vanillanemo



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  1. Public Bookmark *

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    ...I guess I should just say it. I was wondering if you'd—”

    “I think we should stop seeing each other.”

    “—like to come to my cottage this summer.”

    The plate slips from Shane's hand and shatters on the kitchen floor.

    Or: Shane doesn't get injured that night Montreal plays Boston. Ilya follows through on his plan to break things off with him. Well, he tries, at least.

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    15 Jul 2026

  2. Public Bookmark *

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    15 Jul 2026

  3. Public Bookmark *

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    Cliff had to approach this correctly, or Ilya was liable to sock him in the jaw and clam up entirely. Subtlety was his friend here.

    And all of that flew immediately out of his head the moment that Ilya opened his front door, looking sweaty and shirtless and mildly pissed off, which was pretty much his standard look.

    “Are you moving to Canada for some fuckboy?” was how the question came out of his mouth instead.

    AKA the time that Cliff Marleau figured almost all of it out

    Now available in Russian!

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    15 Jul 2026

  4. Public Bookmark *

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    Shane’s heart drops into his stomach. “Ilya,” he breathes. His vision goes blurry, throat tight. He tries to swallow it down and focus, shove his swirling thoughts into a neat little box, but it’s impossible. He feels—he might throw up, actually. “Are you seriously telling me you tried to fucking kill yourself?”

    “Yes,” Ilya agrees blandly, “It did not work.”

    Ilya calls Shane from the hospital. Shane handles it very normally.

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    15 Jul 2026

  5. Public Bookmark *

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    If Yuna had been a different kind of person: one with a different mother, perhaps, with different scars, then maybe she would have embraced her gift. Cultivated it, shared it.

    Instead she pretended it didn’t exist. Except for the times when she couldn’t avoid it.


    Mich put it down to the grass Yuna had smoked at the Halloween party the following night.

    Grass didn’t do this.

    Déjà vu wasn’t quite right. She’d had that before. No, this was knowing that what she’d seen was going to happen. In the future. Sera vu, or something like that. Preemptive.

    She did not call it Seeing. Not even to herself.

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    15 Jul 2026