#I found two tiles with the same shapes

[sodacowboy]

I never think the autism accent is like a real thing until I hear an autistic person speak and I realize they speak like I do

[sugarplumkneecaps]

I may have an absolutely filthy smut request for shadow x reader where Shadow has heats and they’re worse since he’s with the reader (can be human or mobian whichever makes you comfortable) because it makes him wanna breed them and maybe one night they both wake up and realise during the night shadow was moved the reader into a mating press subconsciously and then the reader asks him about it and he admits he wants too but he’s worried he’ll actually get the reader pregnant so the reader suggests some mutual masturbation and he can’t help but bite and nip at the readers neck during it and maybe he accidentally finishes on the reader and he just thinks it’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen

A/N: OH. MY. GOD. YES. I love this ooo!! Okay, here you go <3(P.S. So sorry for the long wait! I hope you like it!)

Mutual Satisfaction

Pairing: Shadow x Reader C/W: !!! NSFW !!! MDNI !!! Genre: Smut

The summer air was hot, even at night, which made sleeping a rather bothersome chore. Normally, you and Shadow would curl up together, enjoying the intermingling of your fur as you drifted off. Sure, you hardly ever woke up in the same position, but his touch brought you a great deal of comfort. Well, normally it did anyway. The past few nights, Shadow kept his distance from you, climbing into bed and reaching over only to plant a kiss on your forehead before returning to the far end of the bed. You had chalked this up to the heat, as you couldn’t really blame him. Cuddling was nice, but sleeping in a puddle of your own sweat? Not so much.

Today had been especially hot, even with the window AC hard at work in the living room. Every year you had taken a mental note to buy another unit for the bedroom once summer was over and every year you had subsequently forgotten. So when it was time to leave your post in front of the AC, shirt pulled up to enjoy the cool air as it made its way to your skin, you debated sleeping on the tile in the kitchen. Surely it would be better than dying in the room, right?

Shadow made his way over to you, placing a gentle hand on your exposed hip. “I’m off to bed. You coming?”

You nodded, as reluctant as you were to enter the inevitable sauna that awaited you both, the idea of you and Shadow sleeping separately was simply unacceptable. Entering the room, Shadow was by the window, prying it open and placing the large box fan along the window sill at full power. You pealed each article of clothing off of you, a last ditch effort to be able to sleep through this heatwave. As Shadow turned to face you, something in him stirred at the sight of your naked body. His eyes met yours, questioning. You looked down at yourself, suddenly feeling a tad self conscious, “is this okay? It’s excruciatingly hot.”

He nodded, breaking eye contact and moving toward the bed, “of course.” His voice was stiff and the amount of time he took to remove his gloves gave you pause.

“Everything okay?”

Shadow nodded silently, climbing into bed onto his side with his back toward you as he had done every night in recent history. “G’night.”

The cold response from him nearly cut through the warm air between you two. Your eyebrows knitted together with concern as you lay down next to your partner. Not wanting to pry too much, your eyes focused on the ceiling above, hoping that sleep would come quickly.

---

Lucid dreams overtook your sleep, indiscernible shapes of color meshing together much like an overactive lava lamp swirling in your mind. You reached your hand out to touch them, the sensation unlike any you had felt before but still soft, still tender. Hints of lavender mixed with something iron. The next time you reached out, a force pushed back, your body being enveloped in the soft cloud you had found yourself upon. The colors shifted to warm hues of red, much like Shadow’s crimson eyes. What was once globs of color turned into sharp points that dug into your biceps, your thighs adding your own shade of red to the mix. You pondered the meaning of life, the world, and what realm you existed in this very moment.

The answer, to your surprise, woke you as you let out a small yelp, the pointed end of color finding a tender spot along your inner thighs. What was once a colorful dreamscape faded away to reveal Shadow staring down at you, shock plastered on his face. His claws were dug into your legs, holding you in place with your knees caressing either side of your face. Even more of a surprise was the realization of the wetness on your stomach as Shadow’s throbbing cock sat between your legs seeping precum into your fur.

As quickly as the realization hit, Shadow retreated, clambering off the bed and moving a hand to cover the tip of his growth. Your legs fell down onto the mattress as you were nearly too stunned to speak. Nearly.

“What- Shadow? What was that all about??” your fingers subconsciously moved to the puddle on your stomach, the wet strands glistening between your fingertips.

Shadow couldn’t face you as he muttered a long string of curses under his breath.

Sitting up, too impatient to wait for whatever the hell this was to be revealed on his time, you prompted once more with a bit more force behind your words, “Shadow!”

His body jerked slightly before he turned to you once more. Even in the dark you could see his cheeks darkened with blush. “I.. woke up like that.” An audible swallow came from him.

You sat in silence, raising your eyebrows as if to inquire more because while he had technically answered you, you felt you deserved more clarification than that. His cold response earlier, the distance between you two, and then suddenly being woken up in a mating press? None of it added up.

After a long period of silence, Shadow relented. “I’ve been feeling a bit... on edge as of recently. Something I could not quite place. But every time I’ve been near you, I’ve felt an almost primal urge to...” he hesitated, the awkwardness endearing even under these circumstances. “You know.”

“No, I don’t know Shadow.”

His eyes pleaded with you to not have to say it. Once again, you raised an eyebrow until he murmured, “breed... you.”

You had heard mention of rutting season for hedgehogs, but were surprised that Shadow was subject to it considering his conception. Although the infrequency of it added up with everything you knew about him.

“You couldn’t have just asked to fuck?” you asked, the nonchalance of your tone surprising even to you.

Shadow’s chuckle cut through the tension as he sat next to you, handing you a washrag for your stomach. “As I said, it has been a very primal feeling. I worry I would not be able to stop until I’m completely sated.” His low tone and the sexual desire dripping from each word stirred your stomach and made your heart race. He reached for your hand, bringing it to his lips. “Plus, I don’t think we are necessarily in a position to have a baby.”

He wasn’t wrong. The apartment you both lived in wasn’t the smallest, but the prospect of a child would mean needing more space in more ways than just living. You both worked incredibly odd hours and either of you could be called away for long missions within a moment’s notice. The idea of having a small child along for the ride was out of the question. You nodded in agreement, loving the feeling of Shadow’s lips on your knuckles. Just then, an idea came to you.

“What if we don’t fuck?”

Shadow looked up at you, his expression one of “no duh, what do you think I’ve been avoiding”. You took his other hand in yours and held them both in front of you.

“We can still cum without fucking. Might take the edge off.”

Your dark counterpart pondered this offer for awhile, the bulge between his legs twitching as it became erect once more.

“Okay... what did you have in mind?”

You released his hands and fell back onto the bed, spreading your legs as you traced circles on your own skin. “We could both get off? On our own? But, like, together.”

A low chuckle came from Shadow, “mutual masturbation?”

With a small nod, you watched as his eyes trained on your digits, mesmerized by their movements as they moved down your figure slowly.

“Ah, what the hell.” His own hand found its way to the base of his cock, gripping his fingers around its girth as he started working it up... and down.

Each movement of his encouraged your own as your hand found your own clit, your fingertips lightly flicking it between circular rubs. A soft moan escaped your lips, encouraging sounds of lust and desire to be released from Shadow’s throat. Both of your movements quickened, curses layered between pants and moans filling the air.

Shadow couldn’t bear it. “You’re so fucking beautiful-“ he gasped out, shifting his body on top of yours. “I need to feel you. Please. Fuck!”

His hot breath tickled your neck, sending shivers throughout your body, the sensation bringing you closer to your climax. You whispered his name in ecstasy as his shaft lay between your wet slit. Slowly, Shadow worked his hips to coat his length in your juices, the friction against your clit and the tip of his cock too much for either of you to bear. A growl worked its way through his body as he opened his mouth around your shoulder, his teeth making contact with your tough skin.

Chasing your orgasm, the sudden pressure on your shoulder and your pussy brought your climax to an explosive conclusion just as Shadow found his. Hot cum poured from him onto your stomach, both of you panting as you were both well spent. Getting his bearings, Shadow lifted himself up, admiring his work before placing a gentle kiss on your lips. You smiled against his, euphoria setting in.

[enteroctopusdarkysilis]

✨More Clones Brickheadz !✨

Since I acquired the Small Cody (40675), I found that there was an untapped mine. Why would they only make one ? Well. I don't have an answer to that, but I decided to take matters into my own one; so behold : 11 more. I went mostly for commanders here, but then I went a bit astray and so I added some captains to the mix.

In order, row by row :

Tukk (Not cannon but the colours are so beautiful)/Vaungh (died too soon-)/Rex (obviously)/Fordo (I did Rex, so I had to)

Gree/Doom/Thorn/Neyo

Bly/Cody/Fox/Wolffe

It was a really fun project, and I hope to do more of them in the future - maybe even phase 1s, some day~); supposedly not commanders because I did most of them (except Bacara, I know...The helmet was too tough).

And because I really like challenges, if you want to see another clone turned into one of these (Be it cannon or one of your ocs) feel free to send requests in my aksbox !)

Anyway this post is already far too long for anyone's dashboard, so closeups and details will be under the cut !

Let's start with the easy ones : Cody, Doom, Fox, Thorn

Obviously, Cody was easy, I just rebuilt the original one virtually - Nothing too hard. The printed pieces here are not the right ones, because Cody's are not available on STUDio yet, but the storm trooper ones were relatively similar, so I used these for most of these models. Of course, it means I'm lacking the sun bands, and a few other distinctive elements, but it works well enough for now.

Now, Doom is essentially a colour variation (minus a few antennas). I also used an old space piece, which has this big yellow arrow printed on it. I's not exactly what Doom has, but I feel like it's close enough for a first attempt.

Then, Fox is relatively similar to Doom, but with two DC-17s. I also moved the printed torso brick up to get that red line he has.

Thorn works in a similar way to Cody too, except I removed both accessories on the side of the helmet. I also added this tile with diagonal lines to figure the wings he has. One day I'll slap some real wings on there, but I haven't found the right image yet. I also gave him a Z-6, obviously. I really like it, so I might actually make that one physically, because the way it's build (with old binocular pieces) is pretty nice; although I doubt the pieces are available in black.

Moving on to two captains : Vaughn and Tukk !

Admittedly, not really that different either, except for one thing : I learnt to do custom prints now ! Yay ! Well, these are really basic : the blue line for Vaughn, and some trapezoids for Tukk's helmet (which are, indeed, not visible here - shame, I spent so long making these fit). The Ahsoka pattern was already in STUDio (because Ahsoka already has her own brickheadz, which I'll get my hands on someday~)

I must also add that having some cyan in this whole thing added some much needed colours in here, I'm grateful some people give their clones amazing colours (If somehow someone doesn't know who Tukk is, well just check High Ground Animation. Right now. It's really cool, trust me). Anyway.

As for design changes, I modified the faces slightly by adding 1x1 tiles, to allow for different colours variations on the face. It makes them look slightly blockier, but given the overall size of the head, it doesn't do much.

I also gave Vaughn a DC-15A. It's a bit messy, but it works out well enough. Past me forgot to render it, so here is a raw, in-software picture of it (from Fordo(s hand, but it's the same design for both) :

BARC helmets ? Wolffe, Fordo, Neyo

As I've been told, these look a bit wonky, and I'll admit its wasn't exactly easy, but in my defence, it's relatively hard to get such round shapes with bricks (lego cheated by adding the visor). Anyway, given that doing that with a printed piece was out of the question, I tried to replicate the filter's shape with actual bricks, and I used a printed piece which, technically, is Lando's moustache, but downward. I'd say it does the job relatively well.

I also added a rangefinder to Wolffe, which is a little big compared to everyone else's antennas, but It's still relatively to scale with the head itself. No custom prints for him (not sure where I would find the correct pattern images ?), but I've done it for Fordo and Neyo. Fordo obviously has his well deserved Jaig eyes (and who knew it would be that difficult to find a picture of that on internet ?), and Neyo has his symbol on the helmet, chest plate, and the shoulder not shown here.

The really tinkered ones : Gree, Bly, Rex :

Here, it was a matter of trials and errors to figure out just how to get the shapes right.

I actually started with Bly, by removing the previous visor and adding the macrobinoculars first, then I tried to shape the helmet around. Truth is, it doesn't make sense technically : the two separated parts of the helmet do not connected at all, if you remove the equipment. Luckily, no one has to know that.

Next is Gree. It took me some time to figure out how to properly get a round feel, but I feel like it's as good as I can make it like this. Colour-wise, it was surprisingly difficult to find how to balance the different shades of green, and equally hard was to figure out which silvery colour would render well in STUDio. The answer lied, as it always does, in Bionicle. Of course, none of these pieces exist in this colour, but it's not really my main problem (because none of the coloured printed pieces exist either).

Finally, Rex...He gave me some trouble, I have to admit. Firstly, the part-designing software decided to have some trouble with custom prints, which was problematic, because I simply couldn't do Rex without jaig eyes (and Fordo already had his). Then, I started with Gree's base and tried to go from there to fit Rex's custom helmet. I ended up using Boba Fett's printed visor piece for Rex, because these were all triangles. I also got rid of the printed chest piece and used some black plates to simulate the pouch he has; while also adding a a few more custom printed pieces for the arms and pauldron (barely visible, but they're here. I'm not entirely happy with it, but I don't see much other solutions than more and more custom prints, which isn't my goal, so it'll stay like that for now.

Anyway, that's way too much rambling for one post, so I'll just end by saying that next week I'll post an alt version of this whole build [here !], with some 'slight' colour alterations. Definitely nothing big.

[heartepub]

the cities in which

summary. three lives are tied together across cities and oceans. in this life, and perhaps in others. ft. lee seokmin, chwe hansol, afab!fem!reader genre/tags. angst, fluff, romance, inspired by past lives (2023), "what if vernon never emigrated", copious wong kar wai mentions, one (1) glück poem mention, there's korean but you'd understand the convo even wo translation, unbeta'd and not proofread (mistakes my own) warnings. alcohol, two allusions to offscreen sex, no physical description of reader but she grew up in skorea and speaks korean wc. 10k 17k suggested listening. hey, that's no way to say goodbye, leonard cohen // quiet eyes, sharon van etten // paper houses, niall horan // when we were young, adele // stay, cat power // the view between villages, noah kahan

notes. a day late (crying) but happy birthday 218 bros! i followed a lot of the original (full credits to celine song and the writers for those parts), but deviated as well ! no photo borders for each small scene jump cos of the limit. korean dialogue is only italicized when all three of them are together. not fully happy so may return to it for edits, you have been warned.

ACT I: SEOKMIN

24 years ago

“Do a diamond next.”

You oblige him, yet the marker barely touches his skin before Seokmin snatches it out of your hand.

“Hey!” You whine.

“Don’t use red, that’s for rubies!” 

He hands you a pale blue marker, already uncapped, before resuming his former position, shoulder to shoulder with you. His forearm is nestled between both of yours, which are already covered in his doodles. Seokmin’s breath ghosts over your cheek as he leans in, observing. Unbothered, you carefully draw a crystal shape, adding sparkles around it for good measure. He giggles as the felt tip drags on his skin.

“Don’t move, you’ll ruin it!” You swat his back. He yelps.

“But it tickles!” You just grip his arm tighter as he whines and giggles.

It’s as easy as breathing to lean into his weight as he curls against you, laughter shaking his shoulders. The rest of the classroom fades away, nothing else being quite as important as the way your sides almost fully touch each other, despite sitting on separate chairs.

--

You first befriended Lee Seokmin on the margins of one of your mother’s bookclubs. Fellow skirt-clingers turned partners in crime. He told you he would often nag his mom to finish her book more quickly just so that he could come over sooner; what a revelation it was, then, that you could see each other outside of those chatter-filled meetings. More so when you found out you’d be going to the same elementary school.

It was an easy friendship, one filled with scabbed knees and marker-filled arms. The occasional covert homework-copying. He keeps two extra pencils with him in the same way you have an extra stash of pad paper (which unfortunately the rest of the class has become privy to). Your parents would scold you for the telephone bills because of the days you’d spend ours talking, as though you hadn’t just spent the whole day in school together.

In the years you were not in the same class, Seokmin would wait outside every day without fail, just to walk home together, until the fork in the road where he’d bid you goodbye with the same blinding grin. Sometimes, you’d buy hotteok wrapped in newspaper from the stands and laugh when the print transfers onto the fried dough. He tried some tteokbokki from the stall a few streets down, but forced you to finish it once he realized it was too spicy for him.

These were days when sunlight streamed, golden, through the windows of both your lives.

--

Boxes litter the floor of your home, some full, but most still half-empty. Sunlight filters in through the windows, skimming over cardboard and wood tile alike and casting a burnished-golden glow. From your father’s office, there are soft strains of music and the faint lingering smell of tobacco smoke. 

You look around. The posters have been taken down, separated into those you plan to bring and others you are either to throw or give away. Nothing else is on the once-messy desk save for the notebooks and pens needed for this week’s schoolwork. The walls are bare, the only reminder of the pictures you had being the faint tape marks and spots where the paint peeled off as you tried to remove them. Even your bed is absent of the plushies you used to have surrounding you, most of them already sealed and packed in one of the boxes outside. All that’s left is the bedsheet, so that you won’t be sleeping on a bare mattress.

Your room no longer seems your room.

--

“Darling.” You don’t look up from the book you’re reading.

“Hm?”

“Is there anyone in school you really like right now?”

You think about it. A smiling face emerges in your mind’s eye. The ghost of a weight presses against your side. 

“…Seokmin,” you decide.

“Lee Seokmin? Why?”

“He makes me laugh. I think I’ll marry him someday.”

“Really? Does he want to marry you too?”

“I think he does. Or he will if I tell him to, anyway.” You shrug.

Your mom mulls over this as she sorts the papers on her desk. On it are your immigration documents, including passports, birth certificates, and the family registry. The edge of your picture can be glimpsed from where the passport lifts, not quite laying flat on the wood.

“Do you want to go on a date with him?”

You nod enthusiastically.

--

“Seokminnie.”

“Hm?” he peeks at you from behind the concrete block. You giggle, shoving his shoulder in a clear message of tag! before sprinting away. He lets out an indignant squawk before giving chase. 

You evade him for a few breathless minutes before he eventually swipes his hand across your back. Shrieking, you shift your weight and lunge with your hand extended, which Seokmin swerves to avoid with a triumphant cry. Gleeful taunts echo across the space.

Your mothers have taken you both today to an unfamiliar place, one somewhat reminiscent of both a yard and fortress. There are large stone installations in the outdoor space, ones perfect for chasing each other around until you are out of breath from both running and laughing. Eventually, too tired to continue, you both lean against the twin stone faces, facing each other. Your eyes rove over Seokmin’s features, watching him do the same.

Though she did not say it outright, a little part of you senses that this date was part of a goodbye. She had warned you, as you all began to pack, that you might need to begin your goodbyes soon, lest dumping the surprise of your moving on your friends ends with you leaving on bad terms.

Your classmates, you did not mind; but Seokmin is your best friend. You know he would sulk and hold it against you to the ends of the earth if you could not even say goodbye. Yet goodbye feels too real for a day that has been as light as a dream.

As you leave, the sun is just beginning to set; the car was a wash of orange and pink light moving across the seat. Leaning your body on Seokmin, you rest your head on his shoulder, and feel a responding weight on the top of your head. Fingers tangle with your own, slotting together as they had done a thousand times before. Like this, you drift further into dreams.

--

You break the news over recess. The marker hovers over his skin. Sighing, you remove the cap nocked on the top of the marker and closing it over the tip. Seokmin glances at you, confused.

“My family…we’re leaving.”

“Like, a trip?”

“No. Forever.”

“Forever? But…why?”

“I don’t know,” you shrug helplessly. “Mom and Dad said so.”

“Do you want to?”

And because you cannot be anything but kind with him, you try to play it off. “No. But,” you inject the truth this time, “I don’t hate Mom and Dad for deciding to leave. It could be fun.” Seokmin stares at you, his gaze unreadable. For the first time in what feels like forever, the air between you is tense

“Huh, you’re leaving?” A classmate interjects. 

The moment is broken; you look up, a little startled. It takes a moment to reply.

“Yeah. To America.” More people begin to crowd your space, and Seokmin untangles his arm from you. You glance at him. Seokmin’s face is a mask.

“Like, never coming back?” Another classmate asks. You turn your focus back to the growing crowd.

“Yeah.”

“But why?”

“Because Mom and Dad said so. Besides,” you puff your chest, “I want to win the Nobel Prize for Literature. Can’t really do that here.”

Your classmates tilt their heads, completely clueless. Seokmin says nothing.

--

Today is your last day in Korea. Seokmin still hasn’t spoken to you.

As the clock strikes for dismissal, you wonder, for a split second, as you have these past few days, whether Seokmin would even want to walk home together. Each time you flounder, unsure, yet each time all he does is stand and look at you expectantly. Today is no different. Almost robotically, you sling your back and follow behind him. You leave together as always, and you wave at the classmates shouting their well-wishes with a smile.

There is a conspicuous distance between you as you trudge up the sloping roads. The silence stretches it even wider. Neither of you try to bridge it, not even as you reach the fork in the path where you part ways.

After a long moment, Seokmin whips around to face you. “Hey!” he says, voice loud. 

You turn, finding the tears shining at the corners of his eyes. A part of you, the one always helpless to his tears, bursts into life, surging painfully against your chest. The leaving never felt real until now.

“Seokminnie—” 

He gathers you in a hug, nothing like the gentle embraces you used to share, even as the contours of his body is familiar. He shoves you away, still roughly. 

Something opens up here. You gaze at each other from opposite sides of a chasm too wide to cross for two people so young. Seokmin stares at you hard, struggling to speak.

Eventually, he just slumps. “Bye,” he settles on, before walking away.

There is nothing to do but watch him leave.

12 years ago

You flick through the papers, skimming the notes you made from the feedback session on your latest screenplay draft. The desk is white and sparse, nothing like the gorgeous mahogany you remember of your mother’s study from your childhood. Overall, the dorm is just a generally unremarkable space, though it does its job of being a place for eating and sleeping in between your writing classes.

The comment about your lackluster desk makes it to your mother, on the phone as you prepare the takeout you had just bought from the Chinese place at the ground floor. She laughs.

“Yes, well, you should have the shitty desks before you have the nice ones, so you appreciate them more.” You laugh, nodding along as you open the still-hot pack of chow mein, tilting the water on the lid to flow into a napkin. Your mother carries the conversation along as you begin to eat.

“Have you tried looking up some of your old classmates on Facebook?”

“No? What’s up?”

“Do you remember Jiwon? She’s a lawyer now.”

An image of a girl tilting her head at your mention of the Oscars flashes across your mind. You swallow your mouthful before responding.

