#guess who already has things i should post in my drafts that are once again kokichi oma

[lightbulb-warning]

i am not immune to my own brainrot

[cowboysandpilots]

After Everyone is back from the blip, tony has sweet and romantic reunion with peter. Request

(I'm SO sorry!! This has been sitting in my drafts for AGES, and I thought I scheduled it to post, but I guess I didn't. I'm so sorry. I hope you still enjoy. 💕)

—

Peter didn't think that he would be back after what happened or that anyone would be really. He certainly never thought that he would ever see Tony again, and that mere thought had ripped his heart out when he was stuck... wherever he had been.

Of course, what actually happened was that Tony was the first person Peter saw. Even though he had superpowers and he could heal all on his own, he had been sent to the hospital because not everyone understood, and the people who did, knew that they needed to keep up appearances of him being just a regular teenage boy. They sent everyone who had been disintegrated by the blip to the hospital, even though the doctors and nurses were woefully unprepared for how to handle something like that.

Peter opened his eyes slowly to the sound of a monitor beeping far too loud for how much his head was pounding. The next thing he registered was the feeling of someone's hand in his, and that's what made him lift his head. Sitting right next to him, in a very uncomfortable looking hospital chair, was Tony Stark, Peter's mentor and secret boyfriend.

He had to squeeze his eyes shut for a second to stop the room from spinning, but when he opened them again, Tony had tears in his eyes. "What's wrong?" His voice sounded foreign even to himself. It was way too rough and very obvious that he hadn't spoken in weeks. The burn made him reach for the plastic cup of water on the table next to him.

"I really thought we lost you, kid. I thought I lost you." He emphasizes.

Once Peter is done sipping his water through the plastic straw, he speaks, much more clearly this time. "You didn't lose me Tony. You can't lose me, you know that. Superhuman healing and all that." He tries to give a smile, something to help Tony see that he really is all right and that he can still joke and keep his spirits high, however he is very weak and he can barely hold with the way his lips quiver.

"Healing or not, I can still lose you if something happens that is impossible to heal, like you disintegrating into thin air, something like that." Tony tries to make his own joke, but just like peter, he couldn't keep it up for too long. He had spent so much time watching over Peter while he slept that he hadn't slept himself. He leans forward, threading his fingers through Peter's hair. "You should get some more rest. Don't worry, I'm not going anywhere."

Peter nods, soothed by Tony's hand in his hair but just as he's laying back down he speaks up again. "Wait, wait. I don't know how long I've been in here or if anyone's been looking after me besides you but I doubt they've been brushing my teeth for me so I would totally understand if you didn't want to... I mean I just thought—" Peter doesn't get the chance to finish his ramblings because Tony is already kissing him hard enough to bruise his lips.

He doesn't mind, and Tony doesn't mind the fact that, of course, no one has been brushing his teeth for the days that he's been unconscious; he's just happy to be able to kiss Peter again after thinking for so long that he would never get to again. They need each other much more than they need air, anyway.

—

✨REQUEST A COMMISSION✨ | Starker isn't on the list, but you can still commission them, of course.

[bcntbouquet]

1. Who has been your favorite muse to play?

2. Do you listen to music while you write? If so, what do you like to listen to?

10. Do you like stylized icons and formatted text or do you prefer to keep things simple?

14. What are five of your favorite ships? (In the rp community or otherwise)

15. What sort of muses do you tend to write?

16. Do you like to queue your replies or just post them when you finish?

17. Do you prefer winging it or plotting everything out?

20. If you could tell your muse something, what would it be?

1. Who has been your favorite muse to play?

I think my first-ever legit rp muse was Herbert West (Re-Animator) and once upon a time, I didn’t really have the urge to write other characters (can’t you even imagine ME writing ONE character now, lmao). The first OC I really got into was my dude Gideon Brady, so he was my favourite for years—Then I found my way to Supernatural and Dean Winchester was the most at-home I’d probably ever felt in ANY muse ever to that point. Probably stayed that way until some time in 2023. I’ve created dozens of ocs and even quite a number of canon muses since then, but late last year I started writing Brian (Brain Damage) and Aylmer (Brain Damage) and I became very attached very quickly; around the same time, I decided to explore my under-used oc Derward (created c. 2022) and I find he’s easiest to write at this particular time in my life. I also enjoy playing Wonka a whole lot—because he’s so positive and optimistic—but it’s been brought to my attention that Derward and I share a lot of similarities—Which, I suppose, explains why he's become my default muse these days.

2. Do you listen to music while you write? If so, what do you like to listen to?

Yes, I listen to music about 50% of the time that I write. A lot of 80s pop, rock, and new wave ngl. But there's other kinds I listen to, of course. The rest of the time I watch movies while writing… I know, you’d think it would distract me from the text, but most of the time films get me in that creative zone with any combination of setting, music, story, cast, etc.

10. Do you like stylized icons and formatted text or do you prefer to keep things simple?

To quote Slugworth— “A good chocolate should be SIMPLE. Un-complicated.” I will admit I have a hard time reading/seeing (highly) formatted text. Bold, italics, colours, and certain fonts; those are all find by me. As for stylized icons… What’s even the point? Frankly, it’s lost on me. A visual should be just that. Any image or gif that takes interpretation in order to figure out what’s being presented doesn’t really belong… as it serves no purpose to enrich either the details of the narrative or the muse being portrayed. Granted, this is only my personal opinion. If stylized iconography somehow makes your creative juices flow, fellow writers... go for it. You do you. The rpc should always be an inclusive place.

14. What are five of your favorite ships? (In the rp community or otherwise)

Call me biased or indecisive af, but I hold all my ships dear. Romantic or platonic. I just love all my ships- as well as my shipping partners. Lil' shout out to @cvpidswings, @everyoneismytoy, @smolcuriouskitten, @rawbutprecious, and @frcsttitan. Everybody else I ship with, love you too.

'nother lil' shout to @cursedvessels and @miidnighters—Shimi and Callisto are one of my favourite duos in the rpc atp and I love reading about their joint antics. A canon ship I love is Zed and Addison from Zombies.

