#geeky academic shit

[spock-in-awe]

Hey, so, I made up a term and wrote a whole thing. Hope you enjoy.

Inspired by the concept of liminal spaces, liminal space characters are narratively stuck, their subjectivity seemed rendered inert. They are resistant to transiting to the next phase, on the brink of possible transformation if only they could figure out the how of transforming. However, this arrested character growth is designed by skillful hands to be temporary, and the resulting arc of change is heightened by that seemingly fixed–and problematically so–starting place.

An inherent trope among these characters is a bridging multiple worlds, identities, or contexts. They inhabit an “in-between,” a space of discomfort, uncertainty, waiting, and denial (relating to the personal, the public, or reality itself). Narratively, there might be an impending change on their horizon that they work to avoid, sacrificing pieces of their own ethical system to reach that aim. They might be running from their past actions, straddling multiple spheres of existence, or haunted by what they’ve done but unable to face the consequences. Others might be so committed to completing a task bestowed upon them they barely assess whether they are capable of even doing so. In worse emotional places are those characters who complete the task set before them, only to realize it was a horrible mistake.

At the root is their relationship to subjectivity. Who directed their understanding of self? When did that occur? Was it purposefully manipulative or purely environmental? To move through the liminal space, they must define their own subjectivity, and take control of their own identities after being buffeted by expectation, lineage, or limited opportunities.

One of the most persuasive liminal space characters of the last ten years is Ben Solo, or Kylo Ren, in the Star Wars universe. He is born under incredibly traumatic circumstances, his lineage being a splinter of the light side and the dark. Impossibly high expectations are thrust upon him before he enters the world, so too is a sinister invasion intended to corrupt him in the womb. He is purposefully kept ignorant of his grandfather’s actions, deprived of an opportunity to come to terms with the damage wrought those decades prior. Ben’s parents don’t quite notice how calculating the dark side is, or avoid doing anything about this understanding, until they send him to his uncle’s Jedi Temple. Even under his Master-level uncle’s observation, Ben struggles to integrate everything that is seemingly at odds inside him; the pull to the light, the pressure of the dark. Consequently, he is left in a state of fractured identity, split between what is acceptable and unacceptable, unable to find his place in a galaxy ruled by strict binaries. This tension boils to the surface as rage, violence, hopelessness, and subservience to those he turns after his family members fail him.

Another excellent example is Spock in the Star Trek universe. He is born half human, half Vulcan, a duality that leads to lifelong struggles not only within himself, but in the galaxy, as well. While he must suppress his emotions through training and social expectation, his internal system of rationality is encouraged during his childhood on Vulcan. Despite his father’s choice to partner with a human woman, Sarek seems to resent Spock’s individuality. In Vulcan schools, Spock is bullied by his peers for that part of his identity of which he has no control. In a more recent iteration of Star Trek, it is revealed that Spock also has a form of dyslexia, setting him further apart from those he might otherwise find a connection with. He is a unique individual, someone whose adversities aren’t recognized by those he encounters–let alone seen and validated–and so he is left to find a balance within himself with little support. His world is also one of defined boundaries, clear parameters for acceptable behaviors. This path isn’t easy for him, especially when he seeks to relate to those he finds himself drawn to, or forced to spend time with. Depending on the era of Star Trek, he deflects the advances of those around him, or falls under the influence of an alien biologic, for example, wherein he is allowed to express emotions, and later confesses that being under the pollen’s influence was the only time he felt happy.

Both these examples share a commonality: they are pushed a certain direction in response to family obligation, social expectation, or environmental constraints. This can even go as far as childhood abuse or neglect that carries on through their lives. From the clay of their childhood experiences, the liminal space characters are taught it doesn’t matter what they want for themselves; they must accept and perform an identity according to what people around them dictate as acceptable. For Ben Solo, it is dutiful Padawan to his own detriment, while as Kylo Ren, he is a conflicted tool used by those he bows to. Spock defaults to appearing as a distanced and capable science officer, hiding any internal tumult he may experience. Both have suffered for their struggles and crave relief.

For some, there is a distinct lack of agency often assigned, something that happened at the start of their journey that was entirely out of their control. Ji-Ah, a liminal space creature from Lovecraft Country, is possessed by a spirit that wreaks havoc on those she encounters. She did not consent to the spirit’s arrival–her mother invited it in for reasons all her own–and the human Ji-Ah loses her identity in the process. What is intriguing about this arc is how the spirit is the one to change, not the negated human within. That person was lost, replaced by a spirit who transforms for the better.

San, from Princess Mononoke, was abandoned by her parents in the forest. She was discovered by the Wolf Clan, whose leader Moro takes the human child in as her own to raise entirely as if she were a wolf. As San grows up with deep hatred of humans, she must confront the truth of her existence; that she comes from them, was abandoned by them, and now commits her life to stopping their destruction of the natural world. Her transition through the liminal looks similar to her starting place, living as a wolf, yet her internal conflict finds resolution through connecting with a human man she can trust.

To achieve their goals (which are usually not intrinsically motivated but outwardly so), they may suppress their innate tendencies. These often include compassion, empathy, tenderness, or caretaking. This leads to immense conflict, both externally as they aim to reach certain objectives, or internally as they combat or try to eliminate this intense intrinsic struggle. This conflict may cause violent behaviors, mental instability, or emotional chaos. When these characters are coded as “villains,” they often cause intense harm to others and themselves. They do this usually out of desperation to survive, to fit in, or perhaps to avoid perceived judgement. Depending on the narrative, they are given an opportunity to make amends for this harm. But usually in western media, they are not redeemed, let alone offered the chance to atone for the damage they inflicted while they struggled to actualize as their true selves.

The heroic versions, of which the Star Trek universe has many, benefit from extra layers of character depth, which offers an arc that builds effectively over several seasons. Whether it is an android who observes humans around himself and wishes to emulate their mannerisms, or a previous human-machine hybrid forced to sever herself from the greater machine organism, these characters depend on the external to define their identities. It takes much longer for them to find that truth within themselves.

Other characters fall into a middle ground between villain and hero coding. One such example is Ed Teach, or Blackbeard, in Our Flag Means Death. He inhabits the world as a fulfillment of his own stereotypes and exaggerations. He claims to care about little and presents a bravado to match the fearsome illustrations in history books. But eventually we see his immense dissatisfaction with the role he has been performing. His liminal space, similar to the rest, is that of moving away from this project front toward authenticity.

Joel Miller, a character originated in the Last of us video game and portrayed in a streaming show of the same name, begins as a regular man. He has a daughter, a brother, a job. It is only because of horrifying circumstances that he is forced to transform. He makes himself cold, violent, and ruthless. There can be no remainder of his previous self. Until he encounters someone to protect, and protect, he does, much to his own aggravation. His circumstances are some of the most dramatic across narratives, and how he integrates, or fails to integrate, his warring selves has fascinated audiences for over a decade.

Neither of these previous two examples have conclusions in their streaming narratives at this point. Both are left on the cliffhanger of violence, of rejection of social expectation around them. Both revert to a previous state of being, but in different ways: Ed to his Blackbeard persona, Joel to his protective father role. Whatever results from these decisions (however conscious or reactionary they are), is inconsequential. And therefore, potentially read as villainous once more, buckling under the pain of the past and fear of that suffering’s return.

The character Spike in Buffy the Vampire Slayer willingly suffers for his previous actions. Over time, he begins to recognize what he has done, takes action to make amends, and fights for his redemption. Though by the closure of the show he is deprived of what he most craves–connection–his final actions are entirely the opposite of his original ones. He countered the vampire tendencies within himself, found wholeness, and dedicated himself to a goal that was selfless.

As Spike was for some time, these characters can be confused about where they belong and crave that understanding and connection. There is a deep ache to be understood, though few of them acknowledge this desire. In fact, many go out of their way to deny it, to pretend otherwise. 

The character of Nimona, originating in the graphic novel of the same name, traverses the murky landscape of being a shape shifter. She camouflages her deep interest in finding a companion by presenting herself as a “sidekick,” someone for the villain mastermind to rely on and trust. She is uncertain of herself, carrying the wounds of centuries past, convincing herself that violence and domination are paramount. When she bonds with her new friend in unexpected ways, her deeper needs rise to the surface. But these are frightening. It is only when she is shown radical acceptance and safety does she integrate her various parts at the end of the story.

Killian Jones in Once Upon a Time jostles between presenting his desires in a joking manner, and hiding them beneath layers of anger. He is bound by revenge and denies anything in conflict with that goal. His swagger is an exaggeration, a front or projection, which is a common detail across these stories. If he claims to be a heartless villain, no one will discover just how victimized he once was.

These characters may herald chaos or drama within the narrative, amusement or disquiet for the audience. A character like Draco Malfoy in the Harry Potter series is written from the outset as a direct–if youthful–antagonist. Yet later in the story, insight into his wounded mental and emotional state arrives, eliciting the reader’s compassion. He was inculcated in an environment of bigotry and toxic superiority, of which he must decide personally to move beyond. 

Liminal space characters can appear unique in their behaviors and presentations when compared to those around them. Perhaps this is because of a heightened defensiveness, or anxiety, or refusal to engage with typical romantic situations. 

For those who are deliberately off-putting and aggressive, sarcastic and aloof, or extremely isolated by design, the audience must confront their own biases, as well. When the narrative is effective, we as consumers may empathize with these struggling individuals. We may understand why they have taken the steps they have, protected themselves, lashed out at others. 

What I love most about liminal space characters is the potential for them to heal the dueling perspectives within themselves. These characters at some point must question themselves, and when done successfully, the audience does the same: How capable are we of forming our sense of self? What does harm look like? How do we live with our mistakes? How do we shape ourselves? Is it possible to make a new choice after a long pattern of harmful behaviors? Where does this character go after discovering they have wronged so many? When is that redemptive effort enough?

Both the characters questioning themselves, and not questioning themselves (ie following external demands), may lead to feelings of loneliness and rejection. Prince Zuko of Avatar the Last Airbender rotates entirely around his father’s acceptance, and whatever he must do in order to receive it, he will. There is no cost too high, and he questions nothing. Until he stumbles into a bond with a supposed adversary, which begins to shift his perspective. This is a common trope within these stories, as well, the mirror opposite coming into sharp relief by comparison.

Frustratingly, there are far more male-presenting liminal space characters than female ones in the duality of Western media, so the “adversary” is often portrayed as female (I’m optimistic this will change as more diverse writers share their stories). In a compulsory heterosexual context, there is potential for romance, as well. This is perceived in the canon text and also by fans through their own stories. An opposing character–such as Kitara in Avatar the Last Airbender, Rey in the last Star Wars trilogy, or Captain Kirk in Star Trek–may help these liminal space characters realize they are not a lost soul, no longer a victim to their circumstances. They can offer an opposing viewpoint: what if you took a different path? You’re not required to stay this way. It’s never too late.

Hope gives the liminal space characters the sense they can make new choices and change. Hope is the kernel, the light slanting through clouds, the assurance nothing is permanent, not even a limbo state of the mind.

[lizzaneia-elizalde]

Seeing as you opened and I love your writing, how about a yandere bully? His beloved is not his target but rather harasses those who get close to her.....Am I even making sense?I let you do it however you want anyway.

Yandere! Male! Bully x Fem! Nerd! Reader

Time to bring back the old bully x nerd archetype. But this time, it's not as painful to write since the bullying is not targeted to the reader.

I am a victim of bully = being liked mindset. I hated that part of my life lol

One song is stuck in my head when I was writing this though. dumb dumb by mazie. So I guess I made darling a bit arrogant too lol.

I think I need to do a TW for this one. I know I usually don't do TW's since it's understandable that my blog is filled with yandere men, but this time, I need to do one.

TW: Bullying, harassment of PWDs, mentions of suicide. Uno is genuinely an upsetting character for some people, so do be warned.

Yan! Bully name: Uno

He's always the greatest.

Who?

Of course, Uno.

Just like his name, he was destined to be number 1. Nobody can stop the indominable spirit that is Uno.

It's always Uno, Uno, Uno.

GOD YOU WERE TIRED OF HEARING HIS NAME!

Why do people like an asshat like him? He's so arrogant, rude, and only thinks of himself. He belittles people who are of "lower status" than him, and sometimes, when he felt like it, he would physically fight them.

Uno's also someone with a silver spoon shoved in his mouth. His family, well known in the sports community, sponsors athletes. Investing in them greatly. And usually, these sponsored athletes end up successful. And those who did not end up successful, still brought enough rapport, moolah, and reputation that it ends up a good investment anyways.

And, with Uno being an aMaZiNg basketball player, his family invested in him too.

That also was a great investment as he's legitimately a prodigy when it comes to sports, not just basketball.

If only he wasn't a spoiled little shit who thinks the world must bend to his will.

Looking at him overtaking the social world in your University like a hurricane made you pissed off more than anything.

You hated bullies. And you thought that they would be gone once you stepped in senior high school but noooo he had to come and ruin the life you envisioned.

He would sport his stupid letterman jacket, those jeans that was tight fit to his toned legs, the tank top that forms on his abs a bit too well, and god that slicked back hair and snarky smirk. You want to wipe the sweat off-- YOU MEAN WIPE THAT SMIRK OFF.

You stomped your feet and pointed at the sky, screaming that you don't like him.

Yeah right.

Why were you so attracted to the man?

When all of your life you were bullied by people like him?

As a nerd, you devoted yourself to academics. You were born in a family filled with high achievers, and naturally, you were one too. You excelled in everything concerning subject matters of intellect, even indulged in a bit of geekiness with your habits.

Uno's not the only prodigy.

Medals upon medals, a trophy cabinet, and a mountain pile of certificates. You were an unstoppable force when it comes to intellectual contests. May it be quiz bees, or debates.

That resulted in you being bullied though. Of course, you were the nerdiest of nerds, Queen Nerd even (they're not that bright to come up with a better insult). They reveled in you getting pushed over, getting spoiled milk poured over you, getting used for their projects, and getting hopeful for an actual friendship. Just because you're smarter than them.

They're dumb, you're smart, they're strong, you're weak.

All of this pent up anger against bullies made you angry at Uno.

With days passing by in that godforsaken University, you had to hold back from biting back at Uno as he arrogantly tripped, threatened, manipulated, and hurt your fellow students.

You wonder when will be the time of your demise.

You shiver at the thought.

Speed walking towards your locker, you grabbed your things for your next class. Not knowing a certain pair of eyes were watching you from afar.

Watching your every move.

Always.

Uno, the greatest amongst the senior high, had always looked down upon people.

He's someone destined for greatness, why would he not squish the bugs under him? He's far superior than them.

He held his head up high. And with a standoffish smirk, he pushed away the people who are useless, and kept the people who wants to mooch off of him at an arms length.

But because of how much he tries to distant himself from people, he ended up with no genuine friends.

Always hiding behind fake smiles and forced brotherhood, he indulged in shallow relationships that's just filled with carnal desire and a connection easily severed by words.

He's bored.

So, why not ease the boredom by bullying?

It's not like the University can do jackshit about him. He's too far above to be disturbed, let alone suspended or expelled.

He's done awful things.

Flipping trays, ripping up artists' works, flushing down assignments, tripped up people in crutches, drove away people in wheelchairs, cut up or threw away earphones, broke phones and laptops...

Not just property damage, even mental damage.

He spreads rumors just because, he verbally assaults people who have "weird tastes" in fashion (it's literally just goth and emo), he blackmails teachers pets, and even pushes down suicidal people more.

He even made a student almost attempt. And he's fucking proud of that.

Just because he wants to ease the boredom in his heart.

He's too cruel for his own good.

If one asks if he's guilty, he just replies with:

"They fucking deserve it. They shouldn't live at all lol. Fucking losers."

And his parents? Blind and deaf to his bullying.

The school administration? Useless. Don't even try.

Everyone feared Uno.

But you do not.

You're openly hostile to the man, glaring and rolling your eyes at him whenever he harasses another student.

But he can also see how you shiver whenever he stares at you.

How peculiar.

You didn't cower, you didn't feign admiration...

You're genuinely and openly upset at him.

And he loved this fresh breath of air.

So, he didn't target you. At least somebody is not stupid enough to try and not get targeted.

Weird as it may, he started going around places that you normally would be.

The library, where he would cause havoc and topple down books, grab other students notebooks and throw them away, and play loud music, The park near your college building where he would steal food from the students, snip off plants, and break the chairs by slamming them, The rooftop where he would smoke and have regular fight offs...

You don't get to escape this man at all.

It was so amusing to him, seeing your panic and fear stricken face as he barges into your safe spaces and wreck havoc. He loved seeing you glare at him at the corner of his eyes as he harassed people, and how your face shifts to shock and nervousness whenever he caught your stares.

He loved it.

The weird one-way powerplay between you both was arousing this twisted man.

He was starting to crave you more and more.

He wants your eyes on him only as he committed atrocities, he wanted your disgust, fear, anger, and...

Was that affection he see?

"Holy shit..."

Do you, little miss prodigal nerd, have a crush on him?

He shakily breathe out, his hand gripping his face as it reddens. His eyes, hazy, intense, and crazy, revealed the deep emotions he had for you.

You're so cute.

His little nerd.

Emphasis on his. His and his only.

How hypocritical of you. You hated bullies but here you are, falling for him.

How fucking twisted is that?

And he reveled in that feeling.

The deep feeling of obsession with all of your emotions and feelings on him was more than the drugs he seldomly consume. He gets so high every time you loving him.

Love made him crazy.

Yeah, he loves you too.

And, with him making sure your "friends" are out of the way of his grand red carpet towards your heart and soul, Uno waited with bated breath at the right time to claim you.

That's it.

Your last friend, your supposed to be best friend, slapped you, dumped soup on your head and left you with words that stung deep in your soul.

"YOU'RE SO ARROGANT! JUST BECAUSE YOU'RE SMART, YOU THINK YOU CAN JUST WALK ALL OVER ME?!"

But you didn't. You swore you didn't.

But you only held your cheek as you watched them run away.

With a slump on the floor, you cried in the empty cafeteria.

You were so lonely.

You just wanted somebody to connect with you genuinely. No pity, no camaraderie due to being bullied, just genuine connection and friendship with another human that shares the same interests as you.

You didn't wish to be born.

You didn't wish to become this genius.

If it meant to lose the human connection you craved desperately, you don't want to be a genius at all.

You felt so cold, numb.

Your mind was only filled with what if's and what could have been if you didn't go to school here, or just...

You sighed.

You were struggling. So bad.

All of your friends left you, with the apparent reason of just tolerating you.

They never wanted to be your friend. You were like a collateral to them, a friend of a friend that squeezed into their friend group.

Who knew that all of them never really wanted to be your friend.

A pair of sneakers filled your vision when you cried your heart out to the ground.

Familiar basketball shoes.

Your head shot up and so does your heart as Uno smirked in front of you. A flash of mixed emotions run past by your eyes as you tried to back away.

"Nerd, how are ya?" He asked, a smirk that looks down on your situation situated on his face. "Saw your little friend run away from you."

You didn't say anything, just bit your lip as you looked away.

"Oh fuck. You're not friends anymore? Shit, you're so fucking lonely." The curses that slips past his lips were nothing short of mockery of your misery. "God, you must be so insufferable that even an unstoppable force like you get dumped."

"SHUT UP!" You finally screamed, eyes filled with pain and suffering seared into his brain. "YOU DON'T KNOW ANYTHING YOU FUCKING BULLY!"

But he only howled in laughter, as if it was the funniest shit he ever heard.