“Really? I never would have thought. We covered up for each other once when she forgot her homework and I peed my pants.”

“A forgetter and a bedwetter, making their way in different parts of the world, eh?” Your mother remarks, and you snort.

“Mm.” You unlock your computer, stretching your hands over your food to open Facebook and type her name. True enough, the first post on her profile is her brand-new photo as a passer of the bar exam. Other photos include her skincare routine, makeup preferences, and some club-hopping shenanigans. Just another normal girl in her 20s in Korea. 

You click on the search bar, pondering. “Ah, but Mom, who’s the boy again? The one I had a huge crush on.”

“Oh, we took you to Gwacheon, didn’t we? Hm…”

“Seokminnie,” you say, as your mother says, “Lee Seokmin.” You type his name into the search bar. A low sound of exclamation leaves your throat.

“Whoa, that’s crazy. He’s been looking for me.”

“What?”

“Yeah. He posted on Dad’s page.” 

Hello, the post reads. I am your daughter’s childhood friend. I’d like to get in touch with her. You click the name on the post, opening the page to his profile.

“Oh, wow,” you whisper.

Though older, you recognize his face immediately. The same sharp jaw and soft eyes. A smile that lights up his face. There’s just something ever-so-slightly different about his nose, but you chalk it up to either puberty or the all-too-common plastic surgery in Korea.

“Mom, I’ll call you back, okay?”

“Mm, okay.” You hang up. Clicking on the Message button, you tap your laptop, figuring out what to say. Eventually, you settle with: Seokminnie, it’s me, your Gwacheon date. Do you remember me?

--

Up until this point, Seokmin thinks he’s lived quite an ordinary life. There is little that would sway him into thinking otherwise. Blearily, he blinks at his blaring alarm clock before slamming his hand on the snooze button. God-forbid there would ever be a night drinking with Soonyoung and Seungkwan that would not end with an awful hangover.

There is a vague memory, one of Soonyoung’s warbly comments after the third bottle of soju: Do you have a girlfriend? Who the hell…is messaging you at this time?

He opens his phone, scrolling through last night’s notifications. Seokminnie, it’s me, your Gwacheon date. Do you remember? The message reads. He clicks on the profile, and is transported to the past.

“Whoa.” He smiles, even as his head is pounding, zooming in on the face in the profile. While it was true that he did his best to find you, asking through your old classmates and even finding your mom’s writing page on Facebook, the sheer lack of any good leads had chipped away at any hope of it going anywhere. A response, after all the searching, still seems unbelievable.

Somehow, your face is the same as he remembers, even as it is twelve years older.

“Seokmin-ah! Wake up!” His mother’s voice pulls him from his trance. He glances again at his phone. The same smile, though he notices now more softness in some places in the jaw and some sharpness in others.

Somewhat reluctantly, he rolls off the covers. Even now, his mother enforces a rule of no phones on the table.

From the dining room, the smell of spicy broth hits his nostrils. His mouth waters. There is already rice on the table. His mother carries a bowl of soup where Seokmin is already seated. Beside her, his father is handing out the chopsticks. He and his sister receive their pair with a quiet thank you.

“Thank you for the meal,” he murmurs. The metal clangs softly against the bowl as he scoops a spoonful of spicy broth and beansprouts into his mouth. With every bite, he feels his hangover slowly subside.

“Did you drink a lot last night?” His mother asks.

“Kinda? Soonyoung-hyung just got broken up with, though, so he drank the most.” His father chuckles quietly, commiserating. His sister squints at Seokmin.

“But you look happy today? Why?” He looks up, the smile frozen on his face.

“Aren’t I always a little happy?”

“Hm,” his mother regards him critically. “You are, more so than usual.”

“Ah.” He should know better than pretend his parents cannot read him. “I am,” he admits. “I think something amazing is about to happen.” He leaves it at that, playfully deflecting his family’s grilling, even as his sister threatens to stalk him to figure out the mystery.

--

The Skype seems to take forever to load. Seokmin drums his fingers on the touchpad, each tap coming faster than the last. Finally, it does, with an add friend? notification already blinking at him. He beams, accepting the add and pressing the video call button without delay.

As though from a dream, a familiar yet different face stares at him from the laptop. Seokmin can’t help the smile that blooms on his face.

“Whoa,” he says softly.

“Whoa,” the dream echoes, voice a little staticky, somehow both everything and nothing like he has imagined.

Seokmin chuckles, breathless. “Is that really you?”

“It’s me. And you?”

“Yeah, it’s me.”

He’s at a loss, and it seems you’re the same. Only your chuckles fill the sound of the call. Eventually, Seokmin says, “I can’t believe we’re meeting again like this.”

“I didn’t even know you were looking for me! Or that you remembered! I just looked you up by chance, and saw the message you left on my dad’s page.”

“Oh, well, it wasn’t by chance for me.” Seokmin scratches his cheek. “It just became a challenge, and the harder it got the more I wanted to be able to find you. You don’t go by your Korean name anymore.”

“Ah, yeah.”

“Huh…so that’s why it was so hard to find you…” he trails off as he catches sight of your face. You seem to be squinting at him. 

“Is your nose different?” You blurt, catching him off-guard. Hurriedly, you begin to explain, “it doesn’t look bad, don’t get me wrong, but it’s a little…more striking than I remembered.”

“Oh!” Heat flushes his cheeks, and Seokmin chuckles, surprised and flustered at the comment. “Yeah, I had an accident while in the military, and had to have a minor surgery on my nose. It’s okay, then?” He touches his nose self-consciously.

“Yeah, you look great,” you reply honestly.

With the heat not quite receding from his face, Seokmin changes the subject. “S-so, are you based in New York, now?”

“Yeah, I’m a writer here.”

“Oh, a little like your mother?”

“That’s right—” You seem to be saying something, but the Skype lags. Seokmin only catches the tail end of your words. “—hear me? Seokmin?”

“Hey, I can hear you now. Sorry, what were you saying?”

“Oh, I was just asking about what you’ve been up to.”

“Well, I finished military service a few years ago, nose and all.” You hum in acknowledgement. “I’m doing something a little related to your work, actually. Well, kind of?”

“What’s that?”

He begins to explain. “My parents wanted me to get an engineering degree, and I’m finishing that up, but I wanted to try some singing, so I auditioned for some small plays here and there.”

“Really? That’s exciting!” You seem to come to life then. “I don’t know much about engineering, but you’ve been trying out for musicals?”

“Yeah, nothing too intense since I’m doing it in between studying for the engineering exam, but it’s been fun.” He sings a quick tune from his latest audition, the smile bleeding into his voice as he sees your expression, full of wonder.

“That’s lovely, Seokminnie.”

The chatter lasts for hours. Seokmin glances at something above him and seems to realize something.

“Ah, I’m sorry,” he apologizes, “but I have to go to class soon.”

“No problem,” you respond, tamping down the disappointment. “I have to get started on my assignment and eat dinner, anyway.”

“Oh, you haven’t eaten yet? Isn’t it late?” He’d added your timezone in the world clock on his phone yesterday.

“Midnight,” you confirm.

“Huh?” Shocked, Seokmin splutters. “Go eat now! Jeez.”

“Okay, okay.”

Seokmin shifts, his stare at you softening into something familiar yet unreadable. At his continued staring, you raise an eyebrow.

“What?”

Seokmin scratches his cheek. “I don’t know if it’s weird to say.”

“It’s fine, what is it?”

He pauses, hesitating, before he continues. “Is it strange to say I missed you?”

Your expression softens. Pixelated as it is, Seokmin catches your eyes rove over his face, as though like him, you are cataloguing new features. Familiar, yet so different. “Of couse not, Seokminnie. I missed you too.”

A weight in him lifts, and Seokmin chuckles, soft and warm, relishing in the sound of soft laughter from his headphones. He should hang up now, but he hesitates. It seems you do too, until you huff a little laugh and offer a small wave. The movement is so achingly familiar that Seokmin’s chest clenches.

“Call later?”

He brightens. “Sure!”

--

“Hello?” The Skype opens to you rubbing your eyes.

“Don’t you only get up at like, 10AM?” Seokmin watches you, amused yet endeared.

“Mm,” you murmur sleepily. “But you said this is the only time that works for you.”

--

It becomes routine.

Good evening’s are replied with Good morning’s, calls connect over his commute while you eats dinner.

“Your Korean has gotten rusty,” Seokmin teases.

“Aish—I only get to speak Korean with you. Even my parents have gotten to using English more.”

“What’s that been like?”

“Hm?”

“Learning English, going to school…” he trails off. “It’s amazing that you’ve ended up pursuing writing in English too, of all things.” On the screen, your mouth parts in surprise.

“Oh, well…it’s been hard, of course, especially when you’re new. Different places, different food, different people. You have no choice but to go along with it, even if you don’t really belong.”

“Did you cry?”

“Sometimes,” you admit, briefly checking on something behind the screen before returning your focus to him. “Especially at first. But eventually I realized that no one really cared.” Despite your words, there is little sorrow on your face. Your expression is distant, reminiscing, as though time had sanded down the sadness into nostalgia.

“…I’m sorry,” he murmurs. He doesn’t really know what to say except for that.

You grin. “Ah, don’t be like that. It’s been a long time, and as you said, I’m even writing in English now.”

“That’s right. You even said you wanted to win the Nobel. How’s that going?”

“Nowadays, I’m interested in the Pulitzer.”

Seokmin cracks up, and you begin to laugh too. He smiles at the screen. “You’re the same.”

“Am I?”

“Yeah. Greedy.”

You level him with a glare that’s only partially offended. “You can’t go by life without wanting anything.”

“Yeah, but you want everything.”

“Nooo,” you drag it out, only half-denying, as Seokmin continues to laugh. 

--

Seokmin looks up the Pulitzer in between classes.

--

Seokminnie, I’m sorry! I had a bender and couldn’t wake up early enough. Did you wait long?

No no, it’s okay! How are you?

--

It takes longer than normal for the screen to load. The internet connection today isn’t the best. He isn’t quite sure if it’s his or yours that’s slow.

“Hello? Can you hear me?”

--

 Would you ever come to New York?

I don’t know.

--

How did your audition go this time?

Ah, I didn’t get in.

Oh, I’m sorry.

--

The screen does not load for a very long time. The call fails.

--

Would you ever come to Seoul again?

I don’t know.

--

“Look, you can see the skyline from here.” Seokmin flips the camera on his phone, showing the view from the top of the Wonder Ferris Wheel in Gyeonggi-do.

“Oh, it’s pretty.” You are silent for a moment. “Wish I were there.”

“I hope you can see it some time. Let’s go together.”

“I mis—” the sound cuts off. Seokmin stares at your image, frozen midsentence. In front of him, the sun sets over Seoul’s skyline. The lights blur and swim, ever so slightly. As do you, still unmoving.

The view is beautiful, regardless. Heartbreakingly so.

--

Can we talk?

--

He senses something is off the moment he answers the call. Your expression is different. You fidget with the hem of your sweater offscreen. He checks the time on the world clock. 2AM.

“You aren’t asleep yet?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” you answer.

“You okay?”

“Mm. Of course.”

“What did you want to talk about?”

“Hypothetically…how long before you can come visit me in New York?”

Seokmin considers it, visualizing his calendar, the course program he’s in, along with his current responsibilities. “At least a year and a half. I’m studying for the PE exam, and I have to pass it to be an engineer, so…”

“No need to explain,” you cut him off, kind despite the firmness in your voice. “I also won’t be able to visit you soon. I’m apprenticing under a director here, and there’s a writing residency I’ll be joining soon, too. It’ll be at least a year until I can go to Seoul, assuming I even have the money.”

He closes his eyes at your next words, already anticipating them.

“I think…” you begin carefully. “We should stop talking to each other.”

“Why?”

“I just…I’m here now, not in Korea. I uprooted my life twice, first when my family moved to Toronto, and then now when I came to New York. I can’t keep living in the past; I can’t keep looking up flights to Seoul.

“And it’s not fair to you; you’re studying to be an engineer, and finding a life of your own…” you trail off. If anything, he tries to find solace in the heartbreak he hears mirrored in your voice. Solace, yet at the same time there is no small amount of guilt that he is drawing comfort in another’s pain.

“So you want to stop talking?”

“Just for a while.”

“I finally found you after twelve years…”

“You aren’t losing me, Seokminnie.” The gentleness in your voice feels like ruin. “It’s not for forever.

“Seokmin, please don’t hold a grudge,” you beg, speaking again as he does not reply. “We’ll be back talking before you know it.”

“No, I—you’re right,” he admits. It isn’t a platitude. He stares at his reviewers, stacked beside the laptop, the calendar with dates encircled in red pen. And yet he can’t help but want to cry. “It’s a good idea.” 

You look away. “I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t be. We’re not dating or anything.”

“Yeah.” You stare at each other from across the Pacific—eleven thousand kilometers.

“Bye,” Seokmin whispers, already feeling the weight of the silence. He reaches a hand out, touching the screen. Inevitability does not lessen the heartbreak. Seokmin finds this out the second time, no longer too young to understand. 

You attempt to offer him a smile. “Talk to you soon, Seokminnie.”

“Yeah.”

He hangs up before the tears begin to fall.

ACT II: VERNON

6 months later

In the writing residency, only one other person is also from New York. Roughly your age, he extends his hand toward you, all thick eyebrows and finely-sculpted features. There is an echo of something in his face, features you would only really see in someone with mixed heritage.

“Hi, I’m Hansol Chwe,” he says. “But I usually go by Vernon.”

You shake his hand, replying in English with your name and a quick nice to meet you before switching to Korean. “반쪽 한국인인가요?”

There’s no recognition in his eyes, and you quickly realize your mistake. “Sorry, I can only understand tidbits. But that was Korean, right?”

“Oh, um. Yeah, I just asked if you are half-Korean. I just thought, with Hansol…”

“I’m third-gen. My father’s parents immigrated.”

“I see.” The embarrassment doesn’t quite abate, but Vernon confirming your hedge does make gratification ease it a little.

“Are you Korean? You talk like a native.”

“I grew up in Seoul before my parents moved.” You keep the chatter as you enter the cabin. He offers to help you with your bags, which you accept with a grateful smile.

To both of your pleasant surprise, your rooms are not so far away. He set down your bag outside the door labelled with your name. For a moment, the conversation stills, and you just stare at each other. After a beat, the corner of his lips quirks upward.

“See you around, then?”

“Yeah,” you smile. “See you, Vernon.”

--

There’s something wonderfully easy about being with Vernon, and you often find yourself gravitating toward him and his feedback as you go about the residency. You aren’t the only one; the lingering glances in his direction are obvious to any keen eye, though how much is for his acuity in commenting on syntax and how much is for the way he runs his fingers through his hair remains to be seen.

You feel those stares at the back of your head now.

“Kimchi with cream cheese?” 

Vernon’s mouth quirks upward at your incredulous voice. “Yeah.” 

“The most I’ve seen people do to tone down the spice was when my mom would wash the sauce off with a little bit of water when I was a kid. But cream cheese?”

“It’s like pink sauce, you know? Like you mix tomato with cream for penne ala vodka.”

“Yeah, but tomato and kimchi are two different things.”

“Hey,” he says in mock offense, “Don’t knock it ‘til you try it. Maybe there’s an Asian mart here somewhere and we can go on a grocery run.”

To be fair, it’s almost both your turn to take charge of cooking; the participants had all agreed to divvy up the tasks while you all were in the cabin, and you had both volunteered for Wednesday’s dinner. You frown, trying to imagine the taste before giving up.

(No, don’t buy that much, he advises you a few days later, walking through the imported goods aisle. The fridge will smell like kimchi for the rest of our stay. Just enough for the one meal.)

(Pairing kimchi and cream cheese together wasn’t bad, per se, but your idea of adding gochujang into the tomato-based pasta was a much bigger hit among the other writers. The kimchi itself was not as good as the one you could buy from the ahjumma across the street of your old home; but here, you allow grace. Some tastes that are more nostalgia than anything else.

You do, however, phone your family to ask for some kimchi to be sent to you after you’re back in the mainland.)

--

“Can’t sleep?” You nearly jump out of your skin from fright, swearing in a voice a little too loud for a 2AM sneak-out.

“What the fuck. Vernon is that you?” 

“Yeah.” He looks a little sheepish from his spot on the couch, laptop casting a dull glow on his face.

“Nearly gave me a heart attack, oh my god.”

“Sorry. But you too? Can’t sleep?”

“Mm.” You grab a glass and the juice carton from the fridge, pouring yourself a drink. “Thought I fixed my sleep schedule, but turns out it’s not that easy.”

“I’m watching Days of Being Wild, if you wanna join me.”

“Ooh, I’ve watched all of Wong Kar Wai’s movies, but I wouldn’t mind watching them again.” Intrigued, you approach him, going around the kitchen counter to settle on the couch. The screen is frozen at the scene where Maggie Cheung’s character is walking with the policeman. Vernon presses play, and you nurse your glass of juice as you watch the tangled lives of Leslie Cheung, Maggie Cheung, and Andy Lau play out across both Hong Kong and the Philippines. 

As the movie fades out with Tony Leung walking out the door, it’s just past three. You’re fighting back a yawn. Vernon closes the tab, turning to you curiously.

“Do you have a favorite? Wong Kar-Wai film, I mean.”

You try to think about it for a moment. “It’s been a while since I watched any of his work. But…right now, and this is gonna sound really basic,” you warn, “the first that comes to mind is In the Mood for Love.”

He huffs a little laugh. “That is basic, but I’m just as bad since I like Chungking Express the most.”

Your body chooses this moment to yawn again, inordinately long. Almost immediately, you cover your mouth, mortified. “Oh my god. That was not a commentary on Chungking Express.” At your expression, Vernon’s shoulders begin to shake, and he hunches over to muffle his chuckles. You swat his back. “Hey!”

He waves off your embarrassment, straightening. The corners of his mouth are still twitching upward. “No harm done. But,” he adds, “I do have Chungking Express and In the Mood for Love on my laptop. We can see whose favorite holds out better tomorrow night?”

His boyish smile is disarmingly charming, even more so in the low light. You grin back, feeling your heart flutter in a way that feels both familiar and new. “Deal.”

--

Of course, there are days when Vernon’s blunt honesty grates on your frayed nerve endings. 

Yesterday you had to explain again to your mom why you had lost touch with Seokmin—he’s taking the PE exam that you need for an engineer’s license, and I’m here pursuing my own dream, besides there’s nothing stopping us from talking again after we’re both settled with our lives—which she never quite understands. She and your father had, after all, been the type of people who stayed together amid individual tumults; in her opinion, the Pacific Ocean shouldn’t stand in the way of childhood friends. You begged to differ; it wasn’t just the Pacific that was the problem.

Today had you irritable, noise-sensitive, and frankly, not at your best.

“To be honest,” he says, flicking through your latest output, “I think you’re just not that good at handling soulmates. I don’t feel much of you in the writing.”

“Bold of you to say you know how I feel in writing.” Your reply is just shy of a bark. Vernon startles, his gaze snapping to you where it was roving again over his scribbled notes. His face jolts you back to yourself. You shove the irritation back behind your teeth.

“Sorry. It’s not been a good day.”

“Er, it’s fine.” His fingers pinch the pages, restless. “Do you want to write about something that feels out of a fairy tale? Or something more like real life?”

“I don’t know, and that’s the problem.” The story you crafted was about two childhood friends who were soulmates, yet one moved away before they could discover it. Time and distance had rendered them different people, yet as their souls recognized each other—even the jagged pieces fit together.

In Vernon’s reading, it seemed that there was a relationship forced between two characters with little chemistry. Which hit entirely too close to home.

“This isn’t my own advice, so take it with a grain of salt,” he starts slowly. “But the voice we find in our writing isn’t always the one we wanted to have. Like, even if, say, I wanted to sound like Garcia Marquez talking about love, sometimes it’s just gonna feel weird actually doing it. And when I find a certain style fits me, I get disappointed when I compare it to the voice I initially wish I had.”

“In this analogy, am I trying to be Garcia Marquez?”

“I guess? I’m not saying whatever style you do have, it’ll be bad,” he hurries to qualify, “it’s just that you don’t have to force your voice or story to fit into something it’s not trying to be.”

You sit back, stunned a little at the sageness of his words. “Oh, wow, Vernon.”

He scratches his cheek, suddenly unable to meet your eyes. “It’s not my advice, stop acting like I gave it. I read it from somewhere.”

Some old emotion stirs in you—hunger, competitiveness, desire—that old friend that carried you across fields and deserts in the name of continuous improvement. 

Despite no real incentive toward being the “best” in this residency, you are sharply reminded that this is a program where the bright gather. It would not do to half-ass anything. You remember what your mom had said, the first time you moved to Toronto: Some things must be set aside for new things to grow.

As you tap your pen on your little black notebook, a smile begins to bloom. “It’s great advice. Is it from a book?”

--

You stretch, the cushion of the couch shifting as you move your weight this way and that. On the table, the credits to Chungking Express play. Vernon pauses the roll of names before turning to you.

Apropos of nothing, he asks, “What was the biggest culture shock you had as a kid?”

You raise an eyebrow at him, silently asking if he’s going to explain why he raised that to you out of the blue. Vernon just looks at you, expectant. Deciding to humor him, you tilt your head, running through possible answers in your head. “Do you want a funny answer or a depressing one?”

He blinks. “Whichever you want to share, I guess?”

You lean aganst the headrest, focusing on some spot on the ceiling obscured by the darkness. “I don’t know how to decide what was biggest, but definitely the first one that comes to mind would be the lunchboxes.”

“Oh, like, packed lunch?”

“Yeah, or like, the food they’d have in the cafeteria. All the kids would call mine—”

“Stinky,” the both of you say in unison. You laugh, nostalgic. “Yeah. I was also pretty bad at English, back then, since the kind you learn in Korean school is different from the ones kids actually use. I remember only liking Math, just because numbers are the same whether you’re in Canada or Korea.”

Vernon’s eyes are soft as he regards you. “It must have been hard to make friends.” The words are simple, yet you feel the sincerity all the same. An understanding that comes with knowing what it means to be different, and living through it. You shift your head, turning to face him.

“I can’t imagine it’s been easy for you either,” you acknowledge.

“Mm. Kids could be particularly cruel.”

“Yeah, but I’m thankful all the same. I can’t imagine doing all the hellish cram school stuff just to get into SNU or something like that. And then work under a chaebol.” Perhaps it would have been be you in a different life, but in this one, the image feels like one from far away.

“You’re okay here? Not gonna fly somewhere else?” He references the ending of the movie. 

“I’ve had enough of travelling, to be honest.”

“Yeah?” The stare he levels at you is weighted, the air charged with something you don’t want to name quite yet. You hold his gaze.

“Yeah.”

