#but the pattern recognition says yes

[staticymaticyyourlifeisatravesty]

Cursed realization

Emperor of Mankind looks like Tarzan

I have no idea what to do with this information

send help

[asurrogateblog]

funny how characters in media say "I know I know" way more often than I ever noticed before

[starheirxero]

OH!!!!! THAT'S THE JUNKYARD FROM LIFE IS STRANGE. JACK'S IN A LIFE IS STRANGE MAP!!!!!!!!

[cobalt-the-noodle]

cow tools and Pattern recognition

so. I like old newspaper cartoons such as Calvin and Hobbes, or, for today’s rant, The Far Side. But aside from reading them, I also enjoy reading ABOUT them.

now, many already know of the Cow Tools comic, but if you don’t, here it is

Now, this comic, for those who don’t know, once caused mass confusion and panic due to one little detail. One of the Cow Tools happened to resemble a handsaw. This led to thousands of people across the US during the comic’s original printing to decide that this means all the other objects were supposed to be other human tools[ as built by cows].

now, unfortunately, this is not the case. The joke was that if cows made tools, this is what they’d look like.

but the fact so many came to this conclusion and spent months [yes, MONTHS] trying to piece together what the cow tools were “supposed” to be says a lot about the human mind’s pattern recognition and stubbornness. Once we decide a conclusion is the “correct” one, we stubbornly try to prove it with any evidence we can piece together, usually utilizing pattern recognition alone if that’s the only evidence we can find.

now there’s two things this reminds me of, and one is FNAF lore, so I’m not touching that with a forty-three and 7/8ths foot pole.

the other, of course, is pseudoscience and pseudoarchaeology. How many of these theories rely on pattern recognition, like terrace farms actually being staircases for giants, or mountains being pyramids or treestumps?

Cow Tools provides a great microcosm of this phenomenon. The only difference is that Earth doesn’t have a cartoonist in charge who can explain that the joke isn’t that deep.

in conclusion, sometimes a cow tool is just a cow tool, no matter what your eyes are telling you.

[tac-the-unseen]

I love all ur blog sm!! Can I ask abt something with the slashers (specially Thomas <3) with an foreigner!reader that don't quit speak english very well and normally forget words?

(Sorry if something is spelled wrong, English is not my native language lmao)

Absolutely, I can!

And because the request didn't specify, this fic will strictly be about speaking a foreign language.

Sorry if this is inaccurate! I'm a native English speaker and don't know many who aren't. Sorry in advance!!

Slashers x Foreigner!Reader

Micheal Myers:

•This man will act like he doesn't care but in reality he's so intrigued. (It might be why you're still alive) 

•He’ll spend his time watching you practice your pronunciation and recognition patterns, like it's a movie.

•Is he a bit mean about it? Yes. Will he laugh? Probably.

•If you find yourself not knowing what certain words are and stumble around until you find the right word, You'd be surprised at how patient he is. 

•If you are very new to the English language he'll secretly get you flash cards and stash them into a place he knows you'll find them

•Despite everything, if you ask him for help, he will help. He might be mute but he can write and use TV to aid you.

Billy loomis & Stu macher:

•Stu is already romanticizing your language, but instead of using the actual name of your language, he calls it “Talking pretty to me”

•Billy asks if you want any text books or study equipment to help you on your English speaking journey 

•Both boys are a surprising help! Stuttering trying to articulate what you mean? They've already jumped in to, A) help save you some of the embarrassment, and B) give you time to think about what you're trying to say. 

•Someone making fun of you? They're either dead or a social outcast by the end of the week. 

•Are you struggling to remember a certain word? These boys are willing play charades until you figure it out. And they won't drop it either, Stu says ‘It’s bad to give up when you've already come so far.’ 

•Over all it's not so bad (Stu 100,000,000% uses Google translate to figure out how to say ‘i love you’ in your native language) 

Thomas Hewitt:

•When both of you met, he had never met an actual foreigner before.

•He knew people travel around and occasionally some valley girl would end up in their small town, But someone from a whole different part of the world?

•His interest in you spiked the moment he heard your accent 

•Thomas has so many questions but doesn't know how to ask you

•With him being mute and your struggles with English, It's not the easiest relationship. In the end both of you just end up pointing at things and making noises to get your point across. 

•Absolutely loves to listen to you speak in your native language, Even if he'll never understand it. 

•When he's first trying to court you, he leaves you slightly damaged flowers (he struggled to pick them) to communicate his affection. 

•even with a language barrier, he's gonna love you like no one ever could 

Bubba Sawyer:

•He had no idea people outside of America existed 

•When You fell into the palm of Texas and his brothers found you failing to remember the word for your favorite snack, They knew you would be an easy target.

•When they kidnapped you and brought you to the basement so Bubba could chop you up, he was fascinated by the way you desperately tried to beg him not to kill you. 

•It ended in a huge fight in the family, But he got everyone to let you live a bit longer.

•Sits Criss Cross applesauce while you speak for your life. You could babble about anything and he would listen intently. 

•He pulls out his alphabet soup machine and spends hours typing with you. (You help him finally get past the clown level)

Bo Sinclair:

•absolute meanie, stinky poopy head about it >:(

•will mock your stutters and say stuff like “Oh come ON! The word is Cat! C. A. T. CAT! What's so hard about that?” 

•If you speak your native language around him, He thinks you're insulting him or intentionally hiding something. 

•��If you could say it to my face in your language you can say it to my face again in mine!”

•The same sentiment is not shared when it involves bedroom fun

•Will eventually apologize, But that's going to take a while 

Vincent Sinclair:

•As another non-speaking fellow he takes his time to make sure you two can understand each other 

•He’ll mostly use body language and and little doodles to get his point across 

•Stuttering over a word? He doesn't care, he'll let you work it out without any judgment!

•Want his help? He has several books, Vincent will just pull out a book he knows as the word in it, flipped to the page, and point at the word. 

•Love listening to you talk, In English or not. He'll happily let you yap his ear off. 

Lester Sinclair:

•Poor boy was lovestruck when he first heard you talk!

•Full on heart eyes while you explain where you're from and how you ended up here 

•If you end up fumbling on a word he'll start shouting out potential words for what you're trying to say. 

•Example: “and then I had too…uh…um..” “Run? Pee? Eat? Were you hungry? Are you hungry right now?” 

•So helpful, I know

•But the guy is already googling restaurants based off your native cuisine. He's got the date set up. 

•”It's no biggie, I'm a native English speaker and I still can't get it right!” 

Billy Lenz:

•Billy 100% understands the struggle of finding the right word to say 

•He can't stop stuttering himself, so when you start stuttering you kind of reinforce us in his brain that you were meant to be together 

•He feels like he can bond with you over it, and even feel safer around you knowing that you also mess up 

•the thing is if you start stuttering, he'll start stuttering. If you can't get it by God he will.

•”W-we can't bo-oth be wrong.” 

Brahms Heelshire:

•this man will 100% try to learn your language as soon as he finds out you're a foreigner

•That man has a huge library, there's bound to be at least one book written in your mother tongue 

•He spends a lot of time practicing your native language so he can speak to you more comfortably

•You already know he has children's learning books he'll pull out if you ask. 

•Can't find the word you're looking for? He's already 10 books deep, he'll find it for you. 

•Brahms is a well-educated man and he intends to use His years of learning to help 

•If you want to take classes to better your English skills he will 100,000% throw money your way to do so.

Hannibal Lecter:

•Now Hannibal really understands 

•He's a Lithuanian who learned English as a 10 year old

•He didn't struggle as much, But for the first couple of months you bet he was stumbling. 

•If you're struggling with a word, He has a process of teaching you so you don't forget it again. 

1) Identify what you're trying to say 

2)Slowly begin to sound out the word 

3)Have you recite the word a few times 

4)He'll either teaches you a little tune to remember or he'll do something so you remember the moment 

•Does it feel a little condescending? Yes. But it works 

•He's also willing to pour an ungodly amount of money into your English education if you ask 

•He'll even teach you himself in his spare time

Will Graham:

•Doesn't really know what to do, He's a bit awkward about it 

•He'll also identify the word and repeat it a few times so you can get a better handle on it.

•He thinks it's a bit funny and a bit cute when you stutter or mispronounce something 

•He will gently correct you and move on like nothing happened 

The Lost Boys:

•holy fucking shit this is a cluster fuck, let's do this one by one 

•David

-David, having been around a while, has picked up a couple languages.

-If he does know the language you're speaking he'll speak it back to you and guide you into English better than the other boys could 

-If not, he'll just read your mind and tell you what you're trying to say. It's by far the easiest way to articulate what you mean. 

•Dwayne

-Dwayne being just slightly younger than David has also picked up a couple languages 

-It's really the same if he does know your language But with a little more verbal teaching 

-If he doesn't he'll patiently wait until you figure out what you're trying to say. 

•Paul

-as soon as you start to stutter over yourself Paul starts shotgunning words off 

-some slightly related to the situation and others wildly out there 

-”Drink? Food? Ocean? Horse? The unforgiving eyes of God and His kingdom???” 

-he'll do this to confuse you and have a nice laugh 

•Marko

-Marko speaks English and Italian, so if your language isn't one of those two you're kind of shit out of luck 

-”Come on babe, you'll get it” 

-He finds it a bit funny but still tries to help in little ways 

Thanks for reading <3

Sorry if this seems hastily written together, I haven't had the request in a while so I kind of jumped at the opportunity.

[studioeisa]

we both 🐚 joshua x reader.

you're stuck in a car with a beautiful boy, your glorious history, and eight hours of road. what else is there to do but talk about the deepest of truths?

🐚 pairing. exes!joshua x reader. 🐚 word count. 12.9k. 🐚 genres. romance, friendship, light angst. 🐚 includes. mentions of food, death; cussing/swearing. alternate universe: non-idol; joshua is a marine biologist. bad-at-being-exes/exes to ???, breakup dynamics, road trip shenanigans, dialogue heavy. loosely based on a musical (title lifted from there, too), synopsis references richard siken's you are jeff. one scene parallels tlfy's goodbye until tomorrow / i could never rescue you. 🐚 footnotes. when i joined caratblr, @chugging-antiseptic-dye was the very first friend i made. i would not have it any other way. a: i will adore you for as long as there are waves pulling to the shore. shubho jonmodin ‹𝟹 much gratitude to my beta readers: @heartepub for her eye, @chanranghaeys for her wit, and @lovetaroandtaemin for her kindness. my masterlist 🎵 when i am with you (i am real)

You find him in his element—knee-deep in saltwater, sleeves rolled up, clipboard tucked precariously under one arm as he gestures toward a tank brimming with juvenile stingrays. 

You wait behind the glass where the public is meant to stay. Leaning against the railing, you watch him without meaning to. It used to be that this was your favorite version of him: ocean-brained and utterly focused, calm in a way most people aren’t allowed to be in their everyday lives. It still is, you suppose, though now there’s a knot of something bittersweet twisted through the feeling.

It’s been five months since the breakup.

Two months since you moved most of your things out of the apartment. And four days since you both agreed that, yes, you still needed to drive down the coast and meet with the landlady to finalize the lease termination in person. 

She doesn’t do email. She barely does phones. You’d considered cancelling, asking a friend to go in your place, but the truth is: the car is his, the rent is in both your names, and the landlady likes you best.

So here you are.

Joshua’s hair is darker than you remember, still damp from a rinse or maybe the ocean itself, curling slightly where it clings to his neck. His voice carries over the burble of pumps and the low hum of fluorescent lights. 

He’s explaining something to a group of interns. Something about migration patterns and how the moon affects spawning cycles. You can’t hear the details, but you recognize the rhythm of his teaching voice, the way he softens facts with metaphors, how his hands move like punctuation marks.

When Joshua finally steps out from behind the staff door, he looks surprised to see you already waiting. He does that thing. That thing, with his eyes and brows—an upward arch, a spark of recognition beneath the doe-like brown. 

“Hey,” he says, wiping his hands on his khaki pants. He doesn't hug you, doesn't reach out, but his smile is familiar. A little tired. A little sad. “You came early.”

You shrug. “Was in the area. Figured I'd save you a text.”

He nods, like that makes sense, like there’s no undercurrent tugging beneath the ease of it. Like this isn’t the first time you're seeing each other outside of grocery store collisions or terse text threads about forwarding addresses.

“Car’s in the back lot,” he says. “I just need to clean up. Shouldn’t take more than a minute.” 

You follow him down a hallway that smells like seawater and bleach. He walks ahead, and you let your eyes fall to the way his shoulders move, broad and careful. You still know the shape of them beneath your palms. You wonder if he still sleeps on the right side of the bed, if he still keeps his entire body under the covers because he’s scared something will pull at his feet while he’s asleep. 

It’s going to be a long drive.

You both know it. Neither of you says a word about it.

Joshua’s office is tucked just off the wet lab, behind a sliding glass door smudged with fingerprints and the unmistakable trail of saltwater. You slip inside while he ducks into the locker room to change, the lingering scent of ocean and coffee grounds curling in the air. 

It’s a cluttered little box of a room—papers stacked like tiny towers, annotated marine maps tacked to the walls, a few photos of past dives and coral surveys pinned up like trophies. There’s even a Polaroid of the two of you on the shelf beside his monitor, buried halfway behind a half-drunk bottle of electrolyte water.

You don’t move it. But you don’t look away either.

“Hey, stranger.”

You blink, turning toward the voice. Seokmin’s already grinning at you, his damp curls flattened beneath a backward cap, a towel slung around his neck. Behind him, Jeonghan lounges in the doorway with all the idle elegance of someone who’s been doing absolutely nothing for the past hour.

“Hi, Seokmin,” you say, mustering a polite smile. “Jeonghan.”

Seokmin bounds in with too much energy for someone who’s allegedly been tagging sea turtles since 4 a.m. “Wow, it’s been a while. You look great. Seriously. Like, breakup glow-up levels of great.”

You blink, startled. “Thanks?”

Jeonghan’s mouth twitches like he’s holding back a laugh. He doesn’t say anything right away—just folds his arms across his chest and tilts his head, like he’s studying you. You don’t like it. That look. Like he knows something you don’t. Like maybe he knows everything.

You’d been friends with them once, although it was probably more out of association than anything. They were Joshua’s co-workers. You were the girl he brought to company events; the wallpaper of his phone once you got past the lockscreen of Dolphy the dolphin leaping into the air. 

When you and Joshua broke up, you figured you might never see the duo again. Until now, that is. 