"I don't? Boohoo, I'll cry like you then. Wait, let me just..." He pinches himself before exaggeratedly crying into his hands. "OH BOOHOO! MY FRIENDS LEFT ME BECAUSE I DON'T KNOW~!"

You gritted your teeth, eyes ablaze with a newfound courage to confront Uno.

With shaky steps, you stood up and met him eye to eye, despite being shorter than him.

"And you're an unmovable object." You spat out. "Always doing whatever you want without any repercussions. Tell me, does it feel good to cause misery and pain to others?"

He scoffed, the annoying smirk widening. He grabbed an apple from your tray before biting into it.

"Yeah. So what?"

You want to punch him so bad.

"How did I even like you..."

Words slipped past your lips as your rage inhibited your cognitive and physical abilities to only say things in your mind.

Silence, before Uno doubled over laughing.

"Stop laughing!" You screamed, appalled by his behavior. Heartbreak imminent.

"It's just that... that was so straightforward, nerd!" Uno said between fits of laughter. "God, you're so fucking cute."

"Huh?"

Uno stopped, before clearing his throat and standing up straight.

"Hey, you know... I could take revenge on your behalf, little nerd." He whispered. His voice sending jolts of electricity down your spine. "I know you feel so betrayed right now. And I can just..."

Uno crushes the apple with his bare hand, making you shiver from fear and... Arousal at the display of raw power.

"Crush them. Just be mine." He offers, shaking off the apple chunks.

He made eye contact with you, before opening his mouth and licking the apple juice that dripped down his hand, seducing you.

"Both of us, prodigy in our own fields, are bound to be lonely. But we can be lonely together, ya know." He laughs a bit. "What we need is genuine human connection. No pretenses, no bullshit. Just us."

Your eyes shook at his words before it fell down to the apple chunks he dropped on your tray. With trembling hands, you grabbed one and ate it, not looking away from him also.

It was his time to shiver.

"Alright."

Bit into the forbidden fruit, the unstoppable force met with the immovable object. This meant doom for this godforsaken University.

What you didn't know that it was Uno's fault why your friends broke their friendship with you. Blackmailing them, making their lives living hell if they didn't pull back from you.

And as they shook with fear, tearfully crying for you and their future, they watched you become Uno's girlfriend.

Two humans, two prodigies, craving real and unfiltered connection.

It was the start of a relationship that will leave blood in their wake.

[bugs1nmybrain]

Some factors to take into account if you need:

AGE: 20

GENDER: Cis-Fem w/ she/her pronouns

SEXUALITY: Bisexual on the Ace/Aro spectrum

HEIGHT: 4'11

APPEARANCE: Long, thick dark hair with blond under the back of the scalp, hazel eyes (brown w/green tints), caucasian (mostly Italian and English) crooked teeth, curvy, big lips, septum ring

PERSONALITY: shy, geeky, humorous, "bruh girl", imaginative, horny 90% of the time, obsessive, mentally unsound (bipolar), analytical, smart? (More so academically inclined, I'm not gifted or anything)

STAR SIGN: Leo

MBTI: flip flops between INFP (rational feeler) and INTP (emotional thinker) lmao

HOBBIES: drawing, writing fanfic, gaming, learning foreign languages, watching comfort shows

INTERESTS: fictional characters, mental health, cats, sociology, analyzing ridiculous things (like Sims 4 lore or the evolution of a South Park character), video games, thriller movies like Tim Burton type of shit

AESTHETIC: alt; black and pink colors, black and white stripes, black winged eyeliner, skulls, bats, Halloween themes, black skirts

MUSIC: liminal music (eyedress, TV Girl, "Insomniac" by Memo Boy, Strawberry Guy), ICP, Tyler, the Creator, Gorillaz, Jack Stauber, The Strokes

NSFW: kinda vanilla, romance, pet names, fingering, sub, unprotected sex, sometimes dub-con but depends on the dynamic, praise, mild humiliation, voyeurism (mostly receiving), nipple play

[coolblackmetal666]

I feel like this is a take that someone needs to make, so I guess it'll be me:

Buffy ruined the MCU by being the best version of Spider-Man.

Both media franchises are about (or starts out being about) a depressed teenager who tries to balance having a normal, healthy teenage life with their superheroics. Their depression mostly stems from feeling like the weight of the world is on their shoulders, because their powers give them responsibility.

Also, both characters seem to have some meta knowledge about the tropes of the genre that they're in. I mean, that was kind of the X factor that made Spider-Man so popular in the 60s to begin with, now? He's just a nerdy highschooler, just like you comic book reader! He'll make the exact same quips about super villain names and evil monologues that you would do if you were in this situation, average superhero comics fan!

(This is also, imo, why Deadpool is the worst version of Spider-Man. They take the meta jokiness, flanderize that characterization to bits and ignore everything that makes Spider-Man a well rounded character)

I won't go into why I think Buffy is the best version of Spider-Man. I have to admit I'm biased. I grew up reading Spider-Man comics, and as a trans woman, Buffy filled a certain escapist fantasy in my teens that those comics filled when I was a kid. It's a very comforting show for me, for many reasons, so I might not be the most impartial person to talk about this.

I will, however, go into how I think Buffy ruined the MCU. The writing style is very distinctive. It's smart and quippy while dealing with heavy themes. It's no wonder that this is the most academically studied tv show of all time due to its psychological richness. Its also no wonder that it was so completely embraced by nerd fandom at the time, due to part of its lineage coming from that space. You can probably see where this is going.

Yeah, the big problem with Buffy is that it made Joss Whedon king of the nerds. Joss (imo) is a total piece of shit who treats his coworkers terribly, but he's also, unfortunately, a really good writer when he puts his mind to it. The Body is considered by many to be the best episode of a TV series of all time for a good reason. It's written and directed by Joss Whedon.

But yeah, he got so much praise for the witty, quippy writing style that I basically think it went to his head a bit. It works really well when your main character is a snarky teen or young adult, but Joss Whedon started writing all of his characters that way.

Then he got tapped to write and direct The Avengers. The problem is, when every single character in your superhero world is Spider-Man, no one is.

So yeah, never really been a fan of the MCU or their approach to stuff, but I have friends who are and that's okay. It's all down to personal taste eventually (even though I think the MCUs iron grip on the cinema landscape has been devastating for film as an art form, but that's neither here nor there).

Anyways, that's hopefully the last long, unfocused, geeky rant I ever go on, at least on tumblr, because it makes me feel really annoying when I do that. So yeah.

Back to posting pretty pictures of trees or whatever.

[two-red-lungs]

Okay, hear me out.

Eddie Munson is, like, 19 going on 20. The educational system stops being your legal guardian as soon as you turn 18. He could just... leave, drop out of high school, whenever he wanted.

If he actually was the “doesn’t give a shit, total wild card” guy he markets himself as at school, he probably would have already. “Wild card” Eddie wouldn’t care.

Eddie hasn’t dropped out because he doesn’t want to. He wants his diploma: probably really fucking badly. Way more than he lets on.

It’s not even about rubbing it in anybody’s face. It’s about proving to himself that he’s good enough to finish like everyone else.

I think that his “rock and roll, crazy menace” persona helps him hide/compensate for the fact that for him, school is really fucking hard, so hard that’s he’s taken everything in his senior year twice. He may look like a spooky badass, but underneath it is just a geeky, dweeby, sappy guy with (probably extremely severe/academically debilitating) ADHD.

[undiscovered-horizon]

Dating TASM!Peter Parker

We all love the nerdy and cute wall-crawler

When it comes to dating, he's winging like 90% of it

Makes me think of "2 poor kids" by Ruth B

I will gladly elaborate:

He doesn't have the confidence to casually come up to you and ask you out, so he waits for a good opportunity to arise

And it's just his luck that the gods of love and romance are on his side

For science class, the teacher paired you up with Peter for some project because the two of you wrote essays on similar topics

So now not only does he have an opportunity to get closer to you, he is kind of obliged to

You get some take out and go to his house to get some work done

Aunt May gives him a thumbs up when you're not looking, agreeing with his choice because you're cute af

He's sweating buckets, not gonna lie. His objective is to come off suave but Peter's basically screaming inside his head

You point out his Star Wars posters and, to his surprise, start a conversation about the franchise with him

Peter is in his geeky element and gets visibly more comfortable immediately

Guys, you were supposed to be doing a science project not discussing the movies and video games from the recent decade

You've done barely any school work and it's already evening, Peter offers to walk you home

And the conversation just doesn't stop

Just like his heart palpitations because he's crushing hard on you

You're not only beautiful but a generally cool person??? His heart might give out

The two of you quickly become inseparable and everyone already assumes you're dating and the two of you, being the idiots in love that you are, pretend that you're oblivious to the rumors and curious whispers

Your first kiss is like a chick-flick tbh

You're working on the science project, sitting at the desk in his bedroom, so basically you're smashed against each other because there isn't much space

Peter and you quietly discuss something until you realize there are maybe a few inches between your faces

The two of you just timidly lean it and softly peck each other’s lips. Then again. And again. Until the timidnes is gone and you’re tugging at each other’s hair

Exchanging comic books

Making playlists/mixtapes for each other that you listen to together

Like riding the bus, sharing earphones and playing songs that remind you of each other or that you both like

Listening to podcasts about science and/or unsolved mysteries

He's definitely secretly watching romcoms as "research" because he wants to be that boyfriend, you know?

Sharing your lunches

Making out in the library

Inside jokes that are basically you quoting nerdy shit at each other (very cute)

"Hello there"

"General Parker"

You wear his hoodies and jackets a lot

His "photography practice" is basically making whole photo albums of you

You learn about his wall-crawling alter ego when he knocks on your window one night, face bloodied and bruised, not really knowing who else to ask for help

He's apologizing profusely while you're trying to take care of his injuries which is hard because he gestures a lot explaining things to you

Peter thinks you're gonna drop him but instead you admit that he's the coolest person you know

And that's how you have become his accomplice

Covering for Peter when someone questions his sudden, prolonged disappearance or bruises

If you had a habit of killing the odd spiders that appear in your room, now you feel a little weird about it and just try to push yourself through catching the arachnid and letting it out of the window

"study dates" but you end up falling asleep on him while he's reading academic textbooks

Which proves difficult because you look so adorable and the domestic affection is making his heart perform olympics-grade gymnastics

Sometimes you can tell he's trying really hard to be the rom-com dream boyfriend and although it melts your heart that he cares so much, you remind him that he's the perfect boyfriend just as he is

One of you always has a weird-ass question ready for the other and no matter how ridiculous, you have an actual discussion about it

Movie nights but really yall just want to cuddle

You exchange a lot of random soft pecks

Cute quiet moments when one of you is laying in the other's lap and you either just stare lovingly at each other or have dismembered conversations because you're more focused on each other than the talking

He's always there to help you study but you are distracting tbh

Dates on rooftops or other high places where it's just the two of you and the beautiful landscape of New York

Eating pizza on top of Chrysler Building

Making out on rooftops of skyscrapers? Yes please

Feeding each other snacks

Peter throws you over his shoulder just for shits and giggles

If you even suggest you might be tired, he's giving you a piggyback ride

You’re Spider-Man’s number 1 fan

And Peter loses it one day when you show up in a Spider-Man hoodie and ask him if he likes it

His arm is always around your shoulders or waist

Holding hands while you’re doing homework or reading something for class

Sometimes he brings you flowers which might or might not be a little crumpled because he had them in his backpack while swinging through New York

Stay-in dates when you eat junk food and play video games

Either cheating or cuddling, depends on the game

Calling each other "babe" or "love"

Sharing dessert

Aunt May sometimes spies on the two of you sharing ice cream or a piece of cake in the kitchen and she’s fangirling because yall cute

Serious discussions about cake flavours

Speaking of aunt May, she’s grown used to the fact that Peter’s either not at home or he’s home with you

Sometimes you sleep over and those are the mornings that it’s you and Peter making aunt May breakfast instead of the other way around

Unless it’s a weekend and you two sleep in till noon

You’re worried about Peter when he’s out saving the city and so he texts you he’s alright when he comes back home

[crabussy]

brief alter introduction because a lot of them use this account now and again!!

—————

robin- me!! the host. freak of nature, creature, horror/wilderness enjoyer. mentally i’ll about aotearoa for whatever reason. enjoyer of cringe. he/they/it, 16

phoebe- she’s soooo cool. overuses the cat face emojis but we love her. music taste is insane. projects images of cock and balls into my brain because she thinks it’s hilarious. she/her, 19

alastair- nervous wreck, resident academic, adores astronomy but knows next to nothing about it. messiest fucking room ever, thank god dust isn’t a thing in headspace. he is like a wizard to me. he/him, 24

bee- everyone’s mom. would make killer jam if she had access to good fresh fruit.. SUPER good hugs. literally the nicest ever, very concerned about my questionable life choices. she/her, 36

jasper- pretends to be stone cold and mature but in reality he’s kind of a softie. diet consists of cherry flavoured everything (GROSS) and cola (ACCEPTABLE) reminds me of a young crowley in some ways. he/him, 21

circe- local witch. pronounces her own name wrong. deeply appreciative of dark fairycore and fairygrunge, listens almost exclusively to molchat doma and phonk???? swamp enjoyer. very cool. she/her, 17

nat/nathan/natalie: shares names with both my aunt and uncle which is kinda weird!!!! the most pirate ever. very chill but also very unchill when shit hits the fan. she’s very very cool and intimidating and I am sometimes nervous to talk to him. she/he/they, 22

francis- geeky, nervous, extremely lanky and super sweet. she’s very nostalgic about kiwiana stuff (chocolate fish!!!! footrot flats!! waiheke!! L&P!!) and tied to our childhood memories. super fun, has awesome mint green frizzy hair. she/they, 16

claire- absolute hippie /t. tie dye tapestries and stained glass wind chimes and healthy food. she’s awesome, wine aunt of the system, somehow likes salad and kombucha. very nice gal!! she/her, 25

oliver- Normal Guy of all time. the only vaguely unusual thing about him is that he’s ginger. enjoys cooking, sculpting/stop motion, and browsing reddit. very exploratory with his hobbies which I admire (: he/him, 16

katie- shark enthusiast. gave herself sharp teeth just because. completely nuts, sharp as a tack, Observer Of Details. likes bugs too, and really enjoys street food. short LOL HAHHAHAAHA. she/they, 14

chester- I keep calling him max by accident. little bear cub ankle biter, first thing he ever did while fronting was put 10 kilos of hair gel in our hair and make devil horns out of it. evil. where the wild things are enjoyer. he/him, 11

julian- fashion king, makes zebra print look good, loves peacock feather motifs. possibly a satyr?????? or something??????? no clue. he’s very fabulous, reminds me of zulius from centaurworld. he/him, 27

silas- aspiring botanist, somehow both eccentric and super composed simultaneously. loves plants, finds them fascinating, approaches life with logic and strategy which doesn’t always work but hey. he/him, 40

jon- former head archivist of the magnus institute etc etc. gets up in the middle of the night to shuffle around, talk to my cat, and be paranoid. love him. he has long greying hair and a great fashion sense. very knowledgeable!! tired. he/they, 29

martin- polite but also a bitch. he’s allowed honestly. lover of pecan pie, and most pastries. stronk…. big…… Holder Of The Jon… enjoys travelling and occasional company. fluffy strawberry blond hair and thick dark eyebrows. has custody over our only turtleneck jumper. he/him, 31

zoe- like a mini phoebe (don’t tell her I said that /j). likes tennis and racing games, listens to music that sounds like you’re being put in a blender. enjoys neon highlighter-like colours and being a Menace. she/her, 13

caleb- super funny and creative. very neurodivergent, really likes dragons and other mythology. likes drawing and making up stories, very chatty. he/him, 10

sun- oh so cheerful!! so much fun, mischievous at times, super good with kids!!! resident robot. loves to wear clashing patterns and colours, sticks his tongue out when he thinks, a bit clumsy but also very agile. sweet tooth, loves shiny things and crafts. he/they/she/sol, ageless

moon- super graceful. calm and collected, great sense of humour where you can never tell if they’re joking or not, loves silky clothes and shiny accessories. capable of lulling anyone to sleep except itself </3 loves figure skating and deep sea life. other resident robot!! great singing voice… they/he/it, ageless

selene- bubbly and intense!! life of the party, wearer of the pinkest clothes ever, fashion icon, very passionate about womens rights and queer struggles. so much blonde hair. she’s like if a bimbo was a woman in STEM. love her. she/her, 23

aries- kind of an asshole, getting better, strong opinions about the way the system functions. they’ve decided they have curling ram horns and love the colour purple-red. good music taste, dresses like they’re from genshin impact. they/them, 18

xavier- cool boy swag, formerly known as crowe, super laid back and doesn’t talk much. wants a pet raven so bad, doesn’t listen to music much, wants to create music tho. Ive never seen him wear colour ever. he/him, 18

that’s everyone for now!! some of them have their own blogs accessible via @menagerie-crew

tl;dr: there are FRUITS IN MY BRAIN AND THEYRE COAXING ME INTO DOING DUMB SHIT. I LOVE THEM ALL

[homosexualprofessional]

Everyday I miss Chicago and it’s big expanse of people, I miss the way that it is so easy to just exist, the way I can navigate life with a guard on and no obligation to give a shit about what people think, I miss the random kindness of a city, I miss the messiness that inherently comes with relationships, I miss taking the train 30 minutes to a friend and feeling so content to have a place to go, a refuge from the harsh winds and a solace of a familiar face among the sea of strangers, I miss falling in love with the other queers on the train, I miss falling in love with the queers at the bar, the old the young the gogo dancers the professionals the welders the baristas and the geeky academics, I miss seeing someone I met once or twice in passing at a party and then we end up unexpectedly at the same place at the same time and a connection that we wouldn’t have had without the forces of the city’s current. I miss the roar of silence, sirens and cars and trains and people gabbing and interacting all while I silently observe, I’m not in my own little world I am a part of everyone else’s and they are a part of mine. I miss Chicago.

[marky4l]

Step by Step / Mark Lee

step by step / mkl

pairing: Mark Lee x Reader

From an innocent childhood friendship to a juvenile high school rivalry to a forced pairing for a Psychology paper, it seems you and Mark just can’t avoid each other. But something’s a little different now.

genre: fluff, angst (a little bit), suggestive themes, childhood friends (barely mentioned!) to enemies to lovers, college!au

notes: lia yeonjun chan hyuck jeno all make tiny appearances 

word count: 17.2k 

hi!!! this is my first work nd I’m really excited to put this out I’d looove if you could give it a read :^) hound me on my inbox if u wanna i take anything

“Remember when we were best friends in fifth grade?”

His voice is a little quiet, and there’s a very obvious undertone of boredom, but you hum softly anyway, nodding, as if to question why you would ever forget. Fifth grade was a suburban brew of Star Wars marathons, figuring out the world, and Harry Potter merchandise littering your house. Fifth grade was lemonade and oatmeal, knitted sweaters, and sneaking into your mom’s vanity to swipe her makeup. And fifth grade was Mark—bright eyed, geeky Mark, with his Death Star replica and weird electronica music. 

Mark, who had an affinity with Troy from High School Musical and Spiderman, and wanted to be just like them. Mark, who would show up grinning to your front door everyday, pie dish in his nimble grip. He was the one who had opened a lemonade stand at the corner of your block so he could buy you the Gryffindor scarf you’d been nagging your mom about the entire holiday season. He was the one who learned the chords to your favorite Jonas Brothers song and sang it to you each time you requested it.