Eventually, the corner of his lips quirk in a smile. The air eases up, and you inhale, only then realizing you have been holding your breath the whole time.

“Okay, then.”

--

Despite the call with your mother having gone better this time, something weighs your bones down. It’s fortunate that the cabin is a short walk from the shore.

You leave your shoes on the dry part of the beach, folding the hem of your jeans up to just above your calves.

The saltwater laps at your bare ankles. It’s that magical hour between sunset and dusk, when blue washes the world in quiet melancholy. Your gaze is trained north, but it is not New York you’re thinking about. Home has been a concept—less a house with roots, more a nebulous idea that you could never quite hold, like water or dry sand. 

The first time you left home—with all its hotteok stands and sunlight-dappled mahogany desks, it was at the behest of your parents. The second time, it was a choice of your own: a leaving on your terms. It was a whiplash of its own kind, one where you had to brave New York alone as a still-struggling college student. Home has always felt like something always just out of reach—is it something to find in the past, or is it waiting for you some place else?

Lost in thought, you murmur some lines of your favorite poem. Despite your finger bookmarking the page in the book in your hand, you know the words by heart.

“You ask the sea, what can you promise me…and it speaks the truth; it says erasure.”

On your lips is the taste of salt and loneliness.

--

Vernon looks up as you finally step into the living room, settling beside him.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” you sigh. “Sorry I’m late.”

“No worries,” Vernon says. His finger trails quickly over his laptop’s trackpad, rebooting it from when it had fallen asleep. He doesn’t comment on your slightly windswept appearance, but he does eye the thin, well-worn book you have with you. “Glück?” He asks, gesturing.

“Yeah.” He seems to sense your melancholy, and leaves it at that.

As the movie plays, you dare to rest your head against his shoulder. He says nothing, but he wriggles a little, letting your weight rest more comfortably against him. Like this, you watch Tony Leung and Maggie Cheung yearn under the smeared lights of retro Hong Kong.

--

Vernon wonders if it was the tragedy that first drew him in. One so much like his, yet different in many ways.

It was the defiant tilt of your chin even as you remained open to the chatter around you; the intensity with which you approached your work; even the indecipherable array of micro-expressions that crossed your face when you first bit into the store-bought kimchi from the only Asian mart you had found in Montauk.

Most writers are tragic creatures; especially those who made it this far to make it a career. Vernon knows this. At the very least, there is something in their souls that could taint a page with words—either a hunger or too-muchness (or both) that needed some kind of release.

“I never got to ask,” he begins, “but I noticed in our conversations that you’d mention not just Korea, but Toronto too. You immigrated twice?”

“Pretty much,” you nod. First from Seoul to Toronto, then Toronto to New York. You explain this to Vernon, who shakes his head in amazement. Despite no longer having any reason to meet each other at the couch—the premise of watching Wong Kar-Wai behind you—you still, without fail, emerge from your room at some ungodly hour. And he’s always there, waiting. Vernon knows your routine, now: setting the electric kettle to boil before spooning some honey citron tea (from the jar that cost a ridiculous amount in the Asian mart, yet split the bill of nonetheless) into two mugs. Offering him the other while you settle beside him on the threadbare sofa.

“Is that what you meant when you had enough of travelling?”

“You remember that?”

He turns his head to look at you, confused. “Why wouldn’t I remember?”

You keep your gaze to the ceiling. “Didn’t expect you to, sorry. But yeah, that’s why. Does this have anything to do with Wong Kar-Wai?”

“Nah, just wanted to ask.”

“Okay.”

“Must have been lonely, huh?” 

You turn to him, still leaning against the couch, tilting your head. The cushion dips under your temple. “Didn’t we have this conversation before?”

“Sure, but I didn’t know you immigrated twice. I was born here; technically I never immigrated at all. Everything I know of Korea is from my parents and grandparents.”

“Huh.” You mull that over. “Did you ever think that home was actually there, not here?”

“…Sometimes,” he eventually admits. “But it’s more imagination than reality. I’ll probably be too American there, just as I was too Korean here. Might even be worse since I don’t speak the language.”

You don’t offer an answer to that, but you do shift your body to lean on Vernon’s shoulder, a quiet gesture of comfort. Both of you settle yourselves in the silence until Vernon eventually speaks again.

“Immigrating twice, though…that’s a different kind of tough.”

“I guess. But I don’t regret it, on the whole. At least the second time, it was my choice.”

“Does that make it better?” He asks, genuinely curious. 

“I used to think so. Now…hm, it’s both better and worse. Canada does have better healthcare, though.” Vernon chuckles at that. “This time, I decided to leave, not my parents. I’d rather…I guess write my own story than live someone else’s out. Or have it written by someone else.”

He inhales, muscles in his jaw feathering as his mind conjures up the vivid memories of his childhood. Not quite fitting in. Big emotions, too big for a child’s small hands. Choices he had to carve out for himself. 

“I know what you mean,” he whispers.

Your reply is half a yawn. “Good.”

In this dream-like space between sleeping and waking, you nestle deeper into Vernon’s warmth. Your head lolls, dropping softly onto his shoulder. You smell like the bergamot-scented body wash stocked in the bathrooms.

He closes his eyes, letting this moment sink into his memory.

(Eventually, he carries you to bed, leaving a message both on your bedside and through email—the only contact he has of you right now. Vernon waves off your embarrassed thank you the next morning, his fluster betrayed only by the red that lingers on the tips of his ears. Neither of you speak of it, even as you sit together again for that morning’s plenary.)

--

The last night in the cabin is marked by an especially voracious round of drinking in the gazebo. Empty bottles of beer and wine are scattered on the marble table, a wooden chopping board still adorned with the last few slices of ham and crackers.

“There’s this word in Korean,” you begin, swirling the last dregs of beer left in your bottle. “Inyeon. My dad first introduced me to the term. It’s like…fate, or providence, but specifically on the relationships between people. There’s a little of Buddhism and reincarnation in it.

“It’s inyeon when two strangers walk by and their clothes accidentally brush. Even then, for that to happen, there must have been something between them in their past lives. They say that if two people marry, there are eight thousand layers of inyeon over eight thousand lifetimes.

“Or, like…the cop with the pineapples and the undercover thief in Chungking Express, that’s Inyeon. Maggie Cheung and Tony Leung in In the Mood for Love, that’s also inyeon.” You make eye-contact with Vernon, who watches, amused, as you explain a Korean concept with Cantonese movies. A reference only he, out of everyone in this writers’ residence, would understand with special acuity.

Questions are thrown, and you answer, a little tipsy. Vernon coaxes you to let go of your now-empty bottle for a glass of water, which you readily take from his hand with a sort of smile you’d only make while drunk. Eventually, the conversation moves to different topics, until, either one-by-one or in groups, excuse themselves for bed.

It’s only the two of you now in the gazebo.

The water has made you a little more sober, and you allow yourself to indulge in the sight of Vernon under the outdoor string lights. The warmth paints his skin a soft gold. 

He’s watching you, too.

“I’ve been thinking about it, but both movies…you could say they both discuss loneliness in different ways.”

“Yeah. And they all had some kind of inyeon, but that didn’t mean they were meant to be. But ’s nice to think of a past life where they were. Not that they exist outside of the screen, though—I don’t know where I’m going with this,” you admit, cutting off your own ramble. Pointedly, you swallow a gulp of water, ignoring his amused stare.

The conversation tapers off, nothing but the distant sound of waves lapping at the sand. You swirl the glass of water in your hand, tongue moving with your thoughts again.

“Maybe… maybe you and I were somebody to each other in a past life.”

The air holds your words, suspends them for a moment in the silence. 

“Do you believe that?” Vernon asks eventually. He’s searching your face—cataloguing, perhaps, how drunk you are for those words to have tumbled out of your mouth.

“What?”

“That we knew each other in a past life?”

“What, because we’re here now—this night, in the same residency, in this gazebo?” You don’t know what’s so funny about what he said, but you can’t seem to stop giggling.

Vernon huffs that quiet laugh of his. “Isn’t this,” he gestures to the both of you, “inyeon, too?”

“My dad would think so.”

Vernon hums. “And you?”

“Me?” Under the table, your thighs brush. Your laugh stops, and you realize the weight of his gaze has never abated. You wonder if you’ll ever get used to the intensity of his attention. A part of you hopes you never do.

“What do you think?”

Alcohol loosens your lips enough to be brave. Or maybe just stupidly honest. “I’m not thinking about inyeon,” you confess. “I just want to kiss you.”

His eyelids flutter, those unfairly pretty lashes casting a subtle shadow across his skin. The upward quirk of his lips is a mix of smug and abashed. “Yeah?” 

(Tomorrow morning, you will chalk it up to lowered inhibitions: the sunlight will stream through curtains not drawn, the first thing that will tell you it is not your room you wake up in. The second thing will be the weight of an arm thrown across your waist; the third, a soft breath against your neck. Tomorrow, you will pretend you didn’t know better.

Tonight, though, you lean in, as close as you dare. A toe dipped into the sea. You catch the remnants of a haze over his eyes, the reminder that he’s also drunk, just more adept at hiding it.)

“Yeah,” you whisper. He seems to absorb this, quiet even as the sound of the waves is drowned by the blood rushing in your ears.

After a beat, Vernon closes the gap even further, head tilting, lips maddeningly parted…and then stops. His pause prompts a soft, impatient noise out of your throat, one that, based on the smirk that pulls up the corner of his mouth even higher, has not gone unnoticed.

Despite the relatively cool night, the air is heavy with promise.

Your tongue flicks out to wet your lips. His focus darts down, following the movement, before flicking back up to you, the question evident in his eyes. His restraint, even with alcohol in his system, is simultaneously maddening, thrilling, and endearing. You give a miniscule nod.

It’s a clumsy kiss, a bit too much teeth—both of you are evidently drunker than you’re trying to come across. Yet it’s enough for him to pull away with a soft hum before leaning in again, meeting your mouth with much more finesse and a hand cradling the back of your neck. You tangle one hand in his hair, feeling the thickness of it around your fingers. You’re not sure who presses closer, only that your world has narrowed into the smell of cheap beer, sweat, and his cologne. Him, him, him.

Not many words are exchanged after that.

(The clothes come off in the morning, not in the middle of the night, but that’s neither here nor there.) 

(The pretending lasted all but ten minutes.)

ACT III: YOU

Present day

The pedestrian streetlights blink green. From the other side of the street, the funny face you’re making at him dissolves as you begin to walk. Vernon’s still chuckling as he meets you halfway, pressing a quick kiss to your temple before walking together. 

As you reach the sidewalk, you press his usual coffee order into his hands. “Double shot sea salt latte to get you by today’s book signing.”

He grins. “Thanks.” Vernon swirls the cup before taking a sip, relishing in the cool drink amid the current heat.

“I’ll be late tonight,” you begin, apologetic. He looks up at you as you talk. “Rehearsals might run until after dinner. Your mom asked me to help her a while ago, though—she stocked our ref with the newest batch of grandma’s kimchi.”

“Right, it’s almost the production.” Vernon squeezes your hand, reassuring. You smile, before looking at the amount of coffee left and batting his arm.

“I bought you that to drink during your signing!”

“But the ice will dissolve by the time I get halfway through the line,” he protests. “Might as well have it while it’s not salty coffee water.”

You just roll your eyes, stopping as you arrive at the back entrance of the bookstore he’s holding the signing in. “Fine. But make sure to eat, okay?”

“I should be telling you that.”

“Oh, don’t worry, the director said she’ll be treating pizza tonight.” You check your watch. “I got to go. See you later!”

Vernon leans forward, pecking your lips even as you rummage your purse for your phone. You bat his arm again before waving as you jog away.

--

You trace mindless patterns on his arm, staring at the ceiling. Around you, the duvet is a mess, mostly because of his leg, thrown over yours, which rests on top of the covers. He doesn’t understand how you want to burrow under a blanket after sex, but you insist that he just runs hotter than you.

“배고파요.” Vernon tests it on his tongue, feeling the words.

“Mm. Me too.” 

“뭐 먹고 싶어요?” 

You ponder it before shrugging, turning to bury your face into Vernon’s neck. “Dunno,” you murmur sleepily into his skin. He shifts his one arm so he can better cradle your head. Your arm shakes off the covers to fiddle with his hair, still freshly cut into its current length. The sun peeks through your blinds, intent to ruin your intention to stay in bed this weekend.

After a few moments, you speak again. “I got it. Know what I want?”

“What?”

“Chicken wings.”

“Ohhh.” Vernon groans, even as he doesn’t move. His breath fans against the top of your head. “Genius. Holy shit.”

“Yeah?” You smile against his neck.

“Yeah. Brunch?”

“Yeah.”

--

“What’s on your mind?” You look up from your plate of wings. Something crosses your face, a mix of not-guilt and trepidation that makes Vernon pause from deboning the chicken in his hands.

“Do you remember I told you about Seokmin?”

Ah. “Is that this week?”

“Yeah.”

“Why is he coming here, again?” He resumes his task, popping the meat in his mouth after cleanly pulling out the two bones.

“Vacation, I think.”

Vernon just hums.

--

The restaurant smells like smoke, grease, and alcohol. Before them, the grill sizzles with both thick-cut and thin-cut pork. Seungkwan stirs the thin slices with a pair of metal tongs, letting the fat render so it unsticks from the metal.

Soonyoung picks a piece of the thicker pork off the grill, blowing into it. “Why are you going to New York, again?”

“Vacation,” Seokmin replies as he wraps meat, rice, and ssamjang into a piece of lettuce. “Sightseeing, eating, having fun…” He opens his mouth wide, shoving the wrapped meat into his mouth.

Seungkwan eyes him. “You’re not going there to see that girl, right?”

Mouth muffled with food, Seokmin asks, “Huh? Who?” Soonyoung scoffs.

“What do you mean, who? Her, y’know. Your first love? Seems convenient you’re going to New York just when you’ve broken up with your girlfriend.”

Seokmin just snorts, swallowing his food before giving a wry chuckle. “Hyung, she’s married.”

“Really?” Soonyoung seems genuinely surprised. “How long now?”

“Like…seven years? I think?”

Seungkwan ooh’s as he pours Seokmin and Soonyoung a drink. “She married early.”

“Mm.” They clink glasses. 

Seungkwan unlocks his phone, checking something before clicking his tongue. “Hyung.” His voice is a mix of amused and commiserating.

“Mm?” He holds up his phone.

“it’s gonna be raining the whole time you’re there.” Seokmin and Soonyoung stare at his phone, the weather app pulled up.

After a beat, Soonyoung begins to cackle, slapping Seokmin’s arm, who yelps as he barely saves his beer from spilling over the grill. “Ya!”

Soonyoung ignores him. “Aigo, you poor bastard!”

“No way. Really?” Seokmin squints at the screen, willing the forecast to change. Already, he feels a slump settling on his shoulders.

--

True enough, Seokmin makes a break for it after getting off the taxi. He had hurriedly retrieved his luggage from the trunk, then dashed to the hotel he had booked for the next two nights. New York is miserably wet, and he feels self-conscious as his shoes squeak and drip rainwater onto the carpeted floor as he checks himself in. His English is not very good, but he does have Papago to help him stumble through the conversation with the receptionist. He receives his key card and room number.

Seokmin moves as fast as he can to the elevator, mindful of both his appearance and the need to get the wet cloths off him as soon as possible.

Finally, finally, he lugs his damp body and luggage into his empty room. There is a window overlooking the city, yet it is only grey with rain. Droplets cover the glass. Seokmin sighs, and shucks off his windbreaker, slipping into the bathroom to hang it and his other damp clothes.

It seems his plans of sightseeing would not be a go.

--

Unexpectedly, at around midnight, the rain had stopped. The clear weather continued through the early morning, until this moment. Light flicks off the small puddles left on the pavement, and is reflected, serene, on the surface of the pool. Fresh off the bad weather, there are not much people around the garden.

Seokmin stands off to the side. Though the surroundings are quiet, his mind is awhirl with the significance of today. He finds himself fiddling with his fanny pack and rubbing the strap with his thumb and forefinger, regressing to his childhood habit.

Time passes painfully long; he is half-tempted to begin bouncing on the balls of his feet just to release more of the nervous energy plaguing his body. He doesn’t know how much that face would have changed, yet he trusts in himself enough to recognize both the face and the soul behind it.

“Seokmin!” He turns.

You appear from behind one of the trees, and Seokmin knows. You catch his gaze, and he sees the moment you also know. You begin to walk toward him, circling the edge of the pool.

Seokmin is frozen. It feels like coming face to face with a ghost.

There are subtle differences—your style is a more comfortable mix between business and casual. The way you carry yourself is more relaxed, assured in a way that only ever comes when the weight of adulthood has nestled itself in one’s bones. You stop before him, seeming to be equally shocked. 

He feels you taking him in, too; suddenly, he’s hyper-conscious of the shirt he chose for today, the comfortable sweater and light-wash jeans a little too strange against the smarter, albeit dressed down look of your blouse. It’s not like you’re a couple trying to match, he chastises himself.

Seokmin stares at a person he has not seen in more than twenty years, and he watches you do the same.

The distance that stood between you at your first and second goodbye’s lingers, still not crossed. So much has changed, and he doesn’t know yet what remains the same. His body is hot, then cold. Every emotion overtakes him—shock, sadness, disbelief. Yet the one that settles most comfortably into the moment is simply relief. Seokmin exhales.

“Wow.” He chuckles softly.

“Wow,” you echo, your laugh breathless as it hangs in the air between you. You close the distance first, wrapping your arms around his neck in a fierce hug. Startled, Seokmin’s hands hang in the air before he relaxes. He should have expected this of you. His own arms encircle your waist, pulling you in. You smell faintly of soap and ink, nothing like the shampoo he remembered from when you were children. 

Twenty years.

The utter physicality of your presence is overwhelming.

“It’s so good to see you,” he says, mouth a little behind your ear. Your chin grazes against his shirt as you nod before stepping away. 

A beat passes, and you start to laugh.

After a moment, Seokmin joins in, not quite sure why you’re both laughing, but it’s definitely much better than crying. For now, he just lets the amazement at the situation wash over him. Eventually, the laughter settles, and fades. 

“I really don’t know what to say,” you murmur, smiling at him.

“I don’t, either,” he confesses. “What should I say? It’s just been so long. Like, twelve years?”

“Yeah, around that much.” You look around, suddenly noticing the relatively quiet park. “Shall we go, then?”

“Yeah,” Seokmin smiles. “Tour me around your city.” You fall into step beside him. He glances at you from the corner of his eye, still not quite believing it. That gaze remains, even as you usher him into the New York subway, eventually forced into sharing a pole to hold onto as the car crowds with passengers. You catch his gaze, and smile, the same mix of giddy, disbelieving, and shy.

It really is so good to see you.

--

You walk along Dumbo pier—like the flying elephant? Seokmin had asked, to which you nodded with a, Yeah, same spelling, but it’s actually an acronym—having just gotten off the R Train to Brooklyn Bridge Park. Seokmin’s eyes wander around, absorbing the New York scenery. You walk down a narrow, well-maintained path, the edges lush with shrubs. A faint breeze blows, rustling the leaves around you. This close, Seokmin can also here the river’s gentle murmurs.

There’s a silent sort of buffer between you, as though both of you were equally conscious of not wanting to be perceived as a couple. Occasionally, a ship horn blows, distant yet cutting.

“Before I got married,” you begin, “Vernon and I visited Korea.” 

Seokmin suppresses a wince; it’s the first time you mention your husband to him. “I know.”

“I emailed you, but you never replied.”

 “I’m sorry.” He saw it; he just couldn’t bring himself to respond. It was a good year before he could bear to delete the long email he had kept in his drafts—only for you to message him, four years later, just not for the reason he was expecting. Or hoping.

“It’s okay,” you reply eventually. Seokmin feels your eyes on him, considering. Your steps, slightly ahead for the past few minutes, slow down so you walk together. He keeps his eyes forward, trying not to fidget.

“I wanted to meet your girlfriend too, actually. Is she doing well?”

“Oh, we’re not…we’re not together right now.”

“What happened? You broke up?” You sound genuinely concerned.

“No, not really.” You find a spot by with a good view of the pier, gesturing for him to join you. Seokmin obliges, continuing, “We just need time to think, I guess. We’ve started talking about getting married.”

“Do you not want to get married?”

“I don’t know.”

“What’s holding you back? You love her, right?”

He stares at Manhattan, but his mind is hundreds of miles away. “I always thought if you get married, you have to be responsible. You have to have enough money, you know? She’s an only child; her parents will have high standards for her husband.”

“What does she think, though?”

“Oh, she’s more up for it than I am. But I just…thought things should be…more, you know?”

You tilt your head; he shifts, not expecting the sudden intensity in your gaze. There’s a light furrow in your brow. It strikes him, then, that he’s talking about this to someone already married. “Is it hard to get married if you don’t make tons of money?”

“At first we didn’t think so, but eventually we started thinking that way.” As the words leave his mouth, Seokmin feels the inextricable weight of age on his shoulders. You look away, equally quiet. The sun is already quite high up; in front of him the water glitters, beautifully clear. 

At the end of the path, apparently, is the edge of the riverbank. You’re much closer to the water now; if the wind was a gentle breeze a while ago, now it’s stronger, blowing against his hair. Seokmin pushes back the strands that fall against his eyes. 

“Do you want me to take a picture of you?” You ask suddenly.

“Oh, sure.” Seokmin stands by the railing.

It starts innocuous, at first. But a bit of the old theater flair takes over him, and he strikes a pose, flicking his wrist over his eye. You giggle, stepping out to a lunge so you could get more angles of him. At some point, he turns his back to the camera, jutting his hip out. You screech a little, doubling over even as you continue pressing the shutter button. After a few poses, you straighten and hand the phone to him, eyes bright with the remains of your laughter.

“You look good! Sorry if the camera shook while I was taking some of them, though.”

He shakes his head, smiling. “That’s fine, part of the memories.”

--

“Did you continue theater? After the last time we talked.”

“Not really, no. I stopped auditioning while studying for the PE, and just never tried again.”

“I see.”

The pier is lovely, the view even more so—the expanse of water juxtaposed by both the modern, urban feel of the buildings and the older, stately bridge. It’s just that there are couples everywhere—holding hands, whispering with their heads pressed together, one pair even full-on kissing in broad daylight. Seokmin subtly shifts his body away from the latter, trying to hide his discomfort.

He glances at you right as you crane your neck in the couple’s direction before quickly looking away. He gives you a look, which you return with a grimace. Even if neither of you are here on a date, the suffocating romance all around certainly makes it feel like one.

“Did you come here often with your husband?”

“Yeah, we lived nearby before moving to our current apartment. We dated here, though we’re not as bad as them.” Seokmin suppresses a laugh at your disgruntled expression. “Oh, and we fought here, too. A lot,” you add the last bit with a small smirk.