“Are you two really going to drive all the way to the coast together?” Jeonghan asks, voice light. “Sounds... cozy.”

“We’re saving gas,” you say. Too quickly. “And rent affairs don’t settle themselves.”

Seokmin nods far too earnestly, eyes wide with some strange sympathy. “Right, totally. Very environmentally conscious. That’s great,” he babbles. “And practical. And—wow, honestly, I just think it’s so mature of you both.”

You glance at Jeonghan, but he’s looking at you like he can read between every word. Your mouth goes dry.

“It’s not like we’re sharing a hotel room or anything,” you add, heat prickling your neck.

“Of course,” Jeonghan says, a little too smoothly. “Of course not.”

You open your mouth to say something—what exactly, you’re not sure—but the locker room door swings open, and Joshua steps out, shrugging a hoodie over his shoulders. His hair is still damp from the shower, and he’s wearing that faded t-shirt you used to sleep in on cold nights. It’s the smallest detail, and it punches the air from your lungs.

“Guys,” he calls, eyes flicking to his friends, then to you. “Are you hounding her already?”

“Never,” Seokmin says, scandalized.

“We were just saying she looks great,” Jeonghan adds innocently. “Glowing, really.”

Joshua rolls his eyes and crosses the room, not bothering to hide the way his hand brushes the small of your back as he stops beside you. It’s not quite possessive, not quite apologetic. It’s almost like a habit, even, and that somehow makes it infinitely worse. 

“You ready?” he asks.

You nod, stepping away from Seokmin’s saccharine smile and Jeonghan’s knowing smirk. “Ready.”

Joshua gives his workmates one last look. “Try not to make it weird next time.”

“No promises,” Jeonghan calls.

You don’t look back. You can still feel their stares long after the office door swings shut behind you.

The walk to the parking lot isn’t awkward, not really, but it sits heavy on your shoulders like a coat you forgot you were wearing. Joshua doesn’t fill the silence with small talk the way he used to. You’re grateful and uneasy about that in equal measure.

When you reach the car, it’s like stepping into a memory. The same beat-up Hyundai with the faded blue paint and the bumper sticker that says, Protect Our Oceans— slightly peeling at the edges now, with the art faded. The salt air and the sun hasn’t been kind to it, but it runs fine. Always has. You remember that stupid sticker because you bought it at an aquarium gift shop on a whim, and Joshua had kissed you breathless when you slapped it onto his car without asking.

He unlocks the doors and, like always, walks around to open the passenger side for you.

You blink at him. “Still doing that, huh?”

Joshua glances up at you, a wry little smile playing on his lips. “Muscle memory.”

“Chivalry,” you correct, sliding into the seat. “Or remorse. One of those.”

He huffs a soft laugh and closes the door behind you.

Inside, the car smells the same—like lemon air freshener and something slightly sulfury. His dashboard is still cluttered with receipts and paper coffee cups. There’s a pair of sunglasses perched haphazardly on the dash. One of the little rubber sea creature figurines you used to collect is still wedged in the air vent.

You reach out and flick the tiny plastic octopus. “Wow. Can’t believe you still have this. I figured you’d Marie Kondo everything I left behind.”

Joshua settles into the driver’s seat, buckling in. “It didn’t spark rage, so I kept it.”

You snort. “I think you’re misusing the philosophy.”

The GPS clicks on, a familiar robotic voice announcing the route. Estimated time to destination: eight hours and seventeen minutes.

You glance at Joshua. “Still time to turn back. We can Venmo the landlady and call it a day.”

He shakes his head, pulling out of the lot. “You know she refuses to use the app,” he grumbles. “Thinks it’s a government tracking device.”

You lean back in your seat and sigh. “Perfect. Just what this trip needed: more analog bureaucracy.”

Joshua laughs again, softer this time. You both stare straight ahead, the road stretching long and wide before you. Somewhere in that space, the heaviness begins to lift.

You think the first hour will be easy.

Of course you do. You’ve done long drives before, with less than eight hours of fuel between you. And besides, this is Joshua. 

You’ve survived all sorts of terrain together—coastal roads with the windows down, long drives through the mountains while his hand rested on your thigh, that one disastrous trip to Jeju where it rained so hard he missed a turn and the GPS rerouted you onto a cliffside road you’re still convinced was cursed. That one ended in tears. And a kiss. And a long night spent in a guesthouse where the power went out twice.

But this is different.

Now, you’re in the passenger seat of the same car, the leather warmed by the late morning sun, and Joshua isn’t even humming. You keep your eyes on the road or your phone or the shifting landscape outside the window. Anywhere but on him.

He drives the way he always does—left hand on the wheel, right hand fiddling with the AUX cable when the Bluetooth fails (as it often does). You’d always liked that about him. That he never filled silence just for the sake of it, that he gave it space to stretch out, to become something sacred. 

Now, it just feels like distance.

“You okay?” he asks in an even voice.

You glance at him. The highway curves, and so does his mouth, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Yeah,” you lie. “You?”

He nods, then looks like he regrets it. “Yeah,” he echoes, but you know he’s lying, too. His nose scrunches up for a half-second. It only ever does that when he’s faking.

Another few minutes pass. The GPS chimes a reminder about your next turn in 112 kilometers. You both pretend like it’s the most interesting thing in the world.

You used to talk about everything in the car. Plans, dreams, where you’d want to settle down when Joshua got a more permanent assignment. You’d nap on the longer drives, and he’d let you sleep, stealing glances when he thought you wouldn’t catch him. 

Sometimes, he’d narrate the scenery just to hear you groan about how sentimental he was. There’d be music, sometimes arguments over the playlist. But even the fights were better than this new, tentative silence that makes your lungs feel tight.

You wish the GPS had a button for: Take me back to when it was easy.

“Want some music?” you ask finally, reaching for the console.

“Sure,” he says, and that’s all.

You put on a playlist and settle back, biting the inside of your cheek when the first few notes of a familiar song play. One he used to sing absentmindedly while driving. One that used to make you smile.

He doesn’t sing now.

The song ends. 

The road stretches on.

Joshua doesn’t say much for the next half hour, and neither do you.

You try not to count how many times you look towards him. You lose count anyway. The GPS announces that there are six hours and thirty-nine minutes left in the trip. That’s plenty of time, you think, for things to get worse.

When Joshua speaks again, it’s so civil that you contemplate getting off at the next stop and walking the rest of the way instead. “There’s a diner up ahead. You wanna stop for lunch?”

You know the place—he’s taken you there before. Vinyl booths, terrible coffee, and pancakes that somehow taste like grilled cheese. It had always been charming in a very Joshua kind of way.

But a sit-down meal feels intimate. Too intimate. Like pretending nothing ever ended. You don’t have the energy to put on a show, to act like a couple, or friends, or strangers who were forced to be there together for the sake of a meal. 

“Can we just get takeout?” you ask. “Eat in the car?”

Joshua glances at you, brows lifting. “You don’t wanna sit down? Stretch your legs?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not. Your neck does that thing when you’re annoyed.”

“It’s not annoyance. I just don’t think lunch should feel like a date.”

That lands a little too sharply. Joshua blinks at the road ahead, exhales slowly through his nose. “Wasn’t trying to make it one,” he murmurs, the edge of his petulance in his voice reminding you of days where you might’ve willed his upset away with a kiss to the tip of his nose.

Silence stretches between you, taut and cold. You rub your hands together in your lap.

“I just think,” you say more carefully, “eating in your car is a good compromise. Halfway point.”

Joshua doesn’t respond at first, but then his lips twitch. “Halfway point. Like everything else with us.”

You laugh despite yourself. “You make it sound poetic.”

“It kind of is.”

The tension eases just a little. Enough that when he pulls into the diner lot, you go in together, order your usuals with barely a glance at the menu. When the cashier asks if it’s for here or to-go, Joshua looks at you before answering.

“To-go, please,” he says, smiling faintly.

Back in the car, you pass him the paper bag and slide the drinks into the cupholders like you’ve done it a hundred times before. Maybe you have. He gives you your fries without asking, and you split the last onion ring exactly like you used to—right down the middle, no more, no less.

“We’re ridiculous,” you say through a mouthful of burger.

Joshua leans back in his seat, chewing. “Speak for yourself. I’m extremely dignified.”

“Right,” you say with an eye roll. “That’s why you ordered a chocolate milkshake with extra whipped cream.”

He lifts it like a trophy. “You’re just jealous.”

“Of diabetes?”

Joshua laughs, full and bright, and for a second, you forget that you’re not supposed to still be in love with him.

For a second, it feels like that chapter never ended.

Joshua wipes the last of his fries against the inside of his sauce carton before tossing it back into the paper bag, eyeing your half-eaten sandwich like he’s tempted to finish that, too. You don’t point it out. He’s always been the type to clean plates, especially yours, when you left food untouched for too long.

The silence feels less sharp than the last one, but not yet comfortable. It’s the kind that sits in the middle seat like an awkward chaperone.

He slurps down the rest of his milkshake, the straw giving an annoying little gurgle. Then, just as you’re debating how soon you can ask to queue up a podcast without it sounding like a lifeline, he speaks.

“We can’t spend the rest of the trip like this.”

You blink. “Like what?”

Joshua lifts his gaze to meet yours, pointed and unflinching. “Like we’re walking on eggshells. Like we didn’t share an apartment, a bed, a life for two years.”

He’s right, of course, but who were you if you weren’t arguing for the sake of it? “I’ve told you everything that’s happened to me since the breakup,” you shoot back. “If you want the weather report from last Tuesday, I can give that too.”

“I don’t want the weather report.” He levels you with a stare, then softens. “I want more than just a status update.”

You open your mouth, but before you can speak, he leans back with a little sigh and an even smaller smile. “Do you remember our first date?”

You do. 

Too well, in fact.

An indie cafe with too many hanging plants and not enough tables. You’d sat across from each other with your knees knocking and your drinks forgotten. He’d suggested the list, half-sincere, half as a joke. You had humored him because his eyes crinkled so sweetly when he grinned, and you liked how he said your name like a song he already knew the melody to.

“Pull it up,” he says now. “Let’s revisit it.”

Your mouth curls into a grimace. "Joshua—"

“Pull it up,” he repeats, firmer. He’s already gathering up your trash along with his, crumpling napkins and squashing cartons, as if taking away your excuses along with the waste.

“This is stupid,” you huff, not bothering to hide your exasperation. 

“Probably,” he shrugs, stepping out of the car. “But so are we.”

As the door shuts and he heads toward the garbage bin, you pick up your phone with reluctant fingers. It takes only a few taps to find it again. A New York Times article, a psychologist’s experiment, a curated path to intimacy in less than 40 questions.

The title glares up at you, both a threat and a promise. 

The 36 Questions to Fall in Love.

Joshua merges back onto the highway, one hand steady on the wheel, the other fiddling with the A/C knob until the air turns from too cold to just bearable. You hold your phone in your lap, glaring at the list he told you to pull up.

“You’re impossible,” you say flatly.

“Come on,” he grins, eyes now on the road. “It’s been four years. Think of it as a science experiment. Research question: Have we changed? Independent variables: us, circa year one.”

You exhale slowly, scrolling down to the first question. “Fine. But if I cry, I’m blaming you.”

“Looking forward to it.” 

You read: “Given the choice of anyone in the world, whom would you want as a dinner guest?”

He hums. “Still Adam Levine.”

“You said that last time.”

“Yeah, and I still want him to serenade me over dumplings. What about you?”

You pause. “I said Robin Williams.”

“You did.” He glances at you briefly. “You still would?”

Your voice softens. “Yeah. More than ever.”

Joshua nods, not saying more. The next question: “Would you like to be famous? In what way?”

“God, no,” he answers. “The idea of people knowing my grocery list terrifies me.”

“You said that exact sentence before.”

“Then I’m nothing if not consistent.”

You consider. “I think... maybe a little. Not movie-star famous, but like, niche-famous. Someone kids cite in their thesis papers.”

“I always said you’d be a terrifying cult classic.”

“And you’d be the first of my followers.” 

He just laughs.

You ask the next question. “Before making a telephone call, do you ever rehearse what you are going to say? Why?”

Glancing over at Joshua, you sound almost accusatory. “You said no.”

“Still true.”

“Still sociopathic,” you mutter. “I rehearse everything. Even pizza orders.”

“You did. And you still turn red when they ask if you want extra cheese.”

You try to glare, but he looks too pleased with himself. That’d been his role, way back when. Designated orderer, designated caller, designated voice at the counter saying We asked for no pickles. ‘We’, because he never threw you under the bus when it mattered—every time else was fair game.  

You read on. “What would constitute a 'perfect' day for you?”

Joshua’s voice mellows out. “That one I might change. Used to be pools, no tourists, good weather. Now... I think it’s waking up late, coffee with someone I like, doing nothing important.”

You stare out the window. “You said hiking and tide pools,” you recall, tone just a little too wistful. 

“Yeah. That was when I thought I had something to prove.”

“Mine’s the same. French toast. Blankets. A book.”

His smile is small. “Still easy to please.”

You persevere. “When did you last sing to yourself? To someone else?”

“I sang to the clownfish this morning. They’re judgmental bastards.”

“That counts. And to yourself?” 

He falters. A beat. Another. “I don’t remember,” he says, like singing was now something he could only give to others and not to himself. You try not to overthink it. He goes on to accuse you, “You used to sing in the shower. Loudly.”

“Still do. But I sang to my niece last week. She made me do six rounds of Baby Shark.” 

“A timeless classic.”

You grin despite yourself, heart ticking a little faster. You knew this would be strange. You didn’t expect it to feel so oddly comforting.

He breaks the quiet. “Told you it wouldn’t kill us.”

“We’re only five questions in,” you warn. “Plenty of time to implode.”

He just smiles, knuckles brushing the gearshift.

“Onward, then.”

Questions six and seven are easy. Your answers to those haven’t changed much. You would rather live to the age of 90 and retain the mind of a 30-year-old; Joshua’s secret hunch about how he might die would always be something about the water, knowing how he could never stay away from it. There’s a pang of something in your chest. This sinking feeling caught between disappointment and relief, over the fact that there were still some things that stayed the same. 

You stall a little at question eight.

“Name three things you and your partner appear to have in common.”

Your phone screen lights up with the prompt, and you roll it over in your palm like it might yield an easier answer if you look at it long enough. Next to you, Joshua keeps his eyes on the road, but his grip on the steering wheel slackens.

