#from her Grandma Cookie Crumbles

[radioactivejinx]

So, have you ever listened to the voices and made a next-gen mlp au about deconstructing ships and having atypical family dynamics instead of stereotypical nuclear family dynamics? No? Just me? 

Anyway, here’s Archive! My Sparity fankid! So, to be honest I’m not a fan of Sparity because of the massive age gap between them and the fact that Rarity’s known Spike since he was a child. In reality, this relationship wouldn’t work out. I felt compelled to break down why Sparity isn’t the ideal endgame romance for Spike and Rarity and that’s how Archive was born!  

Archive lives with her Aunt Twilight Sparkle and her father Spike. Despite living with Spike he isn’t her primary caregiver, Twilight is. Spike is more of a brother to Archive than a father and Twilight is more of a mother to her than an aunt. Archive was born when Spike was 18-19 and he couldn’t handle raising her on his own, so Twilight took over for him. Twilight mostly raised Spike as a child, so taking care of Archive came naturally to her. Archive is a master at categorizing and organizing Twilight’s massive library. She has a love for history and studies it ravenously. She believes that by documenting current events the mistakes of the present can be avoided in the future. ( All of her records and journals will surely survive the test of time, right? The next generations will be able to read her documents. They won’t be lost or destroyed and ponies will be able to learn from them and avoid repeating past mistakes. Wait what do you mean the history of G4 is lost in G5-) 

Archive has a strained relationship with her bio mom, Rarity. Don’t get it twisted, Rarity loves her daughter and doesn’t regret having her, but she recognizes that dating Spike wasn’t a good idea. Rarity was desperate to settle down and start her own family. Years of failed romances were weighing heavy on her. Spike, no longer a little boy, but a fully grown man now, decided to shoot his last shot and ask his childhood crush out for the last time. He figured she would say no but to his surprise, Rarity agreed to give him a chance! 

Unfortunately for Spike and Rarity, their relationship didn’t work out. Despite her best efforts Rarity never felt right dating Spike. He may have been a grown man when they started dating, but Rarity could never forget the child he once was. The child who came to Ponyville riding on Twilight’s back, the child who looked at her like she hung the stars and moon in the sky. The child she watched blossom from a small baby dragon to a gangly awkward teenager to a man. A man she agreed to date. No matter how much she tried to excuse or rationalize it, it just felt wrong. 

Surprisingly, Rarity and Spike's friendship remained strong when Rarity broke things off with Spike, but the same could not be said for Rarity’s friendship with Twilight. Twilight was taken aback when Rarity agreed to date Spike, but she did try to support their relationship. However, Twilight just couldn’t stomach Rarity dating Spike. Twilight raised Spike ever since he was a baby. She held him for hours when he was crying and rocked him to sleep. She kissed his scrapes and gave him bandaids. She taught him how to read and write. She gave him the talk when he was a teenager. Spike may be an adult, but he’ll always be her baby brother. Rarity, one of the first friends she formed a genuine and strong bond with, watched Spike grow up alongside her, is now dating him? It feels wrong. It feels like a betrayal. Twilight desperately tried to overlook her issues with their relationship, but in the end, she just couldn’t. Her friendship with Rarity became strained and would have ended altogether had Rarity not discovered she was pregnant with Archive soon after her breakup with Spike. Nowadays Twilight keeps civil with Rarity and remains in contact with her for Archive's sake, but Archive can tell her aunt resents her mother.

Rarity maintains contact with Archive and tries to visit her whenever she can but with her fashion empire, raising her other kids, and her personal problems she can’t always see Archive as much as she wants to. Archive feels awkward whenever she interacts with her mother because Rarity feels like a stranger to her. She thinks Rarity regrets having her. Archive never says it, but sometimes thinks her family would be better off if she were never born. This isn’t true. Spike, Rarity, and Twilight all agree that the best thing to come out of Spike and Rarity’s past relationship was Archive. If only she knew that.

[blondieeu]

comfort inn. aizawa s.

a/n; early christmas content?!

being in a long term relationship with aizawa shouta and eventually making him a holiday person even though he denies it.

"shouta, you're still the most talented gift wrapper I know," you teased as you peaked under the absurdly large and fully decorated christmas tree that had actually no business in your small apartment.

more specifically, you were peaking at the nicely wrapped and carefully lined up boxes placed under it. on the other side of the christmas tree, were your clearly not so neatly wrapped presents.

as you both laid on the couch, him on the L side of the couch with his arms lazily behind his head, your small tuxedo cat- terra took over the other half of the couch (literally just the arm of the couch) and you, not too far away from him but not touching as you both laid there in one another presence.

he wore a long sleeve black shirt and some pajama pants. his hair was in a nice low sleek bun you did for him while he brushed his teeth. he doesn't ask you to put his hair in a bun for him anymore, you just do it because you know he appreciates it.

shouta narrowed his eyes at you. "someone has to maintain elegance in this chaotic apartment." he mumbled, almost under his breath but he knew you could hear him. the lower half of his face was covered by a fluffy white throw blanket.

"maintaining elegance is crazy work, you know that right?" you chuckled out loud peeling your eyes from the impeccably wrapped presents to your boyfriend, laughing loudly when you made eye contact and he cracked a smirk that quickly went away. "besides, your elegance looks a lot like perfectionism to me shouta."

"same difference." he didn't even move from his position on the couch, arms still behind his head. aizawa had been wrapping gifts like that since your very first christmas together, he wrapped you one on your first date.

your large christmas tree shined brightly from the corner of your living room. many colorful decorations, lights, ornaments and a bunch of other shit could be seen on it. it was so big and extra and unnecessary, especially for your apartment - you loved it so much.

"..are you social distancing now?" you smiled at his subtle request for you to come closer, obliging him as you settled back into the warmth of your couch. you weren't really cuddling, just laying beside one another. you relished in the feeling of the heat radiating off your boyfriend.

eventually, your gaze swept across the small apartment you and shouta made into a home throughout the years of your relationship. currently, it turned into what looked like someones grandma's house over the holidays - specifically yours... and it may or may not have been because you stole a bunch of her stuff years ago and wont give it back.

sparkly christmas lights, and sneaky mistletoes placed above the more frequently used door frames. the smell of baking cookies filled all the unoccupied spaces in your home. 'ridiculous' color changing lights danced around on your ceiling too, something you personally insisted you have in the house this christmas.

"up to eight christmas' man. " you began, affection filling your voice. "i can't believe I ended up turning the king of emo into a christmas pro." you fell into a fit of laughter as you continued to poke fun at him, he kept his eyes glued to the television mounted on the wall. terra yawned and leaped off the couch before disappearing behind the kitchen island.

the pro-hero raised a bushy brow, ignoring the fact that she left. "emo..?" he seemed a little taken aback that someone would tell him that. "im a little quiet, I'll admit." "a little?-" you sat up on your elbow, turning towards him with raised eyebrows.

"I speak when necessary. there's nothing 'emo' about me."

"what about that drawing koda made of you?" you both thought back to a week prior; visiting the wild wild pussycats and finding a crumbled picture of shouta poorly drawn as the grinch, which was ironic because you were only visiting to ask what koda would want this christmas. a snicker was heard from your side of the couch, a side eye was also received directly after.

shouta turned his head at the mention of the piece of paper, trying to hide his faint smile. "koda's artistic skills are.. a little questionable." you laughed again. "and I'm not a 'christmas pro.' I just enjoy.. some aspects of the holiday." "yeah, like what?" you threw a leg over his as you cuddled into him to steal his blanket.

"don't let me find out you really do like our sparkling rainbow ceiling lights shouta!" your long-term boyfriend instinctively put an arm around your shoulder as you laid your head on his chest, then fixing the blanket on top of the both of you. "I tolerate them."

"you're my closet christmas king" he looked down at you with an unexpected chuckle, his breath tickled the bridge of your nose. "don't tell anyone that." you happily held up your pinky, he obliged and curled his with yours as you sealed it with a kiss. "secrets safe with me baby"

blondieeu xx

[neferaskingdom]

♡ Sugar, Spice and Everything Sainz | CS55

NEFERASKINGDOM

Summary: Wanting to make Christmas special for Carlos Y/n is determined to give him a taste of home. But when her thoughtful plans take a disastrous turn, Carlos shows her that the only sweet thing he needs is her.

SERIES MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST

The kitchen was warm and bustling with activity, the faint hum of Christmas music playing in the background. Carlos leaned casually against the counter, a steaming mug of hot chocolate cradled in his hands, the marshmallows piled so high they threatened to spill over. He wore an easy smile, the kind that made her stomach flutter even after all this time.

Y/n watched him from the other side of the room, her heart swelling with affection—and guilt. For the past week, Carlos had been doing everything he could to make Christmas special for her and her family. He’d taken over the kitchen, filling it with the mouthwatering aroma of Spanish holiday dishes. Her relatives adored him, her younger cousins practically attached to his side as he played board games with them, letting them cheat outrageously just to make them laugh.

And then there was the fact that he’d chosen to be here, with her, instead of flying back to Madrid to spend Christmas with his own family. That decision alone had floored her. She knew how close Carlos was to his parents and sisters; he’d told her all about their holiday traditions, and the thought of him missing out on that for her made her chest tighten.

She needed to do something to show him how much she appreciated him. Something meaningful.

That’s how she’d ended up scrolling through her phone late one night, her eyes locking on a recipe for polvorónes. She remembered how his face lit up when he mentioned them, describing how his mother always made the crumbly almond cookies during the holidays. She’d even called Reyes, his mother, for the recipe, trying not to feel embarrassed as she explained her plan.

“It’s all about love,” Reyes had told her warmly, her voice rich with affection. “Carlos will know you care just by trying, cariño. Just don’t be too hard on yourself if they don’t turn out perfect.”

Perfect, Y/n thought bitterly now, staring at the chaos that had overtaken her once-clean kitchen. She’d underestimated just how bad she was at baking.

“Everything okay in here?” Carlos’s familiar voice rang out from the hallway, making her jump.

She spun around, quickly shoving a charred tray of cookies behind her back. “Fine! Everything’s fine!” she said a little too quickly.

Carlos appeared in the doorway, his dark eyes scanning the room with amused suspicion. Flour covered the counters—and her. A sticky measuring cup was teetering dangerously close to the edge of the table, and the air smelled distinctly... burnt.

“Are you sure?” he asked, suppressing a grin. “It smells like... an accident.”

Y/n glared, trying to look authoritative despite the flour smudged on her face. “I said it’s fine, Carlos. Go sit down or something.”

Instead of obeying, Carlos stepped further into the kitchen, his gaze landing on the tray she was hiding behind her. With the kind of speed she’d come to expect from a Formula 1 driver, he reached around her and plucked it from her hands.

“What is this?” he asked, his lips twitching as he stared at the blackened cookies. “Are these supposed to be polvorónes?”

She groaned, defeated. “I wanted to make them for you,” she admitted, dropping her face into her hands. “A surprise. But I’m horrible at this.”

Carlos’s teasing expression softened immediately. “Why didn’t you ask me for help? You know I love cooking with you.”

“Because it’s for you,” she said, throwing her arms up in exasperation. “I wanted to do it by myself. Now, go away.”

Carlos raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Y/n—”

“I mean it!” she said, grabbing a wooden spoon and pointing it at him like a sword. “Go sit down, or... or go charm my grandma again. Just let me do this!”

He hesitated for a moment, looking like he wanted to argue, but then he sighed. “Fine. But I’m not far,” he warned, backing out of the kitchen.

She huffed, brushing stray hair out of her face. “Good. Stay there.”

But the moment he was gone, the pressure of the situation began to creep back in. She tried again, following Reyes’s instructions step by step, but the dough didn’t come together properly. It crumbled in her hands, falling to pieces on the counter. The next batch came out of the oven too dry, and when she cracked an egg for the third batch, the yolk exploded across the counter.

“Ugh!” she groaned, swiping at the mess with a paper towel.

By the time she pulled the final tray out of the oven, her frustration was boiling over. The cookies were completely burned, blackened to the point of no return. In her haste to set the tray down, she brushed her hand against the hot metal.

“Ah!” she yelped, dropping the tray with a loud clang.

Carlos was in the kitchen before she could even think about hiding the evidence. His face was etched with concern as he hurried to her side.

“That’s it,” he said firmly, taking her wrist to inspect her hand. “You’re done.”

“No!” she protested, even as her voice cracked. “I’m not done! I can still—”

“Y/n.” His voice was gentle but resolute. “Look at me.”

