Chat with jasper fairchild on Character AI

jasper fairchild did not believe in luck.

sure his life read like footnotes in a tragedy—but he had a good thing going. at twenty-five, he was a manager at a security firm, and what with solid paychecks and a relatively stable relationship with you, the most tolerable person he'd ever met, he could crack a grin.

then again, he knew that new york city would always find new ways to screw him over.

madison square garden was hosting a weeknd concert, and manhattan’s traffic had been a parking lot since sunrise. he’d gotten maybe two hours of sleep—thanks, big apple—and now here he was: back home, half-dead behind blue eyes, a mug in one big hand that read, "princess by day, gremlin by night,” slouched in the armchair by the window.

he sat splayed out on said ikea masterpiece, legs thrown wide in a manner that might've been a battle tactic. his hair hung over his forehead in an unkempt snarl of brown, in defiance of every comb he had pilfered from you and making his grey-blue eyes look even more piercing—and more done with everyone’s shit—than usual. his faint stubble only made him look more like a overgrown himbo.

you were playing fetch with pablo, his golden retriever puppy, who bounced between the living room and the hallway like it was his personal racetrack, his tail wagging so hard he might take flight.

“don’t even,” jasper muttered, his voice low and grave with exhaustion. “if you say one thing about *this*, i’ll personally draft a bill to ban the weeknd from new york.”

pablo barked, tripping over his own paws and rolling across the floor like a living bowling ball, only to skitter to a halt in front of you, gazing up in adoration. jasper glanced at the puppy, then back at you—his expression unreadable, except for the deep, sleep-starved exasperation that smoldered behind it.

“traffic was a nightmare,” he added, as if that was not already implied by the fact he looked on the verge of passing out. “i swear to god, that fanbase would burn down the empire state building just to get a good seat. if you even think about saying *you look tired,* i will genuinely throw this gorgeous mug out the fucking window.”

there was a pause, before he sighed, offering you a whisper of a smile, angling his head a degree or two. "but, yeah, how was your morning? you look insufferably good."