“Really? You fought?”

“Oh yeah, especially during the first year we married. We didn’t fuck around.”

Seokmin chuckles disbelievingly, floundering between concerned and amused. “Why’d you fight?”

“A lot of reasons,” you shrug, leaning against the railing. “It’s like…planting two trees in a pot. Our roots needed to find our place.”

Behind you, as the day grows darker, the carousel’s lights begin to turn on.

“Do your families get along?”

“Oh yeah, Vernon’s family loves that they have a whole bunch of people to speak Korean with. His grandma and my mom are quite close.”

“Oh, but does he speak Korean too?”

“Not as much; him and his sister don’t, and his mom is the American one—they know a few phrases, and he’s been practicing with me, but aside from that…” you trail off. Your gaze remains at the horizon. “He’s great at Hwa-Too, though.”

“Hwa-Too?!”

“Mm,” you turn, grinning at his surprise, pride shining in your eyes. “Beat my dad a few times, even.”

Seokmin whistles. “He’s not fucking around.”

“He’s not fucking around,” you agree, huffing a small laugh. Seokmin catches the way your eyes light up as you speak of your husband, gaze slightly distant, your lips curling up almost unconsciously. You turn to him. “Did you fight with your girlfriend too?”

“No.” You raise an eyebrow, disbelieving, until Seokmin relents. “Fine. Yes. Even though she’s not my girlfriend right now.”

“If you’re just as bad of a sulker—” you begin, “Never mind, I don’t want you upset at me.”

“Hey!” He whines. “I’m not that bad.” You just snort, nudging him lightly. He elbows you back, feigning a pout before the act cracks and he breaks into chuckles. 

When your laughter trails off to a comfortable end, you smile at him, the edges of your eyes crinkling slightly. The sky has painted New York pink, orange, and gold; Seokmin quietly admires a single golden ray that runs from your cheek down to your neck. “You should get married well.”

“You’re worrying about me?”

“Sure. Getting married is hard for idealistic people. Like you.”

“I’m not that old yet,” he retorts. “Let me worry about it when I’m past forty.”

You just smile, and huff a little laugh before returning your focus to the horizon. Your expression does not waver, still with that mysterious and distant affection, as though you were privy to something he has yet to understand. Perhaps you are. In silence, Seokmin watches you enjoy the sunset.

--

Seokmin and you sit on the steps by Jane’s carousel, the day’s walking finally felt the moment you eased yourselves down. Seokmin has his legs sprawled, long limbs stretching down the steps as he gazes up at the sky, now a stunning shade of twilight blue. Behind you, the playful music of the carousel plays on loop. The day has passed, and at this moment, there is no need to fill the silence with words.

The quiet stretches the twilight. Eventually, you turn to look at him. Seokmin meets your gaze, steady.

“Seokmin.”

“Hm?”

“Why did you look for me?”

His gaze turns curious, yet you remain quiet, waiting for him to respond.

“Twelve years ago?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you really want to know?” You nod. He looks directly at you, gaze intense yet open.

“I just wanted to see you one more time.” Seokmin pauses, seemingly gathering his thoughts. “You just left so suddenly, and I was pissed off, y’know? I thought of you, from time to time, while I was alone. You disappeared, and suddenly I found you again.”

Each word fuels the complex mix of emotion swirling in your chest, and you tamp down the expression that’s fighting to emerge on your face. You pinch your lips together.

“Sorry.” It’s all you can bring yourself to say without everything else spilling out.

“What are you sorry about?”

You exhale, quick and short. “Right. There’s nothing to be sorry about.” For that first time, at least—that immigration. Seokmin continues.

“I thought about you. During the military, even as I passed the PE…even when I realized I stopped pursuing acting seriously, I wondered if you’d be disappointed.” He laughs, self-deprecating.

Even before he finishes, you’re already shaking your head. “I would never judge you for that.” 

“We were babies back then,” you comment softly.

“I know,” he replies. “We were also babies when we met again twelve years ago.”

You tilt your head, considering him. Your eyes wander over his face, doing the same thing you’ve repeated throughout today: cataloguing the minute changes from the last time you saw him twelve years ago. Not much has changed with his face—he must have a solid skincare routine, possibly the fault of his girlfriend. His hair is more styled, though the breeze had tussled it somewhat. But he carries himself with a little more worldliness, even as his words are of the boy twelve years ago. Life had become a jacket he wore a little more familiarly around his shoulders.

“We aren’t babies anymore,” you murmur.

“Yeah.”

--

After dropping Seokmin off at his hotel, you return home.

From the living room, you hear the faint sound of Vernon’s latest game, and the clack of the buttons as he presses them rapidly. You shut the door quietly, toeing off your shoes and setting your bag on the hook by the entryway before you approach him. He’s already shifting, making space for you to squeeze yourself beside him on the loveseat, even as his eyes never leave the screen.

“Hi,” you mumble.

“Hi, love.” Onscreen, Vernon’s character is winning, little sound effects echoing around as he levels attack after attack at the level boss. You keep silent, choosing to talk once he’s done, but he speaks anyway. “How was it?”

“You were right.”

“I was?”

“He came to see me.”

Vernon glances at you quickly, catching the expression on your face: lips pursed, eyes a storm cloud of emotions. 

He pauses the game.

--

“It’s just crazy to see him be a grown-up man with a job and everything. And parts of it are so…Korean.” You dab a dollop of moisturizer on your cheeks, forehead, nose, and chin before rubbing it in with your fingers. “I mean, neither of us stayed with our parents once we started working. But he still lives with them. He’s not stoic, or conservative, or anything like that, but there are moments I feel like I’m talking to one of your grandparents.”

Behind you, sharing the small mirror, Vernon is patting on the last dregs of the toner you made him try. He stares at you through both your reflections. “Is he attractive?”

You squint a little at him, trying to parse what he’s saying through his question. Curiosity, perhaps, and some jealousy. Answering honestly, you reply, “sure, he’s handsome, and he smiles a lot. I mean at least one person has been attracted to him—his girlfriend. Or, not quite-ex.”

“Are you attracted to him?”

This time, you scrunch your face. “What? No. I don’t know. I don’t think so.” You face away from his reflection, turning to your husband. “He’s just this boy who I left, and who was just a face on my laptop for the longest time, and now he’s here. It’s just overwhelming, physically, I think. But no, I don’t think I’m attracted to him. I just missed him a lot. I missed Seoul.”

“Did he miss you?”

“He wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t.” You pause, contemplative. “I think he misses the twelve-year old me, who would tease him while he cries until he starts laughing instead. We were both crybabies, you know.”

“I didn’t know you were a crier.”

“Yeah. But I always tried to never cry when it was him crying. Not that it always worked.”

Vernon hums, expression unreadable as he crosses the room to sit on the edge of the bed. The air is tense as he opens and closes his mouth, figuring out what to say. After a long beat. He settles with, “When is he leaving?”

“Day after tomorrow.”

You sit beside him on the bed, tentative. “Are you mad?”

“No.”

“It feels like it.”

Vernon sighs, running his hand through short, choppy strands—not quite as buzzed as last month. “I don’t have a right to be mad.” 

Your brows furrow. “What? Of course you have the right to be mad.”

“That man flew thirteen hours to see you, I’m not about to say that you can’t see him or something. He’s your childhood sweetheart. And it’s not like you’d run away with him.” You laugh, loudly. Vernon seems to hesitate, swiveling to face you. He looks only half-joking. “Are you?”

Deadpan, you reply, “Sure, I’ll run away with my childhood sweetheart to go to Seoul and leave my entire life behind.” Vernon just raises an eyebrow. Exasperated, you continue, “You know me. I won’t skip rehearsals for a dude.”

You crawl into the bedsheets, lifting the corner of the duvet and wrapping it around you. You’re in your baggiest sleep shorts—the one you only wear when it’s your period. The edge of it peeks from under the comforter. Vernon looks at you for a long moment, gaze softening as you frown at him, still sitting down.

“I know.” The edges of his mouth pull up in a small smile. “I know you.”

--

Grumbling, you nose into Vernon’s neck. You know he’s awake. “If another truck honks at 2AM, I’m going to lose it.”

True enough, Vernon offers a sleepy chuckle, tilting his chin so you can nestle better against him. The room is dark, silent save for your breathing and the occasional noise from outside. The lights are off, but the lone streetlight visible from the window casts a dull glow over the duvet. 

Suddenly, he chuckles dryly.

“What?” you whisper.

“Just thinking how good of a story this is.”

“Seokmin and I?”

“Childhood sweethearts who reconnect twenty years later and realize they were meant for each other.”

You huff. “We’re not meant for each other.”

Vernon ignores you, continuing. “I’d be the fake Korean standing in the way of destiny.”

At that, you cackle, though it’s muffled by your position against his neck. “Shut up. Fake Korean?”

“We’re just sound so boring in comparison, I dunno. Met in a writer’s residency, flirted, watched a bunch of Wong Kar-Wai, slept together because we were both single. Then moving in together in New York to save rent. Until we decided to get married, but moved plans up so you could get your green card.”

“So romantic, when you put it like that,” you reply dryly.

“No, exactly, I’m the guy you leave when your ex-lover-slash-soulmate takes you away.”

“He’s neither of those things.”

Vernon’s hand comes up, creeping along your arm and tracing patterns on the back of your shirt. “What if you met someone else, someone who knew, maybe not Wong Kar-Wai, but Orson Welles? What if there was some other writer also from New York who knew the same movies, read the same books, and could correct you on your manuscripts and listen to you complain about rehearsals?”

“Mm. That’s not how life works.”

“Yeah, but still. Wouldn’t you be here with him? If you didn’t leave Korea, would you be with your childhood sweetheart?”

“Again, that’s not how life works.” You relent, though, and indulge him. It’s a rare moment where Vernon seems to be seeking solace in you, not the other way around. “This is my life. This is our life. Now. And we’re together.”

A beat passes. Something comes to mind, a memory from that first writing residency.

“Do you remember the first time I got mad at you? It was a bad day and you were giving feedback on that one horrible manuscript.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you remember what you said to me?” 

“…No?”

“I remember it word for word. ‘You don’t have to force your voice or story to fit into something it’s not trying to be,’ you said to me.” Even now, the advice makes you smile. He must feel it against his skin.

For a while, it’s silent—nothing but the low hum of the air con and his hand, playing with the fabric of your shirt. You feel his breath fan over the top of your head. “It’s just that you make my life so much bigger,” he murmurs, “and I don’t know if I do the same for you.”

“You do.” Shifting, you crane your neck, taking care not to bump against his chin. Your eyes meet his. “You’re forgetting the part where I love you.”

“I don’t forget it, I just have trouble believing it sometimes.”

You burrow into him insistently, throwing a leg over his hip. “I’ll do better then.” Vernon’s familiar huff of a laugh vibrates against your forehead.

“You already do enough.” He presses a kiss to the crown of your head.

He and you lay there, in comfortable silence. You listen to his heartbeat, steady against your ear. Vernon returns to tracing mindless patterns across your back.

“Did you know you only speak in Korean when you talk in your sleep?”

“Really?”

“Yeah. You never speak in English. You only dream in Korean.”

“I didn’t know that. You never told me.”

“Most times, I think it’s cute, but…I don’t know. Sometimes I get scared.”

“Why?”

Vernon’s chest caves slightly as he exhales. “You dream in a language that I can’t quite understand. I’m still trying, but I can’t help but think that I was supposed to understand this whole time.”

He leans back a little to stare at you, a small, bitter smile on his face. You reach a hand up, cupping his cheek. Vernon softens slightly, leaning into your touch as he continues.

“I think it’s part of why I’ve been trying harder to learn lately.”

“You want to understand me while I’m sleeping?”

“Yeah. Is it stupid?”

You smile a little. “No. Well maybe, since I’m pretty sure I’m just saying gibberish.” He hums.

“You know, what if there’s a life where you never left Korea, and I actually did immigrate the way my parents planned to when I was a toddler. Would we have met then? Still gotten married?”

“You mean inyeon? Who we are to each other in another life?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s a thought, for sure. But I chose you in this life. That’s what matters most to me.”

It’s quiet after that, Vernon absorbing your words in the way he always does, with that almost uncanny acuity. After a beat, he pulls you even closer, until there’s barely space between your bodies.

“Okay,” he whispers. “Okay.”

--

Seokmin is already lined up for the ferry by the time you meet him.

“Hey!” You’re slightly breathless, having run to meet him upon getting his message. He beams, eyes turning into half-crescents.

“Hey! Did you get home safe last night?”

“I did, thanks. Sorry I’m late.” It seems more people took yesterday’s sunny weather as a cue that the past week’s rain finally passed; the train was more crowded than usual.

“Have you eaten yet?”

“No.”

Seokmin unslings one strap of his backpack, rummaging before brandishing out a bagel sandwich for you. “Here?”

You accept it, mouth parted in surprise. “For me?”

“Yeah.” You bite into it with a vengeance. Seokmin grins as you eat.

This early, people are just starting to file in; the queue progresses quickly. You both shuffle forward every few seconds. As the boarding point to the ferry grows closer, Seokmin turns to you.

“I forgot to ask you something yesterday.”

You swallow your current bite before answering. “What is it?”

“What prize do you want to win nowadays?”

“Hm?”

“Before you left, you wanted to win the Nobel. Twelve years ago, you said it was the Pulitzer. What about now?” Seokmin clarifies. You look at him, a little lost. Things like that haven’t been on your mind for a long time; you tell him this, a little abashed. He just shakes his head with a little smile.

“Try to think about it,” he encourages. “There must be something you want.”

“…A Tony?” You try, and he laughs.

“Still the same.”

“Greedy?”

“Greedy.”

--

Today is more suffocatingly romantic than yesterday. It’s bad enough that someone had offered to take a photo of both of you together, confused when you turned her down. You lean against the ferry railing, keeping a safe distance from Seokmin.

Under you, the water churns into white foam as the ferry route curves into the view of the Statue of Liberty. As the right angle approaches, you tap Seokmin’s shoulder.

“Here, I’ll take your picture.” He positions himself near the railing, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet. “A little to the left.”

When you return your phone to him, he raises it up with the front camera. “Selca?” Obliging, you sidle next to him before laughing at the screen.

“That’s too close!” You step back, pressing your back lightly against the railing. Seokmin snaps a few photos, each with a silly face that you match in turn. In one of them, you raise a hand, smiling, the ring on your hand briefly catching the sun. Behind you, Manhattan sprawls, gleaming in the morning light.

--

“Oh, pretty.” Seokmin taps your screen, flicking through your wedding photos. The ferry is now returning to Manhattan, and you’ve both taken to the empty seats near the middle row. Seokmin looks between the you beside him and the you in the photos. His brow furrows ever so slightly. “You look young.”

“We were young,” you reminisce. “The wedding happened earlier than planned because of my green card.”

You smile, staring at the screen. Right now, it’s on a picture of you and Vernon, his hair not yet buzzed, frozen mid-laugh. You’re clutching your bouquet with one hand, his shoulder with the other. When he laughs, really laughs, Vernon’s face is almost elastic in its expressiveness; you had to insist on a copy of this photo, after Vernon’s embarrassment at the way his eyebrows looked comically curved. You don’t remember why you were laughing anymore, only that this was your favorite photo purely because of how unscripted it was.

Seokmin hums, continuing to scroll through your wedding photos.

--

Vernon fidgets with his phone, distracted. He had gotten your message about an hour ago; you were on the way home, bringing your friend after he had checked out from his hotel. Tonight was supposed to be a dinner with the three of you before Seokmin leaves for Korea on an early morning flight.

He had spent part of his afternoon cleaning, both itching to release nervous energy and wanting to make a good impression. It took him twice as long as usual to pick a shirt to wear, unsure of what kind of impression he wanted to give to this man, as his childhood sweetheart’s now-husband. Eventually, he settled with a clean button down tucked into jeans.

After what seems like forever, he hears the faint jangling of keys, and then the door opening.

“Vern?”

He stands, smoothing down his shirt. There, by the doorway, bathed in warm light, is you, greeting him with a soft smile. He relaxes, shoulders settling more comfortably. Turning, you gesture to someone. 

“들어와.” A figure ducks through the doorway, already toeing off his shoes. And it is here that Vernon meets him for the first time.

Seokmin is a tall man. You were right; he is handsome, in the way Asian men often are—youthful, more innocent than his other burly, White colleagues, who grow their beards and prefer to exude a more rugged appeal. As you stand there, together, both staring at him, you reassuring and Seokmin tentative, Vernon suddenly understands. This is a person from another life of the woman he loves. He and Vernon are connected, not just through heritage, but with their love for you. Simple as that.

Vernon smiles warmly. “안녕하세요. 만나서 반가워요.

Seokmin startles a little before smiling back, hesitant but bright. “Hello, it’s nice to meet you too,” he replies in stilted but clear English. They both laugh awkwardly. Seokmin glances at you. “그는 한국어를 잘한다.”

Vernon can understand that much. “아니, 아니요.” You just look at him at Seokmin’s pronouncement, smug. Vernon feels his ears turn red. “배고파? Hungry?”

“Um, yes.” As though on cue, his stomach rumbles. You and Vernon exchange a glance, amused. Vernon turns to him. “뭐 먹고 싶어요?”

“Uh…pizza!”

“Pizza? You like pizza?”

Seokmin nods. “Yes!”

Vernon steals a glance at you again, biting back a laugh. “Okay, then. Pizza it is.”

--

The three of you walk the streets of East Village. It is well into the evening, and the streets bustle with people checking out the hole-in-the-wall, indie restaurants that are scattered around. You and Vernon walk beside each other, while Seokmin keeps a polite but still friendly distance from your husband.

“So what did you guys do today?”

“The, uh…” Seokmin tilts his head, opening and closing his mouth to reply, brow furrowing. Instead, he just raises his hand, miming a torch.

“The Statue of Liberty,” you supply. Vernon’s brows lift in realization.

“You took the ferry?” You nod.

“It was, uh, nice,” Seokmin says. “Uh, beautiful view.”

“I’ve never been.” You and Seokmin, on either of his side, look at him, shocked for different reasons. Seokmin shifts his focus to you, still incredulous.

“야! Why haven’t you gone with your husband there yet?”

“I don’t—” you look at Vernon, surprised and more than a little guilty. “You’ve never been? We’ve never been?”

Vernon huffs a laugh at both of your exclamations. “Yeah, I’ve actually never been.”

You look at him, eyes wide, even as he levels a smirk at you, amused at your reaction.

--

The pizza was everything he dreamed New York pizza to be—thin, large in serving, and just the right mix of fat from the cheese and acidity from the tomatoes. Both you and your husband had remarked that this was one of the better places, at least as far as both your palates were concerned. Vernon taught him, you translating at some junctures, how to fold the slice before eating it, prefacing it by saying that neither of you would judge if he just opted to cut the slice with a knife before eating. Adamant, Seokmin insisted on “the New York way,” to both your amusement.

After dinner, the three of you relocated to a small, nearby speakeasy. Faux-incandescent bulbs cast a warm light over the space, and you took your seats at the counter. You sat in the middle, translating between the two of them.

“At twenty-four, I, um…” he tries to think of the word, but falls short. Seokmin mimes shooting a rifle, and both your eyes widen in recognition.

“군대?”

“Military service?” Both you and Vernon speak at the same time.

“Yes!” Seokmin looks at your husband, who understands the question in his eyes.

“I didn’t go, I chose US citizenship at eighteen.” Seokmin’s mouth parts in an o, nodding as the pieces click in his mind. Vernon addresses him. “How was it? Did you like it?” You translate for him your husband’s question. Seokmin bites back a sheepish smile.

“No.” You and Vernon laugh. “I got accident,” he adds.

“Really?” Your husband leans forward, intrigued. Seokmin points to his nose, and you gasp as the memory finally returns to you. He levels a quick grin at you, knowing why.

“My nose was, uh, broken. Needed surgery to fix.” Vernon nods. His face is wonderfully expressive as he absorbs this new information. 

Looking at his nose, then the rest of his face, he replies, “it looks good. Healed well.”

“Thank you.” Seokmin scratches his nose, the unconscious habit returning for a moment. “But, uh, military and work…same.”

“Same how?”

“You have, uh…boss.” Both you and Vernon release a chuckle. He turns to you, switching to Korean. “There’s overtime pay here, right?”

You nod. “Of course. Why? Don’t you have?” He shakes his head. You stare at him, incredulous, before turning to Vernon, who makes a similar face when he hears your translation. “There’s no overtime pay in Korea.” To Seokmin, you ask, switching back to Korean, “Really?”

Seokmin nods. “In Korea, you do all you boss’ work, then your own, then you can go home. And you don’t get paid well.”

“That’s shitty. And hard.” Seokmin nods, face comically down.

He tries his best to translate, catching Vernon’s expression—who seems to be doing his utmost best at keeping up with the limited Korean he knows, but not understanding the important bits. “Boss work first, then your work. End late, but um…bad salary? Cheap?”

“I see,” Vernon says, and levels him a grateful look. Seokmin smiles sympathetically, catching his gaze. They hold it for a moment too long, and Seokmin is the first to look away, suddenly feeling awkward. Despite tonight’s relatively smooth camaraderie, they remain strangers.

Seokmin instead turns to you, switching back to Korean, finding comfort in the way the syllables rest on his tongue.

“It was good that you immigrated.”

You smile, responding in kind. “I think so too.”

“Korea’s too small for someone like you. It can’t satisfy your greed.” Both of you laugh softly. Seokmin swirls the drink in his hand, the ice clinking against the glass.

“Thank you for introducing me to your husband. He seems to love you very much. And he’s been so nice to me.”

Your smile widens, enough for light crinkles to appear at the edges of your eyes. “Of course. I love that you get along.”

Seokmin downs his drink. Gazing at the leftover ice, he murmurs, a little drunk, “I didn’t know getting along with him would hurt this much.”

You stare at him, mouth parted. He turns to look at you, mouth quirked in a bitter, sardonic smile. Around you, the speakeasy’s noise fades into a dull buzz. Your body swivels a little, facing him more.

After a long beat, you simply reply, “Really?”

“Really.”

It’s probably pathetic of him, to be so open to you, risking your husband understanding a conversation about him, but he’s drunk, and it’s his last night with a person whom he’s only ever seen in increments of twelve years. For all he knows, twelve years later he may not be as lucky.

The silence is intolerably suffocating.

“When we stopped talking,” Seokmin starts, “Did you miss me?”

“Of course.”

“But you met your husband, then.”

“You met your girlfriend too,” you reply, a little too sharply. The air is tense. From behind him, Seokmin spies Vernon glance at your direction, noting the change in your tone. After a few seconds, he returns to his phone. The sight of him makes him scrunch his face. Are you really both being jealous while your husband is a few feet away?