Her gaze reluctantly met his, and the tears she’d been holding back spilled over.

“You’re crying,” he said softly, his thumb brushing a tear from her cheek. “Why are you crying?”

“Because I ruined it,” she said, her voice trembling. “I wanted to do something special for you, and now the kitchen is a mess, and the cookies are awful, and—”

Her words broke off into a sob, and she covered her face with her hands.

Carlos didn’t say anything at first; he just pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly. She buried her face in his chest, her tears dampening the fabric of his sweater.

“Mi amor,” he murmured, his voice filled with warmth. “You didn’t ruin anything.”

She sniffled, pulling back slightly to look up at him. “Yes, I did. You deserve—”

“It doesn't matter what I deserve,” he interrupted gently, cupping her face in his hands. “You pouring your heart into this is more than enough. It doesn't have to be perfect, Y/n. I don’t need perfect. You didn’t need to do any of this, cariño. But the fact that you put so much effort into it? That’s more than enough for me.”

Her lip trembled, but he smiled, his eyes sparkling with warmth. “But you deserve cookies that don’t taste like charcoal,” she said shakily, half-laughing, half-sobbing. “I wanted it to be special. For you.”

“It is special,” Carlos said firmly. “You made it special the moment you decided to do this. Burned cookies or not, I already feel like the luckiest man alive because you care enough to try.”

Another tear slipped down her cheek, and he caught it with his thumb. “Mi vida,” he murmured, “you could burn every batch a hundred times, and it wouldn’t matter. The only thing I need is you, and nothing can change that.”

Her lip quivered as she stared up at him. “You’re just saying that because you feel bad for me.”

“I’m saying it because it’s true,” he replied, his eyes locking onto hers. Then, with a teasing grin, he added, “But if you want to make it up to me, you could let me teach you how to bake them properly.”

She let out a watery laugh, swatting his chest lightly. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re irresistible,” he said, pulling her close again.

An hour later, the kitchen was still a mess, but the air smelled amazing. Carlos had taken over, guiding her through each step as they remade the cookies together. They laughed at her earlier disasters, and he sneaked bits of dough into his mouth when he thought she wasn’t looking.

When the first batch of perfect polvorónes came out of the oven, Carlos grabbed one, taking a bite, and groaned dramatically.

“Delicious,” he declared, setting it down and pulling her into his arms. “But you know what’s even sweeter?”

“What?” she asked, rolling her eyes but smiling.

“This,” he said, cupping her face and leaning in. His lips pressed against hers, soft but insistent, pouring every ounce of his affection into the kiss.

When they pulled apart, she felt breathless, her heart racing.

“Merry Christmas, mi vida,” he whispered, his forehead resting against hers.

“Merry Christmas, Carlos,” she murmured, her lips curving into a grin as she kissed him again.

[jeonjaemark]

christmas sweater || boo seungkwan

content warning: mentions of death // masterlist

“guys! c’mon! let’s start secret santa!” soonyoung shouts, pulling me to the couch.

i stumble between my feet after trying to bite into my cookie. it crumbles as soonyoung sits me down near him on the floor. i huff a breath of disappointment at my broken cookie and pushed it on the coffee table. everyone gathers around the living room bringing their food or drinks. soft christmas music was playing in the background as quiet conversations break out.

“you just want secret santa to happen already so you get your gift and prove to everyone you gave away the best one.” i teased, nudging him with my elbow.

“my reasons are not selfish for wanting to start secret santa already.”

“no, they’re definitely selfish.” seungkwan chimes in backing me up as he sits next to me.

“if you two are just gonna team up against me the entire time then maybe we just skip the two of you this year.” soonyoung hissed waving us off.

“soonyoung, just start reading the names out for everyone.” seungcheol hissed from the other side of the couch.

he grabs the gifts from under the tree distributing them one by one to each person. i stare up the tree admiring the blue and pink decor covering the white tree. a few pictures of the members were hung around as ornaments making me giggle. of course the tree had the members all over it.

soonyoung reaches for a rectangular blue snowflake box wrapped with a silver sparkly ribbon. he calls out my name and i happily take the gift from him. i try to shake the gift around gently hoping to give away any hints, but i couldn’t really hear anything. the box was light and full which meant there wasn’t going to be a block of gold inside.

once soonyoung passed out the gifts to everyone, each person took a turn opening their gifts. a collective oooh’s and ahhhh’s broke out every ten minutes making it seem like i was watching the minion’s movie.

seungkwan holds up his new hair dryer that he got along with a bag of vitamin powder. all the members took turns each teasing him about how he is going to be a menace having the dryer everyone wanted. he tried to make a few guess on who gave him the gift but one glance around the room gave it away for me. in the corner i noticed jihoon quietly hiding behind jun. his ears were red when seungkwan guessed joshua as his secret santa and went on a whole spiel about why he believed it was joshua.

“why wouldn’t it be him? he likes me.”

“everyone likes you but that doesn’t mean they’ll get you a nice gift.” soonyoung snickers.

“this has joshua written all over it.” seungkwan stood firm on his choice. “i have talked about the hair dryer multiple times in front of him.”

“it’s not me, i swear.” joshua holds his hands up in surrender. “but you’ve talked about the hair dryer in front of everyone a million times.”

“enough guessing. we have five other people to go through with gifts. seungkwan stop taking away the spotlight.” mingyu says. “y/n, it’s your turn.”

i untied the ribbon and slide open the box finding a maroon cardigan with snowflake and reindeer pattern decorating the mid section. i hold up the sweater in front of me and turn it finding the year 1998 stitched in the back.

my heart stops while staring at the cardigan in disbelief. many memories flooded my brain at the person wearing this cardigan.

“y/n, help me with setting the table before grandma arrives.” mom says, placing the food in the center of the table.

the doorbell goes off making olaf bark at the sound to alert us. dad walks past us to the door telling olaf to go to her bed and to quiet down. loud laughter fills the house making my heart jump with a joy. one by one my cousins, aunts and uncles pile into the house. each time the doorbell goes off the clutter of voices gets louder and louder as everyone slowly arrives. i always love the holiday season because it meant being together my family.

i set the plates down when a small wrinkled woman with short curly hair dressed in a maroon with snowflakes and reindeer walks in. the scent of cinnamon fills the dining area making my inside go warm. i abandon what i was doing and rush over to her.

“grandma.” i gushed as she pulls me into a tight embrace. “i missed you.”

“y/n, are you okay?” seokmin asked, breaking me out of my thoughts. “you look like you’re about to cry.”

the pads of my finger reach my eyes and a tear escapes. i quickly wipe away the tears clearing my throat while i tried to compose myself again.

“y-yeah. i just really love the sweater.”

everyone moved on to the next person to open their gifts as they reacted over a pair of jeans and sweater. the chatter of the members faded as my thoughts grew too loud to focus on the rest of the gift opening.

———

for the past twenty minutes joshua, seokmin and soonyoung were hogging the mic for karaoke while the others were drinking while playing a board game or were playing with their new gifts they got. i stayed out in the balcony wanting to get away from the chaos. no matter how long i stared and held the sweater in my hands, i was still in disbelief. i never thought there would be a day that i would have this sweater in my hands again after losing it.

“hey, do you mind having some company?” a soft voice asked.

i look up finding seungkwan holding two mugs filled with steaming hot chocolate. i nod and he carefully walks out handing me a mug. he takes a seat next to me on the bench. i adjust the heater moving it closer to his side so we both can stay warm.

luckily the air was only chilly instead of freezing cold like usual and the night was a little brighter compared to it being pitch black. it was hard to see the stars from here but it was nice and quiet out compared to the chaos inside. seungkwan doesn’t say anything after adjusting himself on the bench and just stares up at the sky.

“so did you ever figure out who got you the hair dryer?”

“yeah, everyone confessed who got who while you were out here. by the way j——“

“can i ask you something?” i bit my inner lip looking at him.

many thoughts race through my mind whether to ask or not. it would bother me if i didn’t ask but at the same time i didn’t want to ask. there’s too much emotions to unpack. seungkwan clears his throat breaking me out of my thoughts. he straightens his posture seeing a glimpse of something in my eyes. he must have realized how heavy the conversation was going to be. he sets down his mug in the space between us.

“how did you find this?” i held up the sweater to him.

“how are you so sure the gift is from me?”

“seungkwan, i wasn’t born yesterday. no one knows about this sweater except you.”

“i could’ve hint it to someone else to get it for you.”

“seungkwan! you’re my best friend. as much i believe that any of guys would get me a thoughtful gift, it wouldn’t be this special.”

seungkwan and i both stare at each other. as much as he denies it, i know he was the one who got me this sweater. there is no one else in the room that would’ve thought about getting me this. none of them were to know the significance of the sweater. i stood firm on my guess waiting for him to weigh down and confess.

“okay, fine. you guessed correctly. it’s me.” he smiles. “i know how much that sweater means to you. that is the only thing you have that makes you still feel connected to her.”

the holiday season was the one time a year where i felt like my family was normal and got along. the laughter and loud voices of my cousins all talking together as we open our gifts and play games. my aunts doing their zumba to work off the meal they just ate. my uncles all sat at the table together playing poker while drinking and shouting over the call of the game. grandma drifting between hanging out with all the moms or checking up on us kids to make sure we’ve eaten enough food for the next three years.

she recently passed some time ago. i could still remember coming home from class with seungkwan. my mom’s eyes were red and puffy. her face pale like she had seen a monster. seungkwan wouldn’t leave my side the entire week.

the holidays feel a little empty without her. every year since she passed i would wear the sweater believing that she was still here with us around this time. a year ago mom had accidentally sold it during a garage sale back around summer. my heart broke when she confessed to me about it even after trying to track the buyer. at the end of the day she couldn’t find it and i was heartbroken. i kept reassuring mom that it’s okay and it’s not her fault. it was an honest mistake, but it felt like i was losing her all over again.

“it took me a while to find it. i may have been charged a little bit more than the original price but it’s worth it.” he smirks, squeezing my hand.

“thank you. seriously thank you.” i sniffle wrapping my arms around him. “you don’t know how much this means to me.”

“of course. i am happy that i can bring back a little bit of your christmas magic.”

he helps me put on the sweater. he adjusts a few strands in my hair. a rush of warmth floods my veins as i run my fingers off the soft design stitch into the sweater. i lean my nose closer to my shoulder. cinnamon and apples flood my nose and i get taken back to many memories of grandma in this sweater during this season. the way her eyes crinkle in the corner as she claps her hands singing along to the christmas songs. i spin around showing off the sweater to him and he giggles as i tried my best to model.

“beautiful. i am sure you’re grandma would be happy to see you in the sweater again.”

i look back to seungkwan squeezing him tightly. he wraps his arms around me patting my back. i had the most amazing best friend in the world. i couldn’t have picture a more perfect gift.

“uhmmm guys? can you get back in here? seokmin and soonyoung are drunk. they took over the karaoke and now i am scared to take the mic away.” jun says.

“i think we should go save our friends from the drunk karaoke singers.” i laughed tugging seungkwan behind me. “or maybe we can join them.”

[whimsimille]

PSHYCHOCHROMIA

Seo Moonjo (Patient) x Reader! (Doctor)

Chapter 1: Hues of grief

"Motherhood is owning a second heart that beats outside your own body. It's joy, yet sorrow," mused Grandma Anastasia Song, a poetess with a first name as American as the apple pie from the small bakery down the lane and a surname as Korean as the homemade kimchi fermenting in the earthenware pots in her backyard.

She held Ae-ra close to her flaccid chest, completely absorbed in the pixelated murmurings of an old video from three weeks ago—a precious moment captured right inside the delivery room named "Ae-Ra's Grand Entrance!"

Though the image was shaky and Min Ju had, thankfully, skillfully avoided anything too anatomical, Anastasia saw your sweat-slick hair sticking to your forehead, heard your desperate cry, "I am doing it!" when one of the nurses urged you to push, and noticed a few droplets of blood on the surgical cloth—not many, but enough to create what her mother would have described as a "beautiful spectacle." Naturally, in English.

“A second heart, huh?” Sneering, you felt the spring in the tattered velvet armchair dig into your thighs while you watched as she moved in her rocker to become more at ease. With the hand she wasn't using to hold your daughter, she took another bite out of the freshly baked cookies that were cooling on the side table.

Gooey filling seeped down her chin and the delicate crust crumbled under her teeth and spattered in Ae-ra’s blanket as she rocked both of them—it tasted exactly how Mrs. Johnson's made them back home. Some tastes never really left her mouth or heart, even if she has been absent from America for decades.