“Yes, I do,” you answer instead, clearing your throat. 

You attempt to push down all the memories that just ran through your head and adjust the grip you have on your pen. “Well,” Mark continues, “that was ages ago. Beats me why it ever happened.” 

The timidity is replaced with a tidal wave of teasing, and the annoyance that had disappeared is beginning to crawl all over you. Again. You roll your eyes and pull up the slides your professor had assigned. “Beats me why we even ended up in the same university, let alone the same class,” you jab, “if you thought I forgot about how you outright failed our Spanish classes in high school, I didn’t.”

Your friendship with Mark had reached its unfortunate demise to the hands of middle school, where you had branched out with your interests and began to stick to societal (as societal as school can get) norms. He had joined the geeky, cool kids; you hadn’t joined a specific social circle, but you had a best friend, Lia, and you were generally good with everybody. 

Somehow, despite you both being in good graces with everyone, you had a deep-seated dislike for one another that stemmed from an intense academic rivalry. Specifically, the competition to become school council president. That had ended now, seeing as though you were both in college, but the abrasiveness of your banter had never worn off.

“Oh, because you were so good at Physics?” he says, voice even. His brow is raised. “We all have our strong suits, you know. You’re one to talk.” You decide to pay him no mind, instead jotting down the criteria for your final project in Psychology 1—something about the stages of grief. You’re supposed to relate it to a different human process and show how they fit with one another. 

It’s absolute fucking bullshit, and the fact that Mark Lee became your partner among a hundred students is beyond you. Absolutely beyond you. 

He nears your screen, reading the content of your project, eyes squinted—you’d noticed his lack of decent eyesight years ago, but it seemingly hadn’t improved. “Relate the stages of grief…hold up, what? That’s difficult as hell. What are we supposed to do, lose a loved one?” You roll your eyes, turning to him. “No, Mark. The point is to find another process that happens gradually and relate it to this—denial, bargaining, anger. Get it?”

He stares back at you. “No.”

You groan audibly, turning back to your notebook. “This is impossible. Can we just switch partners so I won’t have to deal with you?” He smirks, kicking his feet up on the library table. Absently, you note how nice his sneakers look. Reclining onto the seat, he shuts his eyes as if to contemplate. 

“I heard through the birdvine our professor’s the type to pair up people she thinks would look good together for shits and giggles. Girls and boys, boys and boys, you name it. Johnny”—he’s referring to a guy who’s a year above yours, studying Biology—“tells me over five couples have been born out of this class. Isn’t that nice?” You scoff, scrolling mindlessly through the slides to keep yourself distracted. 

“It really is. A shame we won’t be adding to that list, because I can’t fucking stand you.” He laughs loudly, the vibration of it remaining in the deadly silent air. “I can stand fucking you, though,” he says, and then, before you can even blush, “All jokes. Don’t get your hopes up, ‘kay?” He’s quick to get up, just as flustered as you are at the uncharacteristic phrase that just left his mouth. He collects his jacket and jogs out of the library with a small, half-assed bye under his breath.

—

Lia’s eyes bore into yours. “He actually said that? I’m telling you, he’s some weird kinky guy under that whole cool geek persona. High school Mark would never have. Oh my god. He’s a furry—he’s a furry!” She flops back onto your bed, laughing. You poke at her waist in protest. 

“It’s because he’s surrounded by too many weird classy fuckboys. You know, those that think that they’re all that because they haven’t roofied a girl.” You’re half-joking, and you’re really only referring to maybe two guys you’ve happened to see Mark with. As if to read your mind, Lia continues. “Hey, I heard some of them are okay. They’re not, like…those ‘nice guys’, if you get me.”

“I do,” you quip. “But I guess I’m just trying to find a way to justify the whole 360 in Mark. I mean, in high school, he was still nerdy—well, you know. Shy. But jump to sophomore year of uni and he’s suddenly some…” You rack your head for a proper term. “Sex god?” your friend asks, holding in a laugh. “Oh, eat shit,” you fire back, “really, eat shit. And while you’re at it, feed me some, too, because I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to turn in at the end of the term. Like, Jes—”

There’s a faint knock at the door, and then. “Lia? It’s—uh, it’s me, Daniel? Er, Daniel Choi.” Your wide eyes can’t possibly match Lia’s as she tugs on a decent-looking pullover and puts it on. As she swings the door open, you manage to sufficiently hide yourself under your duvet and attempt to hear their conversation. 

“You know, it’s okay if you leave out the whole…saying your full name at the door part. Trust me…I know you,” she jokes, and you hear him laugh before you detect the crinkling of a plastic bag. “Chinese. Uh, I bought some extra for your best friend, because I’m not gonna pretend I don’t see the sentient blob on the bed.”

You pull the blanket off and smile sheepishly. “Hey, Daniel,” you say, “thanks for the food. I owe you an empty room next time, I swear by it. It’ll be easy, since I’m gonna be”—you heave yourself off the bed and onto the floor, where they’re both sitting—“holed up at the library for the next few weeks.” 

Lia nods, chewing her chow mein, and then when she’s done, she explains to Daniel your whole huge Psychology end-of-term paper about stages and grief and whatever, oh also she’s partnered with Mark Lee, this guy that we both know from high school, and she dislikes his guts, oh you know him? 

“Wait. You know him?” You repeat, and Daniel nods, ruffling his black mullet. “His room’s, like, three away from mine. He’s studying Theoretical Physics, right? Yeah, he’s always in his room doing school shit, but every weekend he’s out with the upperclassmen. He’s probably out now, ‘cause it’s Friday. How he even charmed them, though, is a mystery.”

Mid-dumpling, you roll your eyes. “Y’know, the hardest part is being partnered with him. But also, even finding what kind of gradual process to relate denial and anger too is weirdly hard. It feels like I could find something, but I haven’t gotten it…quite…” you trail off, your eyes landing on Lia and Daniel across you—they’re smiling softly at each other, and you distinguish their fingers interlocking quietly, as if you wouldn’t notice. 

“…yet. Except maybe I have. How would you want to participate in my end-of-term paper?” Their gazes turn to yours, and you nod frantically. “Oh my god, I’m a genius! Seriously! Falling in love! Yes! It’s denial—anger—whatever, whatever! It makes perfect sense. The end is acceptance, too! Oh god, Li, it’s perfect. I will owe you for life if you help me out.”

“Wait, what? You dove straight into it, what—recap, please,” Lia asks, and you compose yourself before explaining giddily. 

“Falling in love. It happens gradually, and we can compare it to the stages of grief. Seeing as you and Daniel are headed right there, we can use you as some test subjects. It’s not required to have respondents or subjects, really, it’s just an extensive paper, but it might help get the grade up. This is gonna be great, and if you ever wanna back out, you can, because it’s not mandatory.” Lia and Daniel meet eyes briefly, and then slowly, nod. “Okay, that’s pretty smart,” Daniel says, “I’m up for it. Are you?” Lia nods, slowly and hesitantly, and you smile widely. “You two just saved my Psych grade. I’ll be at Giselle’s tonight. Just…not on my bed.” You grab your keys and phone and bound out of your room, straight into the elevator at the end of the hall.

The elevator door nearly closes when a Converse-clad foot steps in, and your eyes rake up the figure, eventually landing on his face. 

“Jesus fuck,” you mumble, “you must be kidding me.” 

Mark enters the elevator with a small, teasing smile, hands tucked into his jacket’s pockets. “Hey, dude, what’s up? Was on your floor on my stop down to get some money Lucas owed me,” he says, “this is actually a godsend, because my genius brain found us a project idea. Relate grief to something else gradual? Easy as pie. Falling in lo—” 

You cut him off before he can finish, “Falling in love, right. I thought of it first, earlier,” you say profusely, absently noting the pettiness in your tone. He whistles. “No need to get all possessive over an idea the previous classes have used before, man.” You continue, ignoring him. “Whatever. Lucky for our grades, I went the extra mile to get us some test subjects. Do you know the two Chois? Lia and Daniel?” 

He nods once, “Yeah, their PDA on Instagram is fucking sickening, but I see your technique, and I like that—we get some extra data from their god awful PDA.” You nod once, and he continues. “It’s nearing 11 on a Friday night. Whose party are you headed to?”

“You’re welcome for the test subjects,” you gripe. “Anyway, I was so giddy about coming up with it, I just left them to…well, fornicate. As a compromise for being lab rats. I texted my…” you realize you’re starting to share too much to a guy you typically dislike talking to, and then there’s a silence in the air that’s painfully awkward. 

“You texted your…?” Mark asks. “My friend, but she’ll be home at 1AM, so I’m out to kill time. No parties, just…I dunno.” He nods again, and then the elevator lets out a blissful ding. You step out simultaneously, and then he faces you. “Look, it’s freezing out, you’re in shorts and a puffer coat, and it’s three hours to 1AM, so I doubt you’ll get far.” You scoff at his words despite feeling your legs shake from the breeze outside. “I’ll be fine, dumbass.”

“Just concerned,” he says, in a tone that sounds more blank than annoyed, but he turns and heads toward the door anyway. He swivels back around briefly. “It’s in Johnny’s apartment. Just a couple people, if you get bored freezing.” He jogs outside then, and you inwardly appreciate the small gesture, but again, annoyance returns just as quickly. You linger a bit before heading out yourself, walking briskly to a local Japanese restaurant. You consider this an opportunity to have some me time, some rest after a shitty week in university. Lasting ’til 1AM alone and entertained would not at all be a problem. 

You last one ramen bowl and head to Johnny’s apartment.

—

When Johnny Suh answers the door, he’s clad in a makeshift shower curtain gown of sorts, and is flushed and very buzzed all over. He hikes up the top to cover his chest and laughs profusely. “Did Mark invite you?” Behind him is a sizeable group of just about twenty people, which looks like forty in a cramped communal space. You’d been here before—Johnny likes to invite just about anyone to get stoned and listen to Kid Cudi on Fridays, and you had pushed Lia to accompany you before. 

You distantly spot the kitchenette, the small living room, and then the two bedroom doors opposing each other. “The rule was to show up wearing something not marketed as clothing, but Mark didn’t follow the rules, so. Anyway, you’re off scot-free, too…” he pauses, “…if you take off the puffer coat. We’ve got heating, anyway. Free booze and weed, too.” You figure being in a flimsy tank top isn’t so bad—you’re sure half the people here are already getting laid or trying to, and nobody would really pay attention to you.

You shrug off the coat as Johnny steps aside to let you in, hugging it close to your body and navigating your way to the kitchen. The granite counters are filled with various bottles of booze, and you also note the cigarettes and blunts lining the island. You peruse the brands before settling on a sealed can of decidedly not-so-cheap-looking beer, and crack it open to take a swig. It’s warm and fucking disgusting, but there’s not much glitz in an “anything but clothing” off-campus college party anyway. 

There are several people scattered among the living area, passing around a blunt—another group is playing suck and blow. You make your way over to the cheap couch on the far end of the room, taking a seat on the arm and stretching out your hand to claim the blunt. It’s Jae who passes it to you—Jaehyun Jung, an upperclassman whose infamy (for wearing nothing but toilet paper and running through campus) greatly surpasses him. “Who are you?” he asks, and you holler your name back over the Kanye West song playing in the background. “Mark invited me,” you tack onto the end as compensation.

He nods in understanding, watching you take a drag and pass it back to him. He only hands it back, saying, “It’s nearly done, just finish it,” and getting up to probably get some booze or another blunt. 

You scan the area for a better place to cherish your weed, because you’re definitely not going to do it on the arm of a couch housing three couples making out to the high heavens. You spot an open window and a fire escape just beside the kitchen and walk over, ducking into the cool night air. It’s not quiet, it never is, and you treasure the peace that comes with the noise, closing your eyes and trying to milk the last few drags. All that is flushed down the drain when somebody kicks you out of your reverie and your last two drags are falling down, through the grills of the fire escape. 

“What the fuck?” You look up to meet, of course, Mark’s gaze, teasing and mischievous. 

“That wasn’t fucking funny, asshat. Get away from me.” You get up instantly, ducking back into the house and searching for your coat. It’s (very unfortunately) buried under a couple who have escalated from making out to borderline public indecency.

“Fuck it,” you mumble, swinging the door open and mentally preparing yourself for the cold once you get to the sidewalk, floors down. Mark follows suit, a laugh gracing the atmosphere around the two of you. “You know, I forgot how fun it is to make you pissed off. I did it all the time in eighth grade when I told our teacher you knew the solution to the Physics problems.” You’re fucking pissed. However petty, you’re fucking annoyed that you couldn’t finish the blunt, and you pay no attention to him. 

He badgers on anyway. “Hey—it was a mistake, I wanted to say hi to you.” You scoff, finally turning—“Why? Because we’re friends? We’re not. We’re Psych partners, we came from the same high school, we share a couple mutual friends. But you and I are not friends, not objectively, anyway. Please, Mark. I only just re-acquainted myself with you today, but, like, you’re already so annoying!” You’re at the elevator now, and when the doors slide open, you step inside and let them close at once. You barely catch the unreadable look on his face in your annoyance, and you lean against the wall, shutting your eyes and breathing heavily. 

How you’d even get to Giselle’s, or how you would wait out the remaining half-hour before she got home, was just up to whichever higher power happened to be witnessing you that night.

—

The door of your professor’s office closes with a saddening click. You stare back at her name, embossed on the wood in bold, in defeat, accepting your fate with a heavy heart. Just fifteen minutes prior, you had entered with a whole spiel prepared on how you just had to swap with somebody from your class so you wouldn’t have to work with Mark. This speech had occurred twice now—with your TA, and then once with your professor. This was your second chance, your redemption: so you prepared notes, you prepared convincing words—you had a point. 

But your professor simply shooed you away, muttering how she didn’t have time for you because she was going to be receiving hundreds of papers in a few weeks’ time from a different class and she, quite honestly, couldn’t be bothered. You bite your lip, thinking back to the previous Friday—it was nearing two weeks since your small outburst at Mark. Since then, you’d expected to build a silent rapport of just working, observing Lia and Daniel, and then parting. And that was almost it. You would show up to your so-called “lab rat sessions”, cup of warm caramel latte in hand, and work. 

Except Mark would constantly make noise, jeer, swipe your pen, and do other things that got on your nerves.

“You’re going to have to stop trying sometime,” Lia says, backhugging you. She’d been waiting outside. You let your head loll back onto her shoulder and whine. “Do you know when you’re so frustrated you want to cry? Yeah? That’s exactly how it is, Li. I can’t keep up with this for another two, three months. It’s like he’s not even, like, fuck, like he’s not even trying, y’know? We’re building the foundation of a pages-long paper. This isn’t some finals essay he can bullshit in three hours.” 

You groan as Lia pulls away from you, whirling you around to face her. “It’ll be fine, I swear to you. I’ll help out, anytime you need it. I promise. If I start hating Daniel, I’ll even pretend like I’m in love with him. Head over heels.” You let yourself laugh and pull out your phone as you two begin to walk towards your dorm.

She tsks. “We’re gonna have a thing tonight, right? Like, a lab rat session?”

You nod, squinting over your calendar app. “Yeah, at around 5:30 to 6. It’ll be quick, but Mark and I are gonna have to stay behind to divide the work for the general paper and then start. Hopefully we can get some outlining done by tonight…so don’t wait up,” you sigh. She smiles apologetically, pinching your waist affectionately. 

“Daniel and I will totally help you. He’s a Mark anti now. I told him about the party outburst thing.” You had sent her a slew of texts that night, and like every other story you had told (save for the most private ones), Daniel had caught wind of it. You’re half sure he was capable of blackmailing you at that point. “Good,” you shoot back, “I’m going to need all the anti-Mark force I can get.”

“Why?” You both turn to see Mark standing idly behind you. There’s a beat, and then: “You look like an inane stalker,” you retort, turning to continue walking. Lia follows suit—with the two of you, the vibe of the atmosphere would always come easy. If one was mad, the other would act mad, too. 

“Hey,” Mark repeats, falling into step beside you, “why do you need an anti-Mark force? Tell me.” At this point, your nerves are on fire and your blood is boiling, and you’re beginning to envision beating him up on the quad. “Mark, it’s been great, but we’re going to our dorm, and in case you don’t want to catch a restraining order, I suggest you get off at your floor instead of following us like a creep,” you say sweetly, quickening your steps until he’s far behind you, smiling. Fucking asshole. 

“I’ll see ya this evening, then,” he teases, and you grumble under your breath.

—

It’s 5:45 when Lia and Daniel leave the library—fifteen minutes early. You and Mark leave ten minutes later, hours before you were supposed to complete your task. You’re fuming, and for once, Mark has the decency to read the room and feel remorse. 

The evening had started off well enough, though—Lia and Daniel had showed up, did their thing, described what was happening, and you and Mark had noted it down. And then, well. Mark spilled water all over your planner, which, in hindsight, was definitely unintentional, but in the spur of the moment, you could do nothing but your natural—everybody’s natural—response to getting something precious ruined. You began to cry. “What the fuck,” you sniffled, “is wrong with you?!” You had shaken the majority of water off your planner, but any and all dates had been smudged and bled, and you couldn’t bring yourself to forgive him. “I know I called you annoying, but this is too far,” you had said, watching his face go from teasing to genuinely sorry. “Dude, it was accidenta—” 

“I don’t give a fuck—!” You quickly cut yourself off and wipe your tears when you see a young library assistant heading towards your table. Everybody composes themselves—Lia and Daniel straighten out the things on the surface and Mark sits up straight. “Hey,” he says. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but two students already came in with a noise complaint. We’re gonna have to ask you to,” he makes a gesture, “leave for now and come back tomorrow. Also, the puddle on the table…yeah. I’m really sorry.” He leaves, as if to make sure you have no other choice but to just go, and you slump back onto your chair in exhaustion. 

“You two can go ahead,” you hear Mark say, “I’m really sorry about this. We’ll clean up and apologize.” Faintly, you hear them get up, and you feel Lia’s hand squeeze yours as she promises a text and food later. You let your eyes remain shut, drinking in the quiet, trying to calm your inner turmoil.

Ten minutes later, when you’re out in the cold November air, Mark finally speaks. You had cleaned up and collected your things in silence. “I’m really sorry,” he says, “it was an accident, for real. I know I tease a lot, but, uh, I’m being serious. I would never have done that on purpose. I see you write shit on that thing a lot, so…I know how much you like it. Treasure it…? I don’t—whatever it is, I’m really sorry. Like, really. T’was an accident. If you need me to pay for it…” You shake your head softly, hugging your damp planner closer to your sweater-clad chest. “It’s okay. Thanks, anyway. For helping. I’ll email you what you have to do. Bye,” you turn and begin walking in the direction of your dorm. The sun is beginning to set, golden orange hues casting a vast array of colors onto the landscape of the city. You sigh softly, heart heavy with annoyance and exhaustion, and speed up before you start having a mini-breakdown.

—

Stage 1: Denial|

Your cursor blinks back at you as you finish typing in your outline for the introduction. It’s early into November, but already, you’ve had to shut your window to shielf yourself from the biting breeze outside. Across you, Lia applies mascara and talks to you. “What are you up to?” she asks, face contorted. 

“This godforsaken paper,” you mumble back, “just finished the introduction outline. I’m trying to give a loose definition for each gradual ‘stage.’” Shoving your Macbook off your lap, you get up to stretch. “Which I’ll probably find on Google Scholar, honestly. If you had to give me a definition—what’s denial?” 