He must remember, too.

The first time you answered this question, you were strangers seated across from each other. A mutual friend had sworn you'd get along. There had been no pressure—just coffee and curiosity, laughter over things neither of you really understood yet.

“We both like documentaries,” you had said then, too quickly, a little flustered.

“We’re both good listeners,” he had added.

The third one had taken a while. You remember biting into your food, chewing slowly, the hum of the café’s playlist blending with the chatter around you.

“I think,” Joshua had said, after a beat, “we both really want to be understood.”

You remember the way your gaze had lifted then, meeting his across the table. You hadn’t said it, but you’d thought it: That’s not a guess. That’s a direct hit.

Now, four years later, a breakup and a road trip between you, the question lands differently.

“We both like silence,” you say eventually, to break it.

Joshua lets out a small huff of a laugh. “You used to say that was a bad thing.”

“It was. When we didn’t know what the silence meant.”

A nod from him. “But now?”

You glance sideways, catch the way his profile is lit by the late afternoon sun. “Now, I think we know.”

You don’t have to expound. He knows. You know. Silence is not your enemy, the same way you are not each other’s enemy. 

“We both overthink everything,” he adds next. “Especially what the other person is thinking.”

That makes you grin, despite yourself. You always thought of yourself to be a bit of a people pleaser, while Joshua just so happened to lack a proper brain-to-mouth filter. You tap your finger against the phone, as if tallying it up. “Documentaries still count?”

“You tell me.”

You think about the way you’d fall asleep to David Attenborough narrating sea creatures. How Joshua would shake his head, but stay up beside you anyway. The way your conversations would spiral into philosophical debates over conservation, ethics, humanity.

You had learned to love the things he loved, learned to love him by seeing the world through his eyes. And he had loved you back. Loved the intent, loved the work, loved the way you overstayed your welcome every single time. 

“Yeah,” you decide. “Guess so.”

Silence laps at the car again, but it’s softer now. Not a chasm, just space.

Then Joshua speaks again, voice low and steady.

“If it doesn’t count,” he says slowly, as if each word is a minefield to navigate. “We could just say we both still care for each other.” 

You don’t protest. You don’t need to.

You both go through the next four questions with twin wavering resolves. 

You ask, For what in your life do you feel most grateful?, and you do your best not to flinch when he squeezes your name between mentions of waterproof dry bags and mechanical pencils. 

When you read out If you could change anything about the way you were raised, what would it be?, you tell him about wishing you had better examples for love—but you don’t quip that maybe it would’ve saved your relationship. 

The two of you sidestep and navigate like your lives depend on it. Joshua’s tapping the steering wheel like he’s in rhythm with a song only he knows. A comfortable lapse hovers for the next few minutes as the miles disappear into the road behind you. You think you’re in the clear. That the minefield is behind you. 

Then, the GPS voice gently announces a turn. A new fork, a new direction.

The second set of questions. 

You scroll down the list, phone warm in your hand. “Thirteen,” you say. “If a crystal ball could tell you the truth about yourself, your life, the future, or anything else, what would you want to know?”

Joshua doesn’t answer right away.

You look towards him. He’s biting at the inside of his cheek, eyes still trained on the road. He exhales slowly, the sound more tired than thoughtful.

“If I made the right call,” he says. “About us.”

It twinges like a pinched nerve.

You wish you had something eloquent to say, some wry comment about him never trusting the scientific method, but all you manage is a short, “Oh.”

Oh, because the breakup is an unwelcome third guest chaperoning you in the car. Oh, because you had both told your friends it was mutual—but if you were to get technical about it, Joshua was the one who brought it up. Oh, because that would have been your answer to the question, too. 

Instead, you choose to say, “I think I’d want to know if I’ll ever feel like I’m doing enough.”

Joshua doesn’t say anything to that.

“Fourteen,” you try again. “Is there something that you’ve dreamed of doing for a long time? Why haven’t you done it?”

“You already know mine,” he says. “Marine biology, living near the coast, helping with coastal restoration programs. I did it.”

You nod, expecting the conversation to move on, but he doesn’t let it.

“What about you?”

“I don’t know,” you say hesitantly. “Same answer as before, I guess. I always thought I’d do something with my psychology degree. Make something that helps. You know. But money talks.”

Joshua snorts, but this isn’t like the small, amused sounds of earlier. No, this is preemptive of the Joshua you’d always loathed a little bit. The one who could be derisive, the one buried underneath the gentleman.

“You said the exact same thing two years ago,” he points out, and the tone of his voice grates. 

You bristle. “And your point is?”

“My point is,” he says, voice sharpening, “you keep talking like you’re stuck, but you’re the one who won’t move."

The air tightens between you. He takes one hand off the wheel, gesturing vaguely.

“I’m not judging. I just don’t get it. You said you wanted more.”

“And you wanted me to upend my entire life for an ideal,” you shoot back.

“That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what you meant.”

Your voice is louder than you intended. The words are more pointed than they needed to be. This is too familiar—this twisting spiral of disappointment and miscommunication, the way your arguments always started from a flicker and turned into a full blaze.

Joshua exhales. “I just want you to be happy. You used to talk about doing something meaningful with your life.”

“Well, maybe I changed my mind.”

He looks like he wants to challenge that—but just as he opens his mouth, the car jolts.

Hard.

Something thumps beneath you, loud and jarring. Your body lurches forward with the sudden stop, but before you can react, Joshua’s arm darts across your chest, steady and instinctive.

The car groans. You both freeze.

“What the hell,” Joshua breathes, flicking the hazards on as he pulls over.

You’re stunned, held in place by his outstretched arm. It’s only when he turns to look at you, concern overriding the tension in his expression, that you realize he’s still bracing you. 

“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice low and urgent. 

You nod, lips parted but unable to speak.

Because even now, after all this time, his first instinct is to protect you. 

Five hours away. That’s how far you are from your destination. 

It’s nothing major. Something about the floor of the car, something that will need repairs so Joshua can drive safe. But the nearest repair shop isn’t going to open until seven in the morning, and Joshua bitches about sleeping in the car for 15 minutes before you finally agree to a motel. Which, of course, has only one room available. 

The door creaks open with a wheeze of rusted hinges, revealing a room that looks like it time-traveled straight out of a 70s crime thriller. You both pause on the threshold, blinking at the single bed in the center of the room. The comforter is a paisley fever dream, the walls painted a suspicious shade of beige. A ceiling fan wobbles threateningly above.

And then, as if on cue, you both burst out laughing.

You lean against the chipped door frame, wiping tears from your eyes. “Jeonghan cursed us,” you proclaim. “I knew it. He saw us in that hallway and whispered some old-timey hex under his breath. Probably used sea salt and seashells.”

Joshua drops his bags with a thud and grins, running a hand through his hair. “You’re giving him way too much credit. If anything, this is God. This is Him writing fan fiction. You know—slow burn, exes to lovers, only-one-bed trope.”

“Ah, right,” you say, nodding solemnly. “God’s on AO3 now. What’s next? Coffee shop AU?”

“Don’t tempt Him,” Joshua laughs, flopping onto the bed with a bounce that makes the entire frame groan. “He might give us matching aprons tomorrow morning.”

You look around and spot the world's saddest mini fridge and a TV that probably doesn’t work. There’s a vending machine outside humming like a chainsaw. The neon sign of the motel glows red through the thin curtains, bathing the room in a faint hellish light.

If this was hell, it wasn’t all that bad. 

“Well,” you say, toeing off your shoes and sitting at the edge of the bed. “At least it’s clean.”

“That is a bold assumption,” Joshua mutters, inspecting a mysterious stain on the carpet.

Another beat passes. You're both still chuckling softly, disbelief softening into something warmer. Something easier.

You lie back beside him, careful to leave a healthy, polite distance between your bodies. “You know, for all the fights, I missed this part. The chaos. The way the universe used to screw with us.”

Joshua turns his head, gazing at you with a tenderness that nearly knocks the air from your lungs. “Yeah. Me too.”

For a while, you both just lie there, listening to the ceiling fan squeal and the cars woosh pasts on the highway. Laughing quietly at the impossible, fanfictional mess you’ve found yourselves in yet again.

Loving Joshua had felt a bit like that. A fairytale. A song. And so the ending of it all—the last chapter, the final notes—had left you feeling cheated. There was a time where you believed the love might have lasted; it sucks to be proven otherwise. 

Joshua pulls himself up, socked feet nudging yours underneath the yellowing duvet. He looks up at you with something reverent in his eyes, the kind of look that used to come just before he said something dumb and sincere all at once.

“You know we can’t stop now,” he says. “It’s not every day we get to be stranded in a town with population thirty and a single bed between us.”

You shake your head, still smiling from earlier. “You’re really pushing the limits of what counts as a romantic setting.”

“I’m just saying,” he continues. “We made it this far. Might as well keep going. Question fifteen.”

What is the greatest accomplishment of your life?

You settle into the other side of the bed, cross-legged, careful not to brush against his knee. “Finishing grad school while holding down a full-time job. That, or not screaming at that one VP during our quarterly meeting.”

Joshua laughs. “Oh, I remember that guy. You hated him with the passion of a million suns.” 

“That hasn’t changed. You?” 

He thinks for a moment. “Publishing my research paper last year. The one on coral regeneration. That felt big. Like it could actually change something.”

It’s a good answer. You nod. “Alright. Question sixteen. What do you value most in a friendship?”

Joshua leans back, hands behind his head. “Loyalty. The kind that doesn’t flinch when things get hard.”

You hum. “I get that. And maybe the ability to sit in silence without it being weird. Just… coexisting.”

You both fall quiet. That used to be the two of you. Afternoons of independent hobbies, evenings of parallel play. You were both perfectly fine, fully functional people outside of your relationship. You were not two halves of a whole. 

A part of you wonders if that’s where you went wrong. If completion was precedent to a proper romance. But you also know that’d been your strongest suit—letting the love guide, not consume. Letting it linger, not fester. 

“Question seventeen,” you say, scrolling down your phone. “Most treasured memory.” You steal a glance. “Back then, yours was that beach day with your mom, right?”

Joshua nods slowly. “Still important. But… I think it’s changed.” 

He looks out the small motel window, takes a deep breath like he’s getting ready to plunge into the deep end of something. “Remember the time we got caught in that summer storm in Jeju?” he muses. “We were soaked, freezing, and the only place open was that sad diner with the flickering lights. You looked miserable. But you laughed anyway. God, you laughed so hard. I think I knew I loved you then.”

Your throat tightens. You hated that night. Everything went wrong, and you thought it was a sign this new boyfriend of yours wasn’t meant for you. But Joshua had been an even bigger diva than you—enough to make you forget your misery, to have you giggling despite the fact you were borderline pneumonic, showering in ice-cold water. 

“That was a good night,” you say. 

He offers you a half-smile, one that communicates just how aware he is of your indulgence. He knows you complained to your friends, that you logged the entry into your diary with notes of Never again!!! and The Jeju curse is real. But he also knows you loved him, even then, even with your shoes full of water and your lips too chapped to press against his. 

“Your turn,” he urges. 

You shrug, suddenly aware of your hands in your lap. “There’s a lot. But… that one birthday you surprised me with the rooftop dinner. I had the worst week, and you just… knew.”

Neither of you have to expound. Not on the work week that had wrung you dry, not on the chocolate chip cookies he had learned to bake especially for that evening. You had burst into tears when you saw the candlelit dinner and the monstrous bouquet of mismatched flowers; Joshua had cooed reassurances into the top of your hair, whispering sweet nothings like Pretty girls shouldn’t cry on their birthday. Come on, love, smile. 

“Question eighteen,” you continue, because dwelling on the way he looked then is almost enough to have you relapsing. “Most terrible memory.”

You don’t answer right away.

“Back then,” you say slowly, “it was something stupid. Failing my first stats exam. But now…”

You glance at him, and he’s already looking at you.

“It was the night we decided to end it,” you admit. “The part where I packed up and left. Closing the door. That part hurt the most.”

Joshua exhales. “Ditto,” he says, and you don’t call him a cop out. You don’t accuse him of not being as hurt as you. You just—you let him have that, too. 

It’s a terrible memory. 

The room is quiet again. Outside, the neon motel sign flickers. Inside, two people who once knew each other like the back of their hands try to find their way back through questions that are starting to feel like maps.

Joshua doesn’t hesitate to read out question nineteen.

“If you knew that in one year you would die suddenly, would you change anything about the way you are now living? Why?”

You shift slightly on the edge of the bed, knees curled toward you like you could fold yourself into a simpler version of this night. “I’d probably quit my job,” you say slowly. “Travel. See my parents more often. Start writing again. Not wait for the perfect time to do everything.”

He hums. “I’d probably take a few sabbaticals. Go diving in the Galápagos,” he says. “Set my mom up with a good house. Maybe... I don't know. Make a documentary. Something that puts all the little things I love in one place.”

You glance at him, watching the way he fidgets with a corner of the blanket between his fingers. He’s leaning against the headboard, one leg stretched out, the other bent. A familiar pose, from when he used to read in bed. The memory tugs, and you almost say something—almost add what neither of you have said.

You’d want to call him. One last road trip, maybe. One last laugh over something ridiculous. 

A kiss, if he were feeling particularly generous. Not to see if it could salvage, but just to remember the way it’d made you feel alive. 

But you don’t say it. And neither does he.

Instead, he offers you a smile that doesn’t look real at all. “You tired?”

You nod. You lie. “A bit.” 

Joshua pushes himself up from the bed, stretching his arms above his head. “Alright. You get the bed. I’ll take the cockroach-infested couch chair.” 

You glance at the lumpy thing in the corner and raise an eyebrow. “You’ll get scoliosis.”

“I’m a marine biologist, not a chiropractor,” he quips. “I’ll survive.”

You roll your eyes, already pulling the blanket over you. “Fine. But if you wake up tomorrow and can’t feel your back, I’m not driving.”

He chuckles. “Forever a passenger princess.” 

As he dims the lights, he adds, “The experiment continues tomorrow.”

You don’t answer. You let your eyes fall shut, the room quieting into the rustle of sheets and soft motel noises. Since the breakup, you’ve been having trouble with sleep. The melatonin gummies have helped somewhat; you don’t have any on hand, though, after expecting the two of you would make the trip a one-and-done. 

Now, though, your breathing slows quicker than it has in weeks. You have a fleeting thought that it has something to do with Joshua being in the same room—as if your body is fine-tuned to relax and uncoil in his presence, so used to the notion that he would always keep you safe. 

