back and do it again? Wasn’t it hard enough the first time? And, while I haven’t replayed 2 yet, I know its got additional shit and servers to lean back on the “Don’t get too invested, this is all going to end in tragedy”

But then it’s like

It’s still worth it to, in my opinion

You may know how it ends, but now you have a broader context.

To use Beard as an example again, going back to the first game after finishing the second has a lot more weight to it once you’re aware of who this man actually Is and what the implications of his involvement in 1 are for Jacket and their relationship. You as the player wouldn’t have gotten to see that understanding and new awareness of the context behind the weird cryptic shit Beard says and does in 1 without going back to it to redo it again. Sure it goes nowhere, he’s still dead, but there’s another layer of. Appreciation? Respect? Acknowledgment of the depths of these characters and their role in the broader story.

The game doesn’t necessarily judge you or punish you as severely for playing/replaying it as I feel some people say, I feel it more pities you for wanting or needing to go back and re experience these tragedies again, as if it were some kind of emotional self destruction for Jaket and by proxy, the player.

Don Juan I feel represents this pity perfectly, acting as the sympathetic and concerned parallel to Richard’s cryptic warnings and Rasmus’ hostility. Richard tends to not really feel a particular way about whether or not you should do the shit that you do, he just wants to make sure you take responsibility and understand just what consequences are coming to you if you do. The most punitive judgement you receive from him are effectively “You did this to yourself, I don’t know what you’re looking for here”. Rasmus is representative of the levels of violence and senseless killing that Jacket partakes in, whether that be a metaphor for the men he’s killed or the primal emotions. He’s angry at you, he wants you Gone, especially under the context of doing it again. Haven’t you had enough??

Don Juan though is repeatedly concerned about you, trying to comfort you and urge you to settle down and brush away some of Richard’s incidental harshness. I wouldn’t say she’s trying to make you Not Think About It, but is moreso concerned of the consequences if you do, and trying to ease you as much as possible, whereas Richard is nothing but consequences and self reflection.

But in a replay, her comfort and worry feels more personal, especially if you thread a connection between her and Jacket’s girlfriend as a lot of folks in the fandom do, despite having been there before. And her whole “You don’t know who you are?” and “"Acknowledging oneself means acknowledging their actions, and lately you've done some terrible things" have more impact the second time”. Cause yeah, the first time you’re playing you don’t know who Jacket is or any of the setup besides the shit in the prelude. But in a second player it feels more like it’s trying to make you aware you’ve been here before. Not judging you, but making you kind of think, remember who you are and what you did, and ideally make you reconsider doing it again. “You’ve done some terrible things, and you don’t know who you are. Maybe we should leave it that way?” It comes off in a way that’s comforting and somewhat intentionally obfuscating your responsibility in all of this, but underneath it it gives the impression of a concerned mother who already knows exactly what you did but trying to comfort you regardless, but making you feel this bone deep guilt and remorse because you both know how terrible you are but you can’t bring yourself to say it and she can’t bring herself to acknowledge it.

I feel like Richard and Rasmus are a bit more obvious in what they’ve got going on in their role in the narrative, especially in regards to a second playthrough. Richard casts detached judgement and reminds you of what you’re getting yourself into, Rasmus openly berates you and antagonizes you for your desire and even enjoyment in doing it all again, and Don Juan, despite being the most openly comforting and sympathetic, inadvertently worms out the most awareness and guilt in the player (or at least, in Jacket), because of how gentle she is.

Reiterating, there’s absolutely judgment present in these three, but it feels like a sliding scale of sorts.

Richard judges, not in a personal way, but in a very detached way of “You've gotten yourself into this. Here's what's going to happen now. Think real long and hard about how you brought this on yourself" with a slight sense of distant pity in the same way a person might feel for a relative who is actively sabotaging their own life. What you’re going through is terrible but you did this to yourself so I can’t bring myself to feel sympathy. He doesn’t care what you do, he cares that you take responsibility and own up to it. If you’re going to be terrible, be honest with yourself.

Don Juan by contrast has nothing but concern and pity for the player, with a slight dash of judgement in a “I know what you did but its better for all of us that we just don’t address it”

And generally, back to the timeloop themes, it contributes to the sense of futility throughout both games. That no matter what you do its not enough. This isn’t an open ended game, where you can go back and make different choices and get a happier ending. This is it. In the spirit of the second game, its all prerecorded on a VHS tape, you can pop it back in to the VCR and rewind as much as you like but the outcome is always going to be the same. And various parts of the game respond accordingly, even if unintentionally, to make you really consider the weight of your actions and willingly going through them again.