She hums contemplatively, wand on lash, and then pipes up. “I think it’s just a stage where you can’t face the fact that you’re interested in that person. Like, why them? With Daniel, he wasn’t really my type. So the whole denial was denying I liked him, because…well, yeah. But I think it differs. Some people deny it because they’re shy, or ashamed, or weirded out that they even like them.”

You’ve had your fair share of crushes before, and sure enough, you had denied them all. But that was high school—college, though, had only brought short-lived flings and one night stands; you were an overachiever, much too committed to your own prosperity to pay mind to anybody else for too long. (Except Lia.) So you hadn’t really experienced the whole boyfriend-in-university thing—not that you particularly wanted to, but you were just human; you were curious. Lia had gotten it, and it looked wonderful. 

Speaking of—“So, a week without meeting Mark in person, huh? How is that going for you?” You scoff lightly, shaking your head as you pull your hair into a bun. “It’s going just fine. Dandy, actually. We work from our dorms and you and Daniel just update us. It’s a fine arrangement that I regret was not formulated sooner.” Lia nods in understanding, and you watch her pull on a top, mutter I’m out and head outside. For the fifth time this week, you’re alone in the dorm, with nothing but your Alexa playing SZA and your laptop. You pull it onto your lap again, staring at the boldface letters you had typed minutes prior: denial. You had no firsthand experience of being mature and going through denial; not in that way, anyway. You found it stupid that people even denied when it would be less painful to just admit interest.

You blow a raspberry as you research studies related to the term, bored out of your mind.

—

Two days later, you meet Mark again. 

You’d also had the pleasure of, for a minute or two, meeting a friend of his, Donghyuck Lee from Economics. He’s loud and amusing and, from your viewpoint, undeserving of somebody as boring as Mark. (That’s from a minute-long intercation.) 

At Lia’s insistence (and likely Daniel’s, too), you two met up to properly work and collaborate. In fear of being kicked out again, the four of you had chosen to meet somewhere else—a cafe off-campus affectionately named something along the lines of Saltwater Coffee. Naturally, after Donghyuck leaves, you find yourself sitting idly (awkwardly) beside Mark. “They won’t be long,” he says suddenly, “er, Daniel just texted me. They’re near.” You nod, pursing your lips, eyes trained onto your laptop. “We’re almost done formulating the denial stage and we can start outlining anger and bargaining. This’ll take about a week more—maybe mid to late November? Uh, I know it seems justifiable to slack off with the holidays,” you say, “but I really want us to finish this early. The due date’s in mid-February, so we can pass this on the 14th.” You turn to face him. “Get it? ‘Cause it’s Valentine’s Day.”

He nods. “Okay. No slacking. I get it. The Valentine’s is smart, too.” You nod back in silent understanding, turning back to type frantically into your keyboard. 

You hear the door jingle and Lia’s small “hey, guys”, so you look up and offer a smile. “I’m gonna go order everyone some coffee,” Mark says beside you, getting up and shuffling over to the counter. Daniel joins him, and Lia takes a seat across you, her smile knowing and apologetic. “Everything okay?” You blow a raspberry, but smile, anyway. “It’s not so bad. It could be better, but no more banter, just very annoyed auras…? You get it. It’s just been tough trying to divert my focus to this and ignore all the annoyance I feel.”

“Totally, I get that,” she says, “but all the same, I’m glad he’s matured a little bit and lessened all the ribbing.” You smile at that, agreeing, and then the conversation spirals into one about both of your days—“Professor Callahan totally pops a stiffy over Professor Michaelson”, “Daniel tells me Joshua cheated. Yes, on Jess!”, “Mia dropped out the other day and nobody knows why, hope she’s okay”—before Daniel and Mark return, coffee cups in hand. Mark places one next to you, and profusely, you look up at him, who’s just about to sit. 

“Thanks, but I don’t drink brewed coff—”

“It’s a caramel latte, the only thing you drink. Heard you say that to Lia once.” He takes a seat and pulls his laptop open. 

You stare at him, taking the cup and bringing it to your lips. Sure enough, it’s caramel—thick, and foamy, and sweet. You look up at him again, but he’s busy on Google Scholar, perusing through journals and studies. You shake your head before turning to Lia, who’s already looking at you, expression mirroring yours. 

Sweet, she mouths, but you purse your lips and choose not to acknowledge it. “Thanks,” you say quietly, and he hums to say you’re welcome. 

Your eyes flicker to him. He’s wearing a knitted sweater, but he’s pulled it up to his elbows. He’s typing quickly, and he can use all his fingers, too (you fail miserably at that), and his brows are furrowed as if he’s stressed, or in a hurry. You’ve never really noticed this much of Mark before. It’s probably, you think absently, because you’re confused. Puzzled at the gesture that you didn’t expect—at all.

After an hour, he angles his laptop to yours. “Nailed the intro. High five?” You open the Google doc on your own browser, and sure enough, the word count has increased monumentally. You can’t deny his knack for writing. “There are a few discrepancies in grammar,” you say instead. “But…okay. This is good.” You ignore his hand, in mid-air, and continue researching. 

Lia holds in a giggle, but turns back to Daniel, who, after fifteen minutes, turns to you and Mark. “Lia and I are heading out, guys,” he says, and Lia quickly tacks on. “Hey, if you need me to stay, I can,” she says quickly, but you smile and shake your head. 

“This might take a while. Go ahead. See ya at the dorm, Li. Bye, Daniel.” Mark bids his farewells, too, and they leave you alone in the cafe. It’s nearing a three hour crunch when he abruptly gets up to stretch, a low grunt leaving his lips. “I’m exhausted,” he sighs, “but at least we’re nearly done with this whole denial thing.”

“We’re actually only just starting,” you state, “this is going to go through a lot of editing and proofreading.” 

He chuckles and walks back to the counter to order something, and you shut your laptop to rest your eyes. Your glasses rest uncomfortably on the bridge of your nose as you breathe deeply. You lose track of time, and you open your eyes ten minutes later, fumbling to get up properly. There’s a panini beside your laptop, wrapped neatly in a tissue and laid on a plate. Mark’s is empty, save for crumbs, and he says nothing. 

“Get up,” he remarks teasingly after a while, and you groan in exhaustion. “I am, I’m up,” you mutter, straightening your back and flexing your neck. Inwardly, you wonder if you should thank him for the panini that is obviously yours that you obviously did not buy for yourself. 

Then Mark’s hand stretches out to take the panini, and he takes a bite. “Sorry,” he says, “I had to put my second sandwich in your space. This table’s a little small.” You hum back in acknowledgement, nodding once. “It’s, uh…all good,” you respond, voice small as you type into your laptop. Internally, your body fills slowly with humiliation and confusion, but you stay quiet, and that’s how the rest of the night goes: a silent, steady beat of keyboard clicking and the occasional question. 

No banter, no nothing—it’s a godsend, yes, it is, but you can’t help but miss the abrasive, playful conversations the two of you had built up over the previous several weeks. But really—had you truly assumed he had bought you a panini? As if a coffee wasn’t enough? You felt at odds with yourself for even expecting such a gesture from the guy whose main habit was to annoy you to the ends of the Earth.

“It’s late,” he says, as if he’s reading your mind and knowing you’re absolutely mortified inside. “Let’s head home.” You nod, deeming the night’s work satisfactory—maybe even beyond, considering the amount of effort you both put into the output. You shove your laptop and charger into your bag and pocket your phone, lingering awkwardly and waiting for Mark to finish packing up. He’s particular with it—he has little sections in his backpack for the wires and chargers, and even his AirPods, and his laptop. 

“Very organized,” you find yourself commenting offhandedly, your tone taking on a teasing edge. He glares playfully back at you. 

“Sorry I don’t want my wires to break,” he shoots back, eyeing your flimsy tote bag, “unlike some people.” You roll your eyes and, against your strongest wills, a smile appears on your lips, albeit a small one. His eyes linger on your smile for a little bit before he clears his throat and zips up his knapsack. “Let’s, er, go. Thank Jesus we’re in the same building.” When you exit, the air bites at you despite the jacket covering your body, and you quicken your pace. “It’s cold as hell.”

“Ironic,” Mark says. You hide a smile.

—

That’s what November brings you—the next week and a half are composed of just slowly learning to get used to working with Mark again and going home late into the night, crunching to the max. 

Your paper begins to take on more and more structure, and two out of the six days you’ve met, Mark has set down a caramel latte for you to arrive to. The acoustic music slowly phases into holiday guitar, and the coat rack at the entrance is weighed down more and more as the days pass, preparing to welcome December. 

You and Mark work silently, save for the rare banter and eyeroll, and very gradually, the annoyance that had bubbled up within seconds before had sank down. You’re not friends, per se—it’s just that the frustration and exasperation had lessened considerably. 

You were civil. That’s it. You won’t try to deny that you’ve been thinking about this a little too much—about what your “friendship” had become with Mark. You hadn’t snapped at him in days, and he hadn’t tugged at your ballpen in even longer. It wasn’t that you had cowered him into silence by crying over your planner—it may have instigated it, but his behavior was…different. 

More calm, more sure. Less childish. He would still tease you, but not as much. It’s nearing mid-November now, and you’ve successfully done much of your introduction and denial, needing less and less of Lia and Daniel’s presence. (Which you’re sure they’re grateful for.) But being left alone with Mark isn’t as bad as you once thought—

“Hello. Earth to you,” you distantly hear, and you whip your head in the direction of the voice as you pace back to your dorm building. Mark stares blankly back at you. “What,” you mumble back. He quirks a brow before continuing. “I was saying, I think I need to take a rain check tomorrow. The, uh”—he clears his throat—“um, yeah.”

You eye him. “Okay…?”

He nods profusely, “Yeah, all good.” The walk continues in silence, the sun finally setting down behind the Manhattan skyline beyond you and the breeze taking on a chillier temperature. You sigh softly, fatigue overtaking you as you stare at the building nearing you. “If you take a rain check, just make sure you write it within the day or after,” you say, half-sternly and half-tiredly. He mumbles a “got it” and you both jog up the steps to the lobby, where you run into, by some weird twist of the day, a small group of anti-abortion protesters.

“Jesus Christ,” Mark mutters under his breath. “You have got to be fucking kidding me.” You rub the bridge of your nose in your fingers, choosing to tune them out and instead maneuver your way through the door. Before you can even take a step, though, they’re all up in your face with pamphlets and brochures and a guitar. “Excuse me,” you grunt, trying to gently push them aside, but they only come on stronger. “A child is a child,” they say. “If you know anybody who’s—”

“Is this your new initiative? Preying on college students on school grounds, unaccounted for?” Mark asks from behind you. You turn to find he’s filming and stifle a laugh. “I’m surprised nobody’s kicked you out. Won’t be long, now,” he adds with a smile. 

You tune out nearly everything else—it’s really just them telling Mark to stop recording and him retorting with equally snarky phrases. It’s not until maybe after a solid two minutes of back and forth that one of them, a weird middle-aged woman, pulls out a burgundy gummy bear from a bag and pushes it into Mark’s camera. He takes it from her and examines it, puzzled. “That,” she says matter-of-factly, “is the approximate size of a fetus. It’s big. It’s sentient, alive. What, I beg of you, what would you do?”

Mark squints at it. Then he pops it into his mouth, takes your hand, and runs straight to the elevator across the floor. 

“There’s a bunch of anti-abortion people outside, it’s not cool!” He hollers to the receptionist before the doors close with a damning click. 

There’s a beat, and then.

Both of you are doubling over in laughter. “Why the hell would y—why would you do that?! You’re insane!” The response is: “Because they’re not cool! They’re fuckin’ annoying! So I ate their baby!” There are tears in your eyes, your laughter so hard it’s nearing silent—Mark’s, though, is loud and annoying sounding, though you seem to not mind so much. The laughter subsides when the ding of your floor sounds and you straighten yourself up. Getting into a different position reminds you of the very there, very obvious brushing of your hand against Mark’s, which he’d taken just moments earlier, post-baby eating.

You freeze and jerk your hand away. “I’ll, um, go now,” you say, “I’ll see you tomorr—no, the day after.” Against your wills, you meet his eyes, and you’re surprised to find that he’s already looking at you, an unreadable expression on his face. “Okay,” he says, his eyes not leaving yours. Your heart beats faster at a very small increment, but you head out and semi-run to your room, swinging it open and leaning against it. 

You look up to find Lia and Daniel engaged in a heated Monopoly match. You make no noise, mind (and heart, but you can’t tell why) racing fast. You watch them play for a second before they both look up slowly.

“You’re smiling like a goddamn idiot,” Daniel says. Your face falls immediately. “I’m, um, no I’m not,” you say casually, pacing over to your bed and flopping onto it. Lia laughs loudly. 

“That sounded so freaked. Like we’re your mom and you just brought weed home kind of freaked.” Pause. 

“Are you hiding something from me?” She rises from her spot to look at you, head in pillow and all, and you let out a muffled “no!”, probably too defensive for your own good. 

It’s Daniel’s turn to snort. You look up and glare at him, “You’re getting too comfortable for your own good. You need to humble yourself, Daniel. What’s it again? Oh yeah, Yeonjun, right?” He rolls his eyes at the use of his Korean name and turns back to the Monopoly board.

Lia flops atop you, eliciting a grunt from your lips. “Are you okay? Did somebody flirt with you? Did Mark finally fuck off and leave you alone properly?” 

At the mention of Mark, your heart races—you will it to stop, and audibly groan in the process. “What is it, you bitch?” Lia asks, tugging on a section of your hair. “It’s nothing, Li! Nothing, I promise.” She glares at you before walking to Daniel and covering his ears. Instantly, he begins to let out a chorus of Lalala, and deeming the environment safe enough, you let it slip.

“Mark and I held hands. But it—”

“You what?!”

“It really, really doesn’t mean anyth—”

“How can that not mean anything? It’s hand holdi—”

“If you would listen to the backstory you’d know!” She pauses, and then uncovers Daniel’s ears and knees him. 

“Okay, get out. Monopoly postponed, Jun,” she says, pushing him out insistently. He barely collects his phone and keys before he’s out, but you swoon silently when you catch him pressing a short goodbye kiss to her forehead before actually leaving. She turns immediately, fire and curiosity awfully evident in her face. 

She nears you. “Explain.” 

And that’s what sparks the story of the weird protesters, Mark’s power move, and the unintentional hand hold that lasted a few moments too long. She nods the entire time, laughing, and then her face straightens out again. You can almost hear the gears in her head turning as she analyzes the situation, and then she nods once. 

“Okay. Perfectly justifiable to freak out.” Another pause. “But why were you smiling?” You stare blankly back at her, head working impossibly quick to formulate a reply. You’ve taken too long now, judging by the way Lia is looking at you with the most shit-eating grin on her fucking face. You groan.

“You like him, you bitch!” 

You shake your head, facing her. “I don’t, dude. Trust me. I just…it was a fun experience, so naturally I’d be laughing. And smiling. But I’m just not interested in Mark! I’m not,” you fumble, being completely honest. 

You didn’t—not even if you looked in the mirror and asked yourself. But you couldn’t deny the feelings you felt in the ten seconds from the elevator to your room, your heart racing and your fist curling and uncurling. When you look at Lia again, she’s still smiling, flushed. “You like him,” she says into her palm, which she’s slapped over her mouth in disbelief. You stare back at her, your expression baffled. “If I did,” you begin, getting up to discard your shirt, “I’d have told you by now. It’s really not that big of a deal unless you make it out to be.”

After that, you and Mark spend nearly three weeks walking on eggshells around each other. While conversations are no longer avoided, and you could talk without getting exasperated or too embarrassed, finger brushes are frequent, and eye contact only makes you extremely nervous. You had worked until the second stage—anger—already, but you’d still been polishing the denial and introduction. Considering November wasn’t over and the paper was due February, you figured you were moving at an okay pace. Besides, a lot of your friends hadn’t even begun.

—

There are two instances where you rush home, mortified beyond belief.

The first when when you struck up a conversation with the cute, Australian barista. Scrawled in big penmanship on his name tag is Chan. You had brought up, in passing, how often you’re at the cafe and how you probably deserve a free drink. He replied with a low hum, and you dialed down your flirty tone, slightly embarrassed. But not really. You’ve rejected plenty of people before. It’s when you’re already paying for your drink that he replied, handing you your (for a change) iced matcha with a small grin. 

“I’d have flirted with you weeks ago if you didn’t have your boyfriend with you all the time. He’s always buying you your drinks.” You spluttered for a good second, staring at him incredulously. “He’s not my boyfriend,” you finally said. 

He had shrugged, nonchalant. “He sure as hell looks at you a lot for someone you’re not dating. And you do it just as much, if not more. I’m observant, by the way. Not a stalker.” You had taken your cup and paced over to the other end of the cafe, sat across Mark, cheeks heated.

He looked up, brow raised. You shook your head.

The second time was when Donghyuck graced you both with his presence. You quickly found out that he was a magnetic presence and you both shared similar interests. The energy you both created was both amusing and annoying to Mark. 

Although you kept quiet mostly, you enabled Donghyuck’s incessant teasing, which annoyed Mark to the ends of the Earth. “You’re a dork. Isn’t he?” You look up and nod with a smile. Mark rolls his eyes, sending Donghyuck into a laughing frenzy. Mark just grunts and continues typing.

Hyuck had made a joke about how two Physics textbooks discussed why the sad man named Mark owns two of them and didn’t have a life, and you laughed. 

You didn’t usually laugh, not around Mark, at least, since it was safe to say you didn’t have any source of entertainment in such a boring guy. But you laughed at the witty joke, and Donghyuck, without thinking much, had said in passing: “Mark, I guess you’re right about everything about her being pretty.”

Mark said nothing, typing. You said nothing. Nobody said anything, not even a sly Donghyuck or, from the counter, an even slyer Chan.

—

When you see Mark next, it’s three days later, and it’s, for the second time, in Johnny’s apartment. 

Lia had asked if you wanted to tag along, and you found no harm in going. (“You’re going because Mark is” becomes Lia’s favorite phrase of the night, so much it’s spread to Daniel, who you’d succumbed to and spilled everything to hours prior.) The walk there has something boiling low in your gut and you’re quiet, in fear you might end up vomiting in nerves or saying something stupid. Lia teases you, but her hand clasping yours reassures you, and you squeeze it tightly. 

You get there late—it’s past 1AM, and you have a sense of deja vu walking into the cramped space. It’s fuller this time—people are creeping into the bedrooms to smoke in private or do some other things, but suffice to say it’s crowded as fuck.

“Want a drink?” Lia hollers, and you nod over the music. Johnny’s neighbor is another upperclassman named Doyoung, though he’s mainly referred to as Doie by just about everybody around him.

You’ve seen his girlfriend call him bunny a few times, though you’ve long desired to repress that memory. 

Judging by the fact that you can faintly hear a different song from the next room, the party has probably extended to Doyoung’s. There’s quite a gathering this week—the rich freshman who you’d befriended once before, Chenle, and his horde of friends are here; from Lia, who hands you a drink, you learn that Kun and Sicheng, two incredibly attractive juniors, are here, too—in Doie’s, though. The party only intensifies, which is hard, because Johnny’s apartment is very tiny.

Eventually, you find yourself in the bathroom, smoking a joint you’d grabbed out of the clammy hands of a tipsy Chenle and kicking a couple out under the guise that you’re Johnny’s cousin. Chenle had protested but eventually given in, pulling a new one out of his pocket.

The bathroom light is white and harsh, but there’s a very funky lamp at the corner. From your place inside the dry (and thankfully clean…looking) bathtub, you eye it. It’s a tall one in the shape of a glass of margarita. 