“Yes, it is. A child means another heart. It expands to make room for all that love. And when they leave, well, it shatters a little too." She mused between bites. In the already hardened fabric of her sweater, there were small crusts of biscuit glued by saliva.

Once the recorder hummed to a stop and the grainy footage ended for the fifth time, you crouched in front of the vintage TV, fingers trembling slightly as you took out the video tape, taking care not to disturb the old thing.

“So, yes, you must be ready, dear. Your second heart is bound to stop beating very soon.”

Your breath stopped.

What?

Suddenly, the quaint house, with its worn-out red bricks and peeling white paint, felt too quiet, too still. The cheerful chirping of the sparrows nesting in the ancient birch tree outside, the rustling of the leaves in the wind that carried with it the scent of blooming azaleas, the distant laughter of children playing in the park down the cobblestone path—everything was drowned out by the deafening silence in the room.

Swiveling around, you observed Anastasia cradling Ae-ra, running her thumb, sticky with the remnants of the chocolate-covered cookie, over the tiny lines of your daughter's palm as if she were a cartographer mapping territories on a yellowing parchment. It was unsettling how calm she remained while predicting such a dreadful fate for her great-granddaughter.

"What happened, Halmoney? Is something wrong with Ae-ra?"

"No, no, nothing like that," Grandma reassured you. "It's just... time. Life is fleeting, my dear. It's like the wind blowing through a field of wheat: constant movement but soon gone before we know it."

Ae-ra cooed softly in her great grandmother's arms, blissfully unaware of the weight pressing down on your heart. She kicked her little legs playfully and batted at the lacy edge of her baby blanket, giggling when it swirled around her face like a cloud.

You watched as Anastasia smiled tenderly at her, wrinkles crinkling softly around her eyes, before they focused on the bright autumn leaves rustling outside. "Your grandpa is waiting for her in the afterlife now," she said quietly, "and soon she must join him."

Dumbstruck, you stood there, words failing you. Your mouth opened and closed in a futile attempt to voice your disbelief, much like a fish gasping for air on dry land. Your stupor was broken only when you felt the front of your blouse getting damp. Excess milk seeped through the fabric, making you look like a dairy cow in the middle of milking.

It was past time to feed your baby.

"For heaven's sake, don't say such things, Halmoney!” You exclaimed, clenching your chest in an attempt to stem the flow. Jesus, that was fucking painful.

Anastasia simply chuckled at your reaction, her wrinkled face crinkling even more at the corners.  "You're as stubborn as your father, my dear. Always quick to deny what you don't want to hear. Just like that time when he refused to believe his favorite tree in the backyard had to be cut down. But truth, my dear, is like an ocean. It's vast, endless, and you cannot simply fence it off."

Then she turned her attention back to Ae-ra, her expression softening. "Now, come on, take Ae-ra and feed her. Unless you want your breasts to swell up like balloons. Believe me, you won't get to do this for longer.”

Inspired by the Sisters of the Harvest Moon, a group of women who, like the ancient Druids, found divinity in the waning of the moon and natural cycles, Anastasia's eccentric beliefs had their origins. They believed that mirrors were doorsway to fucking entire dimensions and that a child who looked too long into an old Venetian mirror would be blessed—or ill-starred, depending—with dreams of the future. The Sisters left an imprint on your grandmother 's life, seeping into her from 10 and extending well into her Doc Martens-clad teenage years until 18. They wore ropes on their belts—to beat, not to measure—and they never saw a child's ear in their way that they didn't want to twist.

Perhaps that’s why you didn't let out the primal scream building in your chest at that moment, your almond-shaped eyes wide as saucers. Because, in the end, her childhood was made out of convoluted beliefs and harsh discipline, and she wasn't predicting the death of your Ae-ra out of some perverse pleasure. In the end, she wasn’t trying to make you lose your grip on sanity; leap across the room and yank out the collection of vintage hair pins—an assortment of pieces from the 1950s, studded with tiny pearls—that were failing to control the silver curls haloing around her head in a style that would've made Einstein proud.

In the end, the old woman was fucking right.

It was June, the third year without your baby, and you were throwing up in a bed of hyacinths as if trying to expel the grief lodged deep within you.

You only knew they were hyacinths because Mom had some planted in your garden back in Jeju, and for days she talked about how the landscapers from the local 'Kim's Gardening Services' put them in lopsided. You didn't know flowers could be lopsided. That's what you thought about as you sat there in the dirt, staring dizzy at the flowers, wet and blue and bright.

Outside Westlake Psychiatric Ward, an iron and gray monolith with no dreams or aspirations, the hyacinths had been planted.

It was located in the oldest part of Gonjiam Hospital. The original Victorian-style brick building had long been surrounded and swallowed by larger and generally uglier extensions and annexes. "The Caged Mind Asylum" was at the heart of this complex. The only indication of the dangerous nature of the occupants was the row of security cameras perched on the fences like vigilant birds of prey.

At the reception, every effort was made to make everything seem quite friendly: ample blue sofas, rustic and childlike paintings and drawings of the patients hung on the walls. It looked more like a garden to you than a forensic psychiatric hospital for jailed people whose families had abandoned them because they could not afford the hefty cost of adult diaper changes and the fact that, besides being criminals, they were out of their minds.

It's strange how quickly we adapt to the frightening world of a psychiatric hospital. We become increasingly comfortable with madness—not just the madness of others, but our own. You believe that we are all mad, just in different ways.

And that's why—and how—this place was more than just a place—it was a job. You, Song Y/N, with your PhD from Seoul National University and your internship at Massachusetts General Hospital, were supposed to be inside. You were meant to be standing tall and confident in front of the imposing white doors on your well-tailored scrubs. Instead, you were outside, staring at a puddle of puke and trying to catch your breath. And the sky was falling—wet, wet and blue and bright.

Soon enough, your husband, or what was left of him, would come looking for you to ask how your day has been with his usual pathetic monotone, and you'd have to summon a convincing smile. You'd avoid telling him that your day has been merely a puddle of clear water mixed with remnants of your breakfast—crunchy slices of apples from Mrs. Lee's fruit stall and homemade kimchi. Then, you'd steer his attention to something mundane, something safe—like the weather or the incessantly leaky faucet in the kitchen that the local plumber promised to fix since last Tuesday.

There are many reasons why you ran out of that place for crazy people like you, but here's the overarching one. The only one that really matters.

Ae-ra.

How can a tiny four-year-old, with a presence so radiant and a laugh that echoed like a cathedral bell, be gone so soon and be silenced so abruptly?

It's been three years. Three years of questioning, of doubting.

There is no reply from Him. Never. Not even a whisper in the wind nor a hint in the rustling leaves. The Almighty remains silent, devoid of answers. Every time you have screamed, raged at the sky, your voice echoing against the hard concrete of the city buildings, there is only silence returned. You call out names like "God," "Jehovah," and "Yahweh," clutching your rosary beads bought from the small gift shop adjoining St. Peter's Basilica during your honeymoon in Rome.

Every night, under the vast expanse of the inky sky, you wrestle with the notion of divinity. Your fists clenched, your knuckles white, the metal of your wedding ring biting into your skin.

What you remember most about those early years was the sheer physicality of it all. Small fingers on the cheek. A belly on a hip. Legs climbing onto the lap. A hand slipping silently into your own. And all this amid the haze of sleeplessness. It was Min Ju who slept badly, but Ae-ra had her moments. And for what seemed like months, mornings would shock you awake, finding the three of you sprawled across the sheets like battered objects washed up on the shore. Yet there was such joy in that physicality. Bodies entwined. Pressed up against each other. Safe.

No amount of medication or counseling at the esteemed Johns Hopkins can satisfy the void that exists right now.

Shit, you’re not even a romantic; you never have been. Poetry and grand gestures are not things you believe in. But this... this is a different kind of story. A story of love that no heart can forget. Not when it loves somebody that way, and not when it still beats for them even when they are no longer around.

And so, you live quietly, one day at a time, with a scar that no amount of time can heal—a wound that is always fresh. But that's fine because you've lived through entire disasters in silence, you know how to create silence. It's like this: turn on the radio very loudly, then suddenly turn it off. And so it captures the silence. Starry silence. The silence of the moon changes. For everything, you created silence. It is in silence that the noise is heard more. Between the hammerings, you heard the silence of your grief and your blood pumping through your arteries.

Because, in the end, isn't that what survival is all about?

“Doctor?”

Since your childhood, Mom has often told you about your peculiar habit of associating colors with feelings, people and events—a trait that you had passed onto your daughter. Both of you stood out like sore thumbs in the conventional world.

Ae-ra had been the subject of many parent-teacher meetings and counseling sessions. However, you never felt the need to consult a doctor, as you knew it was an inherent trait, not a disease that could be cured with pills. Maybe the influence of Anastasia and The Sisters had seeped into both of your lives more than you realized.

For both of you, everything had a distinct color. It wasn't simply about the physical appearance, like a tree being brown and green. No, it was more profound than that. If a flower was dying, then its color would be a sickly gray. If a bird was bound to die, its red feathers would be spotted with black. If a person was brimming with happiness, the fingertips they used to cover their mouths would radiate a bright, sunny yellow.

At the moment, as strange as it might sound to others, the voice that called out to you reminded you of the creaky floorboards that groaned under your father's weight as he entered the house after a hard day. Blue on the porch, but within the brick walls: red, the same shade as the dinner table cloth that often became more interesting than meeting your family's gaze.

It was a voice that jolted you back to reality and made you turn your head with a sense of urgency, away from the flowers and the vomit. It was a voice that belonged to Nurse Jungwoo.

Blue was stitched to the courteous tilt of his head when he greeted the other nurses and staff, the soft-spoken words he used to comfort manic patients, and the gentle touch of his hands while administering medication. But you had observed a shift in him sometimes, particularly when he'd watch people engage in heated squabbles over dumplings left on the lunch tray or when he had to bathe former soldiers haunted by the ghosts of their pasts—his normally calm demeanor would turn a burning red, his eyes narrowing and lips pressing into a tight line as he fought against the men’s screams and pushes.

The transformation led you to ponder if one day you might see these white labyrinthine corridors stained with the purple hue of his frustration, or if you might stand at the end of a confessional room and see his purple fingers wrapped around a gun, pulling the trigger without hesitation. Just like your father had done.

"Are you okay, Dr. Song?" Yoon's voice held an awkward concern. His usual shy smile, the one that reminded you of a child peeking out from behind their mother's skirt, was replaced by a worried frown. "You've been sitting there for a while now. Can I get you some water? Or maybe a cup of chamomile tea from the cafeteria? It's surprisingly good, you know. They just got a new brand— Twinings, I think it's called. Very soothing."

After glancing at his outstretched hand, its end slightly stained with the pale blue ink from the Bic Cristal ballpoint pen he preferred for taking notes, you looked at his face and then at your heels, partly covered in grass and dirt.

Politely rejecting his offer of assistance as well as his worried smile, you got up, dusting the dirt off your coat. His concern was touching, but unnecessary. You gave him a gentle pat on the shoulder to let him know that you were grateful, though.

Fishing a battered packet of Marlboro cigarettes from your pocket, you realized you'd been more than a week without smoking—you had sworn to yourself that this time you were quitting for good. But, hey, here you were, faltering already.

You lit one, irritated with yourself. Any therapist worth their salt would see smoking as an unresolved dependency—something that should've been dealt with and overcome long ago.

"You sure I don't have another patient to attend to now?"

Grass crunched beneath your heels as you shifted your weight, the vomit now concealed beneath a layer of disturbed soil.

With an arched brow, you watched as Jungwoo curled into himself, his hands disappearing into the pocket of his pale green scrubs. You knew why. Your gaze was a soft, heavy paw on him. But if the paw was soft, it took it all away, like that of a cat that hurriedly grabbed a mouse's tail. The drop of sweat went down through his nose and beautiful mouth, dividing his smile in half. Just that: without an expression, under your mascara coated eyelashes, you were looking at him.

"So…" You leaned against the wall, the cold bricks biting into your back. Your lab coat rode up slightly, exposing a sliver of skin above your waistband. You noticed Jungwoo's eyes flick down, then quickly back up, a faint blush coloring his cheeks.

"Oh… Yes, yes!" Jungwoo responded, bouncing on the balls of his feet, one hand still tucked behind his back. His other hand came up to rub the back of his neck, a nervous tic you'd observed before. "I apologize, Dr. Song. You do indeed have a new patient, though I don't believe it's one you will be particularly eager to attend to."