In your dream, you are somewhere coastal. 

The salt air clings to your skin. Joshua is there, too. 

Older and sunburned, wrinkled and still yours. He’s smiling at you like nothing ever hurt between you, his eyes curled in those crescents you were always so weak for. 

Knee-deep in the water, he reaches out a hand. 

You take it without thinking.

The mechanic gives Joshua the all-clear just before nine in the morning. The two of you make do with a gas station breakfast—powdered donuts and hot coffee that taste vaguely of cardboard—and then you’re back on the road. 

The sky is clear, and the early morning light softens the world around you in a way that makes it feel like yesterday’s sharp edges never happened.

You think, maybe, that Joshua’s forgotten about the questions. Maybe last night was a fluke. A relic of nostalgia mixed with insomnia. Maybe the two of you can ride the rest of the way in companionable silence, listening to acoustic playlists and the occasional podcast.

Except Joshua is a bitch who never forgets. 

“Okay,” he says, fingers tapping rhythmically against the steering wheel. “Where were we?”

You sigh dramatically. “We’re still on that?” 

“Of course,” he replies cheekily. “We’re in too deep to give up.”

You scroll back on your phone, eyes scanning the familiar list. You breeze through questions 20 and 21—both of you agreeing that you value honesty in relationships and sharing that you talk to your family almost every week. It’s easy. Almost comfortable.

Then comes question 22.

“Alternate sharing something you consider a positive characteristic of your partner. Share a total of five items.”

You remember how this went the first time. How clumsy and awkward you both were, strangers trying to map out the shape of each other with vague guesses. You’d said something like, You seem like a good listener, and Joshua had commented on your style. 

All surface.

Now, there’s too much underneath.

Joshua clears his throat. “You go first.”

You consider calling him a narcissist, but you opt out. “Okay. Uh,” you start. “You’re—steadfast. Once you decide something matters to you, you stay. Even when it’s hard.”

He hums. “You’re perceptive. You always notice the things no one else does.”

“You’re thoughtful,” you go on. “You remember things—like people’s favorite snacks or how they take their coffee. It’s never loud, but it’s there.”

“You’re funny,” he says, a little more quickly. “In a smart way. You don’t always say the joke out loud, but when you do, it lands.”

You laugh. “That’s the first time you’ve called me funny.”

“I call you funny in my head all the time,” he replies.

You don’t quite know what to say to that, so you look down at your phone.

“You’re earnest,” you offer. “Even when you try not to be. Especially then.”

His grip on the wheel tightens for a split second before relaxing again. “You care deeply. About people. About doing the right thing. Even when it tears you up.”

Joshua drives just a little below the speed limit, as if trying to stretch this moment out. You don’t say it out loud, but you both know you’ve passed five.

You wonder if that’s the point.

The hum of the car is soft under the quiet that settles again between you. The GPS chirps—still three hours to go. Still three hours of pretending it doesn’t sting to sit this close to him. Still three hours of pretending like this is just a ride and not a slow unraveling of everything you’d packed away.

You read the next prompt aloud, your voice only slightly more confident now: “Make three true ‘we’ statements each. For instance, ‘We are both in this room feeling...’”

He lifts an eyebrow. “Three each? That's excessive.”

You shrug. “Take it up with Dr. Arthur Aron.” 

Joshua rolls his shoulders. “Okay. One: We are both doing our best to not make this weirder than it already is.”

“One: We are both extremely bad at not making things weird,” you counter.

He laughs, and it's the kind of laugh that softens something in your chest. “Two: we both care more than we probably should.”

You hesitate. Then, “Two: We both don’t really know what to do with all the leftover feelings.” 

Joshua exhales like you had punched the air out of him. 

So far, everything has alluded to this. To the eventual conclusion that you both had things you still wanted to say. Joshua was never slick; you know why he’s insisting on playing this game. 

He’s hoping to find closure—some twisted semblance of it—in between questions one to thirty-six. Or maybe he’s hoping to find something else. A hint. A reason. An opening. You don’t know for sure, but you know Joshua Hong is the type of person that always has a motive.

Leftover feelings is just a nice way to put it. 

“Three,” he goes on, as if he physically can’t bring himself to address your second statement, “We both remember everything. Even if we pretend we don’t.”

You look at him. His hands on the wheel, that little crease between his brows that forms when he's thinking too hard. You say, quietly, “We are both still here. In this car. On this trip. That counts for my last one, right?”

He doesn't answer right away. Then he says, voice lighter than it’s been all day, “Are you still okay with all this?” 

It feels like the first real question he’s asked you—not part of a list, not pulled from a script, not something rehearsed. It’s a moment of benevolence, an offer for an out. If you told him your heart was cracking open, he’d find one of his own playlists and you would throw in the white flag at the start of set three. 

You turn toward the window. “I’m okay if you are,” you say, because it’s true, because you’re indecisive, because you kind of want answers, too. 

From the corner of your eye, you see him nod. “Okay.” A pause. “Then we keep going.”

You move on to question twenty-six.

“Complete this sentence: ‘I wish I had someone with whom I could share…’”

Joshua shifts his grip on the wheel. The road outside blurs into long stretches of beige and green, but neither of you is looking at it.

He exhales. “...small wins.”

You think of the refrigerator in your shared apartment, the one with fish-themed magnets and Joshua’s accomplishment reports pinned up like kindergarten drawings. You think of his evening prayers, the sleepy mumbles of Hey God, it’s me, Joshua, and the gratitude for no traffic or healthy corals. You think of the crumpled look on his face when you couldn’t quite understand why he was so happy over something, the way his shoulders would fall when you couldn’t share in his small but certain happiness. 

You give your own answer. “...my fears.”

It lands heavier than it should. There are notebooks full of pages upon pages of writing, words you should have probably divulged to Joshua but chose not to. There are sweaters, and hoodies, and jackets with loose threads around the sleeves, from all the times you’d gotten scared but took it out on yourself instead of saying something. There are memories of Joshua—on his knees, slamming the door—asking for you to give him an inch. You never did budge. 

The car suddenly feels small. Too small for the weight of things unsaid.

“Twenty-seven,” you announce, voice wavering. “If you were going to become close friends, please share what would be important for him or her to know.”

You look at Joshua. His jaw tenses. It’s a query that works best in the context of the study. The questions are a first-date gig, meant for strangers looking to be friends or friends praying to be lovers. 

Not exes. Not you and Joshua. 

“That I get quiet when I’m overwhelmed,” he responds. “That it doesn’t mean I’m shutting people out. I just need space to think.”

You give a jerky nod, then answer, “That I overthink most things. That I’ll ask for reassurance even when I know the answer.”

He glances at you. “You still do that?”

“Yeah.”

The silence this time is different—not the awkward kind from the first hour of the trip, but something rawer. Tension prickles at the base of your neck.

You tap the GPS map. “Can you pull over at the next gas station? I have to pee,” you say, even though your bladder is the furthest from full. 

Joshua grunts his approval.

A few minutes later, he turns off the road. You murmur a quick thanks before slipping out of the car.

The restroom is fluorescent-lit and smells faintly of soap and old tiles. You grip the edge of the sink and lean forward, staring into the mirror.

“You’re fine,” you tell your reflection. “You’re fine. Don’t go there again.”

You splash cold water on your face, the shock of it grounding. You know what this is starting to feel like. A ledge, a pattern, a memory dressed up like something new. 

You’re not sure if you can fall again and survive the landing.

Behind your reflection, the bathroom door creaks open. You dry your face and brace yourself to step back into the heat of the day—and into a car that feels more like a confession booth with every mile.

Joshua drums his fingers along the curve of the wheel, elbow resting by the window as highway signs blur past. Your hair is still slightly damp at the edges from where you splashed your face. The radio hums low between you, some soft indie band murmuring about lost time.

“Two more hours,” he informs you. Not quite a warning, not quite a relief.

You nod, thumbing through the article on your phone. “Eight more questions.”

He exhales a laugh. “Maybe space it out? Take your time with the hard ones?”

“I’ll take a break after the next one,” you say. “Number twenty-eight.”

There’s a half-smile on his face, like he remembers the first time twenty-eight was posed. “The big one.”

You clear your throat and read aloud: “Tell your partner what you like about them; be very honest this time.” 

You both laugh, maybe a little too hard. You’re thinking of the first date—how you’d nervously said you liked that he was punctual, how he’d said he liked your jacket. Neither of you were very brave, then, or honest. 

Will you be now? 

“Okay,” he says, tapping the wheel in rhythm to the Billy Joel song that has started to croon. “I’ll go first.”

You don’t stop him.

He speaks slowly, at first. As if he’s the weight of each word. You had expected maybe one or two big things, but the fact that there’s an upcoming break seems to embolden him. 

He says he likes how you read people before they know they’re being read. He says he likes how you tilt your head when you’re thinking too hard. That you always ask baristas how their day’s going. That you cry during movies, but always pretend it’s allergies. That you never half-listen to someone when they talk.

Each word feels like it’s making the air between you warmer. Thinner. More charged.

He goes on, and on, and on. Some things, you already know. Some things, it’s the first time you’ve heard. 

Some things, you thought he had hated—only to find out it was the complete opposite. 

Some things, you’re surprised he even noticed.

When he patters off, he looks a bit sheepish, like he hadn’t expected to ramble. Neither of you steal a glance at the car’s analog clock. There’s no need to check, to confirm he spent perhaps a little too long extolling your virtues and waxing poetics you no longer felt like you deserved. 

You inhale.

“I like how you look like you’re trying not to smile when you are,” you start. “I like that you leave voice memos instead of texts when you’re tired. That you care about fish more than people sometimes, but you’ll never admit it. That you always carry two chargers. That you know the scientific names for all your favorite corals but still call them ‘little guys’ when you talk about them.”

Your list goes on, and on, and on. You like the calluses on his fingers from the years of guitar-playing. You like the soothing cadence of his voice when he’s reading something out loud. You like the slightly absurd way he sits, and the empathy he gives out as easily as one gives out gum, and the expressions he makes when somebody does something questionable. 

You stutter to a stop, knowing you’ve said as much—maybe even a little more—as him. The entire time, you’d kept your eyes on the road, but now you dare yourself to look. You regret it immediately. 

He’s gnawing at his lower lip, fighting back a smile. You don’t know how long he’s been trying to hold it back, but from the ruddiness of his cheeks, you’d say it’s been a couple of minutes. “Don’t say all that,” he manages. 

“Why not?” you say defensively. 

“Makes me want to kiss you,” he says outright, so softly it folds itself between the cracks of your ribcage. “And I’m not supposed to want that anymore.” 

His eyes flick over to you. You meet his gaze for half a second longer than is wise.

“Keep your eyes on the road, Hong,” you say, voice steady even as your pulse wavers.

He does as he’s told, but the smile on his face still tries its damnedest not to break.

The silence between you now is lighter, almost companionable. The kind that doesn’t need filling. You’re both tired, but not from each other—at least not in the same way you were when the drive began. 

There’s still an ache, a wariness, but it’s no longer sharp. Just an awareness of proximity and time passed.

Outside the window, the highway begins to bleed into coastal roads, winding through the kind of sleepy seaside towns that barely show up on a map. You catch a whiff of salt in the breeze when Joshua cracks the window open. The air is briny and cool, and your landlady’s city can’t be more than ten minutes away now.

“Bring up the next one,” Joshua prompts. “Question twenty-nine.”

You unlock your phone and read aloud, “Share with your partner an embarrassing moment in your life.”

You think for a second before answering. “One time during a client pitch, I said ‘orgasm’ instead of ‘organism.’ Completely straight-faced. No one corrected me. I didn’t even realize until hours later.”

Joshua barks out a laugh. “That’s… incredible.”

“Corporate girlie era. Not my best work.”

The road narrows, bending toward the sea. Then, he says, “A few weeks after the breakup, I accidentally called you during a team meeting. Like, I butt-dialed you. I was underwater a lot at the time, so I’d listen to your old voicemails whenever I could. Guess my phone got confused. Everyone heard it. The voicemail. You were talking about soup.”

You blink. “Soup?”

He nods solemnly. “Tom kha kai. You were mad I ate yours.”

You stare at him. He tries to act like it’s nothing, like the voicemail wasn’t from very early into your relationship, but his ears are pink.

“That’s…” You want to say sweet, or something else foolish. “Embarrassing. Yeah. I get it.”

He nods, but doesn’t meet your eyes.

Neither of you speak after that. The silence returns, soft and warm. The car turns down a familiar street, and the ocean gleams in the distance like it remembers you both.

Your landlady��sorry, ex-landlady—Minjung lives in a cheerful, sea-salted bungalow at the end of a sloping road. The pavement gives way to pebbles and gull cries. It’s the type of house you and Joshua once joked about retiring in. 

There’s none of those jokes today. 

The two of you pull up just after one in the afternoon, both exhausted but trying not to show it. The air smells like fried dough, and there’s a breeze that tangles your hair the second you step out.

Minjung opens the door almost as soon as you knock. She’s wearing her usual floral house dress, grey hair pinned up in a neat bun, and when she sees you both standing side by side on her porch, her eyebrows lift so high they nearly disappear into her hairline.

“Oh, you both made it,” she says. Her voice is kind but pointed. “Together, even.”

You and Joshua smile politely, murmuring greetings as you step inside. The living room is exactly how you remember it: mismatched furniture, a faint smell of liniment, crocheted doilies covering every available surface. She ushers you in, offers you barley tea you both politely decline, and sits with a huff in her favorite armchair.

The conversation is short and mostly administrative. Paperwork is signed, keys are handed over, deposits are discussed. She asks if you've found new places to live, and you both assure her you have. When the last form is signed, she takes a long look at the two of you.

“I’m surprised,” she says plainly, “that you two didn’t make it. I had a good feeling about you.”

You glance at Joshua, whose smile is tight but not insincere. “We had a good run,” he says, voice gentle, and that’s somehow the part of this whole endeavor that tears you up the most.

Minjung hums, not quite convinced. But she pats your hand and says she wishes you both well. You thank her. 

It’s done. After everything, it’s finally done. 

No more shared bills or split chores. No more arguing about groceries or laundry schedules. Just clean breaks, and quiet endings, and another eight hours back home you’ll probably sleep through.

You’re on the porch again, about to step off the last stair, when Minjung opens the door behind you.

“By the way,” she calls out. “You two didn’t have to come all this way, you know. I have a—what do you kids call it? Van-me? Venmo? Yes, that. I have that now.” 