[yuikomorii]

// Ok I didn’t want to go this far but at this point, you guys are hating on Ayato just for clout and it shows. It’s okay not to like a character but straight up spreading misinformation about him is not okay. If you lack reading comprehension, just admit it.

What makes Ayato’s past so sad isn’t only the fact that Cordelia was mean towards him. She mentally and physically abused him, yet what genuinely hurt Ayato the most was the way Cordelia treated ALL the triplets. A part of him didn’t even want to kill her, given that he CRIED in the MB flashbacks because, despite being a huge abuser, he STILL felt sympathy even for someone like her. No matter how horrible Cordelia was, Ayato still wished for Karlheinz to reciprocate her feelings only to finally see her happy.

Don't even get me started on the Adam curse. He was practically used as bait and abandoned to death by his own brothers, but he still hoped for their safety after escaping. That curse literally destroyed his entire life because its purpose was to make the person who ate the fig drown in despair and go insane. That's why he was sooo obsessed with Yui's blood. Heck, he's cursed in routes other than his own, as he goes insane in Ruki's MB one, to the point that his brothers had to lock him inside the dungeon. In addition, in his MB Vampire Ending, he falls into a coma because he refuses to hurt Yui and keep drinking her blood.

Other than that, Laito was the one who made him believe that he wasn’t special, hence he adopted the “I will never make someone special again” mentality. He also wanted to kill him when he was younger (no hate towards any of his brothers though). Kanato was the only one who never did something bad to him, considering that when Ayato was a child, Reiji called him the disappointment of the family after failing a test.

Ayato did twisted stuff too; no character is a saint, but he always tries his best to fix things. Even when not dating Yui, he’s capable of showing compassion, support and a desire to improve his relationship with his brothers BY HIMSELF. Check this analysis for example.

Other than that, despite every time being hurt when trying to show kindness, he still became a very selfless guy who’d sacrifice himself for anyone at any given time. What makes this even more admirable is that according to Karlheinz, he’s literally the only one who actually VALUES his life. This guy who loves life would risk it all for Yui, even when not dating, or for any of his brothers.

Credit to: dialovers-translations and tournesolia on Tumblr

On top of that, he's incredibly empathic?? He forgives everybody, no matter what they do to him, and seeks to maintain good relations with them. In Kino's LE route, for example, he tortures and burns Ayato, but Ayato is the first person to recognize him as his brother because he wanted Kino to feel that he, too, belonged to a family.

Last but not least, nobody silences Karlheinz as good as him. He was also the only one who connected the dots by himself about his dad being the root of all evil (Laito too but that was after the letter), including being the only one who didn’t want to kill him only because he didn’t want to fall into his plan. Check this post.

Oh and, Ayato is actually really big; it’s not that only his fans make him that way! This post basically proves that he’s the IT boy of otome games and I should also mention that he’s the character that sells the most in Japan and China! Just look what Japanese fans think of him. ;)

You can dislike him as much as you want but nobody can deny how brave and pure-hearted he is. He’s the definition of from zero to hero.

As I mentioned earlier, it's fine to dislike him, but don't become obsessed with it, lol. At the end of the day, he's merely a fictional character with endearing characteristics and the male lead. It's really not that deep. Besides, it's embarrassing when the hate comes from Yui stans because she definitely wouldn't be happy of any of you talking about her man in that way.

[rayslittlekitten]

I Almost Told You That I Loved You Ch. 19

Chapter 18 | IATYTILY Masterlist

A/N: I've been waiting so long (honestly like probably a year) to finally post this chapter and this GIF. 🤣

Rating: T

Word Count: 1,143

Pairing: Jax Teller x F! reader

Plot: This takes place shortly after Tara leaves Charming. You start working at Teller-Morrow and an unlikely and messy relationship forms between you and Jax.

Warnings: maybe some mild, colorful misogynistic language

These last few days have made you nostalgic about Cara Cara. Working for a porn company doesn’t seem so bad anymore. Maybe you can ask Luann for your old job back. You’re pretty sure she’ll give it back to you, no questions asked. Although TM pays better and honestly, it couldn’t possibly get any worse. Jax has been hot and cold since the incident with Will. He’s been cautiously trying to get your attention, apologizing multiple times, but you’ve been turning down his advances. And when you do, he’s no longer groveling at your feet. His soft words turn into sharp knives instead. Your favorite so far is “I hope you choke on a dick!” That sure is going to get you to run back to him. 

Fragile male egos. You know a few things about those. They don’t actually care about making things right. They just want the last word and if things are going to end, it’s going to be on their terms, no matter how much they have to try to charm you. They will say and do anything to win you back just so they can leave you. If you can just focus on work and keep your interactions with Jax to a minimum, you might be able to get through this until the end of the semester at the very least.