15. What sort of muses do you tend to write?

Difficult to say... I don't find myself defining any of my muses by type. If I had to take a guess, I'd say kindhearted people with emotional trauma? Again, IDK.

16. Do you like to queue your replies or just post them when you finish?

I'm a slow writer, so I usually post when I've finished a draft. I already keep people waiting a while for a reply due to my inherent speed, so a regular queue would just make things even slower.

17. Do you prefer winging it or plotting everything out?

It just depends on the situation in the rp; during a lot of threads, I do well with a mix of winging it and plotting. 90% of the time, though, it's winging it. My muses are all control freaks in that they're usually more cooperative when I don't involve myself XD

20. If you could tell your muse something, what would it be?

Derward hasn't felt much love in his life, or support. He isn't the type to give up in any situation, but he probably really needs to hear that he's both wanted and needed. I think little compliments would serve him well, too. Maybe tell him that he's cute or that his hair/clothes are nice. He wouldn't always believe me about his clothes, 'cause he tends to wear tattered stuff throughout his various verses, but... If I could give him a big hug, I would. I'd give him a nice smooch on the cheek, too. Maybe wrap a blanket around his shoulders. That said, he should allow himself to put his burdens down from time to time. He's strong, and he knows this. What he doesn't know, however, is that he CAN be weak. He CAN be vulnerable. I would, hopefully, convince himself to free himself of such pressure. Dude needs a good cry five minutes ago.

[esther-dot]

I double-checked and heard '100' as well. I'm the same as you, honestly it sounds positive to me but people are going to spin headlines. The fact he's opened up about struggling alone probably indicates he's feeling better about it - I guess speaking personally, when I was able to verbalise that I was having trouble at all with my writing, that was already the point where I was beginning to untangle it.

I'm more interested in GRRM's process from a writer's POV as opposed to waiting morosely for the endproduct, so that's the angle I like thinking about. His work is extremely ambitious, because he's got multiple working elements at once: not just multiple perspective characters, but he's trying to pull off a deconstructive commentary (I mean this in the literary criticism sense, not the sense used in fandom spaces which is 'thing bad? what do about it?') in addition to marrying the weighted moral/thematic complexity of a classic novel paired with the fantasy genre. LOTR is much more firmly in mythic territory than that imo.

I say this as someone who's not necessarily an ASOIAF superfan, but I find his work interesting just because holy fuck, George, of course it's taken you twelve years.

(about this post)

Yeah, I think looking at this from a writer’s perspective gives one a lot more sympathy for how long it’s taking him to write. I've criticized him a fair bit myself, so I don’t feel overly protective of him, but most fans seem to ignore the vast difference between typical genre fiction and what he’s doing. I’ve said before, it’s literature, with all the layers and complexity that implies. Hence it taking a decade + to bring his story together just so (in addition to all the other reasons) and ghost writers not being a workable solution for him.

I've written some original stuff and with that, and with my fics, I have a similar style with the whole, knowing certain things, even having later bits of dialogue written, but not using an outline and just, writing until I reach those moments naturally. In the interview, Cornwell said he's a true gardener, doesn't even know how his own stories will end, but Martin has created a headache for himself by having established endgames, major beats, and what he's called set pieces that he's determined to naturally find. It's a difficult way to write. I think it does allow him some great characterization, but I honestly feel sick to my stomach when I think about what he has to be going through with that method and this series.

I'm sure no one is more anxious for him to finish the book than he is. Fanfic writers feel a weight over their unfinished fics, meta writers groan over metas sitting in their drafts, but none of us had the showrunners of the most popular TV show waiting for us to wrap it up, contracts with publishers, a mouthy worldwide fandom, our legacy hanging in the balance. Martin even talked about wanting to write the best book he could, knowing he's already kept people waiting so long, which means he's putting additional pressure on himself. I personally wish he took on fewer projects (distractions! demands!), but he has the right to a payday even if it is coming from HBO after the travesty of s8. He mentioned in that interview how there were times he thought his career was over, and I'm sure he never imagined he'd be so successful or become this wealthy. He should enjoy it!

I know there was a discord for Jonsas at one point, and I hope someone does that again when TWOW is gonna come out so people have a safe place to talk. I actually might wait for some Jonsas to post about their thoughts before I read it. I like spoilers, and I've stuck around this long to support the Jonsa fandom ( +spite for all the people who harassed us), so I don't think I'd be able to dip when TWOW comes out.

[mabsolgirl]

Headphone warning

Transcript below! :3

I made this a while ago, around when I first started making art of the Supernova AU AU. There have been some slight changes since then but I wanted to post this anyway since its been just sitting in my drafts and starting to get dusty. The changes aren't enough to alter anything in the audio in a major way anyway so neeeeh.

It's been a while since I did voice stuff so hopefully I don't sound terrible lol

Obligatory @linxprime ping cause au of their au

Watch me pull world lore outta my ass cause I still don't know what im doing

-------------------------------------------------------

In the ruins of a crashed and destroyed ship, you find a strange audio file labeled "Project Supernova". You made a copy of it and now you have the time to give it a listen...

--------------------

Transcript

Warning. The following video is the private property of [REDACTED]. Any outside or uncertified personnel caught viewing this video will be terminated by any means necessary. Viewer discretion is advised.

Log 1.

I am Dr. Jane Doe and I’ve recently been put in charge of “Project Supernova” after the old one quit. I decided to keep audio documentations of my findings and observations. I find it easier for me to document things by recording them by audio then writing it all out later.

Project Supernova is a study on the abilities of intelligent lifeforms, how they manifest, if different abilities can be manifested in specific situations, and researching the phenomena of Berserkers. Before I came in, an embryo was successfully fertilized and grown into a stable state. There were many failed attempts with this being the only one that has made it this far, living for roughly 12 years as of this recording. To be honest I question the decision to make a lifeform rather than study the cases of people who already have abilities, but the higher-ups wanted to do this rather than the simpler way.

Regardless it is planned to come out of the tube once it reaches 13 years, which is a couple months away. It should be stable enough by then. Until then we monitor it for any changes.