You heave yourself up and find the switch, and then when it’s on, you giggle at the green light emitting from it. You have absolutely no idea why Johnny, Jaehyun, or their roommate Jungwoo (3J, as some call them) have a decorative, margarita-shaped green lamp, and in their bathroom nonetheless, but you shut off the main light and return to smoking your blunt. Deciding your ass aches far too much, you lean against the tile wall and cherish the smoke.

The door opens abruptly, and you curse, pushing it back closed. 

“I have explosive diarrhea,” you say robotically, using the same excuse you did for the previous three couples that showed up. 

From the other side, you hear a shrill laugh and sound of confusion. When you peer over the other side and see Mark, you groan and laugh. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I saw you come in. Like, twenty minutes ago.”

“I’m cherishing the party privately.”

Mark ushers himself into the dark space and shuts the door. He makes a show of locking it, as if to show you it’s possible to do so. The sound of it locking sends a wave of nerves up your spine. 

“I didn’t lock it in case a medical emergency happens and they have to rush inside.” 

Mark quirks his brow. “I doubt they would think to go inside the restroom and not panic and call 911, you know.” 

You shrug in indifference and take another drag, reluctantly offering it to him.

He takes it, and you pause for a second to observe him. His hair, dark, and which usually covers his entire forehead like a broom or at least parts in the middle slightly, is now styled differently. 

He’s in a fitting black shirt and blue jeans, and, upon your closer inspection, silver rings adorn his fingers. You will yourself to look down. It’s dark. “What’s that you’re holding?” You ask instead, trying not to extend your stare at his shoulders.

“Your puffer coat,” he says, tossing it to you. “Left it last time.”

“That time when you annoyed the shit out of me, right,” you retort.

“Yes, exactly that time. That was ages ago. Weeks ago. Look at us now.”

“Us now—what, still disliking each other?”

He laughs humorlessly, but doesn’t entertain you further. He turns to the lamp instead. “Do you know I was there when they moved this in,” he begins, gesturing to it, “Jae got it at some weird, awful flea market, and he had to buy some extra wiring to fix it or whatever. I was doing Physics homework. It was at the start of this school year. And I bet you didn’t know…” he bends down and reaches to the base of the lamp, pressing a button, “that it changes color.”

The room is bathed in red now, and you swallow. “Interesting,” you manage to say, despite the racing in your head. “Very,” he responds, taking a step closer to you. You gaze up at him. He’s tall. You breathe softly. You nod in agreement. You don’t know what to do. You want to punch him and kiss him and leave all at once. 

You want to kiss him, oh God, you want to kiss him.

“Oh God,” you say softly, out loud. Oh fuck. Too much weed?

He inches closer, leaving the blunt on the rim of the sink. “Why?” He smiles a little and you smile back, nervous. He’s so close now, and he smells so good—like cologne and laundry and weed. You shake your head. “Nothing,” you mumble back.

He’s even closer now, eyes boring into yours. You adjust your strap, a nervous habit. He takes your hand and does it for you. “I like this song,” he says casually, like he’s not playing with the strap of your dress. “Do you know what it’s called?” It’s vaguely familiar to you, but you shake your head. 

“It’s Jhene Aiko,” he replies, and you nod. You gravitate closer.

You stare at him. He stares back. “I’m high,” you say. You giggle. “I had a brownie and that blunt.”

“That’s a lot,” he says. “Don’t finish the blunt, ‘kay?” You nod back, and giggle again. In two seconds, your nervous mechanism has kicked in and you’re laughing like a psycho. “I’m high,” you repeat, and then he kisses you, effectively sobering you up.

Huh. He kisses you, effectively sobering you up. He kisses you.

You kiss back, shocked and relieved, deepening it, trying to get as much of him as possible. His hands are big and wide and warm, traveling all over you. You want him. Your arms wrap around his neck, pulling him closer, lips molding against yours deliriously. 

“Want you,” you say when his hands play with the hem of your dress, teetering closer and closer to your core. “I said, I want you,” you whine, “now.” Mark only laughs, his hands under your dress and playing with the lace waistband of your underwear. 

“I like how this feels,” he mumbles. “Wanna take a look.” You whimper, hiking your leg up and nodding. “Please, just…touch me,” you say breathlessly. “Please.”

“I will,” he says, voice calm. “You’re being good.” You can’t deny the noise you make at the praise, breathy and loud. You pull him in again, drunk for more, your hands raking through his hair. It’s dark, the both of you basking in the small red light. Mark hikes your dress up, inching it higher, slowly, until he sees the hem of your white lace underwear. He grunts and pulls at it. “I love this,” he says. “So fuckin’, Jesus.” 

You giggle against the smile. He toys with your panties for a bit before finally pulling them down, watching them sink to your ankles. “Hot,” he jokes, and you laugh in disbelief. “Why would you even be joking abou—”

“Mark! Let’s go, it’s 2:30!” Donghyuck’s voice is just as loud and clear as it would be if you weren’t separated by a door. Jolted, you and Mark instinctively break apart and stare at the rattling door. “Maaaark,” he sing-songs, knocking to a beat. You stare at Mark, waiting for him to respond.

“I have explosive diarrhea,” he says. You stifle a guffaw, pulling your panties up.

He pouts, tapping your ass. “Bullshit,” Donghyuck says from outside. “I’m cooomin’ in!”

In the span of a minute, where you realize Donghyuck is not bluffing and in fact has a stolen bathroom key from Jungwoo’s bedside drawer, you manage to shove yourself into the bathtub and hide yourself with the curtain. Mark switches the light back on, much to both of your disappointment, and pretends to smoke the blunt you’d left on the sink fifteen minutes ago. Ergo: pre-kiss.

You find your phone on the bathtub floor and grip it, turning the brightness down. You have a plethora of messages and voicemails from Lia, five calls from Daniel, and an interesting iMessage of Donghyuck’s red, weed-induced eyes from an unknown number. It could be anybody, and that scares you.

The texts are all frantic, and they’re the last things that bring you out of your high and back to reality. Where are u, who u with?, u getting railed??!, Have you seen mark?

“Hyuck, if I actually did have a shitstorm coming out of my ass, you’d be so sorry for breaking in,” you hear Mark say. You sink lower into the bathtub, awaiting Donghyuck’s voice. “You were the one who suggested we go at 2:30, and you’ve been smoking weed for the longest time, dipshit,” he says, “now let’s go. I haven’t seen your Psych girl all night, so you can cry about it at home.” You faintly detect Mark protesting and then, “Let me just freshen up! Just go ahead.”

Reluctantly, you peek out and find Mark alone. You get up and fix your dress.

You’re sober now. The red lights are gone. It’s just you and Mark, plain and simple. Your feelings haven’t gone away, though. You’re fucking fucked. You want him to fuck you. Oh, fuck.

“Go,” you say instead, spluttering. “And I’ll see you. Tuesday.”

You leave first despite yourself, not turning around for even a split second, finding a worried (and then relieved) Lia and taking five consecutive tequila shots to down the nerves and denial bubbling in your system. She raises a brow, but you refuse to even meet her eyes, head and heart pounding impossibly fast. You want to kiss him again. So, so bad. But what the fuck did you just let happen?

—

Stage 2: Anger|

Lia hadn’t pressed, and you were nervous, but it was getting easy to diverge the details of what happened during Johnny’s party. You had instead opted to work alone, too much of a coward to even see Mark’s face. If you were being completely honest with yourself, you feared you might just kiss him if you ever saw him. So you spent days at class working, and then at your dorm working, adjusting your route to avoid, as much as possible, Mark or Hyuck’s buildings and that godforsaken cafe. You did text Mark, though, and the exchanges were brief, not even a “thank you” or “good morning” preceding them. It was awful.

Working alone forced you into a heavy load of retrospection. You would think deeply, like how you are now, spiraling into a series of questions where you studied the play-by-play of what happened in the bathroom, up against the wall. You liked it. A lot. But you couldn’t. You wouldn’t let yourself. Why it even happened…God. You mentally berated yourself for giving into it. Didn’t you hate him? Or at least dislike him? Didn’t you take pleasure in scolding him or fighting with him?

“You’re freaking me out,” Lia says from her bed. She’s been staring at you. “You’ve been lying on your bed staring at the ceiling for twenty straight minutes.” She walks over to you, flopping next to you, her arms winding around your body. “You can tell me anything.”

“I know,” you say, nervous. You gulp.

“Okay. If you’re n—”

“Mark and I kissed.”

She sits up and turns to look at you.

“Made out, more like. We were going to fuck if we didn’t get interrupted.” You’re mortified, refusing to meet her gaze. When you look up, her face is even, but you know she’s bubbling over with giddiness inside. “That is so fucking great, dude,” she replies. “Why are you so embarrassed?”

“Because it’s Mark,” you whine. “He’s not…I don’t know.”

She lies back down. “You’re overthinking this.” You laugh, poking her waist. “I know, but I just…I feel like he might not like me much anymore.” You recount the way you left him hanging, despite the lack of awkward air and the potential to talk and become something. She tsks but justifies it, because she’s so good at that, being a mediator, and you continue with your day quietly. 

Your mind is always on it, though, his hands and his lips, and you’ve scoured Spotify for the song playing that he had commented on.

It’s called Pussy Fairy. You cannot make it up. It’s a weird title, but the song is heavenly, and you can’t deny when it’s full blast on your AirPods and your hand is creeping closer and closer there, trying desperately to replicate what you felt in that moment. When you’re not sated, ashamed and sighing, you resort to working on your paper. There are moments where both you and Mark are working at the same time, and you hate yourself for getting all flustered when it happens. 

—

It’s a Tuesday, in the early afternoon, when you’re out of class and cleaning out the little litter in your dorm, repasting whatever decorations fell off, et cetera. You have the time, anyway, and it wouldn’t hurt to fix the place up a bit. You’re halfway into re-stringing Lia’s fairy lights when someone knocks on the door, jolting you. You curse under your breath, hopping off her bed to swing the door open and reveal—

“What is up?!” Donghyuck grins back at you. His hand is raised in a high-five invitation, which you hesitantly reciprocate. “Mark tells me you’re meeting today, and that I should come remind you, since it seems like you forgot. He says you haven’t texted all day. Since I was on this floor—do you know Jeno Lee? Do you know it’s so amusing how Mark, Jeno, and I all have the same surname? Anyway. I was here on your floor to remind Jeno about an Econ presentation, and Mark texts me and goes, if you’re with Jeno, then remind you—you as in you, you—to come meet me and work.” 

He talks so goddamn fast. “You talk so goddamn fast.”

He just guffaws, high-fiving you again. “Well, you get my point, right? Meet Mark at the cafe and work is all he said to do. If you wanna.” You nod slowly, absorbing his words. “Tell him I’ll be a little late,” you say simply, and as you’re about to shut the door, he talks again, his voice quieter this time. “I know you were hiding behind the curtain.”

You pull the door open again, so fast a minuscule gust of wind washes over both of your faces. “You’re kidding,” you say, “you’re kidding.” You stare at each other for a second before his solem features break into a smile. “I am. Mark spilled everything to me, so I decided to trick you.” Relief and annoyance break over your system as you swat Donghyuck’s shoulder. “You’re a dick,” you spit. “You’re bringing a bad image to Econ majors.”

He merely laughs and closes the door himself, light brown hair fluffing with the severity of his laugh (cackle.) Slightly annoyed, you drag yourself to get dressed, dread building up in your stomach at the prospect of seeing Mark again. Not when your mind conjures up what happened everytime you just see his name. Or the word mark. You’ve been out of it since it happened, not even responding to your usual heated debates with the conservative Trump supporter in class. You suppose the best way to confront it is to simply confront it.

When you get there, though, it’s clear that confrontation would not be an option. Immediately, when you sit, the air shifts into something oddly familiar—the atmosphere between the two of you when you first got partnered up. Except now, Mark won’t even give you a pinch of attention, or banter, instead typing his questions into the document to avoid verbal conversation. (He is a fucking petty bitch, you’ll give him that.)

You stroll over to the counter, pout set on your lips. “Hello,” Chan says politely, and you just smile half-heartedly. “Lover’s quarrel?” He teases, and you roll your eyes. “He’s ignoring me,” you respond, watching him make you a latte. “And we’re not dating. We never were.”

“Mm, right,” he says, finishing and setting your drink in front of you. You laugh a little, taking it. “No. We weren’t. But I’ll update you.”

When you return, Mark’s looking at you, quiet as ever. You break his gaze and continue working, working and working until the sun sets, nestled deep behind the horizon. When you look up again, the sky is already dark, city lights providing solace to the place. You look at Mark quizzically, as if to ask him what time you should both leave, but he just shrugs. “Any time,” he states plainly, and huffing, you get up.

“I’ll go right ahead then,” you say, trying your best to sound annoyed and get your message across. He says nothing, watching you pack up your stuff and sling your bag over your shoulder, and then eventually, leave.

Daniel is the first to see you in your raged, annoyed state—you meet him in the elevator of the lobby, your blood boiling and your fists balled. Knowing you’re headed to the same floor, he presses the button, ruffles his hair, and then lets the silence take over. And then, “What’s going on?” You breathe deeply, turning to him with a tired look on your face. “Mark’s going on,” you mumble, “he was ignoring me the entire time. And to think he was the one who requested my presence! It makes no sense. Why would he ignore me when we can just talk about it?”

“About what?”

It suddenly occurs to you that Daniel knows about your weird feelings for Mark, but not how they culminated. You splutter. “Um, about us. Everything.” Daniel looks amused, but the doors open, and you thank them for the temporary exit from the topic. He stops you right outside, though, and pulls out two ticket, card-looking things. “Wait, um. Listen, Lia and I are going to reach our seven-month…anniversary, I guess, of, y’know, being a thing. I know it seems really small, but I want to give her a little something out of appreciation, so I got us a room at this ski lodge outside the city.”

“That’s so sweet,” you say honestly, “but I must admit, it comes on sort of stalker-y. Like you’re whisking her off out of the city.”

He beams even louder. “That’s why you’re coming. With Mark!”

You gape back at him. “Did you miss the whole I-hate-him thing that happened in there?” You jab your finger towards the closed elevator doors, disbelief written across your face. He laughs. “Sometimes you can’t keep hiding behind”—he begins walking to your room, and you follow suit—“emotions, like anger. When I liked Lia, there was a point where I was just pretending to alienate her so I wouldn’t have to face that I was starting to love her. Like her. And you know, she did it right back.” 

“Oh, quit it,” you scoff, insistent. “You’re lecturing me like you’ve been married a decade.”

“That’s what I want,” he says, and you gag. “The first step to that would be ski lodge trip, so you’re coming!”

You’re in front of your room now, and you pinch his wrist as he reaches for the handle, gaining his full attention. “I’ll gladly go,” you whisper, “if Mark’s out.” Daniel just laughs, shaking his head. “No, no. An overnight trip would delay your paper severely. Plus, they have two beds per room.”

“We’ll be staying in the same roo—hey, Li,” you say, quickly cutting your angry rant off when she opens the door, her face confused (to say the least.) 

“Mm, hey,” she says, ushering the two of you in. “How long were you two out there?” Daniel shrugs, ruffling his hair and then pressing a kiss on Lia’s forehead. You boo from your place on your bed, buried under your duvet. “You both suck,” you holler, “always sexing it up in a sacred space. AKA my room.” Lia just grins and jumps on top of you, drawing grunts from you both. Daniel seats himself on the floor and busies himself with his phone. “How was Mark,” she whispers into your hair, and you groan.

“Bad,” you respond, “I’m so annoyed. We’re back to square one.” She makes an apologetic noise and gets up with a sigh, adjusting the strings of her pullover and then hugging Daniel. You watch them. You want to kiss Mark again. Life sucks that way.

—

Predictably, Mark turns down the offer of the ski lodge. He’s polite about it, too, especially since he and Daniel have grown a little bit closer since the start of your project. Daniel is, by no means, a “Mark anti”, but he would participate in the ribbing sometimes. Still, he’s insistent on the trip, saying it’s the best way to welcome December and that the forecast predicts a nice, thick layer of snow. It takes a week and two coffees everyday for Mark to give in, under the condition that he buy his own room when you get there.

Which, honestly, really, you have no problem with. Really, you think to yourself as you unceremoniously shove a knitted sweater into your bag. Really. Lia, who had graciously accepted the surprise, watches you abuse your bag, shoving sweater and scarf inside like they want to murder you. “Relax,” she says after a while. You laugh, playing it off (not so) casually.

The drive up there, courtesy of Daniel and a borrowed Prius, is fun, and cramped, but still decent, considering it was just an hour long. You’re in the back with Lia, and Mark is in charge of the AUX, which, of course, comes with its own bout of jokes. You even find the heart to participate and laugh in a few, not daring to meet his eyes. But all his songs are so fucking good. Frank Ocean, Jhene Aiko, SZA, and smaller indie artists flow from the speaker under his phone. The car ride has its share of epic karaoke moments—Mark plays ABBA, and Queen, solely to make sure everybody is belting out to the high heavens.

You get there when the sky’s purple and orange and there are some skiiers scattered around, though, since it’s not the proper holiday period, not too much. You trek over to the main lodge and that’s where Daniel pays for his reservations, and he and Lia retire to their room and promise to get up for dinner. You’re, again, alone with Mark in the lobby as you both stare at each other, willing the other to get up first. He does, to buy his own room like he said he would, and you can faintly hear the exchange from your seat on their nice, fluffy couch.

“I’m sorry, sir. We’re renovating a majority of the rooms for the holidays. That’s why reservations were a prerequisite for staying here.”

Mark sighs. “Okay, right. I’m so sorry. Um”—it’s at this point that you go up next to him, polite smile on your face, ready to take the room key and fuck off—“could we just get an extra blanket, please? For one of the beds.” The receptionist gives a curt smile, handing over the keycard and nodding. “That’ll be one queen-sized warm blanket, then,” she hums, typing away. The receptionist beside her goes to the back, presumably to get the blanket. Mark nods, smiling. “For two queen-sized beds, it must be a big room for both of them to fit comfortably,” he comments offhandedly, fiddling with the card.

The receptionist chuckles. “There is only one bed, sir.”

Oh, God. “Oh, God,” you whisper. “One bed?” She nods with an eye-crinkling smile, like her words have not just rained hell upon the two people across her. “One bed and a sofa,” she corrects herself, reading the information on the computer by the desk. Not wanting to risk your last shred of sanity, you smile profusely, walking quickly towards your room which, thankfully, is on the same floor, at the end of the hall. It’s a small, quaint place that would be honest-to-God perfect if not for the fact that—

“There’s one bed,” Mark sighs, the truth clicking into place. “Daniel is a fucking shithead.” You drop your bag onto the carpeted floor, surveying the room with a scrutinizing gaze. It’s sizable—a bed, a couch, a window. There’s a small wooden desk that looks like its legs can barely hold its weight, and then another door, leading to the bathroom. It’s not bad at all. But you’re exhausted, the sun’s long gone, and your resolve is shredding away as the seconds tick by. “Take the couch,” you say dismissively, “or the carpet.” You make a beeline for the bed, but Mark’s arm wraps around your waist, effectively stopping you.

Ohmygodohmygodohmygod “Shut up and let go of me, dick,” you stutter out. Mark loosens his grip and you shove him off, glaring at him. He gazes back down at you, a glint of amusement in his eyes. “We can’t just make up terms without negotiation,” he says matter-of-factly, and you blow a raspberry. “Fine. Let’s negotiate then. I’m a girl and that puts me above you because chivalry isn’t dead, thus, boom, I get the bed.”