She shuts the door in your faces before either of you can respond.

You and Joshua stare at each other. For a beat, silence. 

Then, laughter. Real, deep, absurd laughter.

You double over, hands on your knees. Joshua leans against the porch rail, laughing so hard he wheezes. Your cheeks hurt, your eyes blur, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you’re laughing with him like you used to—like nothing ever changed.

“I hate us,” you manage between giggles.

“She really let us suffer through all that,” Joshua gasps. “An eight-hour drive, a motel with one bed, all for... this.”

You can’t stop laughing. Not for a while. And when you finally do, breathless and dazed, you’re not sure what the ache in your chest means anymore.

Joshua invites you to the beach after Minjung’s door shuts behind the both of you. He says it casually, like he’s not asking you to walk across a tightrope of memory, but just to sit, to rest, to let the waves be the only thing talking for a while.

You agree. Because it’s the least you can give him, considering the fact he’s in for another long drive. Because Joshua said that nothing in the world made him happier than the beach, and you. 

“We should finish the questions,” he says, already headed toward the shoreline. “Might as well. Before we have to get back in the car.”

You follow him. It’s easier to, now.

The wind’s picked up, but not so much that it makes the air cold. Just enough to push your hair around your face and coat your skin with salt. The two of you find a smooth stretch of sand near the water, a small incline that gives you a view of the waves curling back on themselves. The city behind you is quiet and gray, the kind of place where time seems to wait a little longer between minutes.

You settle in beside him, knees pulled up to your chest. Joshua stretches his legs out in front of him, leans back on his palms.

You open your phone and pull the list up again. “Alright,” you say, trying to make your voice light, “question thirty. When did you last cry in front of another person? By yourself?”

He hums. You think he's stalling, but when he answers, it’s immediate.

“By myself? Last month. One of my undergrads turned in a paper about the death of coral ecosystems and how they linked it to their relationship with their dad. It hit me. I cried in the breakroom.”

“And in front of someone?”

He glances at you. “Right now doesn’t count, right?”

You smile. You don't answer.

“You?”

You pick at a loose thread on your sleeve. “By myself, probably... a couple weeks ago. Work stuff. And in front of someone?” You give him a look. “When we broke up.”

He nods like he remembers, and you know he does.

Question thirty-one. “Tell your partner something that you like about them already.”

Joshua chuckles. “This is like the third time they’ve asked this.”

“Reinforcement is key.”

He looks at you. Not in the way he used to—hungry and open—but with a quiet sort of affection, like he's memorizing without needing to possess. Really looks at you.

“I like how you look when the wind hits your hair. Like you're always on the verge of something. Running or staying,” he says. 

You roll your eyes, but your heart doesn’t get the memo.

“You’re such a sap.”

“You used to like that about me.”

“Still do,” you mutter.

Joshua doesn’t press it. You give him your answer—something about the way his eyes light up when he’s watching the sunset. He takes it with grace, angling his face a little more towards the horizon like he’s trying to remind you of what you love about him. As if you’d need a reminder. 

Question thirty-two. “What, if anything, is too serious to be joked about?”

You take longer with this one.

He answers first. “Grief. Not because it can’t be joked about, but because not everyone gets to laugh about it. You have to earn that.”

You look at him.

“What?” he says.

“That was... insightful.”

“I’m a marine biologist, not a clown.”

You huff out a laugh. Your chest is tight, and your heart is full, and your throat is dry with words you shouldn’t say. 

Not now. Maybe not ever.

You tell him you agree with him, and he doesn’t claim you’re trying to field the query. He knows you’ve earned the right to say the same thing. 

The waves crash in slow rhythm, and the sun slips further down the sky. Joshua turns his head slightly toward you, just enough for the breeze to tousle the hair at his temple.

“We doing all thirty-six today?” he asks, a small smile playing on his lips.

You shrug. “We’re here, aren’t we?”

The wind answers for you both. 

It tugs at your sleeves and hair, but not enough to be cruel. Just enough to remind you where you are: a little too far from home, and closer to something else you can't quite name.

“Alright,” you murmur, tapping into your phone. “Thirty-three. If you were to die this evening with no opportunity to communicate with anyone, what would you most regret not having told someone? Why haven’t you told them yet?”

You expect him to hesitate. Instead, he answers softly, “That I forgive my dad.”

You glance at him. He stares out at the water, eyes glazed over and jaw tense, but his voice is even. “I kept waiting for the right time. For him to earn it, maybe. But some things... you give, not because they deserve it, but because you need to let it go.”

You nod, even though he isn’t looking. You don't ask questions. You don’t press. It feels sacred, what he said.

He turns to you. “What about you?”

You think for a long moment. The waves come in, and the waves go out.

“That I’m proud of myself,” you say, eventually, your voice cracking around the confession. “That I spent so long trying to be someone worth loving, I never stopped to tell myself I'd made it.”

Joshua’s gaze doesn’t waver. “I’m proud of you, too,” he says. 

He says it not because it’s some concession, not because it’s a consolation prize he wants to give you in the face of your honesty. He says it because he means it, the same way he probably meant it when he said he was proud of you for starting your corporate job, proud of you for opening a jar without his help, proud of you for this, and that, and simply existing. 

You smile at him. He smiles back. It’s the moment you will carry in your pocket when it’s all over, the one you’ll replay when the morning comes and no trace of Joshua is left. 

“Question thirty-four.” You clear your throat. “Your house, containing everything you own, catches fire. After saving your loved ones and pets, you have time to safely make a final dash to save any one item. What would it be? Why?” 

“This feels like a game show.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Final answer, Hong?”

He grins, but it fades quickly, as if he’s realizing just how serious the question is. “There’s this box,” he says, “in my closet. Letters, ticket stubs, Polaroids. I guess I thought I’d forget otherwise.”

You know the box. You’d added to it once. Movies you had watched. Grocery receipts. Post-Its with crude drawings of sea animals that he deemed worthy of keeping despite your disgruntled protest. 

That had always been Joshua’s way—loving every part of you, every scrap and morsel, even the ones you didn’t think deserved love. Especially the ones you didn’t think deserved love. 

You turn back to the sea, silence stretching between you. You’re not sure what your answer to the question is. Everything you own feels replaceable lately. 

You open your mouth. Then close it. 

And then, softly, “There’s a necklace. My mom gave it to me before college. It wasn’t worth much, but... it made me feel safe. Like I was tethered to someone.”

He knows the necklace. He’d fixed it once. You were hysterical when it broke, and he painstakingly gathered every broken charm, every loose bead. He watched three YouTube videos and treated the necklace with such care that it came back to you good as new. 

You stopped wearing it shortly after, though, out of fear that it would snap again. That Joshua might some day not be around to fix it one more time.

Joshua reaches across the space between you and takes your hand, gently, as if asking permission without words. You let him.

For the first time in months, you feel tethered again.

The question lingers between you like sea mist: soft, hazy, impossible to ignore. Joshua is still holding your hand, thumb barely moving, but the warmth of it spreads up your arm like it's been waiting all this time to find a home there again.

You read out loud thirty-five. “Of all the people in your family, whose death would you find most disturbing? Why?” 

You share a look, then, simultaneously—the same way you had when you first encountered the questions—you both say, “Skip.” 

“Thirty-six,” you go on, voice a little thinner than you'd like. “Share a personal problem. Ask for advice. Then—”

“—have the other person reflect back how you seem to be feeling,” Joshua finishes for you. His smile is faint but real. “I remember that one.”

The tide hums its low lullaby, and for a while, you pretend to be thinking.

You both stare out at the ocean instead of each other, even as the last question hovers between you, even as his fingers shift—no longer just clasping, but sliding between yours, interlocking like they used to. 

Like it’s the last time he'll get to do it. Maybe it is.

Then, you crack. Partly because the entire trip has been absurd, because thirty-six questions got you here in the first place and was now bringing you back.

Partly because you think it’s the last time you’ll have this, too. 

You laugh. It escapes like air from a balloon, breathless and tinged with disbelief. “I have a personal problem,” you admit, looking down at your joined hands. “It’s really serious.”

Joshua tilts his head toward you, brows raised.

You meet his eyes. The world around you fades into pale sand and blue waves. “I really, really want to kiss my ex right now.”

His breath hitches, but he doesn’t look away.

And then, softly, like it's the simplest thing in the world: “I can fix that.”

He leans in, and you meet him halfway.

His free hand slides to your cheek, yours to his chest. His heartbeat—usually so certain and steady—hammers underneath your palm. There is nothing scientific about the way it undoes you.

Whatever comes next, you’ll figure it out later. For now, the question has been asked.

The answer is this.

Four years ago, you sat in front of Joshua with your heart on your sleeve. 

After running through the thirty-six questions, you had asked him between giggles whether he was in looove with you now. He had looked at you like he was trying to remember how to breathe. 

You got some ice cream for dessert. You had felt like you were floating, as if your feet weren’t touching the floor, and the feeling only worsened when he tried and failed to be cool about holding your hand. 

At the door of your dormitory, he had kissed you good night. A proper kiss. And when he’d leaned in, you put a hand to his chest and told him to leave the night clean and quiet. Leave it at that, you had said against his lips. 

That one, perfect kiss. We’ll have more, you had promised, and he responded with I’m going to collect. 

You had watched him turn the corner and go. Right before disappearing, he glanced over his shoulder and flashed you a giddy smile. 

The ocean gives— 

Five months ago, you sat in front of Joshua with your heart in his hands. 

The conversation ended with less than thirty-six questions. There is only so much times you can argue, and compromise, before the spats threaten to spill into resentment. In a small voice, you had asked him if he still loved you. Yes, he had said breathlessly, but you and I both know love isn’t always enough. 

In the freezer, a tub of his favorite ice cream waited. One you had picked up in the grocery store, remembering him. It would remain there, cold and sweet and untouched, because the argument started mid-dinner and ended with you feeling like you were an astronaut jettisoned into space. One that would never come back down to Earth. 

At the door of the apartment, he had kissed the crown of your hair with quivering lips. You were the one with a friend nearby, the one with a place you could stay at before the two of you had to figure out the shared apartment. Joshua had tried to kiss you properly, but you shook your head wordlessly. 

Clean and quiet.

All Joshua could do was love you hard. All you could do was let him go. 

You had gotten into a cab. Right before you turned the corner, you twisted in the seat to look in the rear window.

Joshua had been by the gate, watching you leave. 

The ocean takes away—

It was easier than you thought, quitting your job. 

After the roadtrip, that seemed like Joshua’s parting gift. The realization that you had wanted to do something meaningful with your degree, that running or staying was always a choice you could make. 

And so you put in your two-week notice, and looked up Master’s programs, and got a part-time job at a non-government organization with an advocacy you believed in. You had been looking for an excuse to change your life, anyway, and here it was. 

It was not like anything happened after the kiss by the beach. Somehow, it had reminded you of that first night—how you had advised Joshua not to push his luck. 

He knew, you knew, that the kiss was perfect as is. To try and steal another would do neither of you any good. 

He hadn’t answered question thirty-six. The kiss took away that opportunity, and so the two of you simply got back into his car without another word. 

You slept the entire ride back and woke up to Joshua listening to some podcast about investigating subtidal zone organisms using a light source. He dropped you off at your apartment, wished you well with a one-armed hug, and drove off into the night. 

It’s not like you’d been expecting a follow-up text, but it sure would have been nice. 

You don’t dwell on it. You transition your replacement and tie up all loose ends. On your last day in the office, you pack up your desk. Whale-themed calendar, coral-shaped push pins, blue Post-It’s. 

“I’ve always loved that about you,” a co-worker says in passing as you rearrange your belongings like a perverse Tetris game. “All the sea stuff.” 

It hits you, only then, that you’d been a walking, talking documentary for all the things Joshua Hong loved. You could almost cry at the realization. Instead, you laugh politely. 

You’re logging out of your work computer for the very last time when the Mail app pings. You’re inclined to ignore it, to just open it up on your phone and be done with everything, but the preview in the notification has your brows furrowing. 

You open the email. 

To: yourusername@gmail.com From: hong.jisoo@mabik.kr Subject: RE: My personal problem

I never got to answer thirty-six. It’s because my ‘problem’ is this: I have a couple of questions I want to ask you. 

For your reference and kind consideration. 

Have you eaten today?

Did you remember to water the plant on your windowsill?

What time did you wake up this morning?

Are you sleeping okay lately?

Did you bring your jacket today like I told you to?

What song have you been listening to on repeat?

Is your favorite mug still the blue one with the chip in it?

Did you ever replace the broken lamp in your room?

When was the last time you laughed so hard your stomach hurt?

Are you still drinking your coffee with too much sugar?

What’s the last book you finished reading?

Do you still cry at that one movie you always cry at?

Have you called your mom lately?

Do you still keep emergency chocolate in the freezer?

What’s the newest dream you’ve had for your life?

What do you miss the most about living with someone?

Do you ever think about our old kitchen, and how the faucet always leaked?

Are you still scared of thunderstorms?

When was the last time you let someone take care of you?

What’s the one thing you wish you could say without it sounding like too much?

Do you remember how we used to dance in the living room when it rained?

What memory have you been holding onto lately?

Have you forgiven me for the words I didn’t say when I should have?

Do you think it’s possible to love someone differently, but just as much, the second time around?

Do you think timing is a real excuse, or just a convenient one?

What did I do that hurt you the most?

What did I do that made you feel safest?

What was your favorite version of us?

What do you think we did right?

What do you think we got terribly wrong?

What did you learn about yourself when we were apart?

What made you fall in love with me, back then?

What did you fall out of love with?

What’s something you wanted to ask me, but never did?

What would you do differently, if we had a second chance?

Could we have a second chance? 

– J. 

[tealvenetianmask]

Stolas Makes Decisions Alone

I'm here to predict more problems ahead for Stolas. But don't worry- I do think he'll get through them because of character growth.

Stolas has a pattern of taking drastic actions that he believes are right and getting so caught up in his own point of view that he doesn't really listen to anyone else. I don't think he realizes this about himself. As much as he's now dealing with the consequences of his decisions at the end of Season 2, he hasn't yet learned that he can't go it alone. That he needs to communicate with the people his decisions impact- namely Blitz and Octavia, the people he cares for most. What I'm saying is, even though he's not the only one, our lovely owl man is a misunderstanding factory.

As for why he's like this, I have some ideas, but first, let's quickly go over the ways we've seen this behavior play out in HB.