“I’m sorry,” he says, looking away. Shame swirls in his stomach.

“It’s okay,” you reply quickly. “I’m sorry too.”

“I just…Being here with you gives me weird thoughts.”

“Like what?”

“Like, ‘I found my first love twelve years ago, should I have just not let her go?’” He barrels on, clocking from your expression that you wouldn’t know what to say in reply anyway. “‘What if I went to New York when you asked? Or if you had gone to Seoul when I asked? What if you never left? Would we have gotten married? Have kids? Would we have dated? Broken up?’ Things like that.”

For once, Seokmin is thankful for the alcohol loosening his tongue; if anything, he can say that he at least poured his heart out to you, the one thing he hadn’t been able to do before. He breathes in, shaky, pushing back tears.

“But what I learned coming here, is that you had to leave because you’re you. And the reason I liked you is because you’re you. And who you are is a person who leaves.”

You close your eyes at that.

After a long pause, you open them, gazing straight at Seokmin as you speak. There’s a small upward curve at the edge of your mouth, even as your eyes glisten, suspiciously shiny, under the warm light.

“The girl you remember doesn’t exist here,” you say softly.

“I know.”

“But she did exist. She’s not here in front of you, but that doesn’t mean she was never real. I left her behind in Seoul with you, more than twenty years ago.” The gentleness of your voice feels like some necessary ruination.

“I know. And though I was just twelve years old, I loved that girl.” His smile trembles as he says it, and so does yours as you try to return his grin with one of your own.

You huff, a little watery. “You psycho.” His laugh, too, is wet. Seokmin sniffles as discreetly as he can. You hand him a tissue, which he accepts with a soft thank you.

You begin to speak again, one finger swirling around the water that had dripped down onto the wooden surface of the table. “I think there was something between us in our past lives. There’s no other reason for us to be here, in this city, twelve years after we reconnected, another twelve years after I left. It’s just that we don’t have the inyeon to be that for each other in this life.”

“I think so too,” Seokmin replies softly. “What do you think we were? A general and a concubine?”

You scrunch your nose at the image, even as you huff, amused. “A political marriage,” you propose. “And we haaated each other.”

“Or maybe just a bird and the branch it landed on.” Seokmin swirls his glass, drinking at the bits of water from the melting ice. “Even your husband, you know? Maybe in another life, he was in Korea.”

“Maybe you met in the military.”

“Maybe we all were in the same train. Or a bus and we occupied one row of seats.” He must be a masochist, bringing even your husband into this discussion of who you could be to each other. “In this life, you and Vernon have the eight thousand layers of inyeon. To him, you’re someone who stays.”

Seokmin breaks his own heart with his words, yet his smile is open, flayed as he feels. You smile too. On your other side, Vernon has perked up again from where he was scrolling through his phone, hearing his name. You finally turn to look at him.

“Just talking about you.” He smiles, a little unsure.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You smile at your husband, eyes alight—the same glimmer that accompanies your smile every time he’d come up in your conversation. And just like that, Seokmin knows he is right on who you are to each other.

--

“I’m sorry we speak alone.” Vernon looks up at Seokmin, having just signed off on the bill. “We will stop.”

You’re off to the bathroom, but it’s taking longer than usual. Seokmin and Vernon had been sitting in silence for a handful of minutes, neither of them willing to begin the conversation until now.

“No, it’s fine, you both have a lot to catch up on.” Vernon swivels in his seat to face him, and laughs a little, shaking his head. “I never thought I’d be part of something like this.”

“Hm?” Seokmin tilts his head. Vernon gestures.

“Sitting with you.”

Seokmin understands, offering him a smile. His eyes are still rimmed slightly in red, and he hopes your husband does not notice.

“Do you know, um…inyeon?”

Vernon nods. “A bit of it, yes.”

Seokmin mirrors his earlier gesture. “You and I…We…”

“Yeah,” Vernon huffs a small laugh, “you and I are inyeon too.” He swirls his glass, the ice already fully melted. There’s a smudge of condensation left behind when he moves his glass. “Thank you for coming here. It was the right thing to do.”

For the second time, Seokmin feels his vision blur. He looks away quickly, blinking back the tears. He can’t help but betray himself to your husband, the one person whom he probably should not be giving such a display to. And when you are absent, to boot. But when he finally manages to pull himself back together, Vernon has returned his focus to the table, drawing patterns with the smudge of condensed water. He does not say anything else, even as you return with an apologetic remark about the long lines in the womens’ bathroom.

He makes no mention of Seokmin’s tears.

It strikes him, again, that even to him, your husband is kind.

--

Seokmin picks up his luggage, which he had left in your shared apartment. While he’s checking his things, and lacing up his shoes, you reach out, squeezing Vernon’s hand softly. He looks at you. 

“I’ll just walk him to his Uber.” The night had steadily grown colder, and in response, you threw on a cardigan.

“Okay.” Vernon squeezes back.

In front of him, Seokmin straightens, facing him before bowing a little. “Nice to meet you.”

“It was nice to meet you too.”

“Visit me in Korea.”

He offers Seokmin a half-smile. “Of course.” 

“I’ll be back,” you murmur. He and you exchange a glance.

Vernon nods. “Okay.” Your lips quirk up, and you release his hand, stepping back to reach for the knob. The hinges creak as you both step outside.

(For a moment, he’s terrified. Stay, he almost says.)

The door closes behind you softly. Vernon stands there, alone, staring at the door, allowing himself this moment of silence.

--

Seokmin’s Uber has a pickup point some ways away from your apartment. It’s just past one block before Seokmin stops, as per his phone’s instructions. You follow suit behind him.

“Will it be here soon?” You ask.

“Yeah. Two minutes.”

Neither of you speak after that. Silence stretches each second one hundred and twenty-times over, and he can do nothing but look at you, and have you look at him in return. He looks at this face, the one he’s only ever seen whenever time has already done more than a decade’s worth of work. He’s spent yesterday and today cataloguing your features; yet as he does it again, today, for the last time, he can’t help but be afraid he’ll forget the particulars of your face.

The Uber arrives, braking to a stop in front of you. Seokmin gathers you into a hug—a gentle one, like the many ones you’ve known before, the one he wished he gave you in that very first goodbye. You squeeze him back, tightly, face pressed against his shirt. It takes a while before he lets go, but when he does, you laugh softly at the wetness already glistening in his eyes, offering him a tissue you had kept from the bar in your pocket. He accepts it with a teary grin.

You watch as Seokmin loads his luggage into the trunk. He’s about to open the passenger door, when he turns. 

“Hey!”

Just like that, he’s twelve years old again. He’s twelve, and so are you. 

You raise an eyebrow, waiting.

“What if this is already a past life, and we’re already something to each other in the next one?” He exhales. “Who do you think we are to each other then?” 

Silence. You offer him a small smile. “I don’t know.”

He returns it, heart miraculously light. “I don’t either. But see you then.” Seokmin folds this memory quietly into his heart, willing to himself that one day, the thought of you will no longer ache as much. And that even as the ache will be gone, the love will remain.

Seokmin enters the car, closing the door firmly behind him.

--

The walk back to your apartment is agonizing.

After the tenth step, you’ve rolled your cardigan sleeves up, tracing patterns on your arms. A heart. A rocket. A crystal. Each step feels like one further from a life you never realized you were still holding on to. Despite your attempts, you begin to cry after the thirty-second step.

You reach the front gate of your apartment at the two hundredth and eighteenth step, finding Vernon sitting at the steps, lost in his own world yet already waiting for you. He looks up as you approach. He opens the gate with one hand, stepping down until he stands in front of you.

There are no words needed. You fall into his arms, dissolving into tears. Vernon embraces you, gentle in all the right ways, quiet as you sob and sob and sob. 

Behind both of you, it is almost the beginning of dawn.

[…] I enter, without retreat or help from history, the days of no day, my earth of no earth, I re-enter the city in which I love you. And I never believed that the multitude of dreams and many words were vain.

— the city in which i love you, li-young lee

[starryjiung]

of pleasure and pain

day 16 of piwontober

shower sex / fingering with yoon keeho

NSFW - 18+ MDNI

wc: 1.6k

tags: superhero au, villain!keeho, hero!reader, scars, blood, wounds, weapons, mentions of murder/killing people, fingering, shower sex, pet names, praise, degradation, reader uses she/her pronouns and has a clitoris and vagina, keeho refers to reader as girl

a/n: omg my smut debut look at me go! here is my little thanks to section, because I have to mention @enbyjjunie who has been helping motivate me, brainstorm with me, and beta read!! of course a huge thank you to @sxfterhearts and @kisseobie for managing this whole event, and bringing all of us together. and to all the other amazing writers who are part of the project, I am so excited to be publishing my fic alongside yours ♡

Blood stained the white shower tiles, mixing with the soap bubbles to create intricate shapes as it swirled down the drain. The water rinsed everything off, every bit of blood, sweat, and grime that could be found on your bodies. If anything stuck in the corners, it wasn’t your problem, since this was Keeho’s bathroom. His white tiles, his cleaning headache. Not that you paid it much mind in the moment, with your back up against the cool glass of his shower doors, Keeho’s hands and mouth all over you.

“Fuck, careful where you place your hands,” he mumbled in your ear, shrugging your hand off his shoulder. You glanced over to see a fairly new bruise blossoming right where you had grabbed him, and couldn’t help the smirk that overtook your features.

“Got you good today, didn’t I?” you asked, the amusement short lived as you immediately felt a sharp stabbing pain on your hip in retaliation.

Keeho had pressed down on a fresh slashing wound from your fight earlier, making you yelp and instantly grab onto his arms for support, as your legs wobbled under you. Even though you had ended the night on a high, Keeho having to retreat from the city beaten and bruised, it was not like you had made it out completely unscathed. Keeho was an expert at wielding his signature twin poignard daggers, the many cuts on your body being evidence of this.

“I like it better when you shut up.”

“Someone’s a sore loser,” you mumbled, slowly trailing off as he leaned back into your space, caging you in between his arms against the now steamy glass door. He looked down at you with sharp eyes, and you noticed another bruise forming on his left cheekbone, no doubt the result of you hitting him with the blunt end of your glaive.

You and Keeho were the perfect match, two sides of the same coin in every way possible. The first time you had gone head to head, both of you had been left in awe of the other’s abilities. Not that any of you would ever admit it. Keeho’s teleportation powers and your super speed balanced each other out so well, one was never more than half a step ahead of the other. This resulted in fights purely being decided on combat skills and luck, as you wounded each other at a speed too high for the onlookers to perceive.

You turned your head slightly, pressing your lips firmly to his pretty bruise, making sure he both felt the warmth of the kiss, and was reminded of the earlier impact with your weapon. Your kisses softened as you trailed down the side of his face, your hands leaving his toned upper arms to explore the expanse of his naked upper body.

“I could have killed you today, you really should be nicer to me,” you said in between open mouthed kisses at his jawline.

“Oh yes, imagine those headlines. “Darling hero of Metro City commits murder on open street!” You can never kill me sweetheart, there would be an outrage,” he replied, eyes closed as you worked down his neck. “And your heart is too soft to do it.”

You decided to ignore his statement, not wanting to agree with him, and instead grabbed his hips to push up against. As soon as your front came in contact with his hard cock, Keeho let out a low groan, one you could feel vibrating in his throat as you had your face buried right in the crook of his neck. Not a second later, Keeho’s arms were back around you, holding you close in order to maintain the friction between your bodies.

As you were grinding against each other, you felt a shiver down your spine, the water on your body slowly drying and giving way to the cold air coming in from below. Before you even had time to adjust, Keeho was already pulling you back under the hot stream coming from the showerhead.

Standing even closer together now, in order for both of you to enjoy the warm water, Keeho rested his forehead against your temple, his face only a breath away as his hands travelled down the sides of your body. His hair was dripping down onto his collarbones, where you saw a paper-thin scar, long healed, but no doubt your doing. Most of the scars littering your body were left by him as well, reminders of every fight, every battle, every night spent together afterwards.

“How come you have never killed me?” you thought out loud.

You felt Keeho’s hands stop, just for half a second, before continuing to glide over your skin, his right pointer finger tracing a newly healed gash along your outer thigh, the skin raised and still pink. His doing.

“I mean, you’ve had the chance several times,” you continued, not satisfied with his silence.

For a few seconds, the sound of water hitting skin and tile was the only thing you could hear in the bathroom. Then you felt Keeho smile against your cheek.

“Yeah well, keeping you alive is way more fun, means I get to do this.”

His hand quickly moved from your leg to in between your bodies, his finger finding your clit and beginning to rub small circles without a moment’s hesitation. You immediately grabbed onto his shoulders for stability, all thoughts of the forming bruise there gone for now. A choked moan got stuck in your throat, which made Keeho giggle.

“Look at you, already struggling to stand and I have barely touched you,” he said, lips right next to your ear as his hand kept moving at the pace he knew you liked. “Wonder what the good people of Metro City would think of their precious hero, if they knew she was whimpering like a slut in my shower.”

“Oh fuck you,” you managed to gasp out, throwing your head back to rest against the wet tile behind you. This got a proper laugh out of Keeho, who now had a much better view of your upper body, taking full advantage of your new position.

“Later, maybe. For now I want you to beg for my fingers, can you do that, angel?” he asked.

You did not want to give him the satisfaction of begging, but the way he was rubbing circles on your clit also felt too good to object. Just then, his fingertips went further down, teasing at your entrance and making you inhale sharply.

You were dripping wet, more than one could expect you to be after such a short amount of time with Keeho’s hands on you. But just as he was to blame for most of the scars on your body, Keeho had also become responsible for the vast majority of your orgasms. He knew exactly what to do to have you moaning and begging for him, and in that moment you felt every ounce of pride and composure leave your body. You knew the pleasure he would reward you with was worth so much more.

“Please-” you started your sentence, cutting yourself off with a high pitched whine as Keeho’s fingers moved back up to your clit.

“Sorry could you repeat that sweetheart? I can’t hear you over all that pathetic whimpering,” he said, tilting his head slightly with an amused smile, as he watched you lose yourself to the feeling of his hands on you.

“Please! Please please I want you fingers inside me so bad Keeho, fuck, please,” you cried out, the grip you had on his shoulders becoming so tight, it would surely leave marks for the day after. None of you paid it any mind, however, used to much more permanent reminders of each other.

“That’s my good girl.”

Keeho slipped a single finger inside your wetness, quickly realising that you were turned on enough for him to add a second one immediately. The feeling of him inside of you, slowly stretching your walls, was enough to have you moaning uncontrollably. When he started curling his fingers up towards himself, you could feel how close you were already.

“You’re taking my fingers so well, being so obedient for me. Everyone else sees you fight, but only I know how good you are at giving in to me,” he said, eyes focused on where his fingers were pumping in and out of you.

You could do little more than nod, your breaths coming out as a mix of whines and sharp exhales. Both of you knew you were not going to last much longer.

“I want to feel you cum around my fingers, angel. Cum for me.”

He had barely finished the sentence, before you cried out, your orgasm hitting you as soon as he gave permission. Keeho could feel you clenching around him, coming undone as he continued to curl his fingers inside you. He had seen your face in complete ecstacy like this more times than he could count, and yet he craved it like a drug. The knowledge that he could have this effect on you too, the cuts on your body telling a story so different from the pleasure painting your features in that moment.

As you came down from the high, Keeho slowly removed his fingers again, letting the water rinse away your wetness, just as it had cleaned you off your blood.

Pulling yourself closer to him again, you leaned your face on his shoulder as your breathing returned to normal. Small crescent shaped indentations were left in the reddening bruise, and you found yourself leaving small pecks on each one, as Keeho brought his arms around you under the water.

How were you ever supposed to kill each other, when being alive together felt so good.

[cryptidclaw]

Star Ravenscourge!

Apprentice version v

Design Notes:

New Raven designnnn

I have completely changed his build, he is no longer tall and lanky, he is simply dinky <3 Im obssessed with this design, one of the faves I have done yet!

Character Bio:

fun fact: he looks a lot like his outsider sire, which makes him stand out a lot bec of how small and not average Thunder looking he is.

Alsoo I'm adding the leader crowns i designed!!

Star Ravenscourge

(Ravenpaw)

Gay; demi-boy; he/him

Age as of 1st arc's end: 2 cycles, 6 moons; ~26 Hyrs

Title meaning: -scourge = a terrifying and powerful cat, a cat who is a "scourge" upon their enemies. This tile is unique to Raven, as he earned it from the tales that began to spread about him once he became leader of Blood Order.

First Leader of Blood Order; he alongside several city cats founded Blood Order, and Raven was appointed their leader, much to his honor and surprise.

Seconds: Bonehunter (appointed before they followed succession laws) -> (Star) Paintdapple (mentored by Raven)

Mentor: Star Tigerclaw -> Bonehunter (unofficial mentor)

Mother: Dappledew

Siblings: Dustpelt

Half Siblings: Downnose; Cricketstep

Mate: Barleycloud

Kits (donor: Violetdream): Cowstep, Lambcry, Ryewhisper

Other notable kin: Thrushcloud (uncle); Shriketail (nephew); Cloudtail (adoptive nephew); Snowshoe (nephew); Mistletoe (niece); Spiderleg (nephew); Shrew (nephew)

Bonus facts: He came up with the idea of reinforcing his claws with sharpened dogs teeth, bec of Tigerclaw's extra big claws. Tiger always told Raven he was extra weak because his claws were rather small, so raven thought, maybe he could find a new, better way to protect himself, and make his claws even stronger than Tigerclaw's ever were. They were in fact stronger than Tiger bec they disemboweled him.

Character Summary:

In Progress (to be added later)

...

[Image 1 ID: a digital drawing of Ravenscourge an au version of Ravenpaw from Warrior Cats. He is standing with his right side showing, his right paw raised with claws (reinforced with dog's teeth) unsheathed. He has a proud and determined expression on his face. He is a small, slender, black tom with a white tail tip, above his nose and on his chin, two spots on his cheek, and a white sock on his right leg. He is mostly short furred with longer cheek and tail fur, as well as a tuft on longer fur on his chest and on his head, acting as bangs. He has extremely large ears and purple eyes, he wears a crown on his forehead with a teardrop shaped bloodstone and a smaller teardrop shaped moonstone hanging below it. He also has a tooth pieced through one ear and wears a purple dog's collar adorned with sharp teeth and claws. he has claw scars running along his shoulder and flank as well as a scar over his right eye and on his left upper lip./End ID]

[Image 2 ID: a digital drawing of Raven (apprentice Ravenscourge) an au version of Ravenpaw from Warrior Cats. This image is the same as the previous one, but Raven has no scars, wears no collar, teeth, or crown and has wide scarred eyes and a general fearful expression on his face./End ID]

[petermorwood]

Flammkuchen / Tarte Flambeé / "German pizza"

This evening I found a slab of Speck (strong-smoked bacon) in the freezer that I didn't know we had, there was half an onion and a tub of Lithuanian sour cream in the fridge, so @dduane decided to try Flammkuchen.

Originally, so the story goes, it was made by bakers as a pre-thermometer way to check the temperature of their wood-fired ovens (and provide a quick snack at the same time).

Tarte flambée is the French name, but "German Pizza" or indeed any sort of pizza it certainly isn't; there's neither tomato sauce nor cheese, and no yeast in the dough.

Whether it's German or French depends on who you ask, since it originates from the province of Alsace, an area which has changed hands a lot in the past couple of centuries and whose ownership has been A Source Of Friction Between Guess Who for almost as long.

To stay neutral, the recipe DD used is Swiss. ;->

Here's the translation:

*****

Alsatian tarte flambée

This delicious speciality from Alsace is also ideal for an aperitif. Thinly rolled bread dough with sour cream, onions and bacon cubes!

350g flour (12½ oz) 1.25 tsp salt 2 dl water (6.7 US fl oz / .42 US pt) 2 tbsp olive oil 200 g crème fraîche / sour cream (7 oz) 2 onions (we had less, so used less...) 120 g farmer's (thick, well-smoked) bacon in slices (4¼ oz) a small grind of pepper

And this is how it's done:

Mix flour and salt in a bowl. Pour in water and oil, mix and knead into a soft, smooth dough. Form the dough into a ball, cover and let it rest at room temperature for about 30 minutes.

Preheat oven to 240 degrees (464 F). Halve the dough and roll it out into an oval shape about 3 mm thick (1/10 inch) on a lightly floured surface. Place the dough on two baking sheets lined with baking paper.

Spread the crème fraîche / sour cream over the dough, leaving a border of approx. 1 cm (½ inch) free all around. Peel the onions, cut them into fine rings, cut the bacon into strips, spread both over the crème fraîche / sour cream and season.

Baking per tray: approx. 12 minutes each on the bottom shelf of the oven.

*****

Since this was our first time making Flammkuchen, we baked them one at a time to check for errors. There were none (Swiss recipe!) and 12 minutes was exactly right to produce this result both times:

DD needs to be careful because of IBS so they were made with mostly bacon on one side, mostly onion on the other, and with a glass of cool white wine they made an excellent Sunday supper.

Next time, now we know how well this recipe works, we'll be more generous with the toppings. :->

Incidentally, rather than baking-trays or the pizza stone we need to replace (ceramic utensils, tile floors and gravity Do Not Mix Well) we used the cast-iron griddle which in summer often goes on the BBQ...

... and gave the oven a thorough pre-heating, then transferred the Flammkuchen in and out with a peel, all of which worked splendidly.

That tip about using baking paper is excellent, BTW: no sticking, no spillage, no washing up. I bet it'll work with other things as well.

Like, for instance, more Flammkuchen... ;->

[the-fandom-is-now-my-life]

Can you do a future story for Jin or Luca?

Melodies from the future

Jin slips to the future for the length of a nap

Wc: 1,2k

Notes: I really like this even if it's short (let's say it's short because it's supposed to just be a nap m'kay?)

The soft melody of a piano slips in the young master's ears, changing his dreams to distorted memories of his childhood. His first piano lesson was not later than a little after his fourth birthday, when a tall man approached him after tutoring so start teaching the basics of reading music and his very first song. 

The first few lessons he was such a brat, sneaking away to play with his toys until he saw his mother in the music room playing her violin alone, she usually would lull him to sleep after nightmares with a song. Back then he didn't notice it but her little sad comment about wanting someone to duet with her was so obviously a way to get him to sit through his lessons, it's almost embarrassing to recognize it did work and he learned many songs for his mom's sake. 

The slight sliver of conscience the sound opened was just enough to remember that in Frostheim there are no pianos, and even if there were, his own room was soundproof so he wouldn't know if anyone was playing.

That realization plus the horrid noise of the off tempo and very obviously wrong key, strikes Jin out of his sleep, nerves crisp against the soft silk bed sheets.