“I was in the uncomfortable passenger seat all day and my lower back hurts,” he counters.

“My legs are wobbly.”

“Bullshit. My back aches.”

“You already said that, it’s invalid.”

The back and forth only intensifies, your arguments growing more and more bizarre, until finally, your volume is so high Lia says she can hear it faintly, four doors down. 

“The couch looks comfy,” you try, but Mark stands firm. 

“Do you know what? The bed is big. It’s a big bed. And we’re not going to take up much space. If we divide the bed with the sofa pillows…” you pick up the cushions and line them up neatly along the middle, “…then we can sleep beside each other without having to make contact with each other.” He seems convinced, stepping closer to the bed and nodding. “Okay. I get first dibs on the shower.”

“Asshole,” you mutter, but you let him anyway. You’ve unpacked nearly all your things and he isn’t done yet, so you’ve resorted to scrolling mindlessly through Tiktok and laughing at just about everyone that pops up on screen. Mark finally exits after what feels like forever, and you keep your eyes trained on your screen to avoid looking at him. From your peripheral vision, he is very much shirtless. There are no words exchanged, the thickness in the air only building bit by bit.

—

Three hours later, post-dinner, post-abandoning the thought of working on your paper, you’re stumbling into your room after helping the very tipsy couple of the night into theirs. You’re beyond tired now, and you can tell Mark is, too, despite the lack of eye contact or communication between you. You don’t even look at him, brushing your teeth and removing your makeup and clipping your hair up into a bun. It’s when he does the same, and you’re both in bed, using your phones, that he finally breaks the silence.

“I’m not mad,” he says. His voice is even and calm, and you quickly shut your phone off and sit up, peering over the pillow boundary you had created. You look at him expectantly before he sighs and continues. “Why did you leave?”

You stand up, getting out, trying to increase distance. You’ve never really liked confrontation. “I was weirded out,” you spill, “and scared…? I guess with the nearness of being caught, and with all the lights on, I was just shocked back to reality.”

He sits up. “What’s reality?”

“I don’t—know,” you splutter, getting back on the bed. “Not kissing you?”

He laughs, and then it becomes silent. “Right. Let’s sleep, then.” Without another word, he pulls his lamp off, and only the white moonlight is left illuminating the both of you. Shucking yourself under the covers, feeling your heart practically thump out of your chest. You honestly think he can hear it, or at least feel it. Suddenly the boundary doesn’t do much. You turn away from him, nervous, and you can faintly hear his breathing even out. You shut your eyes for a second. When you open them again, he’s looking right at you. “Just checking to see if you’re asleep,” he says quietly. You nod. And then you lean upwards, just a touch, so your lips nearly brush slightly. “Night,” you say, before turning to sleep for real.

You’re not sure when. And how. Sure, you faintly remember digging your legs sleepily through the sheets to find warmth and tangling Mark’s in your own. But still—when you’re up, the pillow fort is at your feet, hanging precariously off the four post bed, and your back is against Mark’s chest. His breath fans lightly over your hair and you blearily register what happened overnight. His arm is slung over your middle, it’s quiet, and oh Christ, he is hard.

It’s fairly late. He’s hard. The antique clock mounted up on the wall tells you it’s around nine, which essentially gave you seven hours of sleep. He’s hard. You bask in the warmth of Mark for a while before your resolve solidifies and you gently push his arm off from its position on your hips. He only comes on stronger, wrapping fully around your waist, mumbling incoherence into your hair. He’s hard. You squeeze your eyes shut, summoning sleep to overcome you quickly, but it never does. Dread overcomes you as you feel your underwear grow damp.

“Mm,” Mark grunts, his hand around your waist loosening. You move away but his head suddenly lolls into the crook of your neck, his lips touching the side of it. You whimper. He’s a fucking asshole, even when he’s asleep. You pinch his arm, jolting him to half-awakeness, and you roll away, despite your body’s protests.

He blinks his eyes open. “Sorry, shit,” he says, voice deep and ridden with sleep. You’re fucked.

“It’s okay,” you splutter instead. “Just go back to sleep.” You faintly register that you sound just as exhausted as he does, and you bury your head back into the covers. Everything, plus the sound of his voice, has you dripping, and you breathe in deeply to poorly disguise a whimper. He chuckles, already half-asleep, from where he is, and it’s quiet for a few minutes before you realize he’s fallen asleep. Knowing Lia and Daniel will be busy for a while, you pull a spare pillow over your head and chant to yourself before falling back asleep, too.

When you awaken, the bed is cold and empty, and the shower’s running. You check the time to find only an hour has passed, but you’re much more awake now, getting up and knocking incessantly on the bathroom door. “Hurry,” you demand hoarsely, “I want to go skiing.” You hear a muffled okay and scurry over to your bag to find the pair of leggings you had packed for this. You also find your parka, and you pull off your shirt to clasp on a bra.

“Not that I don’t mind,” Mark says, eliciting a yelp from you as you tug a sweater on at record speed, “but generally, that kind of thing only goes unnoticed in nudist colonies. I could research some for you, if you’d—ow! I was joking, God!” You bonk him twice over the head with the Bible on the bedside table, your brows furrowed angrily. “You looked, asshat,” you say, collecting your things and locking yourself in the bathroom.

When it becomes increasingly evident that Lia and Daniel have no plans of exiting their room, you grumble and resort to skiing alone. But as you’re shuffling out, bundled up, you spot Mark leaning against the exit waiting for you. He looks up and tsks. “About fucking time,” he says, holding the door open for you. It’s not that cold out—maybe you’re just used to having snow and chilly weather, and so is Mark—so you barely shiver, walking around and looking for a good place to ski.

“Forget skiing,” Mark says after a few rounds. “Let’s go sledding. I have a thing.”

“A toboggan, you mean.”

“A funny word. Really, just say sled.”

You let up, anyway, the bright sky and cold ground sending serotonin right into you. Sure enough, Mark does have a nice, blue sled that he lets you on, and then the two of you are bolting down the hill at breakneck speed, laughing all the way. It’s quite a long ride, and you’re smiling and yelping so much the cloth you’ve used to cover your neck has ridden down, the cold air hitting your face harshly.

You land very ungracefully—the toboggan hits a small tree and sends you and Mark catapulting in the same direction, your hands clawing at the air for expense. You find Mark’s arm and cling onto it in the split second you’re in the air, landing on a clearing of thick snow. The arm you’ve clung onto pulls you closer, Mark grunting “be careful,” and when the whole fiasco’s over, you’re smiling like an idiot, and you’re right on top of Mark.

You’re not straddling him or anything, but you’ve just happened to land with your face a little above his. You can’t stop laughing, your face flushed and red with the cold air hitting your face. So you laugh. Why wouldn’t you laugh? It was a good day. A good ride down the hill. So you keep laughing until they’re reduced to giggles, Mark laughing right along as you pull down the covering of his mouth and tug his beanie off, ruffling your hands in his hair and dipping down to kiss him.

He kisses you right back, his lips cold but quickly growing warm with the friction. You smile into the kiss, your hands roaming all over his pink face. The kiss is giggly and light, your hands all over each other as the sunlight filters in through the thick trees overhead.

You pull away after a while. “I hate you,” you whisper. He presses a kiss to your jawline and lets it linger there. “You think I don’t?”

—

Stage 3: Bargaining, Depression|

You’ve begun to type the structure out when Lia tugs on your pajamas, her tone insistent and curious. “What’s up with you and Mark?” she presses, her cheek pressed to your stomach. You fervently hope she doesnt notice how your breathing quickens, and, keeping your voice even, you answer. “We’re…thinking about things.”

Which—you were thinking about things, to be fair. There were things to be thought and you had to think about them. It was a broad half-truth. It had been two weeks since the ski lodge thing, and you and Mark had decided it was probably best to shut the fuck up about everything you had done. (Everything meaning a few kisses here and there, and maybe a little more under the covers.) You’d hated yourself for hiding it from Lia, but you and Mark were actually feeling hesitant about moving forward with whatever you were. There was a lot of ambiguity and questions, and until you could clear it up yourself, you knew you weren’t ready to tell anybody else. You had talked about it already—clearly, the two of you were beyond jumping straight into a relationship after not liking each other that much and then becoming hesitant friends.

But it was, if you had to admit it to yourself, nice having that little secret.

“I’d want to tell Lia soon,” you tease, walking steadily beside Mark. The afternoon sun is warm on your heads, the snow falling intermittently. He turns with a small smile. “I’d want to tell Hyuck, too.” You scoff, burying your head in his chest. You probably look fucking disgusting. Around you, Washington Square Park is full of natives and tourists, and college students like you, all scurrying around and giving you that very much holiday feel.

He buys you a hot cocoa and hands it to you. “Are you heading home soon?”

You take a sip, your tongue hot. “If my ratty dorm counts as home, then yes.”

“Home is a feeling, not a place. Does your ratty dorm feel like home?”

“Kind of. Lia’s there. And so is the rat infestation in the ceiling.”

Mark nearly chokes on his cocoa. “You’re gross as fuck.”

You let out a loud laugh, your beanie nearly falling off with the bounciness of it. Mark reaches behind you to catch it, pressing a kiss to your lips in the process, soft and light and God, you like it. A lot. “Clumsy,” he remarks, pulling it back on and dragging a generous amount of your hair in front of your eyes as he does it. “It’s gonna be Christmas soon, and thank God we’re nearly done with this paper.”

“It was my genius idea to combine bargaining and depression,” you quip. “That’s my gift to you. Merry Christmas, Mark Lee.” He laughs at that. His laugh, you’ve noticed, is goddamn loud, and it’s a literal cackle, but he always looks so happy when he laughs. And buoyant. “You look stupid,” you say, but the smile on your face is undeniable. He glares playfully at you, taking your hand and walking you both in the direction of your building.

“New York in the snow,” he hums. “Always a great place.”

“It’s full of tourists,” you counter. Always disagreeing.

He chuckles and then, like clockwork—like how you’ve done it for the past six dates—you separate when you’re just shy of a meter away from the lobby entrance. Your fingers curl in search of his, and you jog up the steps, eager to get into the warmth of the building. The lobby’s pretty empty, save for a couple of students. Mark’s ahead of you, already pressing the elevator button and waiting impatiently. 

“We’re alone,” he sing-songs, his eyebrows wiggling. The doors open right as you take Mark’s hand, and you look up to meet Daniel’s wide eyes. Then you look to the right to meet Lia’s.

Despite your inner turmoil, you remain nonchalant, pinching Mark’s wrist instead of holding it like you’d planned. “That’s why our professor fucking hates you,” you say, narrowing your eyes. Your heart is beating a mile a minute, but you muster a neutral expression, shoving your hands back into your pockets. Lia knows you, though, and her furrowed eyebrows and parted lips say everything—but you just shrug, playing off what they could have caught you doing. “Hey,” you say, walking into the elevator with Mark. It all blows over.

AKA: Daniel has to drag a curious Lia away from you, with a promise that you would converse later. You and Mark are alone again, in the elevator, your hands barely touching, laughs loud. It’s all blurry after that. You’re high on a laugh and the thought of a kiss—you drag him over to your room, hands in his hair, breathless, loose kisses. You’re both so exhausted, though, that all you manage to extend your energy to is taking your tops off and making out lazily to the songs you’d recommended to each other.

“Mm,” he says when one of your songs starts playing. “It’s a nice song.” You nod with a smile. “I know it is, it’s one of my recommendations. It’s called Softly.” He plays with the strap of your bra. “I’ll give it more of a listen, then. Also, a red bra to school? Whatever will the professors think,” he jokes lightly, pressing insistent, but soft kisses on your shoulder. You laugh, pinching the inner part of his arm and eliciting a swear from him. “I was joking! I know you wore this for me, stupid.” The wind whistles outside, barely audible from the half-open window across the room, overlapping with the music.

This all feels too real, now.

You pout lazily against his bare chest. “Get off before Lia gets in,” you mumble, your heart beginning to race. He does, for what it’s worth, rolling off your bed with a loud thump and tugging his shirt and sweater back on. You watch him (fondly) annoyedly, your hair draping over you as you get up to properly shove him out. “Out, out,” you chant, laughing, and he giggles, turning abruptly to poke at your waist.

“Shut up,” you groan, a smile on your face. There’s a beat, then he pulls you close and kisses you, running outside right after with a literal guffaw. You watch him, wrapping your fleece blanket around your frame as he runs to the elevator, sweater backwards and hair messy.

—

Doubts are normal. This you’re assured of, but your head pounds with the sheer amount of things you’re cramming into it. You squint impossibly harder, trying to get the nail polish into the crook of Lia’s nail. You’ve probably overdone it, judging by the way she jabs her knuckle in between your eyebrows, her face contorted in worry. “Are you…okay?”

You narrow your eyes, the inner debate of telling her raging on and on. The nail polish drips onto her fingernail, rolling onto her pant leg, and she yelps, but her eyes are still on you. “You can tell me anything,” she says, softer this time. You know she’s serious—you know you can. You always have. You told her about every fling, one night stand, pregnancy scare, bad grade, hot professor, and spoiled deli food you’d encountered since you ever became friends. She knew you. And you were so sure she knew what you were about to say.

Except you didn’t know what you wanted to say. Your feelings were a mess, and you wanted one thing as much as you wanted the other. You couldn’t place what you wanted, and if you had to narrow it down, you’d realize that you were scared of what you wanted. You were never really one for commitment, or a relationship, or really anything, for that matter. And the fact that you were so hung up on thinking about what you and Mark would become—Mark? It all seemed so dystopian, almost. Like you’d never expected it. Your friendship was a childhood bubble that popped in the span of your first high school semester, and that was that. But just two days ago you were being kissed all over by the same guy you’d had a cutthroat student council president competition with.

It seemed so absurd? Crazy? Those adjectives were a little over the top. Deep down, if you dug deep enough into the parts you didn’t even tell yourself, you knew what you were. And if anybody else were to know, it would be Lia.

“I’m scared,” you choke out, your voice shaky. “I’m scared and sad, and happy and angry, and I want this but I don’t.” You cover the nail polish, shaking your head. “This is all so new to me. I hate how much I feel, especially because it feels so wrong. You know me—relationships are just not cut out for me. They’re scary and new. And people in relationships turn all gooey. I’m scared that this won’t last, but I’m scared that it will, and I’ll be doomed to an eternity of bland, padlocked relationships. It’s weird. I could be feeling this way for anyone, but it had to be Mark? If only I didn’t hate him, then maybe we could’ve gone off on a better foot. If only this whole thing never fucking happened, right?”

“It’s okay,” Lia cuts in. “Being scared is okay. It’s part of the whole process. And nobody said you had to get along like conjoined twins in a relationship. They just go when they go and end when they end. Not every relationship starts as a high school sweetheart thing and ends with three kids and a picket fence. And I’m so sure Mark would be so understanding if you didn’t like him or if you chose not to continue.”

“You knew?”

She laughs. “Of course I knew. I know a post-sex glow when I see one, and I was blinded that morning at the ski lodge.” You groan, pinching her indignantly, hiding your face in your hands as she laughs out of view. “Okay. Take some time and think about it, but for now, I want to get my nails done, so.” 

—

It’ll be a week before you come up with what you want, and the whole time you generally avoid talking about solemn topics with him in person. 

It’ll be another few days before you finally talk to him personally—with your paper nearly finished, you suggest a meeting at the library. It’s just two days before Christmas Eve, and you know Mark’s going to be driving to Canada, so you want to snatch him away for your own personal time for just a second. The snow has all but thickened as you meet outside the building, the silence deafening.

“Hi,” he says, smiling. You know he’s probably picked up on your erratic, quieter behavior in the past several days, but you gulp and lead him inside anyways, to your favorite section. “It’s almost Christmas Eve,” he says, watching you stall, surrounded by Philosophy books from just about every century. “I know,” you say, hoping you don’t sound too nervous.

“You sound nervous,” he says.

“Do I?” you ask shakily, your voice taking on an unnaturally high pitch. “I mean, er. I guess I sort of am. I guess I’ve been thinking about everything lately—about you and me and everything that just happened so suddenly. Because—because it did happen so suddenly. I just…needed time? Yeah, time. To think about everything. Because it all happened so quickly, I…” you stutter. “I’m scared of these things. I’m not used to them. Relationships? Things that last longer than a couple weeks? I don’t like these. 

I have something bigger I want to focus on and anybody who gets in the way just isn’t worth it. And it’s so weird how it was you out of all people I started thinking about it with. Usually I just have the rare fling and then they’re gone, and I’m not even mad. But you’re different. And I like it. 

But I just needed time to find out if I really liked it. If I really wanted to try. I know it’s only been a few weeks, and I probably sound really fucking stupid, but you get me—you get me, right? And that’s how I realized—if it happens, it happens. If it doesn’t, it doesn’t. I don’t know why I overthought it. I mean, it’s a good thing and a bad thing that I did. Like, on one hand, I got to really think about how this would play out, and on the other, I’d just end up spiraling. And it’s just weird. I hope you don’t know I hated you. Hate you? Hated you. I was just—it was all so juvenile. Everything just stemmed from that one awfully dumb high school rivalry. But other than that, you were always a cool…see what I mean? I’m kind of rambling—even if I thought I had planned this out. And. Yeah. I dunno. I fucking…I hate you, stop laughing.”

Mark smiles down at you—you’re busy pretending to read a Sartre book to look unfazed, but your flickering gaze says it all. 

“Okay, stupid,” he says, bordering onto a laugh. “If that’s your way of saying you’re willing to give this a try, then I graciously accept. Should I be saying something equally long? I—is that how this works?”

You roll your eyes and kiss him instead, pulling him close, Sartre’s postulates dropping to the floor alongside your tiptoes.

—

Stage 4: Acceptance|

“Acceptance is just that. Just accepting that you love that person after weeks or months of all the other stages. With her, it was. Like. It’s the whole sitting down after silence, having some time for the revelation to set in before you realize you love them. Or like them? Well, love them, I guess. But I don’t know why you would be asking me this.”

You bury your head further into Mark’s shoulder, your eyes strained from how long they’d been trained onto your screen. You smile up at Daniel, thanking him for the input and beginning to type it in, watching Lia doze off on his shoulder. “We’re asking because we’re not quite there yet,” Mark hums, “it’s just February. It’s barely been two months.” You nod, watching Mark type where you left off on the document. Daniel snorts from across you. “You’re just about, I guess.” Mark chuckles, shrugging so your head bounces off his shoulder unceremoniously.

“Like I’d ever fall in love with that shitstorm,” he says pointedly.

“Oh, and I’d fall in love with this dickwad?”

“You’re perfect for each other. Bullying, but we all know Mark brought back gifts from Canada and that you stitched an initial onto his sweater.”

“To practice my embroidery. Also, I stitched Mark’s initial. M. Asshole.”

“Okay,” whistles Daniel, his hand unconsciously coming up to make sure Lia doesn’t fall off his shoulder. “But hey, you’re just about to submit this paper and I’m fondly remembering all the times you despised each other. And when you”—he points at you, devilish grin on his face—“started gushing to Lia about how he”—he then turns to Mark—���kissed you at Johnny’s party.”