Your lips curled up in a humorless smile as you took another puff of your cigarette. "I'm never eager to attend to criminals, Jong. So, who's the unlucky soul that has the pleasure of my company next?"

“Officer Hwa brought this one from the maximum-security jail downtown. The one in barbed wire and manned by guards that look like they eat nails for breakfast?" Yoon attempted humor, but it fell flat, and his eyes flickered with regret.

“And?”

“Well... It's… Seo Moonjo.”

Psychopathy, in bygone times, was synonymous with the concept of "evil." Individuals who reveled in inflicting harm or death on others have been chronicled since the time Medea took up an axe against her own offspring, and likely even prior to that. In 1888, the same year Jack the Ripper held London in the grip of terror, a German psychiatrist coined the term "psychopath" from the German word psychopatische, literally translating to "suffering soul."

This clue—the idea of suffering—was your gateway into understanding that these monsters were also in anguish. Viewing them as victims rather than perpetrators enabled a more rational, compassionate approach in your dealings. Psychopathy or sadism didn't just spring into existence from nothingness. They were not viruses, randomly infecting someone out of the blue. They bore a history, a prelude rooted in childhood.

Your belief was that experiences such as bruising knees from running in the backyard or losing a tooth soon to be claimed by the Tooth Fairy, were reactive. This means that to truly empathize with another human being, we ourselves must first be shown empathy—most importantly, by our parents or caregivers.

And Moonjo? Seo Moonjo seemed the type of man that naive young girls would send love letters to, sealed with their cheapest lipstick or a pair of lace panties. Because, despite his monstrous deeds, his square jawline, sharp features, and the way his tailored suits highlighted his lean physique rendered him attractive in the eyes of many.

Just yesterday, after returning home exhausted, brain pounding on your skull because Min Ju couldn't bring himself to sign the divorce papers, feet bloated, you watched in the news as women who had once trusted him with their children's dental care were now protesting in front of the prison. They claimed he was an angel, a helper sent by God.

But, hell no. Moonjo was no angel. He was a beast, a wolf in sheep's clothing, concealing his true nature behind the pristine white of his doctor's coat. His dental procedures were carried out with a precision that was unnerving. Seo Moonjo was a cannibal, a murderer, and a pyromaniac who eradicated his adoptive family in a spectacle of blood and fire.

Of course, you had dug deep into his case, folded the paper news, and pushed it in between the convenience store bench's slats. It was what your mother called a scandal sheet, full of the local murders he had committed and fake suicides and beatings and robbings, and just about every page about the deceased twins and that weird porn addicted man that lived with Moonjo in the Eden Studio had a half-naked lady on it with her breasts surging over the edge of her dress and her legs arranged so you could see to her stocking top or cats with their small, shiny guts exposed in trash bags.

From this extensive research, you suspected that there had been no one in his life—a caring grandmother, a favorite uncle, a benevolent neighbor, or a mindful teacher—to see his pain, to acknowledge it, and to help him process it. Anger, fear, and shame were too dangerous for the small child to deal with on his own. He didn't know how to deal with such emotions, so he didn't. Instead, he disowned these feelings; he didn't allow himself to experience them. He sacrificed his true self, along with all that unfelt pain and anger, to the Underworld, to the murky world of the unconscious.

This resulted in him losing touch with who he really was. The man, who was impeccably polite, genial, and charming, was provoked somehow. And the terrified child inside him lashed out in response, reaching for a knife and a lighter.

Moonjo could be a suffering soul.

Right?

Damn it. Just stop. You're already pushed to your limits, and you can't afford to shoulder his case either.

“Look, honey. I'm already swamped with other patients. It's just not feasible to add Seo Moonjo to my already overflowing plate. Can you imagine the added stress?" You mutter, eyes squinted shut, as you picture the growing pile of patient files on your desk. "Remember that Kwon guy? The one who had a schizophrenic episode and killed someone? Or that Kyung girl who defended herself against her rapist? Those were hard, sure. But Moonjo—he's on another level. He's someone who has committed a series of heinous acts and revels in them. This isn't like juggling a couple of extra appointments or adding a few more hours to my workday. This is like... like... stepping into a goddamn war zone without any armor!"

Suddenly, as you started to pace around the garden, an idea struck you. Your eyes snapped open, the cigarette almost fell from your lips and you swiftly turned to Jungwoo, who was watching you with wide eyes. "You remember that doctor, don't you? That one with the crooked nose?"

“Dr. Jung Hyun-Jae?”

“Yes, yes… Dr. Jung would be a more suitable choice for this case. He's been needing more challenging assignments, hasn’t he? It would be a perfect opportunity for him to sink his teeth into a complex case. Plus, it might distract him from his recent fixation with Nurse Ioona. She's been complaining about his constant attention. Where's Officer Hwa? I need to explain the situation to her and suggest Dr. Jung as an alternative.

Jungwoo’s eyes darted around nervously before he settled them on a pretty lavender (how ironic it was, right?) from the garden. He reached out for it and gently twirled the stem between his fingers.  “Well… Officer Hwa left. She did want to speak with you and rambled about how you were the only one capable of handling Seo Moonjo, but… I noticed you sneaking out through the fire emergency door and figured you were trying to avoid any additional work or confrontations. So I went ahead and filled out Moonjo’s report. Your first meeting with him is scheduled for today. It's on your wall calendar, right under the post-it note about picking up milk and eggs.”

Your heart skipped a beat at his words, the news catching you off guard.

This son of a bitch. Motherfucker. Idiot.

You clenched your fists to stop the urge to transform him into a purple puddle of limbs for real now. He was still new, still learning the ropes. And there was a good intention behind his actions. So, instead of lashing out at him, you sighed heavily and crushed your cigarette beneath your heels. You were in for a long day.

"Alright. Just...alright. But I'll need to juggle my schedule around, shuffle some patients here and there. This is going to be like solving a Rubik's cube blindfolded.” You muttered, rubbing your temples with the base of your palms, the onset of a stress-induced headache making itself known.

“He's out on the patio. Chained to four officers and three nurses because he asserted his right to a smoke break. Should I fetch him while you change your coat and prepare yourself for the consultation?" Jungwoo asked, his gaze shifting from the crushed purple petals in his hand to your clothes.

Change?

Looking down, you noticed the stain of vomit on the fabric of your lab coat, a gift from your husband on your first day at work. It had your name, Dr. Song Y/N, stitched in an elegant script on the left pocket. Fuck. Fucking great!

“Please, honey. And bring me some black coffee if you can; make it extra strong. I hate tea, it reminds me of the cough syrup my mother used to force down my throat as a child," you replied to Nurse Yoon without even looking at him again. Blood had risen to your face, now so hot that you thought you were with your eyes injected, while he, probably in new deception, should think that you were colored because of the cold wind.

What type of image were you inside his bambi eyes? A grieving mother or an insolent doctor?

Let's spin the Lucky Wheel, shall we, Mrs. Song?

Jungwoo, ever the diligent worker and one not to mingle in your business, had the courtesy to look sheepish as he handed over a thick manila folder (one that you weren't sure you had seen him bringing with him) stamped with the words "CONFIDENTIAL: SEO MOONJO.".

"I will, of course. But, first, here's the case file, Dr. Song. I've highlighted the most important parts," he said, extending the massive file towards you as if it were a bomb about to explode. The folder was thicker than the latest edition of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, a psychiatric bible that you often referenced. Its contents, as you anticipated, were likely far more disturbing.

"Thank you, Yoon. I appreciate it," you sighed, taking the heavy folder from him. You opened it, your eyes scanning over the pages filled with police reports, psychiatric evaluations, and a collection of distressing photographs that made your stomach churn. All evidence of Moonjo's crimes.

"Also," Yoon continued, biting his lower lip in a nervous habit you were becoming all too familiar with, "I've arranged for some extra security during your consultation with him. Officer Hwa insisted, said it was non-negotiable. I hope that's alright."

You nodded, appreciating the concern, although you couldn't help but feel a pang of annoyance. The last thing you needed was more people watching and more eyes to witness your struggle to maintain control. But you understood—the higher-ups wanted to ensure no harm would come to their staff at the hands of a dangerous psychopath.

Or maybe they just didn't want another bloody body in this institution and lawsuits on their hands.

After a significant period spent working within the asylum, it became evident to you that even in a place of death, there existed a social hierarchy. In comparison to the general hospital wings, the accommodations located in the main building were significantly larger and more expensive. Suites were rooms named after well-known Seoulites that had once been in the psychiatric unit, home to one of Korea's most notorious sociopaths. The Bah Suah suite was where Seo Moonjo was staying. To get there, one had to navigate past the under-stair canteen, home to vending machines offering various food and drink options and hard plastic chairs.

What was most crucial, however, was shedding this ugly uniform.

Your office was located in the oldest, most decrepit part of the hospital. Spiderwebs clung to the corners, and several corridor light bulbs were burned out.

As soon as you turned the doorknob, the door creaked open. The first thing that prompted a slight smile was the smell inside. It was distinct from the rest of the hospital. It didn't reek of antiseptic or bleach; instead, it oddly reminded me of an art gallery. A blend of canvas, paints and brushes, varnish, and wax. It took a moment for your eyes to adjust to the dimness, revealing an unfinished artwork leaning against the wall—an unexpected object within a hospital. About twenty metal art shelves stood out in the shadows, and on a table, a pile of both your sketches and those of patients towered upwards—an unstable tower of paper reaching for the sky.

It had been a considerable amount of time since you had leaned over a canvas, staining your fingertips and the tip of your nose with hues of color. The inspiration simply wasn't there anymore. The paintings gradually lost their meaning. Even when Min Ju would sit in a chair and watch you work after a shift at the firm, nothing changed.

For years, even before your marriage, you enjoyed painting his face. Strong jawline, pronounced cheekbones, elegant nose—sitting under the spotlight—he resembled a statue. A hero. However, something was off nowadays, and you couldn't tell what. Perhaps you were forcing the issue. You couldn't capture the shape of his eyes or their color accurately. The first thing you noticed about your husband when you met was the sparkle in his eyes—like a tiny diamond embedded in each iris. But now, you couldn't capture it.  Without corresponding to his entire face, the brown eyes were intraducible. As independent as if they were planted in the flesh of an arm, and from there they looked at you: open, wet.

It might be a lack of talent, or maybe Min possesses something more that doesn't translate into a painting anymore. It all came out lifeless every single time.

Well, maybe because that was what he had become for you: a dead entity, lifeless, a walking shadow that prefers clandestine meetings with the girl next door—Kim Ji-ah, the one who sold Dabang coffee from her little shop—rather than signing the divorce papers and emptying your house of his remnants. You yearned for him to take his collection of smelly socks, stained shirts—and god, those lipstick marks that were an egregious shade of red—and just leave. Useless.

Dropping the huge file somewhere in the mess and slipping into a fresh coat, you caught a glimpse of the note left by Jungwoo. Precisely where he promised it would be. Pinned to the wall calendar, right beneath the post-it note about the local grocery store—a place you could never bring yourself to enter, not without your gaze drifting towards the adjacent drug store, contemplating the prospect of acquiring an unhealthy amount of Paracetamol.

"Consultation 1. Seo Moonjo at 3 p.m." accompanied by a cartoonish drawing of a devil's face and a pitchfork in red marker—the kind of doodle one would expect from a schoolboy, not a professional nurse. You couldn't help but laugh at the irony of it.

Stepping out of your office, you felt the familiar cold air of the hospital corridors creep into your bones. The aged linoleum floor creaked under your weight as you made your way towards the Bah Suah suite. It was a walk you had done countless times, but with the impending consultation with Seo Moonjo, it felt different, heavier.

Navigating through the maze-like corridors, you passed by the under-stair canteen, which was buzzing with the sound of vending machines dispensing Lotte Choco Pies and cans of Chilsung Cider. Nurses and staff were huddled in corners, whispering about the latest hospital gossip over cups of instant coffee. Their eyes flickered towards you, hushed whispers growing quieter as you walked past them. You paid them no mind.

Just as you rounded the corner of the last hallway, you almost collided with Nurse Park Ji-Yeon, a recent graduate of Yonsei University's Nursing Program. Her arms were filled with a stainless steel tray laden with countless medication cups and water glasses and you noticed how her hands were stained lime green. Youthfulness, naivety and playfulness.

“Dr. Song, I didn't... I didn't expect to see you here," she stammered, her cheeks flushing a red that was reminiscent of the cherry blossoms that adorned the hospital grounds in the spring. You admired Ji-Yeon's work ethic and dedication; her timidity was often eclipsed by her eagerness to learn and assist patients. She was like a mirror image of your younger self, fresh-faced and pretty much graced with green.