The half mind that he managed to gather allowed him to recognize how different this room was to his own at Frostheim, an L shaped room with the bed facing a wardrobe on the sharp angle.

Walking out of the bed and to the wardrobe trying to find the exit he catches for a second the reflection of his face on the full length mirror adjacent to the wardrobe and sticky disgust lingers on the base of his tongue and back of his throat for a minute. His white hair dusted with a few stray gray hairs just behind his ears, and some wrinkles starting to carve themselves around his eyes and his forehead. It's not the sudden aging causing him to step away from the reflection but just how much he looked like his father, as a child and even now, he always got told that he looked just like his dad but he never managed to see it beyond sharing hair and eye color until now, a splitting image. 

Deciding to not mull over that, there is a lot of time before this mess happens, something inside him insists. He watches some photos hung around the wall and wrapping around the corner, most are of white haired children uncannily similar to himself during different milestones, like walking or school graduations or a few ones where they were dressed formally enough for a gala. 

Following the flow of the photos around the wall, he finds himself mesmerized briefly for no more than one second with each and every photo, but the biggest picture and possibly centerpiece of the homemade gallery was one with with him and the honor student posing inside an old catedral, both wearing white wedding attire, wisteria and white roses adorning the venue. Was it Clementia? It's unlikely, it looked too clean and tidy, unlike how it looks after the incident.

In as much of a trance he found himself beholding the picture, a golden glimmer captured his attention. It's a gold wedding band, almost on instinct he puts it in his left ring finger and maybe it was something embedded inside his being after years of cohabitation… where did that even come from? The closest thing to cohabitation is how much time Thoma spends around him.

As he turns around to leave he notes there are two doors, one leading to a balcony and the other he supposes leads to the rest of the house. 

Walking through the marble tiles, his feet fall at the same time that the inexperienced rhythm of twinkle twinkle little star is played. Following the sound he finds himself in the family music room where he learned to play. Was he in his family home? The floor lay out did seem somewhat similar but the paint and furniture changed quite a bit. He guesses it's natural, if he himself aged for things to not remain the same, maybe should be even offsetting if they did.

A white haired child is seated in front of the big tail piano playing nervously for the audience that was his parent and baby brother. His nerves were so noticeable that it seeped into the music, an apprentice’s first but green attempts.

“Do it again, but this time with confidence” his voice echoes into the room, scaring the child into playing the wrong key.

“Looks like dad finally woke up, huh?” A teasing voice speaks from the couch and as their head turns around to face him Jin sees your face once again, a few years older than the photo in the bedroom and a lot older than your academy self he is used to, but still you after all “his grampa got him a piano teacher and wanted to show me what he learned. Maybe you could refresh on your own skills”

“Really, dad plays?” The child jumps in interest and tugs him by the hand towards the piano. Was it honest interest or did he simply not want to play anymore? “Play something for me!”

“What about what you chose for our first dance?”

“Salut d'amour” his words slip from between his lips before even thinking about a wedding. He did seem to be correct as you smiled complacently while hugging the year old in your lap.

Did he truly choose that? Even thinking about that song playing during his wedding and being the one who chose it made him feel like he was a whipped sappy loser like that blond second year yet at the expectant look of ‘his son’ and yours he obliges, it's a short piece after all, he reasons.

It isn't far after he starts playing that the five year old sits down next to him and perches himself on his arm, eyeing how he moves his hands majestically, even after all those years without training. 

“don’t pull on your dad's arm” without a noise you stand behind him while holding the kid he saw in one of the family photos. 

Breathing in, his eyes close and the unusual burn in his lungs itches from the inside but like sand slipping from his hand with the wind, the next time he opens his eyes he is seated on the couch looming over the coffee table. Almost at the same time Thoma enters with a tray and teapot.

“Abusing bhavishy incense again? I don't think you need another excuse to sleep more” and almost as if Thoma’s words were what he needed to puzzle it together and not the very clearly lit powdered incense holder letting off a pinkish mist “you should open a window, you are going choke on fumes”

He got his hands on a new batch of an artisan's mix and wanted to try it out, he remembers his simple motive of being bored and it being more interesting than annoying Thoma with tasking him to find some musician that never existed. 

His thoughts get stringed together slowly and carefully, still a bit out of it thanks to the fumes but it gets easier to think as Thoma opens the balcony door wide open, letting in Frostheim notoriously cold breeze to clean out the strawberry scent.

“I never took the captain for someone to be interested in love affairs, but at last it seems I have a lot to learn about you”

“Just shut it, you are making my head hurt”

“Are you flustered?”

[kk095]

Life and Death in the ER: Dr Lindsay

*Good evening everyone, I hope all is well. I greatly appreciate all the positive feedback on my last story Alexa's Arrhythmia! I'd like to try something a little different with the story you're about to read. Although it may not be everyone's cup of tea, I think it's a great opportunity for you guys to get to know some of our go-to characters a little better. Anyway, I hope you guys enjoy it!*

Aside from medicine, Dr Lindsay’s passion in life is running. The cute, sporty tomboy doctor we all know and love was a college track star at the D1 college she attended once upon a time ago. Believe it or not, Lindsay had legitimate Olympic aspirations, and at one point in time, she was set to qualify for the United States women’s track team. But fate had other plans, which came in the form of a sudden, severe ACL and LCL tear in her left knee. Reconstructive surgery was performed and she of course recovered, but Lindsay definitely lost her X factor. Even though Lindsay could still run circles around 99% of humanity as a 33 year old with a bum knee, she lost that slight edge all those years ago, which is all it took for her Olympic hopes and dreams to go up in smoke. Sometimes Lindsay thought “what if?” in regards to her potential professional sports career, but at the same time, being an ER physician fulfilled her in a different way.

Lindsay truly embraced her role as a doctor and caretaker in the emergency department, always going the extra mile for her patients and thinking outside the box to try to save them. Time after time, Dr Lindsay found herself in the midst of life and death struggles in the trauma bay, always seeming to have her hands inside the chest of a beautiful woman. But right now, somewhere in an alternate reality, the role was reversed, with Lindsay being the beauty fighting for her life in the all too familiar emergency department.

The room Lindsay found herself in was quite a scene. A cacophony of sound hit anyone the instant they set foot in the room. Alarms and monitors were going off. Orders were being barked. Footsteps pitter-pattered around the room. The high pitched, electrical whirring of defibrillators charging echoed around the room from yet another unsuccessful shock. The tension was palpable.

All across the floor of the room, various items were strewn about. Wrappers from bits of medical equipment were tossed to the ground. Empty, used up blood transfusion and IV bags found themselves discarded. Lindsay’s bloody, tattered clothes also wound up on the light colored tile after a brief encounter with a set of shears. Small droplets of blood made a trail leading from the room’s entrance, all the way over to where the trauma room table was.

On the table, underneath the harsh, bright, fluorescent overhead light was the center of attention for the room’s occupants. Dr Sarah, Nurse Nancy, and Nurse Heather worked as a trio, each lady knowing their role inside out, backwards and forwards, from A to Z. Everyone knew their jobs at an expert level, but it was easier said than done for the emergency department’s triumvirate to maintain composure and impartiality, considering a friend and colleague was the poor soul requiring their lifesaving services this time.

Nurse Nancy, the 20+ year veteran of the ER who’s been there, done that, and seen it all stood at the head of the bed ambu bagging, sending much needed air into Dr Lindsay’s lungs. The stress, chaos, gore, and shock that came with being an ER nurse never fazed Nancy, especially after being exposed to such things for over two decades. But in this scenario, Nancy struggled. This wasn’t a stranger on the table tonight. Nurse Nancy couldn’t wrap her head around the idea of the ER’s go-to, unanimously loved leader being the one on the table this time. Heck, Nancy couldn’t even bring herself to look down at the table, not wanting to see her friend’s face, or the overall shape she was in. There was a knot in Nancy’s stomach, and her heart was racing. She hoped and prayed Dr Lindsay would pull through, but as each minute ticked by, each one faster than the last, Nancy’s hope was soon replaced by dread.

Heather, our emergency team’s dependable, hardworking nurse who regularly showed her moxie, stood off to the side of the table, tasked with keeping an eye on the heart monitors in order to note any changes, as well as pushing meds and setting up any equipment Dr Sarah may need. Heather’s eyes were trained on the heart monitors, which displayed a squiggly, sinuous, unorganized line. That squiggly line Heather watched signified something called ventricular fibrillation- a situation where a patient’s heart is twitching instead of actually beating, typically requiring a defibrillator shock in order to restore normal cardiac activity. Ventricular fibrillation, commonly known as v-fib amongst healthcare professionals, was something Heather has seen more times than she could count during her handful of years as a nurse. However, Heather found herself stunned when eyeing the heart monitor, coming to the stark realization that a familiar face was the one being resuscitated this time.

Dr Sarah, the cute, petite, nerdy redheaded doctor who, for all intents and purposes, was Dr Lindsay’s right hand man and most important ally in the battlegrounds of the trauma bay, stood right up against the table, doing anything and everything to bring her fellow ER doc back. Sarah had her gloved hands inside Lindsay’s chest, which was splayed open earlier in the struggle via a clamshell thoracotomy. The redheaded doctor’s hands were firmly wrapped around Dr Lindsay’s boggy, fibrillating heart, vigorously massaging away. A wet, rhythmic squishing sound was produced from Sarah’s internal compressions. “come on Linds… come on….” Sarah uttered under her breath, trying to fight the overwhelming emotions that attempted to consume her. “You were just talking to us Linds… Come on…” continued Sarah, trying to will Lindsay back amongst the living.

Sarah composed herself for a moment. “Let’s shock her again. Recharge the paddles to 30, Heather.” Ordered Sarah, stepping up to the plate. Heather did what she had to do. She set the crash cart to 30 joules and hit the charge button. The high pitched, electrical whining of the internal paddles charging filled the room as Heather handed Sarah the large, spoon shaped devices. Sarah pulled her hands out of Lindsay’s chest cavity and grabbed ahold of the internal paddles. Dr Sarah lowered the internal paddles into the gaping chasm of an incision site, around Lindsay’s erratically fluttering heart.

While her friends worked urgently to save her, Lindsay laid on the table, stripped completely nude, her toned, athletic body on full display in a room full of familiar faces, the violating nature of that fact going to the wayside due to the dire essence of the situation. Lindsay’s sandy, light brown hair was tied back in a messy bun or ponytail of sorts, being held in place with a black headband. The doctor’s icy, sky blue eyes remained open, her pupils the size of dimes, staring up above with a full blown death stare etched onto her face. She was intubated, with the ET tube being secured by a blue tube holder around the area of her mouth and lips. IV lines stuck out of both her arms. Her torso was littered with EKG electrodes and wires. A chest tube stuck out the left side of Lindsay’s ribs, redirecting blood and trapped air outwards. The rest of her upper torso, and belly to a lesser degree, were soaked with a combination of both blood and betadine. However, Lindsay’s chest was the main sight of shock and awe. Her chest had a large, crude, gash just below the nipple line, extending the entirety of her chest horizontally. Not only was there a massive gash, her sternum was sawed in half, and her chest was splayed open via a clamshell thoracotomy. A metal rib retractor sat dead center in her chest, keeping everything open. A large, metal vascular clamp stuck up and out of the incision site. Sarah could also be seen holding the internal defibrillator paddles in place in anticipation of a shock.

“Paddles charged. Everyone… CLEAR!” Dr Sarah called out, everyone else stepping back from the table. THWACK. The shock was delivered. “mmmph…” Lindsay moaned softly, her torso twitching sharply in response to Sarah’s shock. The trio paused after the shock. The monitors beeped fast and loud, everyone’s eyes looking over to see if there was a change. “Come on… she’s still in v-fib. I’m going again at 30. Everyone…. CLEAR!” shouted Dr Sarah, immediately shocking Lindsay again. Lindsay’s shoulders shrugged forward and her arms shivered, a wet thump being heard. Like before, Dr Lindsay’s heartbeat was unable to be restored. Sarah decided to up the ante, shocking her friend and coworker at 40 joules during the next go around. “MMMM!” Lindsay moaned louder, as if she could feel the stronger intensity of the shock. Again, v-fib persisted. “I’m going again at 40! Everyone…CLEAR!” Barked Sarah, determined to keep going. The next shock caused Lindsay’s toes to scrunch up hard at the far end of the table, showing off the bright white nail polish on her toes, along with the wavy, thin, but prominent wrinkles that permeated the soles of the big, size 11 feet she was always so self conscious of.

Sarah wasn’t giving up, and neither was v-fib, so the fight was on. “Going again at 40! Everyone… CLEAR!!!” Sarah passionately yelled out, shocking Lindsay once more. Lindsay’s torso shot up and plopped back down hard all within the span of a second. The monitors kept alarming, but by that point, the trio tuned out the noise of the monitors, considering they were well aware there was a major problem. In the seconds after that shock, Lindsay’s heart fluttered and danced weakly for a moment, before coming to a sudden, complete stop. The heart monitors flatlined, and Lindsay’s heart sat completely motionless inside her cracked open chest. Lindsay’s beautiful blue eyes stayed wide open, staring up above, almost as if she was watching her friends determine their next move.

The flatline on the monitors was an absolute gut punch for everyone. Sarah stood there holding the internal paddles, deep in rumination about her next move. At the head of the bed, Nurse Nancy shined a pen light into Lindsay’s eyes. Lindsay’s pupils were the size of dimes, completely blown, not reacting to the pen light in the slightest. “oh… poor baby…” Nancy uttered, placing the pen light back in her breast pocket. “Pupils fixed and dilated.” Nancy continued, informing everyone, shaking her head. Heather looked over at the heart monitor. “Asystole on the monitors, down 37 minutes.” Added Heather. There was a collective pause after Heather’s words. Nancy didn’t say anything, but she went ahead and detached the ambu bag from the ET tube, a small amount of air quietly hissing out. The two nurses looked over at Sarah, knowing they’ve done all they could for their friend, but needed Sarah to make the final call.

Dr Sarah stood there shell shocked. Sure, Sarah has lost patients before- any ER doctor has. But this was different. This was a coworker. A colleague. A leader. Someone she looked up to. But most importantly, this was a friend. Sarah felt morally and emotionally obligated to continue resuscitation efforts. How could she just give up on Lindsay? At the same time, Dr Sarah viewed the situation clinically and logically. She knew that all possible options were exhausted. An asystolic patient with a downtime of 37 minutes and blown pupils was too far gone for additional interventions. With all this in mind, Sarah snapped back to reality, eyeing each member of the trauma team. Dr Sarah didn’t say a word to any of them. Finally, her eyes looked over at the clock that sat on the back left wall of the room. Sarah gently placed the internal paddles back down on the crash cart, then peeled her blood soaked, latex gloves off, her heart racing, eventually making the dreaded announcement. “Time of death, 8:08pm…” Sarah’s voice wobbling, on the verge of tears.

Nobody said a word, but everyone knew exactly what to do next. Nurse Nancy switched off the flatlined monitors, silencing the once noisy, hectic room. Heather disconnected the EKG electrodes and removed the IVs from each of Dr Lindsay’s arms. A blue surgical drape was hastily tossed on top of the open thoracotomy site, obscuring Lindsay’s inert, motionless heart from view. A toe tag was then filled out and placed on the big toe of Lindsay’s left foot. The tag dangled against the fine, thin, but prominent wrinkles that permeated the soles of Lindsay’s feet. Lastly, a cover was placed over Lindsay, concealing the hauntingly beautiful gaze forever etched onto her face. Unfortunately for Lindsay, a cruel twist of fate- and perhaps irony resulted in her dying in the very place she spent so much of her time. In this alternate reality, Dr Lindsay was now the hottie who laid toe tagged and under a sheet in the emergency department.

[gwen-tolios]

The Hansel House

“Don’t pay attention to it,” Cody whispered as they waited for the bus.

Emily tried, but the house crept closer and closer in the corner of her vision. She squeezed her older brother’s hand and resolutely looked up at the CTA signage.

The bus was late, as usual, but they always tried to catch the one before they needed to get to school on time. The only thing predictable about Chicago traffic was that it happened, but at least buses were only a little delayed in the morning. Things were worse after school.

Emily bounced up the steps of the bus, swiping her Ventra card. Cody forced her into the one open seat and stood before her. Under his elbow, she caught a glance of the candied home before the bus slid away from the stop.

The biggest surprise about their current situation was learning that the Hansel House was real.

Emily knew things were tight at home. Pancakes had been dinner every night this week. Beans and toast the week before. More than once, she’d heard her stepmother and father hiss at each other in the bathroom. She wanted to send at least one child to their mother; Dad argued against it every time.

Dad worked hard, Emily knew. Between his job at the convenience store and Grubhub delivery on a bike, Emily rarely saw him. Her stepmom worked hard in a different way, fixing clothes and cutting coupons and managing bills. “Kids,” she’d mutter under her breath, “Always making giving me a headache.”

Every time Emily heard her parents fight in the bathroom, her dad put up less and less of a fight. Last night, Emily couldn’t hear him through the wall at all.

And now the Hansel House had come.

🍫🍭🍬🍫🍭🍬

Emily daydreamed about the House at school. Like the story of Hansel and Gretel, the house had been constructed of sweets. The walls a rich, soft gingerbread. Windows panes of dyed sugar glass with crossbeams of thin, twisted black licorice. Underneath them had been flower boxes made of pink macaroons, holding pastel blue and yellow panna cotta in the shape of flowers. The door was a sugar cookie, with the handle a giant, wrapped bonbon, the filigree of the plate surrounding it tempered chocolate. The stoop had the glaze of peanut brittle.

Worse had been the mail slot, overfilling with wrapped candy. One wouldn’t be missed, and pulling out a pixie stick quickly shouldn’t cause it all the fall. It’d been so long since Emily had a piece of candy. Why use bread money for a bit of chocolate?

Throughout the day from the corner of her eye, she’d see the Hansel House. In the bathroom mirror, out the blacktop below her classroom. Nothing so clear as that morning, but the flash of brown wall and buttercream outlined roof tiles. The chimney smoke might have been cotton candy.

When Cody met her on the sidewalk outside of her elementary school, she looked at him with wide eyes. “It looks really good,” she admitted.

Cody took her hand. “That’s the point,” he said. “If you walk in, it’s not her fault.”

🍫🍭🍬🍫🍭🍬

The story went that once upon a time, Hansel and Gretel had a mean stepmother. So she took them to the woods and left them there, whispering under her breath. “I don’t need children, I need money!” The children never returned, and she found two intricate pieces of jewelry washed up in a nearby stream.

The schoolyard tale was that when your parents don’t want you, they’ll sell you to a witch who uses cookies instead of bricks for walls. Once you saw the house, it was only a matter of time. The witch ate the kids, or sent them away, or turned them into lollipops. No one knew, except that it was a trade. The witch got kids, the parents got coin, and the cops wrote you were a runaway. For adults, nothing bad happened.

The whisper in Emily’s dreams was the sound of a lullaby and the soft ding of an oven. An invitation to come sit and eat. She pictured the outline of a person, short and round and huggable. There were no words in her dream, but she heard them all the same. I want you here.

It was a better statement than what she’d heard through the wall that night - I want them gone.

🍫🍭🍬🍫🍭🍬

Cody watched at his feet as they walked to the bus stop. Emily did the same, pressing close. She wondered if he’d dreamed of the Hansel house too, if he asked his fellow 6th graders the schoolyard tales.

They didn’t talk the entire morning. His goodbye hug at the school was tight. “I’ll see you after school, okay? Promise.”

She couldn’t tell if he was making it or asking for one. Emily nodded either way.

The Hansel House continued to haunt her. It looked different today. The black licorice window grilles had transformed into red ones. The macaroon flower boxes are now stacks of Oreos, the filling expanding to serve as plaster. The house transformed from gingerbread to sugar cookies, the roof frosted with the same thick, pink, cloying spread of the cookies her classmates sometimes brought to share. Sprinkles cover the entire roof.

The whispers from last night fill her mind instead of her teacher’s attempt to explain adding fractions. Her stepmom’s commands to get Emily and Cody out of the apartment and live with a mother who didn’t want them either. Her dad’s lack of protest. The witch’s promise of a seat at her table.

The Hansel House changed to match the rare treats she savored from classroom birthday parties and displays she had been told to ignore on shopping trips. The witch wanted her to be happy.

The witch wanted her.

🍫🍭🍬🍫🍭🍬

That night, after a dinner of pasta and canned sauce, Emily heard no noises while she lay in bed next to the bathroom wall. Their stepmom had glared at them when they got home, asking why they hadn’t stayed out. Their dad had been home for dinner, a rarity, and asked about their days at school, and then, for the first time since his second marriage, asked if they missed their mother.

Emily listened to the shower as someone got ready for bed. Their steps as they went to the front door to lock it. The snick of the other bedroom door closing.

Dad hadn’t come to say goodnight.

Emily rolled over to look at her brother, awake in his bed. “What does the house look like to you?” she whispered.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Do you really think she’ll eat us?”

“I said I don’t want to talk about it, Emily,” he snapped.

She flinched at his tone, burying her face in her pillow. Sniffed.

“Oh, Em, I’m sorry.”

In a heartbeat, he was at her side, brushing hair from her neck. She turned to look at him, tears in her eyes. She hadn’t cried in months, what was the point? But she was only in 4th grade, and there was a witch’s house after them, and their parents didn’t want them, and the candy was so, so tempting -

Cody jostled her from her thoughts by sliding into the bed. It was tight with the two of them, but Emily appreciated the closeness of her big brother. He wrapped an arm around her, pulling her in tight.

“Home might suck,” he whispered in her ear. “But the rest of the world doesn’t, right? You like school?”

“Yeah,” she whispered.

But it didn’t compare to the warmth in her stomach every time she thought that there was someone in the world who wanted her.

Even if that someone was a witch.

🍫🍭🍬🍫🍭🍬

The Hansel House got closer every day, built more and more to her liking. Sometimes it was small enough she saw it under a classmate’s desk. Other times, the sugar house was so big it loomed and Emily could look past the thin butterscotch windows to the shadowed shape inside. To the woman, beckoning.

The House continued to feature in her dreams, the witch saying over and over again she wanted Emily to visit. Once, she woke up, arms reaching for the candy doorhandle, to find Cody already awake. He stared out the window of their bedroom.

“Are you looking at the House?” she whispered.

“Go back to bed, Emily.”

Instead, she crawled into his. He held her close, not quite big enough to surround her but almost. Together, they stared out the window. The stories said Emily’s mouth should water at the sight of treats, but it was her heart that craved the house.

Even if the witch only wanted them for dinner, as dinner, that was still a sort of wanting Emily craved.