“Hey, sweetheart, I’m stepping out for lunch and running some errands,” Gemma tells you as she gathers her things. “Will probably be gone for a few hours. You’ll be okay by yourself?”

“Yeah, sure,” you nod and throw her a smile, pulling yourself away from sending a fax for a moment.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

As Gemma walks out, the phone rings so you walk over to answer it.

“Thank you for calling Teller-Morrow, how can I help you?”

Just then Opie waltzes into the office and leaves some filled forms on the desk in front of you.

“Yes, we can do that. If you come by with your car, we can take a look at it and give you an estimate.” You look at Opie and hold a finger up at him to let him know to give you a moment. 

“We are open 7 days a week, 8 to 6.” You glance at the form on the desk and you look like you’ve just seen a ghost. “Uh, y-yes. You have a nice day.” You hang up the phone.

“You okay?” Opie asks.

“Is this customer still out there?” You ask him.

“Yeah, he’s gonna wait for his car and wants to pay for it now. Why?”

You stare at the window for a moment before walking over to it and taking a peek outside, recognizing the blue BMW.

“Shit.”

“What? You know this guy or something?” Opie asks.

“That’s my ex-boyfriend. What the hell is he doing on this side of town?”

“You want me to handle this? I can—“

“No,” you sigh. “I’ll take care of it.” 

“You sure?” Opie asks again.

“Yeah, thank you.” You force a small smile.

Opie nods and hangs around for a moment in case you change your mind before walking out the office. When he returns to the garage, Jax walks up to him while wiping his greasy hands on a rag.

“What’s up with this preppy boy’s car?” Jax asks, his chin pointing in the direction of the blue BMW.

“Just needs his headlights changed,” Opie answers. “But also, apparently, preppy boy is Y/N’s ex.”

“What?!” Jax asks with raised brows.

“Yeah, she seemed a little spooked. Do you know what the deal is?” Opie asks as they watch you walking towards the blue BMW and its owner.

Jax doesn't answer. They can see the interaction between you and your ex is awkward and Jax sees you recoiling when your ex tries to reach out to you. Jax’s jaw twitches. He picks up the nearest tool next to him and stalks over to the both of you with a torque wrench in his hand.

“Hey, I’m gonna be the one fixing your car.”

“Jax—“

“It’s alright, darlin’,” Jax puts his arm around you. “I can take it from here.”

“Wow, are… are you dating him now? Huh. And you thought I was a piece of shit? You definitely downgraded.” A smug smile plays upon his face. "Now be a good girl and wrap this up, will ya? I have actual important things to do."

“You need your headlights changed, right?” Jax asks.

“Yeah, hope you’re smart enough to figure out that simple task,” he chuckles.

“Yeah, well it looks like you got a broken mirror too.” Jax take a heavy swing with the wrench and knocks one of his side mirrors clean off.

“What the fuck, man?!” 

“Jax!”

Just then out of nowhere, Opie jumps in.

"Whoa, whoa. I'm so sorry about that, sir. We'll fix that for you, on the house." Opie tries to pull Jax away until Jax sees you walking away.  

Jax follows you back to the office, calling out for you, and leaving Opie to sort out the mess.

“Why the fuck did you do that? You could’ve just changed his headlights and let him be on his fucking way!”

"You're pissed at me? That’s your piece of shit ex, right?” Jax points towards the lot.

“Yes, I'm pissed at you! So what if he's my ex? He was just here for his goddamn headlights. He wasn't here for me.”

“He tried to put his hands on you!”

“And? I can defend myself. Besides, what the hell was that out there? You can’t keep pulling shit like that.”

“I was just trying to protect—“

“Bullshit, Teller! You need to stop acting like we’re in a relationship every time another guy talks to me when you treat me like I’m one of your MC groupies every other week.” 

Jax scrubs his beard and looks down at his feet.

“It doesn’t mean I don’t care about you,” Jax says quietly.

“No, you only care when it's convenient for you. You don't get to pick and choose when you want to care about me."

"I'm really trying here," Jax tells you.

"Trying what exactly? I'd much rather you just treat me like shit because at least that's consistent. You're no better than him." You point in the general direction of the lot. 

"Don't compare me to that fucking asshole!" Jax shakes his head.

"You know what? You're right. You're not like him. At least he knows he's an asshole and owns up to it."

Just as Jax is about to say something, the phone rings and you pick up.

"Thank you for calling Teller-Morrow, how can I help you?"

You both stare each other down for a moment before Jax punches the wall on his way out of the office.