“God, it’s not the time for that yet, we’re still a fresh couple,” you groan, burying your head in your hands. “You have so much dirt on me, Choi.” Mark just laughs, though, loudly, bringing the other cafe-goers’ attention to yours. He bites your shoulder to stifle it, eliciting a laugh from you. “I agree, there should be a certain time requirement for pre-relationship embarrassing stories,” Mark says, closing his laptop. Lia gets up at that point, already half-awake from the ruckus (AKA Mark’s laugh), pulling on Daniel’s sleeve. “Alright, and that’s my cue to get this girl some more coffee and then go.”

“Mm, I’ll come with,” you say, “I need a refresher before we leave soon, anyway.”

You walk in between them, your fingers laced in Lia’s as she squeezes them sleepily. They order first and then they’re off with a smile and a polite goodbye, leaving you to order your drink. You gaze up at the menu, and then down at—

“Long time no see,” Chan says with a knowing beam. “How is your not boyfriend boyfriend?”

“Well, he’s my boyfriend now.”

“See, I always know. What do you want?”

“An iced ca—how did you know?” You ask, tempted.

“It’s just…the energy? It was a hit or miss, but I kinda got that feeling that something was going to happen.”

“Hmm,” you hum. “An iced caramel then.”

“And a black coffee for her best friend!” Hollers a new voice that you could never miss, turning slowly towards the entrance to meet Donghyuck’s crazy eyes. He’s in a suit, which isn’t unusual given the sheer amount of presentations he’s had to do since the new year started. You roll your eyes but put in the extra cash anyway, much to Chan’s amusement. Hyuck nears you with a sly grin. “I hear you’ll be submitting your paper soon. I just want my name in there so I’m in your professor’s good graces.”

“She’s not even going to be your professor, Hyuck,” you say, taking your drink and smiling at Chan. You and Donghyuck both walk back to where Mark’s sitting, you beside him and Hyuck across the both of you. “Yes, but it pays to be in somebody’s good graces, I swear. See what happened? I got you two together. I orchestrated your entire love st—”

“Okay, now you’re just lying, Hyuck,” Mark says with a laugh, finishing up the first few paragraphs and closing his laptop. “We’re not even in love.” But his friend lets out a teasing smile, his eyes narrowed, and he gets up with a loud farewell and alibi about “being needed by my better friends.” You assume he’s talking about Jeno.

—

You walk to Mark’s room alongside him, thanks to the promise of his roommate, Jaemin, sleeping at a friend’s. Your fingers are intertwined loosely. The sun’s setting and Mark’s room is sheathed in beautiful shades of orange and pink, a vast array of dusk settling over the space. It happens quietly, but full of laughs, which is how it happens when you’re both tired and/or shitfaced. You do this a lot—a routine of sharing new songs or books you’d picked up over the week and then making out while they play in the background or while one of you read. It’s awfully, horribly, terribly fucking intimate. 

“Your bra sucks,” he jokes.

You love it.

“Get better abs and we can talk about it,” you counter, poking his toned stomach. He really, fully guffaws at that, pulling you onto his lap and then tugging his guitar out from where it stands at the corner. You flop back onto his bed, watching him play—and then registering the familiar opening of the Jonas Brothers song you used to request nearly everyday. “Lovebug,” you muse with a smile, singing along to his voice, carried away. You’re sleepy and light, and you know deep down—in that space of yourself where you’re all but honest—that you were going to fall in love with him someday.

Later, when all you’re doing is hugging him as he reads your latest Philosophy requirement to you, he pauses.

“Is this the 21st century idea of love?” He asks idly, unclasping your bra and connecting the moles on your shoulder. You hum. 

“It’s the Gen Z idea,” you say, connecting the ones on his bare back. “And this isn’t love.”

“Corny.” he smiles against your collarbones. You kiss his neck. It’s all very gradual.

—

hope you liked it :) drop an ask! I absolutely love all types of feedback 

[polyghostfacehours]

this is the dumbest question that’s popped into my head all day but how do you think the various scream characters feel ab megan thee stallion?

Ooooooh. Sure I'll take a crack at it. Also no lmao it's not a dumb question, I love questions like this. Modern AU obvs.

Sid: Not really her type of music, but I can see her being conflicted internally about the sexuality aspect of her music. Like on one hand Sid is a feminist and loves that she's unapologetically herself and reclaiming how female sexuality is framed. On the other hand, she'd also dislike the oversexualization because of how she was raised and her issues with Maureen's promiscuity. When she doesn't think too hard on it though, she vibes with her music at parties and on the radio when it plays.

Tatum: Absolutely loves her. Tatum gets slut-shamed behind her back, and she's aware of it. She loves that a woman who sings about loving her life and using her beauty to her advantage is not only successful, but revered by many. Captain Hook, Thot Shit, Pimpin and Hot Girl Summer are her anthems. Tatum feels like she's an absolute icon and her music actually holds a lot of importance in Tatum's heart because of how much backlash she gets regularly from being sexually active and confident in her looks and self.

Randy: I don't know why, but I reeeeallly see geeky little white boy Randy being a huge fan of her overall message. If he had a Youtube channel, I could see him doing social commentary. And he'd break down the the underlying feminist themes in her songs.

Billy: Not his scene, and at first he'd lowkey slut-shame her via micro-aggressive language because even in a modern AU he'd still have some misogyny issues and thinks it's too much. He's also a huge hypocrite and would vibe to her songs at parties and think she's hot. You and Stu would have to point it out and academically destroy him in an argument about why a black woman singing about sexual liberation and taking advantage of men and a patriarchal and racist music industry that profits from sexualizing her anyway isn't a bad thing. He'd come around eventually 100% though, he can learn.

Stu: Absolute simp for her. Loves almost her entire discography. Big Ole Freak, Hot Girl Summer, Savage, Shake That, Cocky AF, Dance, etc etc. he listens to it all. He plays her music regularly at his parties and gets pumped when she comes on. Gets on Billy's ass for being somehow horny and a prude "like wtf man?". Thinks she's gorgeous and would die if he ever got to meet her in person. Absolutely does the WAP challenge on TikTok (with you too if you want). Loves her fashion sense, especially that one pic with her in a red leather jacket and her 2019 VMA Red Carpet look

[hotgirlscoups]

i’ve been thinking about making this post for a long time, but i could never really gather enough courage to type it out. but some of the downright ignorant shit i’ve been seeing from y’all, even other poc, had led me to my wit’s end.

being brown is.......tiring. it really is. when i tell you that we get the absolute bare minimum of representation in western media, i am not kidding. let’s put this into perspective. hasan minhaj’s netflix show was just cancelled, and almost all of my brown mutuals were borderline hysterically screaming about it all day. and looking from the outside in, you really have to consider: why do they all have such a strong attachment to that show? well....it’s the only good representation we have. that show was so realistic and spoke to all of us, not only because of how great the content was, but also because we have nothing else. and they cancelled it.

now that we’ve established that hollywood does not care in the slightest about giving brown people opportunities to shine, i want to move onto the general representation of our people in their media. think of basically any brown character in your favourite movie, tv show or book. what’s their character like? do they come from a strict family? are they geeky? are they described as unattractive? do they have glasses? are they hyper-conservative? are they indian? odds are, you probably said yes to most of those questions. non-brown people put absolutely zero effort into writing brown characters, simply because they do not care. they don’t do their research and base their characters off stereotypes, which is then put out for the general public to consume.

brown people are sick and tired of repeating the same shit over and over again. yes, we’re also asian. no, not all muslims are terrorists. no, we don’t all have arranged marriages. no, we’re not all great at academics. no, all of the south asian countries aren’t the same. we have such a diverse range of ideas, cuisines, cultures and languages to share. you just won’t let us.

[utouchmycookie]

Open Your Eyes

Chapter One: Flash

I (utouchmycookie) am the author of this piece. I don’t own the characters or locations, but the idea is mine. Also, I am ignoring my boring class by putting this here.

Flash walks into AcaDec expecting the heated glares of the girls, at the very least. Being verbally berated and kicked off the team by unanimous decision at the most likely. He doesn't even know what to think of at the most. Social death outside of the popular jocks (who have sway, but not nearly as much as they would at non-preppy need schools) seems like a possible outcome.

None of this happens. He does a double-take. Apparently there are no sides, which leaves the options that a) nobody gives a fuck (possible, but unlikely), or b) she said nothing (he'd figure this to be unlikely, but apparently it was entirely possible). She doesn't bother to look up at him entering the room, earbuds in and hair shielding the notebook she's scratching away in. Ned Leeds gives him the most dangerous look he's ever seen the happy go lucky President of the Computer Science, Ethical Hacking, Cybersecurity, IT, and Coding Clubs give; Michelle Jones manages to scare any sense of relief he'd mustered right off as she glances over the top of her book at him, and her glance says she knows, but the perfect expressionless deadpan and the way she almost immediately turns back to her book without giving him any further insight to what her thoughts are sends him into a horror and terror related trauma induced break down. Yes, he knows that's not a thing or the least bit grammatically correct but it's exactly what was headed for him.

He wishes she would do anything - scream at him in anger, sob in heartbreak, curse hysterically in hurt, even sigh in disappointment. She does none of these. She doesn't even bother to give him particularly serious cold shoulders and silence treatments and talk as if he isn't there and walk as if she doesn't even realize he's in the vicinity of her.

She's colder than she's ever been to him, including when he'd shoved Leeds into a locker, but she's no less polite than she's ever been. God, she's never been anything worse than curt with him, and he's such a dick and a douchebag and a tool and a piece of shit and a worthless waste of space. Even now, as he jostles to get her attention, she simply turns her eyes on him, listens to his cruel jests, and turns away when he's finished. God, here he was hoping for her to show him her heartbreak and here he was falling to pieces with his (and it was his own damn fault, his own stupid fucking choices).

Their (out of the know) teammates definitely recognize the difference in her behavior, but they chalk it up to her finally building an extra wall between them (something they've been trying to get her to do for literal years now. It was always, "Why are you so nice to him? He just shoves your books out of your hands to be a dick!" "I think he just needs some kindness in his life," "As if! I have all the kindness I could ever need, you psychotic whore!" "Sure seems like it." and god-fucking-damn her perceptiveness, her big heart, her endless kindness, her naïvety that she could help him; he would be forever indebted to her kindness and her gentleness and how much it had saved him and then he had ruined it with his stupid ass dumb fucking decisions and even now she couldn't be cruel to him, not even once.). Mr. Harrington pulls her aside after practice to double-check that he didn't hurt her, and the honesty and lack of attack in her response had made it hurt more (and how was that fucking possible anymore?!).

"He's Flash, Sir. He's always rude to me, and yes he did something nasty and it hurt, but it's not of the school's concern, it won't affect my performance in AcaDec, it's nothing I can't handle, and quite honestly, Mr. Harrington? I just don't want to stoop to his level."

"You are one of the most brilliant students I've had the honor of teaching, and are miles kinder and wiser than any other human being I've ever met. You're going to go far someday, and I cannot wait to see what you do someday."

"Thank you, Mr. Harrington. I couldn't do any of it if you didn't put your heart and soul into helping us even when it seems impossibly difficult." And then she smiled that innocent, sweet smile that let you know that she had no idea that she sounded like a brown-noser because she honest to God meant it.

So here's the thing: Peter Parker is an angel of a human being. The planet Earth 's disturbingly large number of vocal, disgusting humans didn't deserve her one bit. Flash among them.

But Peter Parker also suffered left and right.

She had been one of the few who had joined Midtown Tech's high school portion their freshman year, on one of the few scholarships offered. She'd started with an hour commute to school, and her high school career had started horribly. She was alone and friendless and new and definitely not in her socioeconomic class. What she had going for her was the school being an elitist nerd school. You had to be smart, and damn was she smart. That made her popular here. The geeky clubs made her cooler - Marching Band was perhaps not the straight dash to popularity choice, but one that gave her lots of social exposure. The International Club was a genius decision, because nobody at the school had less than Tier 1 universities in their future and everyone knew it was about being well-rounded. Acing Academic Decathlon had shot her right up to the top, earning her a spot in the likes of Liz Allen's favorite people to talk to. Peter hadn't intentionally done it, either, but she'd enchanted herself to the school by being utterly introverted and sweeter than a Pixie Stix without an ounce of dishonesty in her.

Then they'd gone to OsCorp. Norman Osborn and Dr. Curt Connors had revealed an open secret and it should have ruined her social life, but the students in the room had had nothing but sympathy for the horrible way of spilling her private life's facts - her parents were famous scientists, and dead.

The story hadn't gotten outside of their graduating class, at least, but the majority seemed to collectively decide she was their epitome of a Class Cinnamon Roll.

It helped their case that she was out sick for two weeks after OsCorp, and most people assumed that the stress of such horrible things being dragged up in such awful ways meant her mental health giving out and depleting her physical health. She'd come back and looked like shit for a week before she started looking healthier than she had before.

And then the hardest hit yet had slammed her, because Peter Parker never caught a single break.

Everyone in the school knew about Ben Parker's death. Peter's truancy was waived when she missed another week of school. Even the toughest teachers softened at the sight of her puffy, red eyes constantly wet with tears and ghost white face. Someone read the paper, and everyone doubled down on trying to soften up on Peter. Even Flash's buddies didn't have the heart to pick on her knowing she'd seen her uncle shot and held his hand as he died, helpless to do anything. She pulled herself together and two weeks later, and finally made her best friend out of Ned Leeds, generic friends with all the AcaDec girls, and at least acquaintances with the guys. Midtown decided she was not a cinnamon roll, but a gingersnap cookie from the Dollar Tree, like Seymour had once been dared to eat by a Brooklyn Visions' student back in middle school, when they had a kid from lower end Brooklyn who sold the cheap-ass things like damn drugs. Betty had told them they all needed to watch Ouran High School Host Club because they had the same energy as the Host Club drinking instant coffee, but everyone just took her word for it. Anyways, Peter. Dollar Tree gingersnaps. Tough as a Chips Ahoy cookie in light blue packaging, but not crumbly at all, and horribly sweet and spicy all at once.

Two years had been difficult, but survivable, until Thanos.

Plenty of people got fucked by the Decimation and the Blip. Half of the universe had died and returned five years later. A sixteenth of Earth's human occupants had been killed by factors associated with appearing and disappearing. An estimated fourth of all lives had been left in ruins with no way to restart. Not a single person went unaffected. Peter Parker though, she really could not catch a break.

No one outside of Flash's crew didn't believe Peter's having a Stark Internship. Therefore, learning that she had been at Stark's funeral due to being a close companion of his - and seemingly the girl out of the "girl and Spider-Man" who he had saved half the universe for, according to Ms. Potts-Stark directly, was a good sign as to the hurt she was feeling.

It was Thursday afternoon, and Mr. Mounts didn't care what they did this afternoon, because they had a paper due on Friday and half of a class in specialty Tech school that had an entrance exam who were taking AP Lit a year early had already turned in their papers. Mr. Mounts was a smart man, and a great teacher, but he was not technically inclined. He did not care though, so they all saw his YouTube views projected onto the Promethean Board with the noise up. That meant there was no stopping if the viewing of an ad — sort of.

A live news channel cut off the video with an announcement, the scene of a man who had lost it as a direct result of the Decimation and Blip completely ruining his old life during an appointment with the Maria Stark Foundation trying to help him get a new one on track. He'd gone absolutely psychotic, murdering the innocent charity worker, and setting himself loose on the streets. The news was warning of him being loose still and mourning the middle-aged woman now dead, by displaying a nice picture of her from the Maria Stark Foundation. Peter had announced, "I'm going to puke," and bolted out of the room. Ned and MJ had been on her heels, and the rest of the class was in shock.

"Oh Jesus Fuck," Sally finally said. And yeah, that was fair, because Flash knew that face as well as the rest of the AcaDec kids. It was the face of the sweet lady who once brought them Belgian Cream Pie straight from the German Bakery down the street from her apartment; she had got it at half-price because the owner's son was thoroughly charmed and the owner thought she would make an excellent daughter-in-law and that was deserving of half-priced pie even though he knew it was never going to happen.

There's a knock on the door, which opens to reveal Principal Morita looking very depressed and trying not to cry - "I need to borrow Miss Parker - oh fucking shit," he hisses.

"She went to the bathroom to puke, Sir. With Michelle Jones and Ned Leeds."

Somehow, the day only gets crazier. Everyone knows by the time Peter is safely tucked away in Mr. Morita's office, with the police officer who had to deliver the news, Mr. Morita, MJ, and Ned. The only people to go in or out is the secretary - who sends messages to the three students' teachers, as if they aren't tuned into the rumor mill - and a social worker.

MJ and Ned are sent to fetch lunch so the social worker can talk to Peter with only adults.

"Peter?... Do you have any other family you can contact? We... Uh, we tried the contact left in case of this type of horrible event, but given the nature of the contact, we couldn't get a call through -" the social worker pauses, "If not, we have options. Good homes that want a beautiful, brilliant girl like you."

"I'm sorry about that, Ma'am, but I'm sure you're aware that phone lines are a bit risky where my family is concerned. I can as soon as I heard," Pepper Potts-Stark announces as she brushes into the room. A mild-looking man follows her in, his red and white cane rattling as he swipes if in front of him. "And this is Miss Parker's lawyer, Matthew Murdock."

"I hate that we have to meet in such dismal circumstances."

"Oh, Honey," Pepper coos sadly to Peter, sinking down beside her and setting off another round of tears. "I know, Baby, let it all out, I know."

Chapters 2 and 3 up now!

[diarrheaworldstarhiphop]

According to a narrative that’s currently popular in the mainstream media and the more lowbrow end of academia, the recent surge in popularity of the American nationalist right was caused by the radicalization of nerds. Dweeby white manchildren, so the story goes, retreated into video games, the science fiction fandom, and anonymous online forums like 4chan, and formed misogynistic, resentment-fueled subcultures within them. These neckbearded neo-Nazis gradually coalesced into the ‘alt-right,’ an internet hate machine that contributed greatly to Toupee Hitler’s otherwise inexplicable rise.

There are many versions of this narrative. The common feature is the ascription of Trump’s electoral victory — and, in some cases, the surge in right-populism all across the Western world — to the vile machinations of movements of fascistic, internet-based nerds; but the details vary. One version, laid down in a popular Tumblr post (at the time of writing, it has over 22,000 notes), ascribes the rise of the alt-right to a successful campaign by Stormfront to turn 4chan Nazi. Another version blames it on Gamergate, allegedly a hate campaign born out of a misogynist’s attempt to “punish his ex-girlfriend” that served as a breeding ground for far-right extremism, and as the petri dish that they organized in before taking over America. The Z-list Youtube celebrity Zinnia Jones has described Gamergate as “one of the worst things ever to happen” because it “enabled Trump” — apparently, a piece of fandom drama ranks up there with the Spanish flu pandemic, the Mongol conquests, the Black Death, the invention of the nuclear bomb, the post-Columbian plagues that depopulated the Americas, and the unfortunate events of the 1940s.

Deployments of the narrative abound. A popular Medium “32-minute read” bears the headline, “4chan: The Skeleton Key to the Rise of Trump.” Politico insists that “the Trump campaign … paid rapt attention to meme culture from the start.” CNET helpfully explains that “what began as a backlash to a debate about how video games portray women led to an internet culture that ultimately helped sweep Donald Trump into office.” Chris Grant, editor-in-chief of Polygon, complains that “the overlap between Gamergate and Trump(ism) is astounding. GG was like the trial run for this whole mess.” The Independent, a British paper, speaks out against the “very geeky” Trump supporters of the alt-right, and claims that “The uncomfortable truth, that should worry anyone praying for a Trump defeat, is that the Alt-right following he has tapped into are more numerous and unpredictable than traditional political commentators understand.” And so on. And for every article that explicitly draws a connection between internet-based youth countercultures and Trump, there are a dozen more that simply make a point of mentioning them in the same breath, and let the reader work out the connection for himself. Trump… Gamergate… Trump… neckbeards… Trump… 4chan… Trump!