End log.

Log 2.

Right, so I forgot to mention info about the lifeform last log. My bad, heheh.

So, the lifeform is female and it was made with the DNA of multiple organisms with the two primary ones being Human Earthling and Cuixcus. I think I pronounced that right. Cuixcus was used for their adaptability and Human Earthlings to counteract the weaknesses of the former. It has bones, can withstand hotter temperatures, and while it doesn’t need to, it does breathe oxygen. The DNA from other organisms were used to help stabilize it so it doesn’t just die spontaneously. The genetics chosen specifically to see if heritage has an influence on what abilities would appear.

Now the real reason I am logging this. Earlier today it was monitored that specs of light were floating around the lifeform’s tube. They looked so… ethereal. It was like looking at a cluster of tiny stars. I should probably mention that the lifeform is in an unconscious state. It has been like this since its creation and this was the first time these lights were documented. They disappeared before we could study them. Maybe it dreamt them up? We’ll have to keep an eye on it.

End log.

Log 5.

Today it came out of the tube, emphasis on “it”. We weren't supposed to take it out for another week but I guess it had other plans. One second it was in the tube, the next the lights appeared again and it was out and fell face-first into the equipment. It teleported itself out.

Since it wasn’t connected to the machines anymore it woke up quickly after that. Of course we were all freaking out but it didn’t seem too bothered by us. We ran some tests and it was stable. It bruised its head but other than that it wasn’t significantly injured.

It’s a very curious one. It would grab and inspect what we had. We let it for the most part and it would hand us back what it had when it was done. Right now it’s in its own room that we had to quickly scramble to finish putting together. It’s a quiet little one. The team and I decided on the name “Nova” after the project. As per usual we’ll keep an eye on it.

End log.

Log 27.

A lot happened today. Today is the first day Nova went into her Berserker state. The first thing I noticed was that she was much calmer than I expected. I expected a rampaging beast like the other cases of Berzerkers but Nova would just… stare at us. We kept an eye on our monitors to watch to see what she does and then we watched her create light orbs; like the ones from one of my first logs but much bigger. This time we were able to scan them to see what exactly they were…

They’re stars. I am not joking, she was making literal stars, balls of collapsed burning gas, in her hands! From our observations they disappear when she loses focus but still incredible nonetheless! We later figured out the key piece to what her abilities are: a limited form of matter manipulation. She can teleport herself, and those she touches, by willing her own matter into another space and the stars are made by manipulating the matter of gas and dust to collapse in her hands. It is theorized she can manipulate any form of matter so long as physical contact is made.

After a while she went out of Berserker state and fell unconscious. We hooked her up to make sure she’s alright. Right now she’s comatose; we’re hoping she comes back alright.

End log.

Log 39.

Earlier today one of the higher-ups came in and told us that we were not needed on Project Supernova anymore and that in the coming days a new team would be coming in to take over the project. Of course we were outraged. We were consistently giving them good results! We did what we were told! We did nothing wrong, didn’t question a thing. Nothing we said could convince him otherwise. None of us wanted to leave the project. I’ll admit, Nova has grown on us. She’s like family and now for some reason she’s being taken from us. When he left we all decided to look into it ourselves.

The more we dug, the more things began to not add up. Then… we found something. We’re not here to do what we think we’re doing. We’re gonna get Nova out of here. This place is no longer safe. We’ll get her out and we’ll be the whistleblowers to this place.

End log.

Log 40

…I’m… I’m sorry…

Dr. Jane Doe, Dr. Bailey Shindo, Dr. Margoba Entano, Dr. Manbagea Nals, and Dr. Ripley Hedon have been terminated. Project Supernova assets will be transported to [REDACTED] for further completion by a new team effective immediately. End communication.

[majorbaby]

You might have talked about this before, and I love Hawk crying as much as anyone, but do you think the baby death was… maybe not fridging, but it always bugged me that they never showed the mother again and focused on his grief

oof, i have a lot of angst over what i perceive to be rampant misuse of the term 'fridging' because i come from marvel and dc comics fandoms and so does that word, which at one time had a very specific meaning, which i think you know because of how you wrote your ask.

actually when i first joined MASH fandom i saw a few people allege the 'fridging' of peg hunnicutt by beejhawk stans was a thing and i want to just go on record and say that i really strongly reject that assessment of beejhawk fanfiction in general. this only increased my fridging angst.

there can be genuine parallels between 'fridging' - the act of violently harming or killing a female character for the purpose of advancing a plot centered on a man (or, imo, giving a male character far more agency with which to react to some act of violence against a woman character than the woman herself is afforded) - and acts of violence against other equity-seeking groups (racialized people/BIPOC, neurodivergent people, disabled people, lgbtq+ people).

i would say for example that there are some similarities between the 'fridging' trope and 'the black guy dies first' - the similarities are that (1) some act of violence (violence being the operative word) has taken place (2) the victim or survivor is afforded no agency within the narrative to address what has happened to them and (3) this event is the catalyst for further developments in the narrative which heavily feature a white man and his reaction to the violent act.

so in GFA we have:

A violent act against an unnamed Korean baby

The baby cannot be 'impacted' by its own death (not an absolute statement on fiction in general, see: The Lovely Bones) - the person closest to the baby (the mother) exists only to smother her child and appear in Hawkeye's flashback

We open on Hawkeye in the sanitarium, he's there because the baby died, he only leaves once it's revealed that the baby died, and we see how this event affects him throughout the rest of the episode

So yeah, I'd say it's a fair comparison to make. Actually you could argue that the violent act does happen to the woman, because she's smothered her child to death, she did so at the behest of an American who should not be in Korea, who did that because Americans shouldn't have been in Korea.

I actually did vent about this somewhat on GFA day (though not in any kind of detail) because I saw a couple of dead baby memes on the dash and that made me very uncomfortable. Not because I don't think it's possible to joke or meme about serious subject matter, but because it further decontextualizes the pain and suffering of the Korean people in the Korean war, on top of how GFA (and MASH) already did that.