"You need to watch where you're going, Ji-Yeon. Those are important medications you're holding," you advised her, bending down to pick up a bottle of pills that had rolled under a rusted hospital bed. Sertraline, prescribed to Mr. Kim in Song Joong Ki. You placed it back on her tray, ensuring it was secure.

"I will, Dr. Song. I apologize," she replied, bowing as charmingly as she could muster while equilibrating glasses of water. "I was just heading to administer afternoon medications to the patients in Ward C when… I heard about your consultation with Seo Moonjo," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper, as if the mere mention of Moonjo's name would summon him. Her eyes flickered at the closed door where the meeting would happen. “Is it true that he...that he indulges in...cannibalism?"

Your fingers massage your temples, a dull ache throbbing behind your eyes. Great. The rumors about Moonjo were spreading rapidly in the hospital's atmosphere like a malignant tumor . "We shouldn't speculate about patients, Ji-Yeon. It's unprofessional and contrary to the Hippocratic Oath we took."

"But he's a monster, isn't he?"

"Every patient, regardless of their actions, is a human being first and foremost, Ji-Yeon. The term 'monster' has no place in the lexicon of a healthcare provider. It's our duty to provide care and treatment without judgment or prejudice."

You’re so hypocritical, Y/N.

"But what about the things he's done? The people he's hurt?"

"Even so," you retorted, "our job is to heal, not to pass judgment. Justice is the court's responsibility, not ours. We are here to ensure that he is physically healthy and to provide the medical aid he requires."

Before she could respond, you waved her off dismissively, effectively ending the conversation. "Now, get going. Those medications won't be administered themselves. And who knows, Seo Moonjo might be coming to look for his pills," you admonished, leaving the young woman standing alone in the corridor, her mouth agape in stunned silence.

Two minutes later, you arrived at the Bah Suah suite, the heavy metal door cold under your touch, signaling that the old AC was already running. Taking a deep breath, you steeled yourself for the consultation and pushed open the door, stepping into the room that soon would hold the man known as the 'Cannibal Dentist' of Seoul.

The therapy room was a small and narrow rectangle, as empty as a prison cell, or maybe even more so. The window, barred, remained closed. On the little table, a shocking pink box of Kleenex tissues stood in stark contrast with its cheerful color—it must have been left there by Mrs. Chen; you couldn't imagine Jungwoo offering tissues to the patients.

You sat in one of the two faded and battered Eames lounge chairs. Minutes passed. No sign of Moonjo. What if he didn't show up? Maybe he hadn't agreed to meet you yet; maybe he hadn't finished his pack of Marlboro. And he'd be totally within his rights.

Impatient, anxious, nervous, you gave up sitting and suddenly stood up and went to the window. You looked out through the bars of the grid. The yard was three floors below. The size of a tennis court, it was bounded by large exposed brick walls, too high to be climbed, although undoubtedly someone had already tried. Every afternoon, the patients were led there to get fresh air for half an hour, whether they wanted to or not, and in this cold weather, it would be understandable if they resisted. Some isolated themselves, talking to themselves, or walked back and forth like restless zombies, going nowhere. Others formed groups, chatting, smoking, arguing. Voices, shouts, strange excited laughter reached you.

At first, your eyes failed to pick him out. It was only after scanning over the throng of people that you spotted him - a tall figure, as pale as the moonlight, leaning nonchalantly against the brick wall of the patio. A predator perfectly at ease in the midst of his prey.

Jungwoo navigated his way through the crowd, making a beeline for him. He exchanged a few words with the nurse stationed closest to the infamous serial killer - a petite woman named Eun-ji with a heart-shaped face and a sharp bob cut that framed her face. She nodded, her eyes wide behind her rectangular glasses.

Yoon approached Moonjo with extreme caution much like a wary zookeeper approaching a particularly unpredictable animal. You knew exactly what he would say, you had rehearsed it with him other times. He would inform the towering man that you, the in-house therapist, had requested a meeting with him. He would emphasize that it was a request, not an order. 

Moonjo remained as still as a statue as Jungwoo spoke, offering no indication of agreement or refusal. That was a good sign, you thought.

After a moment that felt like an eternity, Yoon Jungwoo turned on his heel and retreated, his hands buried in the pockets of his scrubs. A sinking feeling of defeat washed over you - he wasn't coming. You berated yourself internally for being so naive. This had been a colossal waste of time and energy, and you had missed your precious 30-minute power nap for this fiasco.

But just as you were on the brink of surrendering to your disappointment, to your utter surprise, Moonjo stirred. He took a step forward, following the retreating figures of the policemen and nurses across the courtyard until they were swallowed up by the hospital’s imposing structure.

So, he was coming after all. You cleaned your hands in your jeans and put your hands on your knees to stop your legs from bouncing. You tried to quieten the nagging voice in your head, the voice that sounded uncannily like your father, chastising you for not being good enough, calling you a fraud, asserting that a woman's place was in bed, awaiting her husband's return from work, naked and submissive.

Shut up, you thought, repeating it over and over: Shut up, shut up…

Two or three minutes later, there was a knock on the door. 

"Come in," you called out.

As the door creaked open, the personification of the monstrous deeds you had meticulously studied in countless newspaper clippings and confidential case files stepped into the room. His imposing figure, garbed in the standard-issue uniform of the Westlake Psychiatric Ward—a drab ensemble of worn-out hues that could only aspire to be called beige—filled the doorway. His eyes, the first thing you notice, were a striking shade of obsidian and held an unsettling gleam as they flickered over the confines of the consultation room before settling on you.

Words precede and overtake you; they tempt you and change you, and if you're not careful, it will be too late. Things will be said without you having said them. Or, at least, it wasn't just that. Your entanglement comes from the fact that a carpet is made up of so many threads that it can't resign itself to following just one thread. Your entanglement comes from the fact that this story is made up of many stories. And not all of them can be told—a truer word could, from echo to echo, bring your high glaciers crashing down the gorge. So you will no longer speak of the drain that was in you while he was staring at your face. Otherwise, you will think about how headlines or news articles could never do justice to the presence he commanded. His skin was luminous, almost translucent—a canvas of alabaster with the occasional vein peeking through the surface, like coloured threads embedded in white marble. He was a statue that came to life.

Moonjo’s raven hair, unconventional in its length for a man, covered his nape and framed his forehead in an innocent way. His smile, filled with teeth, was clear of any obstructions, allowing you to glimpse the unique shape of his insanity—water and desert, populace and wilderness, abundance and need, fear and challenge. Moonjo has in himself the eloquence and the absurd mudness, the surprise and the antiquity, the refinement and the roughness. Moonjo is baroque.

Still, right now, he is the first thing in your whole life that you look at and see no ounce or mention of color.

"Good afternoon, Dr. Song.” 

"Good."

You locked eyes with him, noting the spark of anticipation dancing in his gaze, before shifting your attention to the small assembly of officers and medical staff flanking him. Jungwoo is curling into himself while holding a paper bag from the cafeteria in his hand. This wouldn't do. Screw Officer Hwa and her requests; you wouldn't attend to someone while being vigilated like this.

Officer Park Seo-Jin, a woman as stern as the harshest Spartan matron, with her sharp, hawk-like features and a redish hair and attitude that brooked no nonsense, met your gaze. Adjacent to her stood Nurse Lee Min-Ho, a fresh addition to the hospital staff, nervously clutching a clipboard. He was a blue one.

Maintaining your gaze on Officer Park, you said in a firm voice, "Officer Park, I would like to conduct this consultation with Mr. Seo in privacy. You and your team may wait outside, perhaps in the waiting area. There's a coffee machine that makes a decent brew."

The officers exchanged surprised glances, clearly taken aback by your request. Officer Park's frown deepened, her lips forming a thin line as she locked eyes with you. "Dr. Song, with all due respect, I don't think that's a good idea. Given his history and Officer Hwa’s requests, it's better if we—"

"I understand your concerns, Officer Park, but I assure you, I can handle myself. I've been trained to do so. I believe Mr. Seo here can attest to that."

Moonjo tilted his head and smiled like the Cheshire cat as he noticed the thick file on the table behind you, eyes traveling over it greedily, like a grade-schooler staring at a chocolate fountain. He knows what lies inside. And he was fucking entertained. "She's right. I don't bite...unless provoked."

Officer Park looked like she was about to argue further as she shot a glare at Moonjo—a glare so icy it could rival the sub-zero temperatures of the Arctic tundra—but you held up a hand, stopping her. 

"I appreciate your vigilance, but I've dealt with patients similar to Mr. Seo before. My training is extensive and comprehensive. I know what I'm doing. Please wait outside."

After a moment of silence, Officer Park reluctantly agreed, her gaze lingering on you with a mixture of concern and admiration. "Let’s go then, boys. Out we go, or Miss Cold here will chop our heads off," she grumbled, shuffling towards the door. She paused at the threshold, her hand on the knob, before turning back to look at you. "You call us the second he steps out of line, you hear?"

“Sure.”

Reluctantly, the officers and nurses filed out of the room and as the door closed behind them, Jungwoo handed you a cup of black coffee, brewed with beans from a local roaster. The mug was warm in your hands, the black liquid inside steaming and swirling. It was just as you liked it—strong and bitter.

"Thank you, Jungwoo," you said, accepting the coffee. "And...thank you for understanding."

With a nod and a faint, yellow smile, Jungwoo retreated. He cast a last glance at you and Moonjo, his brows furrowed in worry, before finally disappearing behind the door.

As the door closed behind Seo Moonjo with a dull thud for the second time, echoing through the empty therapy room, the canvases on the wall seemed to lean in curiously, like ghosts that had seen better days. He walked with a hunched gait, shoulders slightly rounded, hands clasped together behind his back—an unsettling calmness about him that chilled you to your very core. Now, just the two of you, the air felt colder than before he entered, like he brought along a personal blizzard that set your nerves on edge. 

 Slowly, he takes a seat across from you, his legs crossed at the knee elegantly, like an art model posing for a painting session. His hands were large, rugged and bruised with what looked like fresh scratches from tools or rope. It took all of your self-control not to recoil at the sight of them. He leaned forward slightly, folding those monstrous hands on the table between you, atop a worn-out copy of Freud's 'The Interpretation of Dreams', and locked eyes with yours - unblinking, unwavering.

A moment passed where neither of you moved or spoke. You could feel his eyes raking over your face, examining every line and shadow on your own. It was disconcerting how easily he made eye contact. You forced yourself to return it, resisting the urge to shield yourself with your pencil and notepad. You wished you could paint over this unnerving moment, transform it into a stunning piece of art, and hang it in the vibrant hallways of the Louvre rather than being trapped in this dreary room.

Therapy is not your forte; art is your passion. But here you are, trying to understand this man who's been called a monster by everyone outside these walls. Inside them too? Who knows? Maybe there's more to him than meets the eye... or maybe they're all just stories that should never be told in this place that reeks of silence and stares back at you like a judgmental wallflower no matter what you do or say next to Seo Moonjo right now.

"Well then, Mr. Seo. Shall we begin?"

“Of course, jagiya.”

[katzkinder]

Servamp headcanons, ice cream edition! Because my grandma got an ice cream maker and we’re all super eager to try it out but then she broke her back (she’s fine, don’t worry)

Mahiru: plain old vanilla. Misono introduced him to vanilla BEAN ice cream though and he’s feeling a little guilty about wanting to splurge a bit for the more expensive, creamier stuff… Kuro is an enabler and his encouragement is the only reason he’s still managing to resist. Just do it Mahi!

Kuro: Cookies and Cream is his favorite, but he’s also partial to cookie dough, or crumbled chocolate mint cookies as topping. He likes both the taste and the texture

Misono: chocolate lol. He’s predictable. His absolute favorite though are those ultra decadent brownie batter type of chocolate ice creams. Yknow the ones. Chocolate pieces, brownie bits, hot fudge swirl… He gets sick off the stuff easily though, so even though he loves it, self control is everything

Lily: vanilla bean with strawberry topping and cheese cake bites! He loves fresh strawberries in his desserts, and often he and Misono will trade bites if they’re getting flavor fatigue. Also very rich but the strawberry helps cuts through the sweetness

Tetsu: a Basic Boi who loves GariGariKun the most. Prefers popsicles over dairy treats. Yeah technically this isn’t ice cream but like. It’s the taste of summer and after bath refreshments. I’m not taking that from him

Hugh: vanilla with hot fudge sauce (and/or blood). He still prefers his chocolate parfaits, or better yet for this scenario, a milkshake

Licht: yknow those ultra sweet cotton candy flavors? If it’s ice cream by itself, he loves that. But if it’s a float, it’s gotta be vanilla in melon soda. If you take him to marble slab or similar place that lets you mix in a bunch of toppings, he will make a beeline for the gummy bears. Gets disappointed every time that they turn hard and unpleasant to eat, even though he already knows the outcome

Lawless: he has two favorites. Coffee bean (distinct from just plain coffee flavor) and moose tracks. I’m not sure what that’s called in other places? Basically it’s vanilla with peanut butter cups and fudge. Only goes for this when he’s depressed, if I’m honest. Otherwise it’s too sweet.