At this point, it’s worth taking a step back from the phenomenon of heavy internet users failing for the first time to line up in lockstep behind the Democrats, and looking at the bigger picture. Trump’s electoral success was not driven by the alt-right; it was driven by the usual factors. To make a long story short, Trump won because Clinton ran a bad campaign and took unpopular positions on the issues. Insofar as the election was unusual, it wasn’t because Trump posted a picture of a cartoon frog — Clinton made her own bids for pop-cultural relevance, as did her husband when he took out his saxophone on Arsenio Hall’s show in 1992 — but because Clinton, in violation of a long-standing norm, directly insulted large swathes of the voting population with her “basket of deplorables” line.

Trump’s success is also not unusual in a global context. In recent years, Viktor Orbán’s Fidesz won a supermajority in Hungary and proceeded to rewrite the Hungarian constitution to declare Hungary a Christian nation and ensure the electoral dominance of Fidesz for the foreseeable future. Britain voted to leave the European Union, and politicians like Marine Le Pen, Nigel Farage, and Andrzej Duda became household names among the set that pays attention to international politics. Trump is not a uniquely American phenomenon; if anything, he’ll likely prove to be a more moderate parallel to the trends sweeping Europe, just as FDR paralleled the European extremists of the Depression years. Of course, these trends are not just sweeping Europe, as is proven by the victories in Asia of politicians like Narendra Modi and Rodrigo Duterte.

This global trend simply could not have been caused by an obscure piece of American fandom drama. Gamergate and 4chan cannot have contributed to the rise of the right, because the rise of the right happened to approximately the same extent in countries outside the Anglosphere and outside the cultural reach of Anglosphere nerd culture. Even Vox, which once described Trump as “the first Republican nominee whose ethos owes more to 4chan and Gamergate than it does the Bible,” has found that “polarization is accelerating fastest among those using the internet the least.”

Nor could Trump’s rise to power have been substantially helped along by pictures of cartoon frogs. A full analysis of Trump’s victory is beyond the scope of this article, but it borders on delusion to believe that Michigan, Wisconsin, and Pennsylvania were flipped by 4chan trolls, rather than by such ordinary factors as Trump’s more popular positions on the key issues of immigration and trade and Clinton’s failure to run a functional campaign.

The internet has, however, reshaped American politics; just not in the way pundits say it has. The main effects have been on the left, not the right.

The most obvious effect is that leftists, especially those in the fields that shape and promulgate leftist doctrine, spend a lot of time online. Journalists spend less time cultivating networks of sources and more time ‘building their brand’ and interacting with other journalists; academics network on Twitter; and so on. Connection matters more than ever, and the internet has weakened local scenes and replaced them with placeless ones. Indie game developers from all over the world, for example, can compete for the attention of the largely U.S.-coastal ‘mainstream’ games journalism industry, whose writers are of course all on the same mailing lists, not to mention following each other on Twitter. Journalists, academics, political advisors and the like disappear into their own world — a world where it’s acceptable to wage war on large parts of one’s own audience, or to lead a mainstream presidential candidate to insult a large part of the voting population. And the scenes that are best able to capture the attention of this world will gain power, influence, and the propagation of their norms.

One scene that has been markedly successful in capturing the attention of the journalistic world is the one that developed from the pay-to-post forum Something Awful. Originally a humor site, it became one of the most influential sites on the internet — you probably know that 4chan was created by a Something Awful regular, and that its initial userbase drew heavily from SA. Its influence on politics, however, extends far beyond 4chan. Buckle up, folks: you’re in for a long, confusing, and terrible ride.

In the essay “Exiting the Vampire Castle,” Mark Fisher, who was roundly condemned for writing it and killed himself three years later, attacked not only the identitarianism that has metastasized in academia since the ’60s, an identitarianism in which “the sheer mention of class is now automatically treated as if that means one is trying to downgrade the importance of race and gender,” but also the “paralysing feeling of guilt and suspicion which hangs over left-wing twitter like an acrid, stifling fog” and the “kangaroo courts and character assassinations” that are, as anyone who has observed the state of the left today, overwhelmingly common. This guilt and suspicion, these kangaroo courts and character assassinations, need not have anything to do with politics; in one memorable instance, a once-popular Tumblr communist blogger with the sadly real URL of “fuckyeahmarxismleninism” was dogpiled and laughed into irrelevance for admitting to watching My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic with his daughters. This was seen as a far worse faux pas than even his support of North Korea. I am, unfortunately, not making this up; I saw it all happen firsthand.

These aren’t the kangaroo courts of Stalin. What they are is the schoolyard courts of Helldump, a Something Awful subforum created for the strange purpose of being a schoolyard court. The Something Awful wiki speaks for itself here: “The official birth of Helldump 2000 spawned a new creative outlet for pedophiles, racists, bigots, Ron Paul supporters, gun zealots, defenders of anime and otherwise crap posters to be outed in a thorough, convincing manner by an astute civilian task force. Essentially, it checks and balances the stupidity that seeps its way into the forums as a whole, although (unfortunately) it does not function as a preventive treatment (shit posters still propagate at an alarming rate). Rather, the modus operandi of Helldump is to profile and insult the (assumed) poor goon for his questionable views, and in turn function as a virtual tourniquet in an attempt to stop the bleeding, as well as force said shit poster into online anonymity and/or reclusiveness.” In practice, most of what Helldump did was dogpile furries.

As a side note, internet lore has it that the population of Helldump regulars itself skewed furry. This is not terribly out of the norm for Something Awful, the admin of which employed Shmorky for ten years before firing him on the sensible grounds that he was “secretly into pedophilia incest diaper shitting roleplay” and allegedly “would get way too excited over [SA admin Lowtax’s kids] coming to the office.” (Shmorky has also been reported to at least have once been friends with Rebecca Sugar, the creator of the TV show Steven Universe, which has a remarkably Shmorky-like art style and has as its target demographic the same Tumblr crowd that Shmorky fell in with.)

Zoe Quinn herself was a SA member under the username Eris, and participated in at least one Helldump dogpile. It’s often believed that Gamergate began when her ex-boyfriend posted a ‘callout’ of her abusive behaviors, cheating, and so on — the “Zoe Post” — on 4chan, but he actually joined Something Awful to post it there first. He was quickly banned for it, and the ban message reads: “Thank you for joining the Something Awful Forums in order to post a giant loving psychopathic helldump about your ex-girlfriend in the forum about video games.” (The original phrasing was “giant fucking psychopathic helldump,” but SA has wordfilters.) The belief in a connection between Helldump and ‘callout culture’ is held by the SA moderators themselves.

Helldump was closed after two years, and many of its regulars migrated to a different subforum, Laissez’s Fair, “the original Dirtbag Left.” The SA wiki entry for LF helpfully explains that it was “opened up to put all the Ron Paul shit” and became a “refugee holding bay” for Helldump after the latter was closed. “Over time people started making effort posts about such things the nightmare that is our criminal justice system, social justice in general, as well as the ideas of Karl Marx. The lack of moderation was made up for by basically shouting people out of the forum who were stupid MRAs and concern trolls. Gradually the complexion of the forum shifted from liberal to socialist.” Eventually, LF was closed, because “LF posters went internet detective on mods and posted death threats,” including several to then-President Obama.

At least two regulars on Helldump and LF went on to get careers in journalism. Jeb Lund, who wrote a vague and rambling essay about his posting career for Gawker, went by “Boniface” and “Mobutu Sese Seko” on Something Awful. Under the former pseudonym, he threatened a Helldump victim: “how about you promise never to post here again on pain of being permabanned, otherwise there’s no reason for all the posters here with lexis-nexis to stop at just your email addresses and not go straight for driver’s license photos and info, tax records… the list goes on and on.” Sam Kriss was (or at least was widely believed to be) Dead Ken, as well as Red Ken, Dub Mapocho, Agenbite Inwit, Dead Skeng, and presumably other accounts. After LF was removed from SA, its regulars established and migrated to explicitly Communist forums offsite; he was a regular on one such forum, “tHE rHizzonE”, which was later given some sort of contest by the leftist magazine The Baffler, whose editor was “a fan” of said forum. (Sam Kriss has written for the Baffler.)

Many people from the more leftist parts of SA went on to become “Weird Twitter,” which was puffed by outlets like Buzzfeed. John Herrman and Katie Notopoulos, the authors of the linked piece, gravitated toward LF superstars on Twitter and tried to replicate their style. Some of them, such as Lund, Kriss, David Thorpe (who had a regular column on SA and is now a music journalist), Virgil Texas, Jon Hendren (who was, as docevil, once an admin of the “Fuck You And Die” (FYAD) subforum, but was shamed off the site after a bizarre incident involving a charity event featuring Smash Mouth and Guy Fieri), and Alex Nichols, parlayed those connections into posting careers.

Herrman also profiled a Weird Twitter poster, @CelestialBeard, whose claim to fame was tweeting a lot, and being followed by Herrman on Twitter. @CelestialBeard has since become a transgender brony.

From Weird Twitter, which attracted and assimilated people who weren’t active in SA’s leftist cliques (such as Felix Biederman and Virgil Texas, who just lurked), came Chapo Trap House, darling of every obscure Slate clone from Brooklyn to Queens. Chapo has featured several SA regulars, including Alex Nichols (@Lowenaffchen), who was active on LF as Golden Lion Tamarin (his Twitter username used to be @GLDNLNTMRN), and Dan O’Sullivan (@Bro_Pair), a now-banned former SA moderator whose username is now Fat Curtain Dweller. It’s interesting that a podcast heralded for ‘actually giving a shit’ comes from a subculture that began as pure trolling.

Providing a precise accounting of the impact of Something Awful on the Anglosphere left is difficult, as it would be with any subculture. The history is oral, largely lost, deliberately obfuscated, and shrouded in irony. It is likely that nothing will come of it, and that, in the end, it will be the farce mirroring the tragedy of neoconservatism: an insane political movement that developed out of a bizarre and insular clique in a world where having the right connections matters above all else, writing things that very few people care about but doing a great deal of damage along the way. It seems that the norms of Helldump have become callout culture, SA users’ trolling of the libertarians corralled in LF have become the dirtbag left, and some of those responsible have written for not only Gawker and Buzzfeed, but also The New York Times.

At the very least, the overlap in population is clear and suggestive. Someone can go from being repeatedly banned from a pay-to-post forum for something involving the word “nigger” to writing for the Guardian, the Atlantic and the New York Times, largely on the dubious strength of his Twitter account and forum fame. There are few lessons that can be drawn from this; the obvious one is that perhaps the media rewards expertise less than connectedness.

I’m told that this is what Gamergate was about. But there are many things I’ve been told Gamergate was about. The internet is something awful indeed. And it’s only going to get worse.

[tmblr-renaissance]

TC Update 5/20/20

She hasn’t responded in 8 days. Eight days. If she planned on replying (and nothing’s wrong), then she would’ve already replied. Like I get that she needs to help the kids with academic things first, but literally WTH is taking you so long. I honestly don’t know whether to be sad or mad about it. Oh, and I have a (probably not true) assumption (hope-) that her bf is gay or at least bi. If he isn’t, then I’m going to flip my shit. I thought he was a redneck (I know, I know), I’m now doubting he is... (even tho he literally looks like one in the face and he drives a truck..), idk, he just... looks too nice to be a redneck (Ik my thought process is weird). But like, if I heard him talk or something, I could probably tell a lot more about him. I’m so tempted to go stalk her siblings’ Facebooks again just to make sure she’s alright. I’m worried about her, and I miss her sm I literally just want a reply to my message(s), is that too damn much to ask????? I don’t think so. Universe- just be on my side for once ughh I want to see her so badly. I miss talking to her about all my nerdy or geeky type things, I want to tell her all of my ideas and I want her to be proud of me (I still don’t know if I see her as a kind of mother figure or a crush, or a platonic crush, but tbh I think it’s a mix of all three (like I’d want to be in a romantic relationship with her (when I’m older, obv), but I think I’d also be satisfied just having her in my life in general (help plz)), gahhh my life is such a mess). I’ll probably end up writing another imagine type thing, and I might post it, I don’t know yet. 

Edit on 5/21 <at 2 am>: I’ll probably message her something academic, ask for her help with something, and/or “beg” her to give me the tea about what the procedures are for everything so far (background- next year they’re considering having some grades go while others don’t, having desks 6 feet apart, etc). All I want is a reply at this point. It’s been 9 days (almost a new record for her not replying to me), so I, at the very least, want to make sure she’s alright, but I also don’t want to seem needy or annoying. *sighs in existence*

Help plz

[two-red-lungs]

So we’ve all seen Eddie’s arms/legs under his clothes. That dude’s actually got a surprising bit of muscle and meat on him. If you’re like me, you’re wondering fucking how though? Because it looks like for the most part all he does is be geeky and headbang to cassettes.

I would like to propose my theory to you: rampant ADHD movement.

Eddie, as I have theorized before, has attention and hyperactive issues that are like, insanely severe: no teacher in 2022 could ignore them. But since it’s the 80s what does he do to help “cope” with it?

He self-medicates, sure, but he’s probably always fucking moving. Striding back and forth, basically doing HIIT exercises by jumping up onto tables (cough cough cafeteria), mosh-dancing by himself to Cirith Ungol, and wandering.

Oh my GOD does this dude wander, I think he is everywhere all the time. Striding up the Hawkins downtown avenue with his hands in his pockets, drum-slapping people’s mailboxes as he walks through residential neighborhoods, and especially roves the woods, navigating the winding/difficult landscape and climbing trees and throwing stones into creeks and shit.

He’s got a lot of idle buzzing energy to burn, and none of it is able to go towards academics so it basically accidentally gets channeled into muscle.

[sometimesrosy]

Wow did you see all that drama with those Rey and Ben shippers and John Boyega who plays Finn? Now I have nothing against them all but some of them took it too far. So what John doesn't like a ship, there is no need to abuse him with vicious racist slurs on social media and he snapped back posting a video of their terrible tweets with everyone to see than they started playing the victim card even though they are the ones who tagged him in their racism publicly, no one to blame but themselves.

Oh rlly? I didn’t see the latest saga, but I saw the part about how they called him sexist for shipping rey and finn, and being vaguely smutty, which I think is hypocritical for a fandom that shipped r/ylo and made a mc heroine’s journey all about a man. And they were not nonsexual either. I saw those conversations. They were mocking him for portraying what they saw as the losing side in a love triangle (but it wasn’t really a love triangle and they didn’t win it if it was.)

I didn’t see his video but I SO believe it. And I believe they attacked him with racist slurs and then played the victim.  I had a very similar experience in fandom on a much smaller level. I’m not famous, and I had nothing to do with the content created, but I also was attacked by a fandom of a “winning” ship in a shipwar whose fave then died. I have been called a lesbophobe... which is a very tricky thing because homophobia is wrong and the claim turns me into the bad guy, whether it’s true or not, the evil person, right? I’m the one who’s the bigot, according to that claim, and anything I do to defend myself is seen as evidence of of it being true, no matter my past history or present actions, and it was, in fact supported by straight up lies and misrepresentations. They did this by erasing my lived experience as a domestic abuse victim which I flat out told them from the very beginning of my critique. I was speaking as a abuse survivor on what I saw. They said no I was lying, that wasn’t real, i hated lesbians. And if it was real, I should be silent because lesbians were more important than abuse victims. And I also deserved my abuse and should die and couldn’t possibly understand the TRAUMA of seeing your fictional representation in fear for her life and having love be equated with pain (while being a DOMESTIC ABUSE VICTIM WHO HAD LITERALLY BEEN IN FEAR FOR HER LIFE WHERE LOVE=PAIN.) 

1. not true. 

2. invalidating the trauma and experience of domestic abuse. 

3. Silencing and re-victimizing the victim, not just denying the abuse happened but then adding to the abuse. 

So like they attacked JB for being sexist, and then go after him for what they perceive as his weakness/character flaw. being black. They try to silence him (to which he’s like, no i don’t think so) and destroy his character by making him the villain. Using his race as the weapon. 

@@

I mean. I mean. What could they be thinking? 

Why would they say shit like that? 

So, I don’t have a very good opinion of fandom. Some of fandom is fantastic. There’s no where else I can talk about my super geeky love of literary analysis and symbolism in freaking science fiction and fantasy (my literary nerds don’t get genre stuff and my sff nerds are not really interested in the literary analysis obsession.) It has been a delight and a privilege to be able to con y’all into doing academic literary analysis for fun, like I enjoy. I mean. It’s not a con. I tell you what I’m doing, let’s call it a “seduction.” lol. It’s also great to find people like you especially if you’re in a place where you dont’ have a supportive community. It’s amazing for creativity and fanworks. 

BUT fandom can be like a pack of hyenas. People who want power flock to this world, the internet anonymity, the power to gatekeep, the lack of self freaking reflection, this misapprehension that they can create canon to fit their preferences and fancies and whatever they say is real, and the fandom that shouts the others down the loudest is the one who gets to say what canon means.

To that I say POPPYCOCK!

Canon is canon, bitch. You dont’ get to control it because you have the biggest girl gang with the fastest hot rod. This is not Grease. 

Those people attacking JB, being racist? They may think their ad hominem attacks give them control over him (like they thought calling me demon gave them control over me [hint: it didn’t]) but what it really does is reveal their OWN lack of character. 

First it makes it obvious that they can’t separate fantasy from reality. 

Second it shows their obsessions are out of control. (take a break kids) 

Third it shows that they cannot discuss canon or argue their point with logic or evidence so they resort to non-relevant personal attacks, which means that either their position HAS no evidence to support it or they are not good enough at debating to defend their argument. 

Fourth it shows THAT THEY ARE RACIST!!!! You don’t use a person’s race to drag them unless you think that race is inferior. A person’s race is not a character trait, y’all. This attitude is RACIST. and if you didn’t mean to be racist but went along with the loudest voices who are racist... YOU ARE STILL RACIST. Maybe not in the lynching way. Maybe just in the Nice White Lady (NWL) way, which is STILL RACIST. Those are the kind of people who think black people should stay in their place and sit on the back of the bus and say please and thank you when people are being racist to them, and always consider their NWL feelings when criticizing them because no one should ever make them feel sad for being racist. Not that they want to STOP being racist, just that they don’t want to feel sad about it so please don’t mention their racism, and while we’re at it, don’t disagree with them. Please and thank you, oh aren’t you a nice POC. You’re one of the nice ones.* 

Listen. Fandom may be fun and we may feel like we’ve found a home here, but do not EVER be uncritical of fandom. It IS NOT a safe place. Not only can you be the target of racism and harassment and abuse and targeting, but you can also be the victim of people who are intentionally trying to manipulate you into following them and their agenda. Maybe their agenda is just to have more followers who love them, but maybe their agenda is to spread their toxic ideas and destabilize the very communities that are supportive to people who are marginalized. 

To be truthful, watching the Star Wars fandom become this toxic clusterfuck ever since TFA came out was what made me realized my experience in fandom wasn’t personal or isolated, but was in fact a FEATURE of fandom, not a bug. 

Y’all life does not have to be like that. And neither does fandom.

*this is sarcasm. NWLs expecting niceness when people are racially oppressed IS STILL RACIST.