(I have a longer post in the drafts about multiple degrees of decontextualization and GFA and MASH in general specifically prompted by "chicken-baby" memes but I have no idea when I'll publish it or if it will end up being a text post at all)

i don't really have a solution to offer tho, because i do think it makes sense that the death of a child is the thing that finally breaks Hawkeye, who is otherwise shown to be quite resilient. He survives the death of Tommy on his table in Sometimes You Hear the Bullet, he processes a deep-seated childhood trauma in Bless you Hawkeye, and by GFA in general we can say he's got have grown somewhat used to the constant assault on his senses.

I guess that's why I'm so irked by the 'further decontextualization' bit. Fridge me once, shame on you, fridge me again and again and again and again... and that's continued to happen to women, racialized characters in the larger media landscape, while these events are memed and real-life violence against women is so deeply ingrained in our culture.

It's the larger context of where this stuff happens that bothers me I guess. The Korean character most often referred to by the fandom is a dead baby, and usually as an (unfunny!) punchline, rather than a legitimately harrowing memory that probably haunts Hawkeye for the rest of his life.

[sometimesoliloquy]

The Handmaid’s Tale 5x06 “Together ” (or, “Warm Milk and Murder”) 👀

I’ll be honest, the first draft of this recap/review just read “NIIIIICK” with a string of heart-eye and water gun emojis. Second draft was “This episode could have been the last 15 minutes”, and I stand by that.

However, that is not what we were given,  so into the  scary kidnap van with June and Luke we go. Luke tries a trick he saw once on Dateline where a girl kicked a car tail light out to escape, and June’s like that’s nice honey, maybe just save your energy. They get their fake No Man’s Land Gilead mugshots taken and June reminds these Gilead(?) goons (and us) that she is a bad ass and is of NOBODY, motherfucker.

Then we’re once again at Serena’s prison the Wheeler’s house, which I swear is reminding me more of the Murder House in the first season of American Horror Story by the minute. Good morning, Serena! Today with your green breakfast smoothie you get a side of creepy surprise gyno house call! Lucky girl, as Aunt Lydia would say. Up the Vertigo staircase they go, to the reveal that the W's have set up a full birthing suite in the attic, which is totally normal and not creepy at all, and the good doctor is very excited to get her up in the stirrups and take it for a test drive.

(Just for me, huh?)

Dr. Egregiously Inappropriate proceeds to casually discuss Serena’s perineum and which essential oils from his MLM she should use to massage it with. Five seconds after being knuckle deep in her cervix, he asks her to dinner, because romance is not dead (generally the dinner part comes first, pal!). He humble brags about the mean cedar plank salmon  “his martha” makes, giving us another small, disturbing glimpse at the wider pseudo-Gilead community outside of the Wheeler’s creepy mansion. Just how wide is it, I have to wonder? This scene also echoed back to the creepy doctor in s1 who called June “sweety” or “honey” and offered to bone her on the doctors table “help her out” (gag). Before he finally got the dinner invitation out I really thought what he was going to ask Serena was if he could be next in line to impregnate her (really I guess the end goal for him is the same, though).

I’m going to have a hard time ever getting that image out of my head, but at least it gives us Serena delivering the line “I’m not going to date my gynecologist”, which is the most reasonable thing that’s ever come out of this woman’s mouth in her life and that’s a fact. Unfortunately, Mrs. W does not agree, Serena simply cannot be a slutty single mother and she is grounded until she finds herself a nice respectable husband baby daddy like Dr. McCreepy. GO TO YOUR ROOM, young lady. The irony probably lost on her (or maybe just once again overshadowed by self-pity), Serena sadly slinks off  to her cell bedroom to cry under the looming crucifix, probably not thinking at all about how she absolutely reveled in doing the exact same thing to June (and I’m sure June’s predecessor). I am a little confused by Mrs. W’s strategy here because I thought handmaids couldn’t be married, but I digress.

Meanwhile, Aunt Lydia is extremely disappointed to hear that poor Esther’s UTERUS HARVESTING (fucking excuse me?) has been canceled. It’s very upsetting because she was just sure Esther’s been looking forward to this all week! But it seems that said uterus has already been “filled with his divine light” which is confusing to Lydia because Esther’s not yet been posted, and confusing to me because “divine” and “light” are the furthest words I would use to describe anything coming out of Warren Putnam. After she’s done victim blaming the 15 year old rape victim (but what was she wearing?) she declares it is JUST AWFUL that Warren raped Esther in that way, because if there’s one thing Lydia knows it’s that there is a proper time and a place for rape and that was NOT IT. It’s truly egregious that he did not wait the one day’s time to legally rape her at the right time, because this is definitely the problem here. Esther understandably freaks the fuck out at Lydia and continues to writhe and scream in pure despair, and my poor darling damaged murder-child, if they keep doing horrible things to you or kill you off, I swear I will riot on their front porch while they are trying to watch the latest episode of HoD.

Aunt Lydia rushes to deliver the news to Commander Lawrence, who has the nerve to not be outraged, and engages in his current favorite pastime: dropping truth bombs of the hypocrisy of the Gileadean system she’s enforced and facilitated all these years. He has a point but she’s not quite ready to hear it (it’s gonna be a long road, I think) and she storms off in a cloud of righteous indignation, leaving JLaw “TO IT.” Despite being unmoved by Lydia’s morality play, we can see the wheels turning in that mysterious noggin, and he apparently decides it’s time to invite his good buddy Warren over for drinks to congratulate his raping of a child pending fatherhood.