Mikuni: haagen daz amaretto almond crunch and their hojicha latte flavor. Forever sad that the former was limited edition and doesn’t make seasonal returns. It was absolutely perfect for his and jeje’s terrible Netflix movie nights (with the occasional appearance by johannes so they could make fun of the bad science together)

Jeje: since Mikuni only buys haagen daz (spoiled pretentious shit) he’s grateful they a rich pumpkin flavor that becomes available during autumn. He also really likes horchata milkshakes for the comforting taste of cinnamon.

Iduna: Tried butter pecan once and was hooked. The crunchiness of the pecans is her favorite part. It’s her go to for when Haagen Daz Creamy Vanilla Pudding flavor isn’t in season. Back home, though, it’s got to be the rather… Unique. Salty licorice flavor. She gave some to shuuhei one time just to watch him gag. She knows what she’s doing to that poor boy.

Freya: the simple freshness of strawberry ice cream is her guilty pleasure. She been thinking of making her own with an old hand churner. It would be fun, right? And it’s not like it would be difficult to get the ingredients she needs.

Nicco: Pistachio gelato, though he also enjoys the tartness and slight bitter aftertaste of limoncello flavor. He likes taking Ildio with him whenever there’s a new flavor he wants to try but isn’t sure he’ll like. Even if he doesn’t care for it, his servamp probably will. Does that make him mean?

Ildio: No preference as of yet. He’s still figuring this whole… Tasting your food thing out

Tsubaki: as expected, he loves matcha and red bean flavors. REALLY excited some of the Hagen daz hanamochi series is becoming a permanent flavor

Sakuya: rocky road. Sweet, crunchy, and a little bitter on the back end from the chocolate. Refuses to admit it but he also enjoys the hanamochi series. He’s stubborn. Whenever he wins a free popsicle he gives the stick to Mahiru, so inevitably when they hang out, that’s what he buys if they stop at the konbini, just for the chance to maybe earn some good boy points with his best friend and crush. And he thinks he’s subtle—

Reblog with your own headcanons! I love seeing what people add to my posts :3

[picardsims]

Picardsims' 3k CAS Challenge

Sooooo I hit 3000 followers!! In order to celebrate, I invite everyone to participate in my little CAS challenge/contest!!!

Rules: Pick an apartment with a backstory that speaks to you (or multiple) and make a sim/family (your pick on whether you want to make the whole family or just one sim) who could live there. CC allowed, anything is allowed really. In two weeks (so, 22nd of April) I'll pick 3 of my favorites to get a prize! If you win, you can tell me any 3 build-buy items and I'll make them for you! (deco, unless it's something I 100% know how to make functional :>) In order for me to see it use the tag #picardsims3k (and tag me!! I'll see it sooner probably but I'll look at everything in the tag promise) Without further ado:

Apartment #1: Ro Kaya 62/1

Sims: 2 This apartment belongs to an elderly… couple? Two friends? Nobody knows and they're too scared to ask. You can find the tenants of this apartment in the hallway or on their balcony, keeping tabs on the neighborhood. Nothing gets past them. If you get on their good side, you will get invited for tea and get treated to fascinating stories from the past.

Apartment #2: Ro Kaya 62/2

Sims: 5 Is there enough space in this apartment for this married couple, their twins and their toddler? Definitely not. However, they just finished renovating it when they got pregnant (may or may not have been an accident), so it's not like they're going to move now… How long can the parents survive sharing their bedroom with their little one?

Apartment #3: Ro Kaya 62/3

Sims: 1 Their whole life, this Sim has wanted to be an artist. That didn't sit right with their straightlaced doctor parents, who refused to support them through art school. On impulse they moved to Tomarang and befriended a local painter, who allowed them to stay in their old apartment. Now that they're an award-winning graphic designer, their parents are finally trying to reconnect. Will they let them back in? Or is their chosen family the only one in their heart?

Apartment #4: Ro Kaya 64/1

Sims: 2 A single father raising a teenage daughter… What could go wrong? He's obsessed with plants, she loves gaming with her friends. She's mad he keeps putting plants in her room, he's mad she keeps putting laundry on the floor. However, no matter how hard they fight, there's nothing a midnight session of making pancakes together cannot fix.

Apartment #5: Ro Kaya 64/2

Sims: 2 After their grandmother passed, moving into her apartment was a dream come true for this Sim. Not so much for their partner. You see, grandma ran a very popular bakery, and they're supposed to inherit the business — sounds great, except they don't like baking all that much. One partner whose entire life has revolved around cakes and cookies, one partner who only uses the oven to make frozen pizza — can they handle the challenge? Or will their relationship crumble like bread with too much flour?

Apartment #6: Ro Kaya 64/3

Sims: 5 Two couples and one single person, this apartment sure is crowded. However, when you're just starting college, that doesn't sound all that bad — the rent is low, and there's always someone to party with! However, they'll soon learn it's not all loud music and cheap drinks — there's a line for the bathroom and you're never sure whose turn it is to vacuum (not yours though, that's for sure).

Remember: the tag is #picardsims3k, the deadline for the prize is 22nd of April (feel free to keep it going longer though!) and I'm incredibly thankful for each and every person who follows me (I am not kidding though dm me pictures of those pets I know you have them)

Enjoy! kotpicard

[scribble-dribble-writes]

Plastic hearts - (5)

<<<Prev Next>>>

---

Blast from the past

---

As you stood there clutching your chest, all your emotions catching up to you at once causing your eyes to leak, a door behind you burst open.

You turned towards the creaking sound to see a man step out. Another Ken most likely, but he didn’t hold himself like one. He was scowling, his fingers pinching his nose as he mumbled hastily pacing up and down this alley way, oblivious to your presence.

But when you sniffled, his head whipped up to see you, his face flooding with a brief second of relief before it crumbled further into anger. An expression you knew well now.

“You.”, he pointed a finger at you.

“You’re hours late.”, he said dramatically and you weren’t sure what the confusion was about.

“I think you’ve got me –

But he didn’t give you a moment to explain before he got a hold of your elbow to begin to lead you inside the establishment.

“I told you specifically to dress professionally, not look like some vintage grandma who makes butter cookies.”, he said, his words having an edge to it. You began to understand that although it sounded like a compliment, it wasn’t meant as one.

But the dark hallway passed to reveal a hot and steamy kitchen environment. Not many were around, but the vessels were bubbling and the dishes piled up. It reminded you of your shop, except that you had it well organized unlike the disarray around you now.

There was an older woman seated by the counter top, chopping tomatoes with a steady hand. Although she looked frail, the precision of her knife could only have come through years of practice. But just seeing her stopped the clock for a second. The wrinkles around her eyes, the only one to give you soft smile, the silent confidence with which she held herself. You had never seen anyone like her.

“Melissa, here’s your hired help.”, he set you in front of her but did so with a slight shove as though you were disposable.

“Not only was she late, she’s also dressed for the circus.”, he rolled his eyes looking down at your rollerblades. He moved away from you, to roll up his sleeves to begin prepping his station.

“Sam.”, the old lady chided him but it was incredible, she did it with just a slight alteration in her tone.

“Did you give her a chance to explain?”, she asked to which the man on the other side huffed.

“Just so she can tell me what I already know?”, he started to add his ingredients into his soup.

All his comments were beginning to alter your melancholic mood. It was as though a fire had sparked within you and with every word he spoke, it only began to grow bigger.

It was all in reverse here, for the first time ever, you began to truly feel how hurting it was to be in Ken’s shoes. To be spoken for or spoken over. To assume, to push aside another person just because you could.

“She’s here now, that’s all that matters.”, Melissa smiled at you and it felt comforting.

“Anna, a close friend of mine from the orphanage said that a girl she knew was looking for a job.”, she began to explain.

“It’s not much but I do really need an extra hand around here apart from Sam.”, she spoke as she slowly moved around to mix the salad together.

Even though you hadn’t known them before, you could pick up on the slight tension in the room. It almost looked like Sam wasn’t too happy with your presence being here.

“We’ll get you started with washing dishes first but as time progresses I could –

“You are only hired for a month, so during that tenure all that is required of you is to just wash the dishes and help with the flow during rush hours. Nothing else.”, he jumped in again.

But this time, Melissa only pursed her lips as she gave you an apologetic smile.

“What is your name?”, she asked trying to simmer down the heat in the room.

But the question only then reminded you that you never officially had a specific name. A name apart from the brand that felt personal, you could only remember one. As much as you wanted to forget all of it, all of him. You couldn’t.

You could still remember it now. The exact way he reclined by the window in your bakery, the way the sun seemed to always make him have that golden glow. He was impatient for you to finish the cupcakes he had ordered to present them as a surprise to Barbie but it was how he called for you in a sing song voice that it made it impossible to let this memory go. It had made you smile once, it still did.

If you were a cheesecake, I would call you Brie.

Only he would call you that, out of his silly nature to poke fun and somehow as you stood here feeling out of place, you knew it would strengthen you to move ahead with whatever this opportunity was.

“Briella.”, you nodded along.

*

Thinking about that unforseen start to your life in New York made you feel all the more grateful that in this cruel world, you met Melissa. She took you in under her wing. She was from the orphanage herself, she didn’t have children and her husband had passed early on in her life. But even through all that, she kept her wonderous smile.

Barbie land was a distant memory now, the skates you had first arrived with now in some cardboard box somewhere. But after five human years, you had achieved what you had come here for. To forget Ken and to understand yourself. You couldn’t remember how blue his eyes were. Or the sound of his laugh. Or the feeling when he pushed you away. None of it. You were very much a human now, so much so that you had no interest going back home.

Sam progressed to become the owner and star chef of this small deli that now was a fancy restaurant. You, however, were only allowed to progress to higher roles based on your skills that were assessed by one of Sam’s close circle of culinary school friends. And every time, the result would be unsatisfactory.

At first you thought it was your fault. You questioned your skill and talent. But as days passed, you soon began to understand this world’s working principle and how because you were a woman, you’re promotion was never going to come.

It grew more difficult when Melissa too passed with time. It wasn’t too long since when you had put together the funeral, but she was very much like a mother to you. Teaching you everything, from etiquette to ideals and what it means to survive as an independent woman. She helped find your identity and now your world was rocked to the core again.

Barbie land was cruel in it’s perfection while the real world was depressing for its mortality, only that losing a loved one hurt more than words could describe.

As you laid on your bed staring at the ceiling, hating the norms of this world, the status division, the unequal pay, the true woman experience of always having to be judged ten times harder or having to work ten times harder, you were now well versed that this world was a man’s world.

Your phone lit up with the notification of a text message and you picked it up with no motivation to get to work. It was from Sam with another petty task that wasn’t even in the kitchen.

“We’re catering for a local public school’s parent teacher meeting. Make sure you get there on time.”

You put it away. Sam loved his position of power and used it to also be a very difficult boss or maybe he just enjoyed making your life even more miserable. You were sure that nothing with regards to this party was even organized or ready. You got out of bed, having hardly slept, the sharp beep of your clock when the time read as six in the morning meant you had time to grab some fresh ingredients from the local market.

As predicted, nothing was set. So you put together the team and the menu for the day, did the prep, go to the location to set up, to begin the event and start serving orders, all while the acclaim and credit went to him as he turned up late to interact with the parents to get more funding, funding where not one cent was put towards kitchen repairs. Tolerating him now made you grow more bitter.

All the men you had dealt with so far have all been mediocre or worse. No one saw you, not here, not in Barbie land and listening to that stupid Ad made it impossible for you to imagine you could break out of that box or to reimagine your life because this was how good it was going to get. You can’t be anything or do anything in a world that has already pre-defined your value and trajectory of life.

You took a break to step out and heard the sound of kindergarten children in the playground. It was hard, to watch little girls carry dolls when their dreams could never get to be real. The fresh air was soothing. This uniform had become another form of containment, that what once was a mark of honour now became a cage.