It's treated as kind of light in Season 1 . . . despite being great with words, he's a lousy communicator because he gets carried away with his own ideas.

In Murder Family, Stolas has no idea that Blitz is panicking and . . . yes, I believe feeling pressured in this moment, even if he likes the deal later. In Loo Loo Land, he doesn't pay attention to Octavia's (not subtle) reactions enough to realize that no, she does not want to go to Loo Loo, and she absolutely doesn't want to bring the person Stolas cheated with along as a bodyguard. Also . . . as soon as Stolas listens to Octavia here, their communication improves, and Octavia is allowed to decide on the next father daughter activity.

The independent decision making tendency becomes more serious . . . tragic . . . in The Full Moon.

Stolas goes into the episode with a plan to do what he believes is right (freeing Blitz from himself), and he's so set on it that he blindsides the guy and shuts him out at the first hint of rejection, unable to pay enough attention to realize that it's . . . not actually rejection, just another wounded person reacting to a sudden change, since the entire decision making process already happened inside Stolas's mind.

Okay . . . Mastermind and Sinsmas.

I'm letting him off the hook for Mastermind, because he had only seconds to do something to save Blitz's life. I don't think he's wrong here. BUT symbolically, in the courtroom, Stolas rarely looks at Blitz. Someone who loves him is standing behind him, and there are moments of recognition between them, but Stolas still faces the decision, and his fate, alone.

In Sinsmas, we get the most blatant version of this kind of decision making. Yes, I know he's off his meds and going through a lot. He could have waited a few more minutes for Blitz to get back and talked through his decision to march up to his palace and demand to see his daughter. Blitz could have helped him calm down, and they could've had a conversation and decided on the best way to do it.

But that isn't how Stolas makes decisions. It isn't how he's EVER made decisions. Helping Stolas would put Blitz in danger, or Blitz might try to convince him to wait. So in Stolas's mind, if it's a choice between being kept from his daughter and dying alone by Andrealphus's hand, well . . .

There's so much that could be discussed here. Medication/depression. Suicidality. Autism . . . does this pattern stem in part from difficulty reading social cues?

These are all topics worth analyzing but . . . here's one thing that I think is at the core of Stolas's character regardless of the situation or other factors.

Stolas had all of his decisions made for him for his entire life. No one consulted him. Ever. Not about his career. Not about his marriage. Not about how he would choose to behave and conduct himself in the world.

Then when he was somewhere between 18 and 20, he had a child. And suddenly, his decisions mattered. Not in the big ways for himself. He still had to carry out all of his responsibilities. But he could decide how to raise this kid (Stella wasn't really interested in raising her after all). He could do everything in his power to make her childhood joyful, to make her feel loved, to teach her that she could be herself.

The problem is, making decisions for a kid doesn't make you a great collaborative decision maker. Being a parent means being an authority. He wasn't totalitarian like his own father, but there wasn't really anyone to honestly talk through his decisions and process his emotions with. So he's spent 35ish years never making a decision with someone else.

He's also rich and powerful, and that both keeps him isolated and gives him . . . a somewhat outsized view of his own importance and ability to control situations, in my opinion.

But now Octavia is 17, and making decisions that impact her without adequately communicating doesn't really work anymore.

And the other person he loves is Blitz. And yes, Mastermind is an exception, but Blitz usually doesn't need to be rescued or protected. He certainly doesn't need to be protected from Stolas (i.e. The Full Moon). He needs a partner. And Stolas needs one too.

So yeah, until Stolas learns to communicate (or at least learns that it's necessary) I worry about what he'll go off and do on his own.

Note: please don't take this as me blaming EVERYTHING on Stolas. Blitz and Octavia both have some responsibility for the miscommunications that go on. I just think this particular tendency of Stolas's is interesting and wanted to explore it.

[gatorbites-imagines]

Hi! Hi! Fiesta time requesting to ya and was hoping if can place this ask here. I made sure to read you're rules so if I do somthing wrong then ignore my ask.

So Yautja's know that humans do not have strong instics as they do but they have certain things the Yautja don't have. Like uncanny valley.

So in this, the Yautja is with their human when they suddenly freeze. When they ask their human what's wrong, they don't awnser, just stearing off at somthing that they see. The Yautja can smell the fear and panic off of them.

What does the Yautja do?

Please please please please ignore this if I went aginst you're rules! Have a good day/night

Male Yautja OC (Bako) x male reader

Headcanons

I imagined this as Bako, who was mentioned a few times in my last yautja post, which you can read here.

Bako is a very chill Yautja compared to others. Hes already had multiple offspring and is still in his prime. It gives him a good amount of confidence and comfort in himself.

It also makes him a bit of a tease to his ooman lover, throwing you over his shoulder or just moving you around as he pleased, unless it really annoys you when he does.

He loves the size difference between you as well. You’ll catch him pressing his orange scaled hand against your own every now and then just to look at the difference. Bako always grumbles happily a about it.

But just because he’s more chill than most Yautja doesn’t mean he isn’t as active and aware as everyone else, he’s just great at hiding it behind an easygoing facade. Dating a normal ooman definitely makes him even more on edge and protective.

Hed try to teach you how to at least defend yourself or how to sharpen your instincts enough to protect yourself. You might not be able to kill another yautja in their prime, but you will be able to maul them enough to give you time to get away. Then he will hunt them down and present their skull to you.

Seeing you with a weapon also makes him grumble even more, arms crossed over his chest and his yellow eyes sparkling as he watches you use different firearms. Especially the firearms hes specially kitted for you to fit your hands and size.

If you take an interest in camoflague hed be more than happy to show you too, since hes mastered the art. Even without all his gear, Bako is able to melt into the background with ease after years of practice.

Having a more colorful shade in his scales meant he had to be really good at what he did, or he would have died one way or another. He just has to figure out how to really blend the different colors on your human skin.

But even with all this, Bako is always weary like any Yautja worth their salt should be. This is also why he notices pretty much immediately that you are weirded out or weary about something.

Having a Yautja partner can be pretty damn annoying sometimes with how protective and possessive they’ll be. Even if you guys are walking through what’s supposed to be a peaceful market, you still find Bako almost glued against your back.

Maybe you spot a species that just looks… uncomfortably human. But not really. You know like those ai robots that have skin that doesn’t really fit, or they blink too slowly and more too stiffly.

It makes you freeze for a moment, immediately sending alarm bells ringing inside Bakos head. There should be no reason for you to freeze, his clan had come to this market for years and it should be safe.

But smelling the discomfort and uncomfortable fear from you makes his mandibles flare under his mask, looking down at you for a moment to see where you are looking, before snapping his head in that direction, ready to kill.

Of course, you end up having to hold him back and explain that no, that alien didn’t say or do anything, yes, you were okay. It was just a weird human survival reaction.

You end up having to explain uncanny valley to him, and how once upon a time, humans developed pattern recognition for survival reasons.

This makes sense to Bako after you explain. He mentions something about other species that looked like humans coming to earth, to hunt humans, so of course you guys developed survival instincts against them.

This has you thinking “excuse me, what?” because what did he mean by that. of course, Bako just shrugs and goes “I thought you knew” and keeps you guys moving, as if he didn’t just drop that bomb on you.

Bako keeps being extra protective the rest of the day, as if just the smell of your fear keeps him on edge. Just in case, ya know? What if something jumps out of the shadows at you? You never knew out here. You just have to accept it, and accept all the cuddles later.

[unhelpfultarot]

Hi, hello. I’m a long-time follower, first-time asker. I remember you saying you don’t really believe that divination works? I don’t know if that is still the case but, anyway, I respect it and just want to say that you, your efforts and time dedicated to this page are all valued here. The fact is you reach and help lots of people, not even just in (I’m assuming) your country. And it’s absolutely understandable if you need to take a break. But it’s also ok to change the “vibe” of the posts for however long. Yes, it is a funny page, and everyone appreciates that — but we’re all grieving and you can grieve here too. I hope this makes sense, I just woke up. Take care <3

My thinking is that there's nothing magical or supernatural about Tarot cards; they're just pictures on little pieces of paper. What they are is strong archetypal symbols, universal enough to apply to everybody, broad and general enough to have many possible meanings. Putting them together in combinations can spark ideas about all sorts of familiar situations. And human beings are very good at pattern recognition and storytelling, so when you put all that together, you can make connections that you otherwise might not think of. Or maybe acknowledge something that's been on your mind but you've been trying not to think about.

Or you can write silly descriptions of the normal ups and down of life, and then lots of people say "Whoa, that happened to you? That happened to me, too!" And then we all feel a little less alone.

I'm sure I will be back to posting, probably fairly soon. I'm unusually busy with some offline stuff lately (mostly positive, but time-consuming) but I miss being able to sit down quietly and shuffle my cards every day. And I miss feeling like I'm connected to my vast and faceless crowd of readers. I'm very fond of all of you out there, and hope you're doing well.

❤️

[vigilante24ish]

🌙 Moon Phases 🌙

Agatha Harkness X Fem!Reader

Word Count: 1233

Chapter 33:

The inside of the room reminded you then top of a tower, no corners to be seen, and some tall glass stained windows offering some light.

Everything had a very medieval feel, with old stones and banners; suits of armour, and an odd circular stone table in the middle, with two wooden chairs across from one another.

However, your attention went quickly to the new outfits chosen by the road for your companions and you.

Agatha had been dressed like the wicked witch of the West, dark cliché witch watches, and even a pointy hat. The skin had even been painted green, only the lips having a purple shade instead.

Billy, on the other hand, resembled Maleficent, and you swore he didn't have that sharp cheekbones before.

You would not lie that it suited him.

And yes, despite your history; you had occasionally chosen to watch mainstream media associated with witches. What could you say? You grew lonely, slightly bored, and the Halloween costumes of certain kids had picked your interest.

"Oh! She's based on me, you know." Agatha suddenly said, posing and clearly enjoying her costume.

Billy was sceptical. "Prove it."

"Well, you are what you eat; so" you commented without much thinking.

Your comment and your tone surprised your companions and earned different looks from them.

Agatha parted her lips in surprise, a silent gasp leaving her as she eyed you carefully. She did not expect that from you, and a part of her wondered if this was creeping jealousy because of Rio.

Truthfully, she hadn't fully seen you jealous, but she knew it was there. When you would kiss her with little more force, when you would snuggle closer to her on certain occasions.

And it was always followed after talk of other people or even small socialising you two would happen to-do; never planned but had to play along not to raise suspicions.

Not that you were always successful. Which was perhaps why you had ended changing places of living quite often.

"Well, then I am curious what your preferences are then," she snapped back.

Her words gave you the courage to glance at yourself, hesitating to do so after the last trial. The Road hadn't seem to be that favourable with you, at least not the way you would have expected it.

Perhaps you were simply a picky person, wanting stability through familiar clothes and styles. You shouldn't be judged, though, considering how unstable your life always was.

Constantly changing places to stay undetected, fake names and backgrounds. One should not mention the unstable duo of Rio and Agatha coming up into your life only to disappear soon after... only for the cycle to be repeated again and again.

This time you wore a dress, long and heavy; reaching the foor. The basis was a light grey, its pattern and material reminding you of a more medieval era; which you had lived through. Yet it was the silver extras that got your attention.

They were blended and placed to resemble some sort of fancy female cliché chest armour while the skirt had a more scale like design. You had a rather open cleavage, just enough to draw attention but not as dramatic as the one Agatha and rio had during Alice's trial.

"Hmm," you hummed as you did a twirl around yourself, trying to catch a better glimpse of the full outfit. "Honestly, I am puzzled,"

As you looked at your companions, you saw Billy's eyes lighten up in recognition. "You are the Ice Queen!" He exclaimed happily, the character most likely one of his favourite ones.

"Ice Queen?" You arched an eyebrow.

"Yes, an ice witch that used her powers to become queen. You even have the crown and everything. "

At the mention of the crown, you rushed to the nearest shiny object and got a glimpse of your reflection. Indeed, a beautiful icy blue crown had been worn tightly; going down your temples and giving the impression of grown ice.

"It suits you. White has always been your colour," Agatha commented, having enjoyed watching you walk fast with that heavy but well designed dress; the silvers on it and the crown reflecting the light and giving you a more supernatural look.

An ironic fit in her mind.

You did not wish to continue this discussion and so you tried to find anything to help you change the topic. Thankfully for you, Billy had started to admire his outfit a little too much.

"Well, you seem pleased with your look." You commented as he walked towards you, eager to see his reflection as well.

"Well, if the cheekbones fit..." he replied as he focused on the surprising good contour.

You shook your head, not really in the mood to be amused by his comments. He might enjoy the changes but you didn't, because of two things.

One, you had yet to start the trial.

Two, there was still no sign of Lilia or Jen; a worrisome thing.

In an attempt not to focus on those dark thoughts, you chose to approach this mysterious table and try to get any clues out of it.

You took notice of the card shaped carvings on the stone table. They had been carved to be deeper, acting like some kind of case or place for them to be put on.

The way they were positioned was familiar to you, recognising it as a tarot spreading technique. You had seen it before but never truly focused or bothered with it.

Tarot was never your calling, and you were also never interested in learning of your future. And if you ever need any answers, you would turn your attention to the stars above.

They spoke of secrets that nothing else could, and they only spoke to you after years of training yourself to listen to their mystic, quiet song.

Your hand brushed over the cool surface and above some inscriptions at the side, allap carved on the stone.

"Do you think this is important?" Billy asked him and Agatha, having chosen to finally join you and help you find how the trial worked.

"Your path winds out of time." You mumbled as you read out loud, trying to get some sense out of this rather cryptic message.

Billy took notice of a stack of cards that had escaped your notice, and he grabbed it before flipping one to look at their design.

He could not help but smirk. "It's Tarot. I know this, kind of. I'll read for you, I guess." He said. "To any of you"

"Do her, though I don't think it will work," you admitted, and Agatha rolled her eyes.

"What is it now?" She questioned, one hand in her waist.

She loved you, but sometimes you truly were a joy killer. Especially now. She wanted to get to the end of the road and consider how close you might actually be... she didn't want to wait.

"This is tarot. It's Lilia's trial, " you pointed out.

"But Lilia is not here," Billy commneted.

Agatha did not share the worry. "The kid said he can do it, should be fine. Come on, no time like the present."

Defeated, you let out a sigh and leaned on the table; remaining by the side. Agatha occupied one chair and Billy the other while also shuffling the card deck a few times.