Back in fake NML Gilead, Luke and June have been locked in (according to June, quite spacious, actually) cages and Luke will not shut the fuck up about how fucking CRAZY this shit is, and I’m not sure what kind of amusement park he thought Gilead actually was but finally June says what we’ve all been thinking for the last 5 minutes and tells him to please shut the fuck up (KEEP YOUR FUCKING SHIT TOGETHER, LUKE). He laments not being able to “be that guy” to swoop in on a white horse and save her or something, and wishing that he had been there with her (no, you don’t, trust me!), still somehow not getting it that she doesn’t need a man to save her but ok. I have to assume that he’s thinking of Nick (and Serena’s words) here. The thing is, for all her ill intentions, Serena’s phrasing was actually quite accurate: June had “Nick’s support”, not Nick to save her.  I do think actually that Luke was trying to convey a similar sentiment, but it’s so interesting and telling to me that his wording seems to consistently center his feelings around himself, and around an idea of protective ownership that screams of benevolent sexism. Anyway, they say some more sentimental stuff that I don’t quite buy and flirt to pass the time. The goons come back and of course as soon as June tells Luke what not to do, he immediately does it. He tries to break free and run away (um, where?), and immediately they viciously beat him (the “he’s not resisting!!”, was rough to watch… damn, constant parallels to awful events in irl America).

Later that evening in real Gilead, Lawrence, Nick and Putnam cozily clink glasses by the crackling fire, and Putman talks about how much he loves raping women and children the perks of his job. In fact, he wasn’t even thinking about conceiving a child and the subsequent benefit to his career, he did this purely for the joy of raping his work, that is how dedicated he is. He (thinks he) gets a dig in at JLaw, wondering what’s the point of even being a commander if you’re not going to rape anyone take advantage of the perks?  Nick is once again having a real hard time controlling his face, but he manages to get out some Gilead double speak, and JLaw does some very pointed double speak, as Warren continues to fail miserably at reading the room.

The next day, in Canadian wanna-be Gilead, Mr. Wheeler summons Serena to his study.  She thinks it’s about her quarrel with Mrs. W, but LOL woman, he has not the time for silly female squabbles. He tells her his men have captured June, and  he’s going to have Ezra execute her in NML since Gilead keeps fumbling the ball. Serena looks... concerned? upset? I don’t know, their relationship is weird. But she also sees here an opportunity: the enemy  of my enemy is my friend as they say (or at least she can be for a hot second until they go back to enemies again, I guess). She begs Mr. W to let her tag  along, saying that she wants to watch June be killed with her own eyes. Mr. W is super turned on moved by this and just like that goes from “absolutely not” to “yeah ok”.  She can’t get the fuck out of that house fast enough as Mrs. W trails  nervously, looking a little suspicious. From the looks of it she starts having contractions in the backseat so let’s hope Ezra is a fast driver...

June and Luke have been laying on their cage floors for god knows how long at this point. Luke is pretty fucked up, and June blames herself. She apologizes to Luke for not stopping him from coming (”You didn’t know how bad it could be. I did.”) but he insists it was his choice. He wants to be able to at least say goodbye this time, and June, sensing that he is giving up hope, gives him a pep talk that includes a pretty good impression of Daniel Day Lewis in Last of the Mohicans (Stay alive, no matter what occurs! I will find you! No matter how long it takes, no matter how far. ! I WILL FIND YOU.) It didn’t quite ring true to me, but seems to work with Luke, bolstering his will. Then the goons are back and dragging them off in separate directions, onto separate vehicles. June yells frantically after him and despairingly mouths “I’m sorry”, still feeling responsible.

Naomi and Warren are just trying to have a nice brunch at the country club when a bunch of guardians roll up before they can even finish their eggs benny and bottomless mimosas (RUDE). An alarmed Naomi prances down the stairs after her wayward husband as he is dragged and deposited quite satisfyingly at the dress-shoed feet of our two favorite commanders. Nick recites Warren’s crimes in a way that makes “apostasy” sound like something I very much want to do, and then it’s Lawrence’s turn to quote some apt scripture to silence Warren’s self-righteous whining. Not to be outdone by his late buddy Fred, WP gets his “but I’m going to be a FATHER!” moment, but somehow Nick is not moved and proceeds to blow his despicable brains out. Crows caw in the distance (at least that’s what my subtitles are telling me, I can’t really hear over my own cheering).

(Pls send help.)

Back at the Blaine household, however, Mrs. Blaine is not so impressed. Apparently she is cool with her husband facilitating the death of rapist commanders as long as he specifically is not the one to do the dirty work (what, he changed his shirt at least!). I get that her religious beliefs probably include “thou shalt not kill” and that it would be startling (especially for a seemingly gentle soul like Rose) to hear that your husband just shot an acquaintance point blank in the head, but in this case I can’t help feeling like it’s something akin to being horrified at the sight of someone snapping a chicken’s neck, and then going home to enjoy some nice breaded tenders. She worries about “the kind of person it makes him” and Nick implies he’s doing it for their CHILD, casually giving Rose’s pregnancy reveal(??) and looking just overjoyed to be a father to be, as we pan out on the truly uncomfortable silence of two people sitting as far away from each other on a couch as physically possible. Sorry Nick, darling, you truly deserve a hero’s welcome. June would have got it (and so do I, call me).

A bit later that day, Aunt Lydia takes the girls on a fun field trip to the wall where Warren’s body has now been strung up on display. She tells them this was justice and then shoos them home for a nice cup of warm milk before bed. She’s been wielding the wall as a warning to “her girls” for years, of course, but we see a slight shift in tactic as the new woke, softer, kinder slightly remorseful Aunt Lydia now uses it also as a vow of reassurance, that she will protect them from abuse from corrupt commanders (as long as they behave), and of course make sure they only get raped at the proper time and place. Janine lingers staring at the limp body of her abuser and says “I wish I could have watched” (me too, girl, me too).

June is on the school bus to hell Gilead with a bunch of other poor souls, and (praise be!) the inner monologue is back, as June reflects on meeting her imminent end, and the unexpected twists and turns of life. The bus stops and Ezra shows up to call her out of class and go to the principal’s office. BOOM, here is your twist, June, the principal is Serena (of course, eyeroll). And she is pissed. But she also has a plan. With the magical powers Serena apparently possesses over anyone with a penis, she convinces Ezra to let her be the one to shoot June and he gives her the gun (not sure why would he think she even has any idea how to use it?) and unties June, also at his queen mistress’s demand, so she can pray. June is like FINE, BITCH, but then sincerely prays for her daughters, for their children: “may they do better than we did.” Serena was either duly moved, or this was her plan all along and she just wanted to make June sweat a little first (which I suspect), because she shoots Ezra instead and orders June to get in the car and DRIVE, bitch, before she has this goddamn baby right here on this dusty ass road. June’s like Jesus WTF is happening, oh hell I guess we’re doing this now, and off they race into the sunset, Thelma and Louise style. For a second I thought June would do an ode to Emily and run over Ezra on the way out, but no, they leave him merely winded thanks to his bullet proof vest, and surely about to give chase/run back to his boss with the bad news.