All you craved now was a tenderness that you were convinced this world could never offer. A tenderness that was often present in Kens back in barbie land. But searching for that, here, was another foolish attempt. So you turned to leave when you heard a child squeal.

“Mister Ken, you made it.”

Your heart dropped, your feet wanted to run, while your eyes wanted to look towards the noise.

“I told you I would.”, you heard him speak and your eyes snapped to this approaching man.

His dirty blonde hair mixed with darker roots, his rimmed glasses and tucked in blue shirt that matched his stellar eyes. You stood in awe as you saw him, a near perfect replica of your Ken or most likely the only Ken to exist on this planet.

You pinched yourself in the hopes that this was a dream or a hallucination because all the memories you had forgotten about him only need a refresher to come back to flood your mind.

The children ran to him and he greeted them with the same warmth he had before. You couldn’t move, your feet stuck to the ground as you watched him. It was as though he had sensed it too, the way his gaze shifted from the children around him to slowly find yours. His blue eyes widening in surprise as he got up slowly, shocked as though he too had seen a ghost from the past.

“Brie?”, he asked and you were sure this was all make believe.

The stress got to you, from the deprived sleep and the grief, your knees wobbled and felt yourself begin to fall. So you did, in the hopes that the ground might treat you a bit nicer that your life had.

---

Tags:

@imogen-skye @ateliefloresdaprimavera

@meowkid1000 @jokersgrf @linacool13 @oh-kurva

@dreamsarenicer @memospacexx @haleysucks00

@ibetyouthinkaboutmefics @tempobaekh

@fallingwallsh @whatafreakingloser @lcversrockk

@imonmyvigilanteshh @constellationscharts

@eddiemunson4ever @freyafriggafrey @neptunelixir @iamruiningmylife @floralsightings

@ynbutbetter @lazyboikat @mrharringtonsbae

@spookyscellar @harleyquinn03 @haydensith

[bl4ckr0se-3006]

I have been rewatching the Equestria Girls, shorts included and I am still getting through the shorts at the moment and plan to move onto the series aftewwards, after finishing the movies for the first time I was reminded that I created an Au of the equestria girls characters. I named each of the girls a more human name, the names being as follows:

Wondercolts:

Rainbowdash - Dasha ‘Dash’ Rainbow

Twilight Sparkle - Twyla Sparkle

Rarity - Rachel ‘Rarity’ Bouffant

Fluttershy - Shyla Flutter

Pinkie Pie - Pinkamena ‘Pinkie’ Pie

Apple Jack - Jacqueline ‘Jack’ Bright

Sunset Shimmer - Sunniva ‘Sunny’ Shimmer

Rainbow Dash family:

Sister (Scootaloo) - Sydney ‘Sid/Scoots’ Rainbow

Pinkie Pie parents:

Father (Igneous Rock Pie) - Igneous Pie

Mother (Cloudy Quartz) - Sariyah ‘Cloudy’ Pie (Maiden surname name: Quartz)

Rarity Family:

Father (Hondo Flanks/Magnum) Magnus Bouffant

Mother (Cookie Crumbles/Betty Bouffant) - Betty Bouffant

Sister (Sweetie Belle): Belle Bouffant

Applejack family:

Mother (Pear Butter) - Buttercup Pear

Father (Bright Mac) - Macintosh ‘Mac’ Bright

Brother (Big ‘Mac’ McIntosh) - Macintosh ‘Mac’ Bright Jr

Sister (Apple Bloom) - Bloom Bright

Grandma (Granny Smith) - No need humanize her name

Fluttershy parents:

Father (Mr. Shy) - Mr. Flutters

Mother (Mrs. Shy) - Mrs Flutters

Sunset Shimmer family:

Mother (Stellar Flare) - Stella Shimmer

Father (Sunspot) - Solaris Shimmer

Brother (Sunburst) - Soleil Shimmer

I have an Aus for these characters. One being a Human/College/School Au and to some extent also an Equestria Girls Horror Au - which was partially inspired by the Rainbow Factory MLP. I would want to play Dasha for either and for this Au Scootaloo and Rainbow Dash are actually related as adoptive sisters both are also orphans. Also no I would not entirely be playing Rainbow Dash as a villain, it’s complicated just know Dasha’s personality was inspired by Rainbow Dash from the Rainbow Factory. If you’re interested pm I am happy to answer whatever questions you have. I can Rp either here or discord. Any ships I haven’t thought out beyond that I would want Dasha to be bi or lesbian. I am also looking to write Dasha as gender-fluid.

[ispyspookymansion]

hey saw you're collecting recipes which is so fun!! thought I'd hand over one of my own for Marranitos which are my favorite cookies in the world and this is the recipe my Tata (grandpa) taught me! <3

• 1 1/4 cups packed grated piloncillo (panela/brown cane sugar)

• 1/4 cups butter room temp

• 2 large eggs

• 1/3 cup of milk

• 1 1/2 teaspoon mexican vanilla/or vanilla bean paste

• 1 1/2 teaspoon baking soda

• 1 1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon

• 1 teaspoon ground ginger

• 3/4 cup molasses

• 1/4 cup honey

• 5 cups all purpose flour

▪︎ beat the grated piloncillo and butter together in a large bowl until combined. (Best to use an electric hand mixer) Add 1 egg, milk and vanilla then beat until smooth

▪︎ Add baking soda, cinnamon, ginger, molasses and honey and mix until it's combined

▪︎ Add in 3 cups of the flour, and continue adding flour and switch to using a large spoon to mix (wooden is best) when dough gets stiff. it'll feel a little crumbly or like it's not coming together but that's part of the process! you can start to use your hands to knead in the flour and it will come together more and should be able to be rolled out

▪︎ turn the dough out onto some plastic wrap and wrap it up, throw it in the fridge and wait about an hour

▪︎ preheat your oven to 350° and either grease your baking tray or line with parchment paper (I recommend the parchment paper tbh)

▪︎ it makes a lot of dough so what I do is cut it in half and wrap one half back up until I'm ready to deal with it. (you can also freeze the other half of the dough for a few days if you want) roll out one half on a surface dusted with some flour to keep from sticking

▪︎ cut out the cookies (traditionally you would use a pig shape cookie cutter but if you don't want to buy one, you can honestly just use any shape) place them on your baking tray. You can go ahead and roll out the other half of the dough and cut out more cookies

▪︎ beat the remaining egg and brush thin coats onto the cookies before putting them into the oven. Bake for 10-15 minutes until they start to turn golden around the edges, you can also stick a toothpick in the middle (especially if your cookies are a little thick) and when it comes out clean they're done!

these cookies are such a comfort to me and my family and they're great with coffee or hot chocolate (my great grandma used to dip hers in champurrado during the holidays) I hope you get to make them and let me know what you think if you do!!

AW YES these sound so good i will for sure keep an eye out for a pig cookie cutter. maybe i will raid my familys cookie cutter collection and see if they have one surely they wont miss it……thank you :D

[sso-montana]

Whats Montana’s favorite food? And does she have like a comfort food that she eats when shes sad?

Also what’s her favorite horse breed?

HELLO HELLO HI :D

Her favorite food are sosaties with rice! Sosaties are South African beef skewers and her adoptive mom always made them for her and the rice... she just really likes rice lmao (her grandma actually got the recipe when Montana was a kid and maybe she cried a little after realizing it wasn't lost)

When she's sad she either forgets to eat entirely or she craves cookies. And it hast to be those classic cookies with chocolate chips and they can't be too crumbly. And hot chocolate is always good. Hot chocolate is nice and warm and cozy and when made from leftover Christmas chocolate with marshmallows even better

Her favorite horse breed are shires! She's biased tho because of Onyx and if we take him out of the equation it's the Clydesdale, they're big and floofy but not so tall that she has trouble getting up there herself

[forest-falcon]

Adding again to my WIP. I'm terrible at thinking of titles or writing things in order, so apologies again!

OC Lieutenant Tamara Fielding is recovering on Tracy Island from the mecha attack. (I'll join the two bits up eventually!) Virgil suggest they play a board game and chaos ensues! Thunderpuns ahead!

Content Warning for language.

****

"Hey, Virgil was wondering if you'd be up for playing a board game of some kind? He thought you might like some company?"

The youngest Tracy poked his head around the infirmary door. Youngest...that must be Alan?

"That'd be great, but don't feel the need to entertain me if you're busy. First responder. I get it." Tam spoke out of duty rather than want. She was sociable by nature, and the infirmary, while pleasant, was not overly interesting.

"Ah, we're off-duty right now. Even first responders have to rest, right?"

"Tell that to Chief McCready!"

"Yeah, Scott's the same to be fair."

"But yes - I'd love a board game."

"Awesome. I'll message Gordie on the group chat. I'm sure he'll be up for playing."

The youngest tapped away on his phone, before the sound of heavy boots announced Virgil's return.

"I come bearing gifts!"

The older Tracy signalled the ladened tray he was carrying by lifting it slightly.

"Coffee?" Tam smiled at him hopefully.

"And cookies."

"Oh! Marry me!"

Virgil chuckled.

"No fair, I can't play that card!"

"Oh quit whining you; I brought enough for all of us."

"Love you Virgie. So...whatcha got?"

Alan peered over the tray, displaying the level of self-control demonstrated by most four-year olds.

"Chocolate Chip or Snickerdoodles."

"Nice! Wait...Grandma didn't bake them, did she?"

The teen visibly deflated.

"No, you're safe. These were baked by yours truly."

"Awesome! Did you bring me coffee?"

"Milkshake."

Virgil handed over the dewy glass.

"Love ya bro!"

"You not a fan of coffee?"

Tam gratefully accepted her steaming brew.

"Hot bean water? Nah! Give me a chocolate shake anyday!"

Virgil rolled his eyes

"Like you need more sugar." .

Alan gently bounced on the foot of the bed.

"Something's gotta fuel all this energy!"

He took a long slurp of the chocolate shake.

"So! What we playing?"

"Mahjong? Gordon messaged saying he's gonna join us in a minute. We can start building the wall while we wait." Virgil said, tipping out the tiles.

"But first, cookies!" Alan announced, swiping one from the plate.

"Oooh, just you wait until I tell Grandma that you didn't offer the plate to our guest first!" Virgil wagged a finger at him.

"You wouldn't!"

"Why wouldn't I?"

"Because you love me? And you're totally my favourite bro?"

"Nice try kid."

Alan was such a suck up.

"Besides, I have to take the chance now before Gordon gets here 'n' devours them all."

"Fair point. Nevertheless! Manners!"

Virgil sipped his coffee, trying to maintain an air of disapproval.

Alan gave Tam a sheepish smile.

"Sorry Lieutenant."

The words were churned out alongside a myriad of Snickerdoodle crumbs.

That earned another eye roll.

Virgil offered the plate to Tamara.

She smiled at him.

"Please, call me Tam."

"Alright! Cookies!" Gordon exclaimed, leaping over the back of a chair before sitting in it.

Virgil quickly snatched a triple chocolate one before Gordon could hook the plate.

The engineer looked furtively for a safe place to stash the cookie before deciding that holding the treat between his lips would be the safest bet. He began stacking the Mahjong tiles.

Gordon began stacking the cookies.

Tamara helped with the tiles then paused with a frown.

Virgil's soft-baked cookie, though valiantly attempting to defy gravity, was beginning to break under its own weight.

Instinctively, she lurched for the falling treat; attempting to catch the confectionery before it could hit the floor. Her hand collided with the snack...and failed to stop. The act somehow resulting in crumbled cookie being rammed rather unceremoniously up Virgil's nose.

"Oh God, I'm sorry!"

Virgil attempted to wave off her concern.

F*ck, that stung.

"The cookie - I was just trying to catch it!"

Tam flustered, visibly dying of mortification before his eyes.

Don't sneeze, don't sneeze! His eyes streamed with the effort, but it was no use.

Gordon was laughing.

Of course Gordon was laughing.

"Hey, at least we have a third flavour of cookie now! Choc chip, Snickerdoodle and bisnotty!"

Alan choked on his drink.

Urgh, he was surrounded by idiots.

He sneezed into his elbow, desperately trying to shield Tamara from the projectile crumbs now raining from his nose.

Alan was in hysterics. His laugh nearing a pitch only dogs could hear.

"Geez Al - you sound like some kinda constipated peacock!" Gordon laughed.

That observation set Tamara off too.

Fantastic.

"S'not that funny!" Virgil mumbled from somewhere behind the hospital-blue tissue he was dragging across his face.

"Snot funny?" Gordon roared.