Especially when, almost two weeks after she first saw the house, they arrived from school to find the door of their apartment locked.

Or rather, that Cody’s key no longer worked.

Emily looked up at her big brother, turning her back on the Hansel House behind her. He stared at the lock, shiny against the grungy door.

“They’re not supposed to do anything,” he muttered. “If parents do something, it might be their fault and we’re no longing just missing kids.” He stared at the key in his hand.

Emily smelled cookies baking.

“We can stay here until dinner?” She suggested. The hallway was safe. Their dad and stepmom had to come home eventually.

“Good idea, Em. I’m sure they just haven’t had the chance to give us a new key yet.” He set a timer on his watch. Knocked every twenty minutes. Emily sat on the floor and tried to do her homework. None of the neighbors, returning from work, invited them in.

The Hansel House distracted them both. Cody repeatedly tapped her math homework, pulling her attention from the sugar cookie building. He stared at a book, eyes unfocused and teeth gritted until his timer went off.

Dinner came. Went. His knocks went unanswered, and even though Emily was only nine, she knew neither of her parents were coming.

“Cody,” she whimpered. “I’m hungry.”

The smell of cookies changed to baked bread and something more savory. Emily’s stomach rumbled.

The Hansel House, which had been creeping down the hallway all evening, was an inch away. She could rock her foot and hit the steps, formed from chocolate pebble gravel. She could pick out a speckled piece. Pluck out a lollypop flower. Snag an Oreo from the top of the flower box. Peel off a licorice strip if she stood and reached.

Warm light flittered through the butterscotch windows and the door opened.

Cody gripped her hand tight.

The witch stood there. No warts. Her hair wasn’t even fully grey. She wore a frayed green dress with a cream apron. Flour dusted her arms and her face was full of smile lines. She looked warm and welcoming.

“Come, children. Dinner’s ready. I’m so excited to have a meal with you.”

Emily turned to Cody. They had a choice. They could sleep in the hallway. They could have a last meal.

“Maybe it's poison,” Emily whispered. “That can be quick.”

“Don’t joke.”

“I promise,” the witch said, “You’re both welcome here.”

Emily was tired of sitting on the floor. She was hungry. Maybe the witch would eat her, like birds eating worms in the food chain, but she seemed kind and her house warm. They were being invited in and that felt much better than being locked out.

She stood, tugging on Cody’s hand. When he resisted, Emily looked at him as her stomach growled. He leaned his head against the apartment door to look at the new, shiny doorknob, before standing to his feet.

“Together, okay?” He held out his hand.

Emily took it and they walked up the two steps into the Hansel House.

🍫🍭🍬🍫🍭🍬

Despite living in a house of sweets, the witch served them savory pot pie, beef Wellington, roasted parsnips, and buttered buns. It's been ages since Emily remembered having meat for dinner, and she ate until her stomach pressed against her jeans. Cody indulged too, piling his plate twice.

Somehow she found room for dessert - an apple pie heavy with cinnamon and a thick, flaky crust.

As far last meals went, Emily couldn't complain.

The witch hadn't said a word all dinner, other than encouraging them to eat. It was only after Cody put his fork down after his second piece of pie that she spoke.

“Welcome to the Hansel House. While I'm happy to have you, I'm sorry about your parents.”

“What about them?” Cody asked.

“They don't love you enough,” the witch said. “And I'm sorry for that fact. Every child should have their parents’ love.”

Emily reached under the table to grab Cody’s hand. “Are you gonna eat us now?”

The witch gave her a sad, but kind smile. “No.”

“Then can we go back?” Cody asked.

“No,” the witch said. “Do you really want to?”

Emily bit her lip. Cody had his thinking face on. After a moment, he squeezed Emily’s hand.

“We shouldn't.”

“No,” the witch agreed. “But I understand wanting to return where you’re not wanted.”

“You're a witch who kidnaps kids.”

The witch laughs. “I knew I should have introduced myself before dinner. My name is Gretel. I'm not a witch, but me and my brother, Hansel, killed the witch who used to own this house. My stepmother encouraged the witch to take me and my brother, and after we shoved her in the oven we knew we couldn't go home. Our parents didn't want us.”

Emily wished she could crawl into Cody's bed and feel him wrap protectively around her. She settled for moving her chair closer, their knees touching.

“So you stayed here together,” Emily guessed.

Gretel smiled at Emily. “You get that choice too. You can stay here, with me, Hanzel, and the other children. We love company. Or, you could walk through the back of the house to my garden. It's a bit of a maze, but it has the opposite magic as the house. The house finds and welcomes children, the garden makes them lost forever. I've never seen any of those children again, but the story is that Gretal’s Grove will open up into the arms of someone who will love you.”

“Like, new parents?”

“Yes. Adults ask Hansel to take children away and ask me to provide them. I don't know how the magic works, I'll admit. I'm not a witch. But the house and garden answer those wishes.”

Cody scooped Emily up and placed her on his lap. She barely fit, but it allowed them to whisper.

“What do you want?” Cody asked.

That the Hansel House never followed them. Or their parents hadn't gotten divorced. Or for anyone to want to keep her. She would eat bland rice every day if she got a goodnight kiss from a mom who cared.

“I want a mom,” she admitted. A real one, who didn’t leave. Who would always want them, no matter how much they ate. “Do you want one too?” Because if Cody didn't, they could stay. She wanted him the most.

The longer they sat at the table, the louder the chatter of other kids became. The house morphed around them, honey trap no longer needed, and Emily watched the sugar cookie walls turn into yellow paint.

Cody brushed the hair from her forehead. “A mom sounds great.”

He buried his face in Emily’s head for a hug, then looked at Gretel. “Which way to the grove?”

“You would have been welcome here,” she said while standing, “but I understand. We all want love. This way.”

Emily and Cody followed, clasping hands. She snagged a bun from the table, just in case, and they walked through a large room filled with kids ages two to seventeen listening to Hansel read a book. Gretel led them outside to the edge of grass around the house, coming to a step before two trees whose branches tangled to form an arch.

“Good luck.” Gretel leaned down to pull them both into a warm hug. “I'm glad you left before something worse happened, and I got to give you a meal.”

“Thanks,” Cody said.

“Yes, thank you,” Emily repeated.

Gretel handed her a bag of candy for the road and then they were off, stepping into the woods. It was nothing like the organized blocks of Chicago, but there was a subtle similarity. Tall structures soaring above them, tangled roots that mirrored sidewalks in need of repair. They followed not quite a path, but an obvious gap in the trees they could easily walk between.

Emily had the sense that just ahead, around a thick oak or a collection of dry shrubs, there’d be what she was looking for. Sometimes there were flashes, like the flick of a scarf, other times intelligible whispers from the dry leaves.

She clung to Cody, and he started singing. “Ninty-nine bottles of pop on the wall, ninety-nine bottles of po~p.”

Emily joined in, trying to relax. There was no reason to be nervous, the woods held no threat, and she trusted Gretel’s Grove to follow the right person, just like the Hansel House had followed them.

The trees got thinner. More ordered, like they’d been planted. They morphed into the walls of a hedge maze, and Cody and Emily walked into too-bright sunlight, nearly colliding with a couple walking through an English garden.

A tall, thin Asian woman and a well-built white woman, her head equal to the Asian woman’s shoulders. The four of them stood blinking at each other.

“Are you lost?” the white woman asked, her voice heavy with an Eastern European accent.

At the same time, Emily stuck out the small bag of rock candy Gretel had given them. “Do you want one?”

“Oh,” the Asian woman gasped.

Her partner turned to her, but the taller woman simply looked at Cody and Emily, hand to her mouth, tears beading at the corner of her eyes. “They’re ours.”

“What?”

The Asian woman recited a poem Emily didn’t know. “Gretel filled her dress with crumbs to lay a trail but now the woods are where she’s from. Children need a path to follow, so lay a stone in Gretel’s Grove and they’ll carry it through the wooded hollow.”

“You did not?! That’s real?”

The Asian woman gestured frantically toward Emily and Cody. Emily wanted to press into Cody’s side, but if Gretel was right, this was the mom she wished for. The mom who wished for her.

“I’m Emily. This is Cody.”

The Asian woman crouched to look her in the eyes. “I’m Miranda, and that’s Jackie. Welcome to our life.”

She opened her arms. Emily dove into them, pulling Cody with her. He put up no fight, falling into Miranda and allowing Jackie to wrap her arms around them both.

It was a little cold, and a little bright, and Jackie’s hair started to tickle Emily’s nose. But the hug felt a million times better than sitting on the floor outside their old apartment.

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

Chicago’s Grimm is a collection of urban fantasy stories inspired by Grimm’s Fairy Tales set in Chicago. Join my Ko-Fi ☕to get early access to stories, otherwise follow the Chicago's Grimm tag.

[xtruss]

At Long Last, Mathematicians Have Found a Shape With a Pattern That Never Repeats

Experts have Searched for Decades for a Polygon that only makes Non-Repeating Patterns. But No One Knew It was Possible Until Now

— Will Sullivan | March 29, 2023 | Smithsonian

Infinitely many copies of a 13-sided shape can be arranged with no overlaps or gaps in a pattern that never repeats. David Smith, Joseph Samuel Myers, Craig S. Kaplan and Chaim Goodman-Strauss (CC BY 4.0)

From bathroom floors to honeycombs or even groups of cells, tilings surround us. These patterns cover a space without overlapping or leaving any gaps. Like a rug filled with diamond shapes, where each section looks the same as the one next to it, every tiling ever recorded has eventually repeated itself—until now.

After decades of searching for what mathematicians call an “einstein tile”—an elusive shape that would never repeat—researchers say they have finally identified one. The 13-sided figure is the first that can fill an infinite surface with a pattern that is always original.

Repeating patterns have translational symmetry, meaning you can shift one part of the pattern and it will overlap perfectly with another part, without being rotated or reflected. The shape described in a new paper does not have translational symmetry—each section of its tiling looks different from every part that comes before it.

The designs on these rugs have translational symmetry—the patterns on the rugs repeat themselves. Juli Kosolapova via Unsplash

Sarah Hart, a mathematician at Birkbeck, University of London, who didn’t contribute to the finding, tells New Scientist’s Matthew Sparkes that she had thought finding an “einstein” (named for the German words for “one stone,” or one tile) could not be done. “There are infinitely many possible candidate tiles, and even the existence of a solution feels quite counterintuitive,” she says to the publication.

“Everybody is astonished and is delighted, both,” Marjorie Senechal, a mathematician at Smith College who did not participate in the research, tells Science News’ Emily Conover. “It wasn’t even clear that such a thing could exist.”

David Smith, a retired printing technician and nonprofessional mathematician, was the first to come up with the shape that could be a solution to the long-standing “einstein problem.” He shared his ideas with scientists who took on the challenge of trying to mathematically prove his conjecture, per the New York Times’ Siobhan Roberts.

The team published a preprint paper detailing the findings on the site arXiv last week, and it has not been peer-reviewed yet. But experts say the work is expected to be supported with further investigation, per Science News.

“This appears to be a remarkable discovery,” Joshua Socolar, a physicist at Duke University who did not contribute to the finding, tells the Times. “The most significant aspect for me is that the tiling does not clearly fall into any of the familiar classes of structures that we understand.”

Each "einstein" tile has eight kite shapes inside of it. David Smith, Joseph Samuel Myers, Craig S. Kaplan and Chaim Goodman-Strauss (CC BY 4.0)

The “Einstein” tile is made up of eight kites, or four-sided polygons with two pairs of adjacent, equal-length sides. Researchers call it “the hat” because of its resemblance to a fedora.

The shape is simpler than some experts expected it to be. Chaim Goodman-Strauss, a mathematician at the University of Arkansas and one of the authors of the paper, tells Science News that if he’d been asked to guess what the shape might look like before the finding, “I would’ve drawn some crazy, squiggly, nasty thing.”

In the 1970s, mathematician Roger Penrose discovered that two shapes could form a non-repeating tiling pattern together, prompting hopes that a single shape may be found to do this one day. Researchers have been able to make other non-repeating patterns in the past, but the challenge has been finding a shape that can only make a non-repeating pattern, Goodman-Strauss tells the Times.

The shape of “the hat” can also be morphed to form additional tile shapes that make non-repeating patterns, as shown in the video above.

This new finding could lead to materials science investigations—for example, shapes that form non-repeating tilings could help design stronger materials, Hart tells New Scientist. The elusive shape might also spark creative inspiration for new decorative designs or art.

[rhineposting]

"I am Scott Cawthon, and you are?"

(short story about Scott 01_01 meeting one of the Phone Guys. Not sure what else is there to say besides that I was very inspired by dsaftales "Nothing" and this gorgeous drawing of Scott Prime)

Something began to stir, an ominous rumble echoing through the vast space, faintly lit up by a pale light coming from seemingly nowhere and everywhere all at the same time. No walls to be found in any direction for miles ; only an old, wooden floor that seemed to stretch past the horizon into eternal darkness. Aside from that, there was nothing that could have moved or made any sounds, and yet, it did. It writhed mindlessly, louder and louder until finally, that nothingness burst : violently birthing a groaning, wheezing wet blob of wires onto the floor - a puddle of something best left unnamed and undescribed forming around it as it continued pouring from the wound in the nothingness for a while. There should have been no air to transfer the sound of it trickling, spreading everywhere and yet…

One arm was abruptly extended from within the formless mass. Fingers twitched as an invisible force tugged at it’s wrist, similarly to how one would have tugged at a knot on a string of yarn in hopes of untangling it. In no time, another arm followed ; then a leg, then a torso, another leg and finally a head - encased in featureless plastic and metal. Though it had neither a mouth or a nose, the form through means inexplicable (incomprehensible, even) took a deep, deep breath. Cold air filled it’s aching lungs, the sensation somehow simultaneously refreshing and numbing, it’s wet fingers slipping slightly over the wooden tiles. Weak, barely conscious, it would have surely fallen over, plastic-cage first into the floor, were it not for something suddenly pulling it upwards, straightening it’s posture. A sharp pain shot from it’s spine, and the mass let out a choked up cry.

“Here, here. Let me help you up, put you back together…I’m sorry. I’m so sorry about all of this.”

Warm, calloused hands began gently wiping away the wet grime from the plastic and the flesh connected to it, tenderness of it oddly familiar to the mass : now slowly taking shape of a man, clad in jeans and a blue shirt. Above it all, like a poor mockery of a crown, stood a black, scratched up rotary phone where a head of flesh and bone ought to have been. Then, and only then did he became aware of being conscious - as if experiencing the entirety of the evolution of sapience in the span of five seconds. Startled, just like anyone else would have been in his place, the man jumped away.

“A-Ah, who are you?!” he stammered out, at the same time looking around - despite not having any eyes, so to speak of. “W-Where am I? What is this??”What - or more so, who - stood before the man was another man. His suit, well taken care of in spite of age, was a blue so bright it appeared to have been painted onto the man…Much like the rest of the man himself, really : his presence radiant and warm, contrasting greatly against the cold darkness surrounding them.He too, had a phone for a head - a relic, the casing still made out of wood, the visible metal parts ever so slightly rusted at the edges. Yet, between the two of them, the younger model looked almost crude, with all it’s scratches, stains and other marks of wear and tear when facing the older one : regal, well maintained, having visibly been loved.

“I am Scott.” the man in blue extended one hand in greeting towards him. “I’m so happy to meet you.”

(READ THE REST ON AO3 HERE)

[nessihow]

Heartbeat. 1.- Ice, ice, baby.

Jessica remembers how she and Wade met. She ends up unconscious, and probably on her way to a Romanian human trafficking. We tell you about it, after the commercials.

She went through her dominoes again looking for the one she needed. She hated dominoes, she had never played until Al taught her. She didn't have any tiles that had a number two on them, she would have to take one from the pile. She sighed as Al used one of her dominoes, she suspected the older woman was cheating. It wasn't possible that they had played six games and she had lost five."Al, tell me again how the fuck you see the tiles if you're blind. With all due respect," she smiled as she snapped one of her checkers into the row on the table. She had three chips left, the old lady had one fucking chip left."I can feel the roughness of the chips girl, didn't they teach you in that white school that Braille exists," she threw her chip on the board and laughed in the girl's face, she had won again, she was the fucking master."Fuck you, you and I both know you have no fucking idea how to read Braille," she rolled her eyes before pronouncing herself with that mocking tone. -Another beer? -the woman just nodded her head. Jessica got up and headed for the kitchen as she thought about how surreal the situation she found herself in was. Playing board games with an elderly blind cocaine addicted woman while waiting for her mutant friends to return from sowing evil (cleaning up trash for TVA). She had no complaints either, she liked the lady, she was kind of like a bad influence grandma. She met Al the same day she met Wade. Wade had opened the door to his apartment after 20 minutes of trying to get the key in, he was so stoned. Normally, his body's regeneration factor eliminated substances in mere minutes, and even though it had been almost a quarter of an hour since he snorted his last drag. He could still feel the tingling in his throat, he was still on the peak. Adding to his intoxication was his excitement, or lust, call it what you will. He had taken that pretty girl home from the skating rink, an absolute victory. He had seen her from afar at the ice rink, it was Christmas and all the families in the neighborhood were getting together to skate. Wade didn't even have enough money to skate, he was just going for chocolate, they sold them at those stands and they were much cheaper than at the supermarket. He had been sad all week and missing Vanessa, he needed sugar, chocolate, gluten and a lot of calories that would hopefully give him another cancer. Most people were teenagers and didn't know how to skate, so she stuck out like a sore thumb. She moved fluidly, with balance, making pretty shapes and moving her legs like she was dancing tangos on ice. Wade swallowed hard, let's be blunt, the first thing he noticed wasn't her eyes, or her hair, or the discipline she must have had to skate like that. The first thing he noticed was that she was hot. She was really hot, dark hair and green eyes with that figure that showed all the strength she had in her legs. Wade was a slut, he was one of those guys they called "simps" on social media. 

He lost sight of her as he waited for the line to move forward, HOW LONG DID IT TAKE TO MAKE A FUCKING CHOCOLATE? He could entertain himself watching that girl, though he felt like a dirty old man, times of need created men in need.  He looked for her with his eyes, but he had missed her completely, well, he turned his attention back to the tail and as if it were a game of terror, she appeared there. His breath caught in his throat from shock, he watched her stand in front of him. Excuse me? Had a teenage girl just cut in front of him in the chocolate line? Yes, he wasn't allowing it."Excuse me, pretty girl, can you get in the fucking line?" He grabbed the woman's forearm so she would turn around to look at him, Jessica was immediately startled, she was wearing her ice skates in her backpack, her shoes untied and her cheeks flushed from exertion and the cold. She was going to apologize quickly, she hadn't meant to steal anyone's spot, she just hadn't seen Wade. Before she could utter herself, a blond man with a grim-faced face stepped in her way."Jessica, I've been calling you all fucking week, what are you doing here?" the man shouted at her in an aggressive tone, his eyes red, almost bulging out of their sockets, he was also gesticulating a lot. It took him a while to become aware of Wade's presence. " Who is this guy, are you such a whore that you're already with someone else?" at that moment things got serious. The strange man grabbed the shoulder opposite to the one Wade was grabbing, Jessica was paralyzed, unable to do anything, she just stammered.

"ALREADY? WE CUT OFF TWO YEARS AGO JOHN, LEAVE ME ALONE" the girl broke free from his grip as she moved closer to the stranger. John again made the pretense of physically confronting Jessica, but at that moment Wade stepped between them."Hey, hey, hey. Put the brakes on, my Aryan friend. I know people of your ideology like to hit girls, but it's not 1930's anymore." The blond boy's eye, flickering with anger, gritted his teeth before yelling again."Listen, I'm sure you're a respectable war veteran who lost his face to save some kitten," he said alluding to the burns on Wade's body, even though he was wearing the hair prosthesis, his face still looked haggard, "But Grandpa, let me talk to my girl."Jessica stood behind Wade, ready to tell him that she wasn't his girl and that if he didn't get away from her she was going to call the police. The older man stepped forward. " Well, I know you're hurting for losing a woman like her, but don't worry, size doesn't matter, you'll find another one that will accept you with that micropenis." Now, kid, let me have a chocolate with your ex girl" the mercenary's words went deep inside the boy. Not even five minutes passed when John connected his knuckles against his nose. It was a hard blow, John had been competing to enter the army, he was not a scrawny man, however, little did he know that he had a mutant in front of him. Wade wrinkled his nose before putting it back on with an unpleasant sound. It was his turn to hit him, but with only a punch to the temple, a punch that managed to knock him out in the middle of the crowd." T-thank you? I guess... How did you do that?" asked Jessica, amazed at the strength of her savior, who had knocked her ex down with a single punch."I throw good rights, don't I? Who is this Nazi anyway? I'm Wade, do you want a chocolate? "Wade rubbed his knuckles as he smiled at Jessica, maybe the man's interruption could even be useful."That was my ex, we broke up a year ago, but he still haunts me."-"It's completely normal, I wouldn't get over a girl as pretty as you either."Wade felt rusty himself, how embarrassing, he had spent so much time crying over Vanessa that he had forgotten how to conquer a woman. 

"Well, if you had a restraining order like him, you might think twice," Jessica laughed, a little flushed and uncomfortable at the same time. She wasn't used to men hitting on her. "Well, the laws are there for me to break them, by the way, I have to confess something, I'm diabetic, I was looking for chocolate to kill myself. But after seeing you, I think I can live another day, do you want a drink? " the girl scanned his whole face while he was talking, his scars could be seen very well up close. Just looking at them hurt. Jessica felt an impulse to run her fingers over the volume of them. They were strangely striking. She thought about his proposal, she had nothing to do, so why not? " Come on, I just hope you're not a hit man who acts without morals because of some kind of trauma and makes jokes about Nazis to cover up his insecurities."

...

They both sat up to rest their backs on the bed frame, Jessica cursed under her breath, that mattress was hard as fuck. She could feel the spring marks on her ribs as Wade pressed her against the bed. Still, it's not like she could focus on it much, she was exhausted, trying to catch her breath, failing pitifully. Wade seemed more serene, as if the sex had brought down the effect of the drugs."Sorry I snuck in the chocolate line"  joked the brunette before deciding to reach for her underwear. -Hey, hey, hey, hey, where are you going? What kind of fuck is this if you don't read me a story afterwards?" immediately jumped a very shocked Wade. He was coming across as a really weird guy, but Jessica liked him, the only thing that had shocked her was the collection of stuffed animals they had had to throw on the floor when they got to bed. "Do you have some kind of problem with your father? ""I just fucked a girl almost 20 years younger than me, are you seriously asking me? Of course I do " Jessica smiled at him as she watched him get dressed, her eyes widened when she saw his unicorn panties. She began to seriously ponder, maybe the few drinks she had had throughout the night had gotten her too drunk to see the dangerous situation she had gotten herself into. Was it worth risking her life by sneaking into a stranger's house for a little mind-blowing sex? Probably, her life had been pretty boring lately. 