...

So. “Together”. Obviously Serena and June are together at the end of the episode (and about to get into some birthing hijinks from the look of it). Nick and Lawrence are continuing to work together to methodically dispatch Gilead’s corrupt and further Lawrence’s agenda (whatever that is). I suppose Aunt Lydia and Lawrence are also working together, albeit in a very dysfunctional (and very frustrating for Lydia) way. Aunt Lydia and Janine, it seems, will work together to protect handmaids (from unsanctioned abuse, at least). And then we have June/Luke and Nick/Rose.

Nick and June’s marriages parallel each other in an interesting way this episode. The two couples are physically “together” (well ok, maybe not Luke and June at the end), but in their  trajectory and mindset, miles apart.  Neither Luke nor Rose fully understand the brutality of Gilead, both having I think been spared/sheltered from the worst of it, and because of that, Nick and June each now find themselves very much alone.

Nick retreats to his stoic mask and inner shell in the wake of Rose’s disapproval, but the sense of loneliness and longing for understanding in this moment is palpable. He already doesn’t think of himself as a “good person” and this seems to be a reminder of how little his wife really knows him. Despite his underlying shame and feelings of unworthiness though, he is actively trying to set some things right, and as much as he would never admit it, it must hurt to be so misunderstood here.

On her end, June finds herself for the majority of the episode alternately instructing, reassuring, apologizing and worrying about Luke, who is experiencing his first small taste of Gilead’s inhumanity and is woefully unprepared for it. She knows she has to stay strong for him, and she must feel alone in this and in feeling the responsibility for their safety and survival, for Luke’s safety and survival, squarely on her shoulders.

Nick and June are both without the person who would understand in each of their respective situations, and would actually be able to provide comfort and support: each other. In contrast to their married spouses, they are physically apart, but mentally and spiritually on the same page. They’ve been through war together, they know the brutality of the enemy, and they’re willing and able to wield brutality back against it, whatever “kind of people” that makes them, because they know it’s the only way that works here.

So hopefully, we can stop playing games, get these two together, and get this revolution going, ASAP. May the lord open.

[bleachbleachbleach]

2022/2023 Fandom Goals!

At the end of last year I set out to accomplish what then appeared to be achievable fandom goals for 2022. 

WERE THEY, THOUGH. WERE THEY. 

Let’s see:

2022 Goals (Review)

1. be more shameless on Tumblr - I’m pretty sure I’ve gotten at least a little better about this, though I guess it depends on the day. Posting things on the Internet causes me anguish, and I consider doing so an intentional conditioning process. All the same, I would still like to feel less anguish. But I also don’t want to be actively annoying or boring and simply be *unanguished* about it, LOL, and therein lies my hangup.

2. stop damning reblogs to Draft Purgatory - I have been very good about this this year! Browser tabs purgatory, on the other hand…

3. prioritize accessible joy - This one was about not abandoning Tumblr for months at a time, and I feel like I’ve actually improved here and merely abandoning Tumblr for 1-2 weeks at a time. One thing that was way more helpful than it had any business being was making a special "mini dash" that just has blogs that primarily post original Bleach content and/or mutuals who are friends, so that if I get overwhelmed I can jump ship and use that dash for a while instead, and still get to see a lot of my favorite things. I say this like my normal dash isn’t mostly Bleach and like I follow a zillion active blogs. I do not. That’s why it’s ridiculous that my mini dash is as great for me as it is. XD 

4. finish reading the Soul Society arc - I am on… Chapter 68 LOL, and Ichigo has not yet so much as entered Soul Society. Making progress on this re-read is challenging because there are a lot of ways to enjoy Bleach and this reread is the only one that’s not a moving target—the manga’s not going anywhere; I’m not going to 'fall behind' if I don’t read it—and I have a regrettably limited amount of Bleach time. But I think I’ve become more confident in my reading/ability to search stackexchange and read about grammar, so I am still enjoying this!

5. write my fanfic - I wish I had done more of this, but this was a Year—a huge number of moving pieces IRL. I think last year I had written like… 10k of this fanfic? And now I have probably 20-30k, and most of that original 10k got scrapped. This fic has done a lot of shape-taking this year, which is very good. I had these grand plans of finishing two full chapters (Akon and Matsumoto 5) by the end of the year, which I have modified to finishing one chapter. I have *one scene left* but I think it’s probably in the Top 5 of Scenes in This Fic That I Already Know Are Going to be Hard to Write, and I’ve already written and deleted it once. There were so many bugs in the deleted version, so many bugs for absolutely no reason. I don’t know what the scene will ultimately look like, but I can assure you you’d never guess what scene used to Have Bugs, because there is so little reason there should have been bugs.

2023 Goals

1. Write my fanfic! For the sake of SMART goals, let’s say at least 1 line per day, every single day. Come March I will have been writing this for two years and WHAT do I have to show for it.

2. No more tabs purgatory! I don’t know how obvious B3’s posting habits are to others—but for my part of the equation, I tend to be That Person who reblogs 15 long textposts and adds 90 tags to everything, all the span of the same 2-hour block. I don’t think this is actually a good way of using Tumblr and I’d prefer to… not do that. XP And to find ways of being more with the flow of the dash. 

This is mostly me needing to carve out better interstitial space for fun time, because I want this for my own pleasure and I also because I want the OP to know how VERY EXCITED I AM TO SEE IT and tabs purgatory feels like the opposite of being able to do that. SMART goal? Uhhh don’t let tabs languish for more than a week?