Alan slid from the bed, shrieking in hysterics; the laughter infecting them all.

"Yeah Allie, now you're really taking the biscuit!" Gordon managed.

"I think Virgil's nose did that!" Tam cried.

Alan's shrieking intensified.

Tam wondered about the vague danger of the astronaut swallowing his own tongue.

Gordon had tears rolling down his face.

"Ooooh it hurts, it hurts!" Tam wailed, holding her midsection through her laughter.

Virgil's heart skipped a beat. It was good to see Tam laugh. She really was beautiful when she smiled. Well, she was beautiful when she didn't smile. She was beautiful. Damn.

"Ow, ow, ow, ow!"

Tamara was still laughing, but her eyes suggested that pain was beginning to rival her mirth.

"Right. You two. Out!"

Gordon, struggling against his own laughter, began to drag his younger brother across the polished infirmary floor by an ankle.

"Chrissake Gordie, he's not a rag doll! Get him on his feet!" Virgil bellowed above their laughter.

Gordon made a valiant attempt in trying to get the young astronaut to stand, but Alan's laughter had apparently rid his legs of their ability to bear weight.

With some flailing of limbs; he managed to scoop his younger brother into a fireman's lift. And the amused aquanaut staggered out of the door.

"You okay?"

His eyes were on hers, searching for any sign of distress. If his brothers' antics had managed to set back her recovery; he'd kill them himself.

"Shouldn't I be asking you that question?"

"Tamara..."

"Tam. You can call me Tam. And I'm fine, Virgil. Better than fine, in fact. I've not laughed like that since training!"

"Ah yes. I fell victim to a fair few pranks myself when doing my fire training."

"Flour in the pillowcase on night Shift?"

"Nah, they just ran off with my towel and all my clothes when I was in the shower."

"Nice!"

"Captain Porter never let me live that one down."

"I bet."

"Still, from what I've heard; Scott and Gordon had a worse time of it in the military. They were pranked pretty much non-stop. Scott, I remember, was sent for some camouflage paint and a long stand."

"He seriously fell for that?"

"We were all rookies once upon a time."

"And Gordon....he had someone detonate a small explosive full of talc like two minutes before inspection."

"No way!"

"Yup! Don't think there was a single piece of kit that wasn't covered!"

Virgil smiled.

"I'm guessing you're the one doing the pranking now you're higher up in the ranks."

"Of course. Gotta keep those rookies on their toes!"

He hesitated.

"You miss your team?"

"A little...but there's worse places to vacation."

She gestures to the palms beyond through the infirmary window.

"And the company's not too bad either."

"Not too bad?"

"Yeah, you'll do." Tam flashed him a wicked grin.

[grandma-susan]

❓

( back at ya haha)

Does my muse trust yours?   

If it ever came down to it, she reluctantly does, but she will say she doesn't trust him because she has no idea how long it would take him to actually deliver.

"I trust that he intends to do what he says he'll do, but it will likely take a millennia for him to actually do it, because he's wading through all his woes, anxiety, depression, inferiority complex, superiority complex and ducks, so...."

Does my muse dislike yours?

"No" But she treats him like she does. Do you like him though, Susan? "No."

Would my muse kill someone for yours?

Susan looks up from sharpening her garden tools, "Does he even need me to? He was one of the founding Angels of Mankind, King of Hell, doubt he would ever needs me or my foxes to rip someone's throat out. But if we make a written agreement on a hit, I would."

Would my muse kill your muse?

Susan takes a long sip from her tea cup, racking her brain for that answer. "No. So long as he never becomes God. God is the number one bastard on my hit list. So if he doesn't become god then he has nothing to worry about."

Would my muse save yours? 

"No one can save him from his crippling depression."

I think they mean like in a dire situation.

Susan nibbles on a cookie, thinking of hypothetical scenarios. "Assist, yes. Save, Ha! Ha! Ha! Let's be real sweetheart, the day he needs saving from an old Sinner like me is when Earth implodes, Hell freezes over and Heaven crumbles under its own lies. He's the 'TANK' the deus ex machina, as the kids say these days. What a comedy it would be if I threw a saucer at someone's head for them to be distracted long enough for him to do the killing blow. Don't angels heal pretty quickly too? Don't think he'd need my medical knowledge. But if he ever did....sure, but dont expect to be coddled. Striker can vouch for me."

Does my muse find your muse attractive? 

Susan grimaces, "Like a cockatiel? Maybe? Oh mean sex appeal?" Susan looks over at Lucifer. "If it weren't for those aviator pants maybe he'd look smart."

Is my muse disgusted by yours? 

"When he blubbering and spiraling, yes."

would my muse go on a date with your muse?  

"Like what? Bring your grandma to work day? Free ice cream with grandma? Free admission with a senior citizen?"

would my muse kiss yours?  

"1 in a quintillion chance." So there is a chance? "This is not a Disney Movie and I'm not a Disney Princess or a Fairy Godmother!"

would my muse betray yours?   

"I pledge loyalty to no one, but I don't break promises."

my muse’s favorite thing about yours is ____

"When he's not in the corner farming mushrooms, he at least attempts to put an effort into things, despite his uncertainty. I can see the optimist under all that garbage he carries around. Its a matter how he delivers it."

the thing my muse dislikes about yours is_____

"His insults are lacking. He's been down in Hell for so long and he's still got the mouth of an Angel on his first day to Hell."

[seekingstars]

Gate A-4 - Naomi Shihab Nye

Wandering around the Albuquerque Airport Terminal, after learning

my flight had been delayed four hours, I heard an announcement:

"If anyone in the vicinity of Gate A-4 understands any Arabic, please

come to the gate immediately."

Well—one pauses these days. Gate A-4 was my own gate. I went there.

An older woman in full traditional Palestinian embroidered dress, just

like my grandma wore, was crumpled to the floor, wailing. "Help,"

said the flight agent. "Talk to her. What is her problem? We

told her the flight was going to be late and she did this."

I stooped to put my arm around the woman and spoke haltingly.

"Shu-dow-a, Shu-bid-uck Habibti? Stani schway, Min fadlick, Shu-bit-

se-wee?" The minute she heard any words she knew, however poorly

used, she stopped crying. She thought the flight had been cancelled

entirely. She needed to be in El Paso for major medical treatment the

next day. I said, "No, we're fine, you'll get there, just later, who is

picking you up? Let's call him."

We called her son, I spoke with him in English. I told him I would

stay with his mother till we got on the plane and ride next to

her. She talked to him. Then we called her other sons just

for the fun of it. Then we called my dad and he and she spoke for a while

in Arabic and found out of course they had ten shared friends. Then I

thought just for the heck of it why not call some Palestinian poets I know

and let them chat with her? This all took up two hours.

She was laughing a lot by then. Telling of her life, patting my knee,

answering questions. She had pulled a sack of homemade mamool

cookies—little powdered sugar crumbly mounds stuffed with dates and

nuts—from her bag—and was offering them to all the women at the gate.

To my amazement, not a single woman declined one. It was like a

sacrament. The traveler from Argentina, the mom from California, the

lovely woman from Laredo—we were all covered with the same powdered

sugar. And smiling. There is no better cookie.

And then the airline broke out free apple juice from huge coolers and two

little girls from our flight ran around serving it and they

were covered with powdered sugar, too. And I noticed my new best friend—

by now we were holding hands—had a potted plant poking out of her bag,

some medicinal thing, with green furry leaves. Such an old country tradi-

tion. Always carry a plant. Always stay rooted to somewhere.

And I looked around that gate of late and weary ones and I thought, This

is the world I want to live in. The shared world. Not a single person in that

gate—once the crying of confusion stopped—seemed apprehensive about

any other person. They took the cookies. I wanted to hug all those other women, too.

This can still happen anywhere. Not everything is lost.

[fluttering-slips]

Wandering Around an Albuquerque Airport Terminal After learning my flight was detained 4 hours, I heard the announcement: If anyone in the vicinity of gate 4-A understands any Arabic, Please come to the gate immediately. Well – one pauses these days. Gate 4-A was my own gate. I went there. An older woman in full traditional Palestinian dress, Just like my grandma wore, was crumpled to the floor, wailing loudly. Help, said the flight service person. Talk to her. What is her Problem? we told her the flight was going to be four hours late and she Did this. I put my arm around her and spoke to her haltingly. Shu dow-a, shu- biduck habibti, stani stani schway, min fadlick, Sho bit se-wee? The minute she heard any words she knew – however poorly used - She stopped crying. She thought our flight had been canceled entirely. She needed to be in El Paso for some major medical treatment the Following day. I said no, no, we’re fine, you’ll get there, just late, Who is picking you up? Let’s call him and tell him. We called her son and I spoke with him in English. I told him I would stay with his mother till we got on the plane and Would ride next to her – southwest. She talked to him. Then we called her other sons just for the fun of it. Then we called my dad and he and she spoke for a while in Arabic and Found out of course they had ten shared friends. Then I thought just for the heck of it why not call some Palestinian Poets I know and let them chat with her. This all took up about 2 hours. She was laughing a lot by then. Telling about her life. Answering Questions. She had pulled a sack of homemade mamool cookies – little powdered Sugar crumbly mounds stuffed with dates and nuts – out of her bag – And was offering them to all the women at the gate. To my amazement, not a single woman declined one. It was like a Sacrament. The traveler from Argentina, the traveler from California, The lovely woman from Laredo – we were all covered with the same Powdered sugar. And smiling. There are no better cookies. And then the airline broke out the free beverages from huge coolers – Non-alcoholic – and the two little girls for our flight, one African American, one Mexican American – ran around serving us all apple juice And lemonade and they were covered with powdered sugar too. And I noticed my new best friend – by now we were holding hands – Had a potted plant poking out of her bag, some medicinal thing, With green furry leaves. Such an old country traveling tradition. Always Carry a plant. Always stay rooted to somewhere. And I looked around that gate of late and weary ones and thought, This is the world I want to live in. The shared world. Not a single person in this gate – once the crying of confusion stopped – has seemed apprehensive about any other person. They took the cookies. I wanted to hug all those other women too. This can still happen anywhere. Not everything is lost.

Naomi Shihab Nye

[sorreleater]

Gate A-4

Naomi Shihab Nye

Wandering around the Albuquerque Airport Terminal, after learning

my flight had been delayed four hours, I heard an announcement:

"If anyone in the vicinity of Gate A-4 understands any Arabic, please

come to the gate immediately."

Well—one pauses these days. Gate A-4 was my own gate. I went there.

An older woman in full traditional Palestinian embroidered dress, just

like my grandma wore, was crumpled to the floor, wailing. “Help,"

said the flight agent. "Talk to her. What is her problem? We told her the flight was going to be late and she did this."

I stooped to put my arm around the woman and spoke haltingly.

"Shu-dow-a, Shu-bid-uck Habibti? Stani schway, Min fadlick, Shu-bit-se-wee?" The minute she heard any words she knew, however poorly

used, she stopped crying. She thought the flight had been cancelled

entirely. She needed to be in El Paso for major medical treatment the

next day. I said, "No, we're fine, you'll get there, just later, who is

picking you up? Let's call him."

We called her son, I spoke with him in English. I told him I would

stay with his mother till we got on the plane and ride next to

her. She talked to him. Then we called her other sons just

for the fun of it. Then we called my dad and he and she spoke for a while

in Arabic and found out of course they had ten shared friends. Then I

thought just for the heck of it why not call some Palestinian poets I know

and let them chat with her? This all took up two hours.

She was laughing a lot by then. Telling of her life, patting my knee,

answering questions. She had pulled a sack of homemade mamool

cookies—little powdered sugar crumbly mounds stuffed with dates and

nuts—from her bag—and was offering them to all the women at the gate.

To my amazement, not a single woman declined one. It was like a

sacrament. The traveler from Argentina, the mom from California, the

lovely woman from Laredo—we were all covered with the same powdered

sugar. And smiling. There is no better cookie.

And then the airline broke out free apple juice from huge coolers and two

little girls from our flight ran around serving it and they

were covered with powdered sugar, too. And I noticed my new best friend—

by now we were holding hands—had a potted plant poking out of her bag,

some medicinal thing, with green furry leaves. Such an old country tradition. Always carry a plant. Always stay rooted to somewhere.

And I looked around that gate of late and weary ones and I thought, This

is the world I want to live in. The shared world. Not a single person in that

gate—once the crying of confusion stopped—seemed apprehensive about

any other person. They took the cookies. I wanted to hug all those other women, too.

This can still happen anywhere. Not everything is lost.