Chapter 34

[sosa2imagines]

Revenge for doll!

Warnings- Just fluff, Bucky being the best best boyfriend ever! -----------------------------------------------------

Bucky stares at you as you finish getting dressed, he notices the shine in your eyes and the way you excitedly fix your hair. He can already tell it's going to be a good day. As you turn around and smile at him, he can't help but smile back, your excitement is contagious.

“You look happy, doll.”, Bucky mentions as you prepare yourself to go to work. You nod, a smile dancing on your lips, “Yes, I am excited!!! I have been working hard on this project, and I think it's going to pay off!”

“That's great to hear!” Bucky replies with a hint of pride in his voice. He knows how hard you've been working and how much this project means to you. It's always nice to see you enjoy your work and have something to be happy about.

“Yeah, I think this is gonna be my breakthrough”, you reply with a smile. “I've been putting a lot into it, and I'm confident that I'll finally get some recognition for my efforts.”

“I’ll see you soon, bubba!” You say, grabbing your things and heading out the door. Bucky watches as you walk out, a warm smile on his face as he kisses you goodbye.

You arrive back from work within an hour of leaving, Bucky is surprised to see you so soon and asks, “Back so soon?”

Bucky looks at your face and can see clear as day, that something is wrong. He doesn't say anything though, as he knows that sometimes trying to dig into what happened right away isn't the best thing to do. Instead, he simply waits for you to speak when and if you're ready to do so. He watches you change from your work attire to your comfortable pjs and tank top.

You pouted and looked at him, before looking at the bed and Bucky was quick to be by your side. You and Bucky lounged lazily together in bed. You were on top of Bucky, hiding your face in the crook of his neck, his hand was inside your tank top, drawing soothing patterns on your back, as his other hand caressed through your hair. You’d had a bad day and you still hadn’t even spoken a word to Bucky.

But Bucky didn’t mind.

After some minutes passed away, you mumbled loud enough, so he can hear you, as if his super hearing was not enough. “Sorry.”

Bucky sighed, not bothering to shift your position. There was a small pause and he spoke softly. “What for?”

“For me being like this...” you furrowed your brows, as if he could see you. “Like what, doll?” Bucky asked. He was in no rush to speak he just wanted to hear what you were willing to share. His hands, however, were busy, rubbing against your back in soft circle and caressing your head.

“Coming home like this and spoiling the whole mood...” you pouted, taking in his cologne.

He chuckled softly as his fingers brushed against your skin. “It's okay. You've had a bad day, that's not your fault. I wouldn't want you to pretend you have a good mood, when you're hurting.”

“You don’t deserve this…” your voice was soft, almost a whisper.

“Hey I've been with you for the past two years. I know that you have days that are hard. I know that you get moody sometimes.” He let out a small chuckle. “You've seen me in my worst moments, doll. I'm a big boy I can handle days like today. I've dealt with worse. Let me take care of you, let me spoil you.”

You finally moved your head from his neck, to look at him, “I'm lucky to have you...”

“Yeah?” Bucky chuckled. He moved the hand from your chin to your cheek, and lifted the other to trace a finger over your eyebrows. “You're lucky that you have me?”

“Yes.... You are too precious for me!” you tell him confidently.

Bucky hummed, a chuckle escaping his lips. His hand stilled for a moment, and he tilted his head to the side as he looked down at you. He moved moved both hands to cup both sides of your face, squeezing gently.

“I’m ready to talk now…” you voice was muffled, as he squeezed your cheeks again.

“You are?” Bucky asked softly, not really surprised. His grip was firm, but not too tight, and his thumbs rubbed against your cheeks. It was calming, his touch putting you to ease. “Alright, then. Tell me... tell me what happened.”

“Ackerman”, the moment you said your boss’s name, Bucky’s body tensed as he got a feeling this is going to be bad.

“The project I was working upon, Ackerman he gave all the credit of the project to Rosalina and promoted her.” Your eyes immediately well up, but you tried to control your tears.

Bucky's hands stilled for a moment as he thought about the implications of what you were saying. “He did that... when it was your project? The one that you spent hours on?” Bucky asked, his brows furrowing as one hand released your face to rest by his side. “That's unfair. And not right...”

“All the hard work and time, wasted and down the drain… Ackerman was like I see you have potential, but Rosalina is more capable of this”

Bucky was fuming now. “More capable? How is she more capable? You were the one working diligently on this project and she took credit for it when she did absolutely nothing. She gets a promotion, when you were the one who spent hours on this?”

“Trust me I did murder Ackerman in my head, the moment he gave her the credit and promotion.”

“I wouldn't blame you if you did.” Bucky mumbled, his jaw stiffening as he spoke. He let out a small, frustrated grunt. “You deserved the damn credit. You deserve to have the damn promotion. Not her not someone who uses her body to get what she wants.”

That genuinely made you laugh, you were happy to know Bucky remembers the office gossip you share with him. “I know but Ackerman doesn't, since then I can't stop fantasizing revenge scenarios against him.”

“Well...you know, he'd look really good with a black eye.” Bucky said the words with a teasing grin, but there was underlying threat in his tone, “I can always help you out with this, you know.” He'd do it too, if given a chance. If he ever saw Ackerman face to face, he'd give him a good punch in the face, no regrets.

“I know you will. I quit the job…” Bucky was close to giving you the angry puppy look, so you quickly cut him off “I was wasting my time there…maybe I should consider somewhere else” to that Bucky gave you a nod, though the pout was still there.

“Just for future knowledge he goes to the local bar every Friday night near the office.” That got his attention, “Does he now?” Bucky's grin grew wider as he noted your words, “And when you say every Friday night... you mean he’ll be there tonight?” “Yes.”

“Well now,” Bucky's grin was now almost sinister, “I think I'm just going to have to pay a visit to this bar tonight.” “Are you serious? No bubba, you won’t do anything.” “Fine, but I’ll be right back, I have to meet Sam for something.” He made the most adorable face, you could never say no to.

“Just Sam? No paying visit to Akerman?” “Yup and yup. Anything else, doll? ” “Just keep him alive.” It was no surprise that you had figured out his plan. “Alive?” Bucky tilted his head to the side, his grin even wider. “Huh... I'll see what I can do, but don't count on it.” Bucky chuckled, as he stood up, stretching out his arms as he did so. He then looked back at you, letting out his signature grin before he left.

Bucky was in the car with Sam, a look of concern on his face. “Kindly tell me, why am I in this?” Sam is clearly confused as to why he is there and he is trying to explain to Bucky why beating your boss up isn't a good idea. In his confusion, he keeps looking over at Bucky, who keeps shooting him a glare to try and get him to stop talking. “It's for doll's sake!”, he tells Sam bluntly.

Before heading to your boss, Bucky decides to take a detour to Tony Stark's house. They soon arrive and enter his house. As soon as they enter, Tony takes notice. “Bucky?” he asks, a confused look on his face.

Bucky tells Tony that he should give you a job, since he knows that he treats you like a sister and has wanted you to work for him for a long time. Meanwhile Sam, just looks at the two shaking his head. Tony looks at him for a moment, then back at Bucky. “You're serious?” he asks, disbelief evident in his voice.

“Yes!” Bucky gives him the angry puppy look which for some reason Tony can’t say no to, even though Tony had already made his mind, to give you the job. “Bucky, you know I've always wanted her to work for me. She's brilliant and creative, and I know she'd be an asset to my team.”

“Thank you, Tony.!” Sam tries to interfere again and explain to Bucky, “She got a new job now, we don’t need to beat her ex boss!” but Bucky doesn't listen and ignores him completely. Tony meanwhile encourages him to go through with the beating, “He deserves it for making her miserable back there, right?”

“Tony!” Sam warns him, but Tony just scoffs. “Shut up Wilson.”

Sam warns Tony not to encourage Bucky, but Tony scoffs “You know Barnes, Pepper had a boss once who treated her terribly and tried to take away everything she loved,” he explains with dramatic effects, “and I made sure to get back at them for it. It was completely justified, and I have no regrets.”

“Really?” Bucky asks in awe. “Yes, really.” Tony tells him mischievously. While Sam face palms himself. Soon the trio heads towards the bar, yeah Tony tags along, saying he and FRIDAY can help.

As Sam drives, Tony questions “what should we call this mission?” Sam visibly annoyed and worried snorts “Operation Vengeance” and Tony scoffs, “That's far too boring of a name! We need something cooler that'll set the tone for what's to come.”

“Revenge for doll!” Bucky says innocently, Sam raises an eyebrow and Tony laughs, “Now that's a name I can get behind. Revenge for doll it is.”

As soon as the trio reached the bar, Tony ordered FRIDAY to control everyone’s phones and cameras.

“This is a bad idea!” “This is a good idea!” “Revenge for doll! Ackerman!!!!!!!”

It had been more than two hours, you were pacing back and forth, waiting for Bucky to come back home.

“I'm back.” A few hours later, Bucky walked back into the apartment, the grin still on his face. His hands were bloodied, and his clothes were a bit messy. He was clearly...well, he looked like he been in a fight. “That went...incredibly well.”

“Bubba!! Are you okay?” you immediately began to check him for any injuries. Even though he is a super solider, you always worried about him, like he is a normal human being.

Bucky laughed, because he was really fine, “I'm perfectly fine, doll. Ackerman not so much, but don't worry about him.” Despite his reassuring words, there was a small cut just under his eye. You knew no matter how much you ask, he won’t tell you, so you silently kissed the cut, “My hero.”

Bucky smiled “Just protecting my doll” he said softly, cupping your chin and tilting your head up. His voice was still quiet, “Now, don't worry about the blood, it's not mine.”

“Oh, I know. He is alive...though right?” Bucky nodded, though he didn't elaborate further. “Alive enough.” Was Ackerman living? Yes. Did he have a broken nose? Yes. Had he fallen on the floor? Also, yes. Was he going to be hurting a lot tomorrow? Yes. Did he deserve every bit of it? Absolutely.

“So how about we celebrate your new job, on the couch, the counter, the bed and every single place in the apartment?” He looks at you mischievously making you blush. “What new job?” You ask, chuckling a bit.

“Stark wants you to work for him.” “Bubba! You didn’t?” you grin and Bucky nods happily.

You jump straight into his arms, “Hmm we should celebrate…” you giggle and Bucky captured your lips.

[mamawasatesttube]

sometimes i see the sentiment of "i don't understand how you can call a comic ooc when there are so many writers who have written so many characters differently!! did everyone just pick a single One True Comic or something??" and like... i get where you're coming from, in that there are a lot of comics and it can feel overwhelming, but also there is actually an answer to this, generally speaking.

if you read a lot of a given character's appearances, you will find that overall, they have certain given traits that the majority of writers agree upon. this is true even of characters with a lot of appearances - for example, i've read almost 1000 issues of superman comics (which is nowhere near all superman comics, certainly, but is a fair chunk!) and i can tell you that i found brian azzarello's run fairly out of character because superman never was much of a religious man in just about all other runs, and him going to a priest for some kind of informal confession stuck out like a sore thumb. or that marv wolfman's superman felt out of character because of all the damn racism, which was definitely just marv wolfman being racist and using superman as a mouthpiece. like, if you read enough you WILL be able to pick up on patterns of what a character generally is like.

this gets even easier for characters with fewer appearances and less cultural icon status (relatively speaking). you can even take into account things like the character's original run and how their creator wrote them, vs how others picked up after the creator left. for example, i can easily call geoff johns's writing of superboy in teen titans (2003) gratingly ooc because it directly contradicts years of established superboy characterization from his origin story and from his solo run, which was in part penned by his original creator. when superboy (1994) establishes over and over that superboy feels strongly about clones being their own people regardless of their origins and dna, you can safely say that a later writer coming in and making him weirdly into pseudoeugenics is insane and, yes, out of character.

like... it's not so much that there's ~one true run~ or something that everyone agrees upon. it's just the concept of pattern recognition. you just gotta keep reading man!

[vampirequsa]

"Coffee Break Confessions"

Nanami finds peace in a quiet café. What he doesn't expect is the warm, slow comfort of a routine that includes you.

TW: None!!

────୨ৎ────

There’s a small café tucked between an old bookshop and a florist—easy to miss, unless you’re looking for it. No flashy signs. Just soft yellow lights behind misted windows, and the faint smell of coffee and fresh bread.

It’s the kind of place you only find by accident.

Which is exactly how Nanami Kento discovers it, one rainy Thursday, after a cursed spirit destroyed a vending machine he was aiming for.

Soaked and disgruntled, with fifteen minutes left of his break and no intention of dealing with people, he steps inside the café—and is greeted by warmth.

Not just from the heat, or the smell of brewing espresso, but from you.

“Rough day?” you ask, smiling as he approaches the counter.

He stares at you for a beat too long, the lenses of his glasses fogging slightly.

“…You could say that,” he mutters.

That first visit is supposed to be a one-time thing.

But the next day, he’s there again. And again the day after.

Always around the same time—fifteen minutes past noon. Always in a neatly pressed shirt, tie loosened just slightly. Always quiet. Observing.

And always sitting at the same table by the window.

You learn his drink order before he ever tells you.

“Flat white, extra hot,” you say one day as he approaches.

He pauses. Blinks. “Yes.”

You don’t charge him for the biscotti that day. He notices. Doesn’t say anything. But the next time, he tips generously—and avoids eye contact.

He starts to notice things about you, too.

The way your hair always escapes your apron tie. The ink smudge on your wrist from scribbling in the little notebook by the register. How you hum when you think no one’s listening.

He tells himself it’s observation. Pattern recognition.

But the truth is, it’s comfort.

You only really talk on Thursdays.

It becomes your accidental ritual. The café is quieter then—no lunch rush, just the soft jazz on the speakers and the steam from the espresso machine curling like breath.

You lean on the counter while he nurses his drink, and you talk about everything except work.

You once mentioned you like horror novels. He’s been reading one ever since.

Not that he’ll admit it.

Not yet.

One day, you bring him his drink with a little heart drawn in the foam. It’s nothing. Just a small flourish. You do it for regulars sometimes.But he stares at it a moment too long.

“…Cute,” he says, finally. His voice comes out hoarser than usual.

You smile. “Thought you could use a little joy.”

He doesn’t drink it right away.

Like he wants to keep it intact.

A week later, he’s late.

You try not to let it bother you—but the clock ticks past twelve thirty, and the seat by the window stays empty. You still make his drink. It cools on the counter.