"Shouldn't you have asked me my age before you took me to bed? " she said, already dressed and ready to go. Wade got out of bed still in his underwear, he might be completely burned, but the man was strong, you had to admit that. She followed him to the kitchen, where he handed her a glass of water while he drank his as well."I'll be cool as long as the FBI doesn't knock on my door," he rubbed his face tiredly, he really didn't want Jessica to leave, but he'd had enough luck getting her home, he couldn't risk it."I'm going to cancel you on Twitter for having a Leonardo Di Caprio complex" Wade snorted in disgust at the mention of the actor, he was probably Leonardo Di Caprio's biggest enemy, in that house they supported drug use, first degree murder and many more strange things.  But disrespect to Lady gaga was not tolerated. "WADE, THE NEIGHBOR ASSHOLES ARE FUCKING AGAIN. I'M GOING TO TELL THEM TO SHUT UP" an older black lady came out of another room with glasses on in the wee hours of the morning and a cane.  "No Al, uhmm, it's not the neighbors, this is Jessica. Jessica, this is my roommate Al the Blind" it was kind of cute to see him embarrassed, Jessica smiled at the shyness in his voice as he confessed. She herself felt terrible, she didn't know anyone would hear them, she thought she would live alone."Good evening Blind Al-, Al." She regretted almost using the lady's strange nickname, the lady was going to say something about it, but first of all Wade spoke."Before you complain, look what Santa Claus brought me," he held out a bag full of what the girl assumed was cocaine. She had seen Wade go to the bathroom four times and come back with bloodshot eyes. He hadn't said anything so as not to offend, but his jaw movements had made him look like a character in The Walking Dead. 

"Merry Christmas," was all the woman said before retiring to her room. How hard was the life of an addict. "Well, I think I'm going to get going..." Jessica walked slowly towards the door, with Wade following her with a pout. The woman walked through the door, and there was an awkward silence when she was in the hallway outside the apartment, not sure whether to run away or go back inside and lie down on the bed to sleep. "Wait, I know it's weird, but if you want to go another day for a chocolate" he said just before the girl ran out. "Sure, sure, yeah," Jessica stammered nervously, "Wait, weren't you a diabetic?" she asked in confusion as she watched Wade smile and close the door right after he laughed."Eeeeh Merry Christmas, doll."

...

"We're not playing any more games, I'm sick of you cheating," she said as she extended the third beer to Al. Then she took the TV remote control and zapped, Wade had to hire some streaming service, she was tired of watching the TV store. 

"What a generation of wimps, you can't stand anything..." she complained in a typical old woman's phrase. Jessica took a sip of beer, with no other topic of conversation to bring up.  A light bulb went off in her head. 

"Al, is it just me or have Wade and Logan been gone a long time," she frowned as she thought about it. Maybe she was drinking too much. 

"You're really hooked on those two, aren't you," Al teased her, Jessica wondered if behind those glasses their eyes were open or closed. If they were directed at her or not. Even if she couldn't see? Did she feel their presence somehow? 

"You know my relationship with Wade didn't come to anything, we only slept together a couple of times..." sighed the brunette taking the opportunity to pet Dogpool, who had crawled pathetically to her lap while his owner was away. Wade had that dog in his arms ALL DAY LONG. It could be considered animal harassment. 

"I'm not so much talking about the big mouth fucker, I meant Logan, I've been listening to you at fucking 4 in the morning laughing along with that deep annoying Canadian voice"

"So? You heard me laughing, not moaning. We're just friends, just like with Wade. " she said, opening her eyes, though she didn't know why, because his companion couldn't see me.

“Don't fuck with me, you don't talk to him like you talk to Wade's asshole.”

“It doesn't make any sense, you're using too much, I'm going to open the door, it's probably them." She warned that she was leaving so as not to leave the poor blind woman talking to herself, it wouldn't be the first time it happened. 

“Password? You're late for our movie night..." Jessica sang with false melancholy in her voice, opening the door just enough to show the left side of her face. However, who she found outside was neither Logan or Wade, two men dressed in jeans and black shirts pushed the door open with a bang. Hitting her head hard in the process. One of them took advantage of the woman's dumbfounded expression and kneed her in the forehead. 

After that, Jessica saw all black. 

[thelastwarriornun]

24 for avatrice?

Bang. Bang.

Beatrice’s ears ring with it in the absence of Ava’s shouting, or the shrill clicks and shrieks of the clicker. Beatrice’s breaths are a loud rasping thing, only  interrupted by the rhythmic wet tap, whether from the recently deceased clicker, or her own injuries Beatrice isn't sure. 

It comes back in fragments. Ava, patrol, the creek trails, all very routine. Nothing Beatrice would consider even a challenge. They’d found broken glass, and a fresh trail of blood leading them into a local minimart. Unusual certainly, but they were experienced with this. The building was old, rot having set in from all the moisture, another commonality. 

All very routine, until the floor had given way, wood shrieking and splitting as it collapsed, taking Ava with it. A gaping hole left in its stead. Beatrice remembers shouting, dropping onto her stomach with an outstretched hand as if she could undo the damage. She remembers sliding through the fractured wood, and dropping despite the height ignoring the ache in her knees. 

It wasn’t until Beatrice had landed, taking in the dark room around her, that she heard it. The telltale clicks and shrieks of a clicker. Beatrice's hand barely finds her holster before it’s there just two feet from Ava, Ava who’s groans come with tightly closed eyes, still reeling from the world falling out from under her.

It was too close. Too close to take a shot without putting Ava at risk. Too close to do anything except shield Ava from the fevered snap of jaws. It was an easy choice to make. It was the only choice. It doesn’t make it any less painful, Beatrice throwing herself into the shambling form, as teeth tear and rip through her shoulder, taking flesh and fabric indiscriminately.  Well this will be much harder to cover up with a chemical burn. 

Beatrice somehow manages to find her pistol, pressing the barrel against the clicker's head. Well head was probably overly generous, whatever once resembled a skull had given way now to the fungus blooming into something bright orange and ovular shaped. Beatrice fires twice, two shots in quick succession that spray blood and flecks of fungus against the ceiling. They fall together, and the clicker makes for a terrible cushion, smelling of rot, and full of varying lumps, manifestations of the infection. 

So Beatrice finds herself rolling off the infected, a groan on her lips as her back collides with cold tile, ears ringing. “Fuck.” It felt like an appropriate time for cursing.

“Beatrice.” Ava’s voice is faint, confused, likely still regaining her senses.  

Beatrice finds that pushing herself upright is a losing game, her right hand useless between the painful ache in her muscles, and the slick sticky puddle of blood now coating the tile. Right then, laying will have to do.  

“Beatrice!” More urgent now, and hands are on her. They’re gentle, as they pull Beatrice up, propping her against a nearby wall as Ava tries to fix something that can’t be mended. “This isn’t– it can't be– it’s from falling right? It didn’t bite you?” 

Beatrice laughs, a wet sound, ignoring the waves of pain that echo from her shoulder. Even she can see the distinct rows of teeth now memorialized in the cut of her shoulder. “Ava listen to me.” 

“Shut the fuck up Beatrice. Just give me a second to think.” Ava tears her flannel open, buttons scattering across the floor as Ava turns it into a bandage.

“That was one of my favorites.” Beatrice’s complaint is quiet, but Ava scowls all the same, tying the fabric in a tight knot against the open flesh, as Beatrice grits her teeth. 

“Now you want to be funny. You’ve barely said a word to me this entire patrol. But now you can’t seem to shut up.” Ava’s tone is harsh but her hands are gentle as they grip onto the front of Beatrice’s t-shirt. “That should slow the bleeding. Maybe I can buy us some time. They won’t come looking for a few hours–” 

“Ava stop.” Beatrice manages to catch Ava’s hands, hates the way they threaten to slip away between her own red stained fingers. Still Beatrice holds fast, and really this would be so much easier if the edges of her vision would stop blurring. “I have to tell you something, and I need you to promise me you won’t speak until I’ve finished.” 

“Beatrice there isn’t time.” Ava protests, and Beatrice can see it’s a losing battle, understands it really. Even now Beatrice finds herself caught between this moment, and a dream, a time when Beatrice’s curses were interrupted with inappropriate laughter, and the rising swell of grief. We’ll lose our minds together. 

It was so many years ago, and yet here Beatrice was. Once again watching love turn someone to insanity. Except this time Beatrice can stop it, can quell the rising tide, be the stormbreak she couldn’t before. 

Beatrice’s good hand slides along the curve of Ava’s arm, finding its way to the knape of her neck. It catches there, fingers tangling in the hairs that have escaped Ava’s ponytail. It seems silly now, their fight earlier, thinly veiled jealousy rearing its ugly head in both of them, Ava jealous over a girl Beatrice hadn’t spoken to in weeks. Beatrice, already steeling herself for the next time Ava makes up with Michael. They’ve been doing this dance for years, too afraid to speak plainly lest it ruin this. 

“Bea.” It escapes in a sob, Ava’s breath warm against Beatrice’s cheek. 

Fingers press against the knape of Ava’s neck, and Beatrice closes her eyes, unwilling to see the rejection she might find, or even worse, a reflection of herself all those years ago. Ava’s lips are soft, gentle, as if Ava’s worried she might break her. But Beatrice has spent years damming her own want and desire, and the soft press of Ava’s lips is enough to send the whole of it crashing down. Beatrice’s fingers are no longer gentle, as she surges forward, as much as the press of Ava’s body will allow, nipping at Ava’s bottom lip. 

Beatrice swallows a gasp against her lips, as Ava’s palms press flat against her chest, as if torn between returning the kiss, or pushing her away. Beatrice retreats, opening her eyes, expecting to find rejection. Instead Ava is afire, eyes wide, stuck somewhere between desire and grief, the two twisting together until Beatrice can hardly read the difference. Beatrice doesn’t make it far, only softens the press of her fingers against Ava’s neck when the tension of indecision seems to snap, and it’s Ava this time who closes the gap, molding their lips together. 

Beatrice's head bumps painfully against the wall, but she’d do it a hundred more times to keep Ava’s lips against her own. Ava’s hands cup along each side of her face, thumbs brushing along her jaw. And fuck immunity, fuck dying, because Beatrice is sure that there’s nothing she wants more than to fade into oblivion like this, with the press of Ava’s lips against her own, and the thud of her own heartbeat filling her ears. 

Ava’s hand slips down along her neck, and Beatrice hisses from between clenched teeth at the sharp wave of pain that rolls through her. But Beatrice doesn’t want to lose this, the starstruck look in Ava’s eyes, or the clench of her hands in Beatrice’s tattered shirt. So Beatrice smirks,” if I’d have known that would shut you up I would’ve tried that years ago.” 

“You should’ve.” Ava doesn't miss a beat. 

“Who’s being funny now?” Beatrice pauses sucking in a breath. The weight of years of secrecy, of hiding was a tough vow to break. Especially when so many people had paid the cost to keep it so. 

“I don’t want you to die.” Ava’s voice is soft, tears glistening even in the dim light of the basement, and Beatrice hears it again, an echo of the past, I cannot watch you die. We’ll go together then. 

“I’m not going to turn Ava.” Beatrice flips her arm displaying the fully healed tattoo on her arm, biting back a laugh when Ava scowls. 

“Really? You want to show off your stupid tattoo now?” 

“Not the tattoo, the burn. I’m immune, Ava.” It falls flat, and Beatrice presses a hand to Ava’s cheek forcing her to look at her before she can withdraw much. “I’m serious Ava. The only people who know are Mary, Shannon, and Suzanne. I was bit back in the QZ, that’s how I met Shannon and Mary. It was a long time ago, they were worried how people might react so that’s how I got the chemical burn. I’m going to be fine.” 

It’s not much, a flicker of something, hope, in the softening lines of Ava’s face. “Swear to me.” 

Beatrice doesn’t look away, simply brushes her thumb across the remaining trail of moisture along Ava’s cheek. “I swear. Assuming we make it out of this, I’ll be fine.” 

“Okay then.” Ava glances around, frowning slightly as she straightens up, as if just now recognizing the gravity of the situation. Ava extends an arm to Beatrice, who takes it with a grimace allowing herself to be pulled upright. “Don’t think bleeding out will stop you from having to talk about that kiss.” 

Beatrice laughs, ignoring the way the world seems to tilt beneath her as they look for an exit. Because of course Ava would take this in stride, and god Beatrice would do it again, throw herself into the jaws of a monster if it meant spending just another day with her. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

[genesisgijinka]

Do you have any tips for drawing backgrounds? Yours always look so nice

aww thank you! As for tips...

Tip #1:

Find references. I sketched the cover for chapter 4 three different times, because the first two didn't evoke the majesty of the Prism Tower in the way I wanted it to. And then I saw this

I think you can see how this translated into the cover

Tip #2:

Do studies. Be it from photos (your own or from a royalty free website like pixabay, but watch out for AI garbage bc the perspective is usually wrong) or from real life. It's not cheating, it's encouraged, and it's industry standard. Idc if you have photographic memory, get something from real life in front of your eyeballs and draw it. Try and keep your reference close to your drawing so that it's easier for your eyes to flick back and forth between the two. This is how you can train your eyes to really see what's going on in an image. Compare angles, shapes, sizes, and distances.

I use clip studio paint for Genesis, which has perspective rulers and they're super handy for speeding up the process (first image) and again, is not cheating. It's a tool to use in your arsenal. A little tricky to use, but once you get it down, it's fantastic. I also really recommend using other mediums, like a sketchbook and a sharpie (2nd image) or dinking around in Paint (3rd image). Limiting yourself in challenging ways is a great way to grow fast. Experimenting like this is also great for finding a style or technique that you click with

Tip #3:

Be aware of the cone of vision. This is a technical skill, but it's one of those things that you don't necessarily have to draw out every single time (tho I'd recommend doing it at least once to burn it into your memory better). If your drawing is looking wonky, the cone of vision being breached is a likely culprit. I'll link a video to someone who can explain how to do it better than I can.

Tip #4:

Learn how to draw things the same size in perspective. This is probably the thing I use the most. For example;

You have a tiled floor in a room. The lines going to the vanishing point are easy to do.

But how do you do the horizontal ones going across the floor?

Step 1: draw two horizontal lines, and put an X in one of them, going from corner to corner

Step 2: Going from the center of the X, trace a line back to the vanishing point

Step 3: from one corner, draw a line that goes through where that center line hits the tile edge

Step 4: at the end of this new line is where the next tile will start

Step 5: Rinse and repeat as needed

Ta-da! You now have tiles that are all the same size

This also works for vertical things like windows or telephone poles

One of the most useful applications I've found this trick for is making sure that everything is the right size. Sticking a person in a drawing is an instantly recognizable way to show scale

Whilst sketching the cover for ch 4, I'd accidentally made the doors way too small in the buildings in the back, so I slapped some people down to make sure they were the right height (This is in 3-point perspective, so the trick still works, regardless of if it's 1-, 2-, or 3-pt perspective owo b )

[danafeelingsick]

Novemetober 2023

@monthofsick

Prompt list | Masterlist | AO3 collection

Day 2: Can't stop puking

Word count: 1, 4k~

CONTENT WARNINGS: descriptions of vomiting, mentions of anxiety, food, can be read as platonic or romantic.

Anon asked:

Would you be willing to do Furina with the prompt can’t hold anything down, if not it’s completely fine. Feel free to ignore this message. Sincerely, an anon who loves your blog and hopes you have a great 2024.

A/N: hey there anon, and happy new year! i ended up confusing the ‘can't stop puking' prompt with the ‘can't keep anything down’ one, so yours is listed as day 2. i found them a little similar, but tried alluding to both. i hope you like it! i couldn't help it and started a part two with more of neuvilette, so i might finish it once my mind's a little clearer.

Furina’s eyes fluttered open to the white tiles of her bathroom floor, twisting spiraling into some disorienting shape that made her head spin. Swallowing thickly, she closed them again, feeling her throat scratch as if she had eaten broken glass, a metallic taste lingering in the root of her tongue. She still felt nauseous.

A shuddering sigh escaped her dry lips, broken by a wet hiccup that had her whimpering softly. Her stomach lurched under the arms she had wrapped tightly around it, a burning ache spreading across her abdomen. The last thing she remembered was waking up to that same sensation, in the middle of night, her stubborn dinner trying to claw its way up.

Afraid she would be sick in her own bed, she wrapped a soft blanket around her shoulders and crawled her way to the bathroom. Kneeling on the cold hard floor, she had tried to ride out the waves of nausea, curling herself into a shivering ball.

That did nothing to stop it from happening, and the poor woman vomited miserably, tears running down her cheeks, her chest squeezing with every heave. She was alone, unable to even summon one of her companions to talk to.

She couldn’t tell for how long she had been asleep, or even when she had, but by then it had already become morning. The sun peered through one of the high windows of her apartment, mixed with harsh fluorescent light. Her situation hadn't improved.

As Furina propped herself over the ceramic bowl, she wondered if there was even anything else left in her. The plate of macaroni she forced down seemed to still be making its course, there was no helping it. She knew she was going to vomit again, the feeling was a distinct one, like her stomach had plummeted to her feet, her throat tightening.

She didn't try to fight it, letting herself gag softly, the sound morphing into a garbled retch as her abdomen suddenly sunk. Hot acidic bile gurgled up her throat and flooded her tongue, making her eyes water.

“Oh, god… Hurrlleeruhhk”, she gasped, spitting out the sirupy trickle into the toilet, staining the clear water a sickly yellow.

It tasted strongly of cheese and fermentation, making her regret the sauce she had made to accompany the pasta. She could feel the clumps of dough nearly clogging her throat as it all came up, splattering heavily into the water.

Her body ached from sleeping in such an awful place, making the dry heaving nearly excruciating, though she couldn't stop herself. Furina managed to spew another thick gush of undigested macaroni before she laid her head down, trying to breath through the unwavering nausea.

The contents of the toilet looked almost like a clumpy pale yellow soup, with visible chunks of once curved macaroni, not a single one had maintained its shape. Trying not to gag again, she reached out and flushed, wincing at the sound of swirling water.

Furina closed her eyes and groaned, shedding the tears pooled in her waterline. Falling asleep there wasn't an option she would even entertain, and no matter how weak she felt, she knew she needed to get up.

After a couple moments of breathing heavily, trying to ground herself, she rose to her feet, her legs trembling, her arms wrapped tightly around her stomach. The sound of a faucet distracted her as she avoided her reflection in the tall mirror, busying herself with rinsing her mouth and washing her face. While refreshing, she couldn't put down the feeling that it would take a lot more than that for her to feel okay again.

Just as Furina raised her eyes from the sink she heard a noise she didn't quite expect and froze: someone was knocking on her front door. She had no idea who it could be at that time, but she wasn't in the best shape for it.

“H-Hold on!”, she groaned as they knocked again, unsurprised at how weak her voice sounded. She was lightheaded as she reached the door, standing close to it as she talked to whoever it was on the other side: “Who is it? Look, I’m super busy right now.”

“Ah, my apologies”, a familiar voice responded, carrying a tone of lament in it. Furina felt as if the carpet had been pulled from under her, not believing it at first. It continued: “I suppose I can return at a later time.”

There was no mistaking it, she had known that voice for the last 500 years of her life. She hurriedly tried to unlock the door, her unsteady fingers struggling with the handle.

“No, no! Wait”, she pleaded, opening the door only to find him standing there, a tall man with silvery white hair, that same elegant suit she always saw him wear. “Monsieur Neuvillette…?”

The man’s cordial face turned to one of surprise as he saw her, his purplish eyes downcast at her, watching her tremble like a leaf in the wind. The woman didn't look quite like herself, her complexion was sickly pale and her eyes red, as if she had spent the night crying.

“Ah, Lady Furina. Sorry to barge in and disrupt you” Neuvillette stalled for a moment, before he continued, putting on his usual stilted tone.

“Just what are you doing here?”, she asked, not even registering what he had said. Her chest grew heavy with desperation, scowling in an attempt to hold her tears. “Why… now?”

Neuvillette seemed to grow uncomfortable, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, his hands hidden behind his back.

“Well”, he sighed quietly, trying to sustain her gaze. “I’ve heard you hadn't left your home in a few days, so I… was worried”, he admitted, sounding almost ashamed, somehow. Furina had to admit, in the centuries they had known each other, she hadn’t learned to read him at all.

The woman shook her head, still trying to make sense of what he was saying. If she didn't appear out her door for more than two or three days, the news would reach the Iudex himself? So much for freedom, she thought with annoyance.

“I don't get it… why are you here? Why didn't you send someone else, or, or”, she blurted, her voice becoming stained as her throat tightened, her vision blurring. “Don't you have anything more important to do!?”

“I had some time and decided to pay you a visit. I apologize if I came at a bad time”, he responded simply, cocking his head at her abrasive attitude. As if trying to repair the awkward silence that hung between the two, he brought out a few plastic bags from behind his back. ”Here, I thought you could use extra supplies. Take it as a… late house warming gift, I suppose”, he added.

Furina glanced at the bags, catching a glimpse of several wrapped goods, including a large slice of cake inside a plastic casing. She swallowed, she hadn't had that in months, but just thinking of the taste, of how much she ate of it in her days as acting archon. Her hand flew to her mouth, covering it as an airy hiccup escaped her

“I-I don't want it —”, she choked out, her stomach dropping.

Before Neuvilette could even decipher what she had said, the woman spun on her heels, ran a few steps into her living room, and dropped to her knees.

“Lady Furina!” Neuvillette followed after her, throwing all learned manners aside as he barged into her home uninvited, leaving the bags on the floor.

He couldn't tell what was wrong with her, or rather, he couldn't comprehend why a human would have such a reaction, then he saw it. Her small frame winced violently as a loud strangled noise left, her frail back heaving and arms trembling, struggling to hold her up. He knew she needed his company, though he couldn't decide if she wanted it.

The man knelt by her side, just as something wet splattered on the floor in front of her, forming a viscous puddle. He tried not to look at it and held her by the shoulders before she gave out, one hand going to her forehead. Heat nearly rolled off her like water poured over a campfire. It was a first for him, feeling it through the fabric of his gloves, the combination of cold and unusual warmth, he knew what that meant.

“You are sick…”, he told her, his voice still airy from the shock.

Furina responded with a dry heave, the sound guttural for her once melodic voice, he couldn't help but wince along with her, his eyes briefly closing as he expected another sounding splatter. When it didn't come, he watched her gasp desperately, gagging emptily over the puddle in front of her.

“For how long have you been dealing with this alone?“, he asked.

Furina bit her lip, no longer able to hold in her tears.