3. Make space for fandom, and for fandom things that give me most joy. Again, this is part of a broader life assessment that in a better world would boil down to "working less" but in this world is not accessible if I want to continue being employed. So I’ll settle for being extremely intentional about how I spend my free time, and by consciously thinking about ways to create the kinds of interactions I most enjoy. That sounds very cerebral but I promise I just mean things like "that meme where I asked people to send in random stuff they loved about their Bleach faves was super fun I should do that again sometime" and "try to make friends" and "talk about fanfic with people” and “make progress on that bleach reread occasionally.”

4. Be more shameless on Tumblr. YEAH I have no strategies here, but I’m gonna keep this one on the list.

[livvyofthelake]

1, 4, 8, 18, 19 <333 a lot but I love the way you hate 🫂

1) the character everyone gets wrong

i already said arthur but since you didn’t specify a fandom i will use this space to complain about the shadowhunter chronicles <3 nobody on earth understands my girl isabelle lightwood it’s sick and twisted. i can’t even think about how bad the tv show fumbled her it makes me so angry i want to start screaming. like. congratulations everyone you fell for the femme fatale front she was putting up… even the people who were supposed to be writing her and understanding her character it’s ridiculous like none of that is what cassie wrote and i read…

4) what was the last straw that made you finally block that annoying person?

again i already answered this but one time i blocked someone because their icon looked really weird and they spam liked and it freaked me out seeing their icon so much. me when i’m so normal and nice i guess.

8) common fandom opinion that everyone is wrong about

WHEN BBC MERLIN FANS. actually i could finish this answer right there couldn’t i… no i’ll finish for real. when bbc merlin fans are like ohhhh why did the show do (insert widely known story beat from centuries of legends) like girl it was ALWAYS going to happen that way that’s the point….. mordred was always going to turn on arthur, morgana was always going to become evil, etc. yes there are issues with HOW the show did that stuff (meaning they did it in such stupid ways it’s laughable) but that’s the story… it’s BEEN set come on…

18) it's absolutely criminal that the fandom has been sleeping on...

can i say that i think all fandoms (on tumblr) really sleep on straight ships or is that an insane thing to say. like sometimes i don’t care if that man was homoerotic with his pal and it’s insane that you care more about that than his awesomely written relationship with his girlfriend/ex fiancée/some kind of love interest. ok this is about izombie this is about liv and major. i don’t care about major and ravi!!!!!!! major and liv are literally endgame grow up!!!! but no this is also true for every fandom ever. the way people ignore a man’s canonical female love interest if he has even one ounce of gay tension with some other dude in the show is ridiculous idk

19) you're mad/ashamed/horrified you actually kind of like...

i guess i’m supposed to say ben barnes shadow and bone here or whatever. but i’m not actually mad about it because i’m a born apologist and knew this would happen. but i feel like i’m supposed to not like him. or i’m supposed to like him but righteous fandom people think it’s activism to not like him and therefore they would hate me sooo much because i formulate my own opinions with nuance and depth or whatever. also rumplestiltskin once upon a time. robert carlyle you got to me man… i could write essay length posts about that character actually don’t get me started. also i finished this question, saved the draft, and then another ask reminded me of the wilds, so i should also add that in hindsight i’m very embarrassed about the way i acted about the wilds season 2…. like i can’t believe you all let me act like that about men. in the feminist lord of the flies show…. why was i allowed to do that seriously that was sick….

[klainesheilen]

internships

found in my drafts, it looks like I have forgotten to post it

I hate internships and by this I don’t mean the internships I’d do itself, I rather hate the whole process before. Sitting down, making research about the place(s) you want to apply to and the worst actually writing the application. The thought of it alone exhausts me so much, ugh. But why is it like that? I have the feeling that writing about myself and give them reasons why I am THE candidate for them is just a huge lie. Or at least I have told myself that. The way I write in applications do not represent who I am, it’s more about a version of me which they want to hear about. And I have to problems with this application writing;

one: There is something in me (BPD is this you?), that tells me I'm lying. I’m not an enthusiastic person, who works well with other people and enjoys learning about new stuff and things that challenge me are only a motivation to keep on. I can be this person and sometimes I'm just some parts of this person at a time, but what the voices in my head are telling me is “You are a piece of shit, you know it and they will also know it once they have read this crap that you have just written. So why applying in the first place?”.

two: ok, I think it’s more about me self-sabotaging myself. I think I make it so hard for myself before I have even started to do anything, so that I won’t start at all. Having this voice telling me over and over and over again that there is no point to begin with… it’s exhausting and demotivating. I mean, it took me a week to finally sit down and to just have a look at the publication company only to find out that they already don’t search for any new applications. If I only sat down. If I only wrote this application. I’m sabotaging myself. I don’t deserve this. I wouldn't deserve this. Gosh, why am I doing this to myself? Am I that much afraid of adulthood? As a 26 year old? Or am I simply afraid of a my future? But why so? I’m staring at my monitor and can’t think of a reason. Not even a dumb one. (minutes are passing by). Usually I’m afraid of what people think of me, but if I got a big girlboss job why should they judge me in any negative way? Even now that I'm studying and working part time as a waitress people are still proud of me. Or not proud, but they support me. I just can’t find a reason for this self-sabotaging behavior.

Interesting what a turn the actual idea of the blog post has made. I wanted to write about internships, that I see why they can be important for some people, but also about unpaid internships and that you have to work full time for a minimum of three months and not even get paid for it. How one should survive in such conditions? How should one pay rent? Pay life? Pay food? Just so one can add this experience to their CV. I wanted to write about this and I ended up with a question that I can not answer about myself and my self-sabotaging behavior.

so this was from the end of November or something in December. I can't really tell, and since then I have sent two applications in the publication industry. One to an unpaid internship that I have to do for at least three months and a paid one that would also want me to work for the same time period. Well, they haven't even answered, but the unpaid one mailed me back and after some correction and translation they've decided that they want me. And I am happy, I guess, it's just I can't tell why I am not ~that~ happy with it. Anyway, maybe it's the self-sabotage again. Maybe it's a gutfeeling (from my self-sabotage, lol), but my internship starts 1st February, so I will keep you updated on my thoughts and impressions.