Then, just as you’re about to toss it—

The bell chimes. He steps in, hair slightly mussed, coat soaked through, and a rare, weary look in his eyes.

You don’t say anything.

You just hand him the still-warm cup and a towel. He sits down with a sigh like the weight of the world’s finally cracked him.

“Sorry,” he mutters.

“For being human?” you ask, gently.

He looks up at you. Something flickers there—like the walls of his quiet little world are starting to lower.

It’s a month later when he finally says your name.

Softly, like he practiced it first.

You blink, surprised.

“Yes?”

Nanami exhales, steady but slow.

“I appreciate you,” he says. “More than you realize.”

You open your mouth to joke—to tease, or say something light. But you see the look in his eyes. The sincerity. The quiet, aching weight behind it.

So you just say:

“I know. I appreciate you, too.”

And he smiles.

Not the small, polite kind.

But a real one. Subtle. Warm. Entirely rare.

The café stays open a little longer that day.

He walks you home, umbrella in one hand, the other brushing yours the whole way—but never quite holding.

Not yet.

But you both know it’s coming.

────୨ৎ────

[huxhsz]

🌊 ⊹ ࣪ ˖ through me (the flood)

— synopsis: rafayel has loved you across lifetimes, through every fleeting moment and goodbye. he has held you as you swore never to leave, only to watch as time and fate stole you away—again and again. he sits beside you now, listening for echoes of a past you no longer recall, searching for his beloved bride.

— note/s: n/a

cross-posted on ao3! ٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و ♡

you don’t remember.

but he does.

he watches you now, eyes lingering on the way the wind tugs at your hair, the way the sea salt clings to your skin like it remembers, even if you do not. you hum, low and thoughtful, as you run your fingers through the cold water, tracing patterns that disappear the moment you lift your hand.

he wonders if the ocean grieves, too. if it knows how many times it has taken you from him.

you glance up at him, smiling, and something in his chest twists. “you always get so quiet by the sea.”

rafayel exhales, a slow, measured breath. “do i?”

you nod. “like you’re listening for something.”

he is.

he’s listening for the echo of your voice from another lifetime, for the promises you once whispered beneath the sea, for the laughter carried by the wind before it was swallowed by time.

he’s listening for the girl who once told him she would never leave.

but all he hears is the tide pulling away.

you tilt your head, studying him, and he wonders if somewhere, buried deep within the marrow of your bones, you recognize him. if something in your soul stirs at the sight of him, restless and aching, trying to claw its way back to the surface.

but you only say, “are you cold?”

he isn’t. not in the way you mean.

he shakes his head. “no.”

and that is the truth. what chills him is not the wind, not the water. it is the distance between you, the chasm carved by a thousand lives where once there had been none.

he doesn’t tell you any of this.

what good would it do?

there was a time when he tried. a lifetime where he held your hands in his and whispered your name like a prayer, like a plea, waiting for something to shift in your eyes. waiting for recognition.

but it never came.

so now, he says nothing.

instead, he sits beside you on the shore, watching the waves kiss the sand and retreat, over and over, like they are searching for something lost.

you lean against him, head resting against his shoulder, and it is both everything and nothing at all.

because you are here. warm, alive, breathing beside him. because the moment is real.

because he will lose you again.

“rafayel?”

his name on your lips—this name, in this life—feels like both a gift and a knife.

he swallows. “yes?”

your voice is soft, thoughtful. “do you ever feel like you’ve lived another life before?”

his breath catches.

you don’t look at him when you say it, as if it is a fleeting thought, something that doesn’t sit heavy in your chest the way it does in his.

but for a moment—just a moment—he lets himself believe.

he turns to you, and under the moonlight, your face is achingly familiar. he wants to trace his fingers along your jaw, press his forehead against yours and ask if you remember the promises, the goodbyes, the lifetimes lost to the sea.

but instead, he smiles, quiet and soft.

“maybe.”

and the tide pulls away again.

[chugging-antiseptic-dye]

who in seventeen would believe in astrology🔮:

kind of believes it's real: (vernon, hoshi, minghao, dk)

starting of with vernon, our favorite cinephile and well known astrology non-truther but for someone who says he doesn't pay attention to zodiac signs, he sure yaps about it a lot. i feel like vernon believes in astrology on the basis that he can pattern recognize quite well and what is astrology if not 2600 plus years of pattern recognition of character traits and habits? his very visible aquarius sun and mercury would agree with me 🤓👆

hoshi for me is someone who 200% thinks he is a gemini. HOWEVER, he doesn't really get what it means and actually to what degree he is his atrocious chart is what actually got me into svt. i just had to see who this disaster man was. as he once said, he is the type to do all, buy all, and then regret it. so, i don't think any belief in celestial forces can stop him from doing whatever he wants.

i know the minghao being in this group is kind of a surprise but i just know he is a spiritual sort of person !! (trust me, he is my best friend). minghao believes in karma, energies created by intent, and superstitions. so, while he won't exactly be into astrology, he would still pay attention to what it says and verify it with the information he already has. his scorpio sun is really prominent but it is his aquarius moon that makes him tolerant (or even encouraging) of the more esoteric points of view.

dokyeom for me is a coin flip of 'yes, he thinks astrology is real' or 'no, he doesn't'. he is a person who tries to see other people's point of view and build a emotional connection with them, trusts everything until proven wrong, and tbh not a skeptical sort of person (like woozi or joshua). on the other hand, he is a very subjective person (that cancer moon is hella prominent). if someone who wrongs him thinks astrology is neat, he is going to hate it to death :3. until then, he thinks it's interesting in a 'ohhhhh, you can also perceive people's personality like that' way. let's hope no astrologer gets on his bad side lmao man can hold a grudge

mostly doesn't believe it but willing to entertain the thought : (seungkwan, joshua, jun, dino)

honestly, i am 50/50 about seungkwan believing in the stars but i feel like if it makes sense to him only and only then he would totally be an astrology gurlie. HEAR ME OUT !! seungkwan is someone who knows his own personality inside out and is very logical. A person like him wouldn't be everyone's top choice as an astrology truther however, he is an open-minded person. he turns over new information in his mind and then decides if it makes sense to him or not. a perfect synergy of his capricorn mercury and aqaurius mars. he also likes connecting intellectually with people and learning new things. so, all in all, like the answer to any complex problem: it depends. its up to him but in my head, he is a believer xd

joshua, j o s h u a, JOSHUA, i just like his name is a very practical person. he is neat, organized, and realistic. so, will he believe that he is a capricorn sun, taurus moon? probably not. but he will still hear out everything in astrology that's about him and try to match if its real or not. at the end of the day, he is someone that cares a lot about his image and what people think about of him.

jun, when he is not in a public or social setting, is calm and grounded (as much as his gemini sun can be). he can stubborn as a bull about his goals and get something of a tunnel vision about it. taurus mars works overdrive in his case. cause look at how he practiced the card magic trick for two hours in nana tour until he got it right. this is why, i feel like he never thought about astrology in any way and won't even know it exists until one day he just stumbles on it. and even then, he is the type of person to say, 'oh, that's cool' and move on. unless it is something he is already interested in, man doesn't care lol.

as for dino, he is someone who likes using every resource at his disposal. therefore, he would sort of believe in astrology if it can help him in someway but he won't live his life based on it. and since dino is very independent and opinionated (aquarius sun and mercury like vernon), even if there is a chance that he is 200% an astrology gurlie, he would make his own decisions based on his own judgement. however, dino is a really sweet and genuine person. if he was friends with a person who likes astrology, he would try to bond with them using it. as a result, he would soak up astrology facts real fast without even trying (that sagittarius moon of his is no joke)

absolutely would not believe in it and lowkey judge people who do : (scoups, wonwoo, mingyu, jeonghan, woozi)

would scoups believe in astrology? nope. does he like hearing people compliment him using astrology? 10/10. for a proud man like choi seungcheol, astrology can seem like it's limiting his potential. but he would always indulge his loved ones if they like it as a true leo sun, leo venus person.

okay, for wonwoo, if he was into astrology, he would have been obsessed with it. but, as we all know, his poison of choice is video games. so, he doesn't give a shit about the stars lol. as expected of a gemini venus and mars.

as a stem major coded person, i don't think mingyu would believe in something that can't be dissected and put together again. he systematically moves forward towards his goals and his mindset doesn't allow him to wallow in failure. thus, he will wave away any astrological explanations with his ' i make my own destiny ' attitude. love our rational king 😎😎😎 go wild with that aries sun virgo mars, my son francis bacon would have loved you rip

asking jeonghan to trust anything that he cannot analyze the hell out of is too much to expect. he won't ever believe in it but he will play into it if he gets something out of it if you know, you know 🤷. asking a libra dominant person to NOT be analytical with human interaction? now THAT'S the eighth wonder of the world.

unlike the others who are willing to keep their disdain for astrology on the down low, woozi will not hesitate to state his opinion. he doesn't believe it's real and finds the people who do sort of weird. it's never going to be his thing i fear. he is too much of a gemini moon sagittarius mercury.

[k0nanharv3y]

Ahhhh, yes, I am not accepting criticism, if you do not like the path I take, you are free to leave and not come back to my blog, I do this for fun. I work in a cafeteria, I like to imagine that the characters I like work in a cafeteria, stfu

Robin Hood AU Part 5

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4

Batman was sensible, he was a detective, and what that implied, he was a gossip and a busybody

He knew someone had brought him back, he knew that someone was in the League of Assassins and he knew that someone was not Ra's

The news had spread like a rumor and was confirmed one day when Talia appeared on a rooftop beside him, announcing his father's death. Bruce had said nothing more than a grunt of recognition and placed a hand on the woman's shoulder as a simple "I'm sorry for your lost"

Only she didn't say "My father is dead" or "I have claimed my father's position." She said "Someone has finished off the demon's head"

Bruce didn't give it much importance at the time and now he regrets it

Because that someone was probably the one who brought him back

I spend hours and days sitting in front of the giant computer, reviewing the evidence of its existence, noticing a pattern similar to someone he could never catch

Robin Hood

The way of writing, the photos, the system and the program he used was the same one that Robin Hood used when he sent samples of some attack or plan, and Bruce opened the rogue's folder again

And spent more hours gathering everything they knew about him

He didn't accomplish much, really. Just a few notes of the cases he solved, the ones he helped out with, the times he attacked multimillion-dollar companies to give it away and re-route the money through various legal channels to those in need in Gotham

And also the first recorded cases of Robin Hood, those who directly attacked Bruce and Batman, those who... those who offered an apology with a letter

The letter where he declared to know Batman's identity and offered him a "I'm sorry for your lost", an apology and an explanation

And Batman just growled even more, gritting his teeth, going over for the 5th time the possible people behind Robin Hood

///

Stephanie Brown didn't consider herself a passionate coffee lover, she was more into Alfred's infusions and hot teas with sugar. She had a time when she was Robin when her dependence on caffeine was worrying and she received an intervention from her sister and brother to stop her. And then she started drinking tea

So her presence at this place was just because of the fame it was getting. The photos on Instagram showed a nice and warm place, with poetry performances, singing and comedians passing on stage every so often, with Jazz playing in the background, fairy lights on the ceiling tangled with artificial plants

And of course, that was lovely, but in all the photos there was always something, someone, standing out. And that was the barista behind the bar

First they declared him as the cute boy who didn't know how to make a decent Frappuccino but always thanked you with a charming smile

Later as Gotham's lost prince, Timothy Drake, who had started his own business after Drake Industries went bankrupt following the death of both founders

Then they started filling the reviews with the great tasting drinks, the delicious desserts, and the cute barista who remembered your name even if you had only been there once

[Tim took it as a challenge and had his ego hurt when people commented on his poor cooking skills, so after months of trial and error and many YouTube and Reddit tutorials, he did it]

And Stephanie Brown understood why everyone was talking about the barista. The guy was skinny, a little shorter than her, with black hair tied in a messy ponytail, pale like any Gotnamemite who hasn't seen the sun in... ever. And... and he smiled when he heard the bell above the door ring

"Hi, welcome to The Nest, what can I..." His face fell a little but he suddenly recovered "What are you gonna drink?"

Steph walked over to the bar, admiring the place after staring at the guy for too long, and looked up at the chalkboards above, noticing a fun fact that the photos didn't mention

"Hi, can I get a Purple Spoiler Tea?" She smiled and looked back at the boy, admiring his face up close "And a..." she looked back at the desserts, giggling at the names they had "A Stealed Cat-Cake?"

"Sure!, it will be 9.75" the boy's face turned slightly pink, not daring to look at the girl

Steph handed him the cash and deposited a 50 dollar bill into the box secured with tape and a padlock

"Will it be for takeaway or to consume here?" He asked pleasantly, beginning to slide along the bar, preparing the drink

"To consume here" she answered

"Okay, go and take a seat, I'll call your name when I'm done"

"But I haven't told you my name" Steph smiled confused

"It's not every day that a Wayne comes to my coffee shop, you know?" He joked and his voice sounded somewhat restless but he kept his tone simple and cheerful

Steph's face warmed with a slight blush and she nodded, even knowing that the barista wouldn't see her and walked to a table near the window

The atmosphere was warm, with pleasant aromas and chatter filling the sound over the relaxing jazz music, the lights were not too bright nor too dim and at one point, she heard the boy's voice calling her from the bar

Steph walked over and took the tray, admiring the color of the tea, a soft purple, garnished with red berries at the bottom and smiled at the sight of the dessert

Two cupcakes, one with the face of a laughing cat and the other with a bag that was supposed to be full of diamonds

Steph smiled and thanked the barista before returning to her table, where she took a photo of her tray, posting it on her social media with the caption praising the place and the barista

She would definitely bring her brothers here

And then she saw both napkins under both products and carefully removed them

'Spoiler has had three identities so far, she started out as Spoiler, became the third Robin, shared the Batgirl mantle with Orphan, and returned to being Spoiler recently'

'Catwoman started out being hated by the city for years, but has recently begun to be more accepted after being seen helping the Bats'

It was data... that you'd find on Reddit or the internet if you were a hobbyist who did a lot of research. But what surprised Steph was that it was handwritten and she wondered if she had different data for each dish and if it was different every time she sorted them

She smiled and looked around for the barista

A few seconds passed before Tim looked back at her, and they both smiled at each other

///

Part 6 tho

Part 7 im thinking of making this a fic fr

Part 8 am i adding selina soon?

List of products that Tim sells in the cafeteria because I thought it was hilarious to name foods