[measuringbliss]

Spider-Man Read-Through 011: Welcome to 1970! (ASM 83-87)

MASTERPOST

The last time, we finished the sixties and entered the seventies. I don't know anything about the next three years, and then I have ample familiarity for the three years after that. Very happy to delve again in new material!

In this post, we see a new costume (but for whom?), a sidekick (but whomst?) and Spidey's biggest, most ferocious enemy.

It's a doozy!

Unfortunately, Stan Lee doesn't seem to be able to let go from the Kingpin, who's a constant hamper on my enjoyment of these arcs. Someone's out there to replace him (new super-villain called "The Schemer") but I'm sure the Kingpin will quickly see red...

However, we're once again talking about the mysterious lady driver! I still wonder who she is, I never actually got an answer.

And she's here! Vanessa! So she's definitely his wife. Huh! And she drops a bombshell that actually made my mouth gape: their son has disappeared! I didn't expect that. I'm already invested in that. Hell yeah. Vanessa's convinced Richard is dead, but I'm not so sure.

What also made me gasp was this! Flash's leaving and I'm sad, but then MJ *and* Gwen kiss him, because of course they do!

Another gasp-inducing happening is that Peter on-page questions the Vietnam War. Didn't expect that!

He's also recently been on the verge to reveal his secret to Gwen, but of course he's not gonna do it. This issue is very interesting as to how much of a reaction it is to the reader's letters: a lot of soap, the secret tease...

But Peter and Gwen get almost hit by a car and Gwen falls unconscious, because she's a girl.

For the second time in a short number of issues, Spidey jokes about a villain getting his lines from a shlocky manual. The MCU certainly didn't invent that type of quips (but seeing Spidey be so self-aware feels a bit wrong, like, come on, Stan, you don't get to be high and mighty about your usual dialogue).

The Schemer escapes Spidey's wrath after trying to use comically specific traps. But Gwen does her usual "oh, I don't know if I can love you ever again" shtick and we all frown, because "you were away when I woke up in the hospital" is certainly a reach. Meanwhile, I'm more certain than ever that her dad will guess Peter's identity.

Overall a nice issue! I always like me some soap.

In the letters, Jean Laidig sets themselves apart by suggesting giving powers not to May, but to Gwen! I hope you enjoyed Into the Spider-Verse, buddy. People also keep praising the Prowler.

At the beginning of issue 84, Spidey surmises that now, the Schemer's capture is worth 5000 dollars and is worth it... in today's money, it's a bit less than 39.000 dollars. Good grief.

Peter goes to the Stacys, but is quickly trapped between the father and the daughter, who keep asking him questions. Whoops.

The Kingpin is now also convinced that his son killed himself because he's seen news about his dad being a supervillain. Hm. That makes the Kingpin a more interesting character, but I think Richard would actually be a great character if he was still alive. I'm hoping he is.

And I actually think... he might be?

At one point in the issue, Vanessa tries to stop the Kingpin and the Schemer from fighting, but she sees something in the Schemer's eyes and next thing you know, they both disappeared. The next issue is supposed to reveal the Schemer's secret. So he does have one. Is he Richard aged up? What the hell's going on?

In the letters, Bruce Long informs everyone that Peter should be exempt from draft because his dad was in the CIA and Peter's his only child. Actually interesting!

Peter gets surprised once again by the Stacys, but they once again let themselves be fooled by his theater kid energy. And fool them, he does, by acting as if he had issues with Spider-Man. Good thinking, kid!

Turns out the reward I mentioned higher was bogus, since it was actually a trap set up by the Kingpin.

AND IT TURNS OUT I WAS (mostly) RIGHT! The Schemer *is* Richard! He just made a mask. Hell yeah. Now it makes sense, why his villain antics seemed so awkward.

Unfortunately for the Kingpin, his son's reveal shocks him so bad he becomes catatonic. Hopefully we don't see him for a few issues... although he finally got interesting! Now give me more of Richard, dammit!

It's a really good ending to the arc though.

But wait, about the next issues...

HELL YEAH.

Reminds me of this meme:

A female copy? Really? Huh. Anyway!

Natasha, kill him! Rip him in half!

What I didn't account for, however, was Natasha immediately recounting her backstory and mentioning her "hopeless" romance with Hawkeye. Uh oh, this combined with the previous meme is quite awkward. I mean, I'm laughing, but oops.

Natasha changes her costume because, in the words of one of Totally Spies's openings, "you have to be fashionable if you want to be a spy". I actually prefered her previous costume, it was quite elegant, but oh well. So Natasha considers that, since she has the same powers as Peter (no she doesn't), she has to fight him to be in the spotlight. Oof.

Her fighting style is pretty close to the Tarantula we'll see in a few years! That's nice. She also says Spidey must have been "born this way", which is proof that he's queer. Thanks for coming to my TED talk.

She gives up on page 18, and Stan helpfully informs us that Black Widow is about to get her monthly magazine. Thanks, Stanny dear, I'd never have guessed!

This issue's a nice change of pace. i'd be interested to check out BW's adventures! So Stan succeeded, I guess. If anybody has a specific arc to recommend...

Great letter, finally something new!

Predictably though, Keith Stern asks for less love and more action. Can't satisfy everyone now, can you? Joe Sykora is happy that #82 was at least 100 panels (he counted 124).

Ooooh! I mean, it can only be Captain Stacy, right?

Pete wants to analyze his blood to see if his powers are disappearing, but he can't focus - and Dr. Connors is in Florida. To make matters worse, it's also Gwen's birthday, teased multiple times throughout this arc (this is the fourth mention, by my count).

SO PETER STEALS A NECKLACE FOR HER.

At Gwen's party, I'm saddened to witness a terrible fact:

Harry's outfits have become less fun. I miss what he had before! Also, apparently Randy and his boyfriend Josh are here too! Why not.

Peter's actually lost his mind, because he crashes the party just as it was ending.

I was shook.

I think we can definitely say that Peter is being whumped, and to great effects! We love to see it.

Oh this is delightful.

MJ: Wow, Gwendy, you sure can pick 'em! He's either a masked menace or a psycho case!

We love bitchy MJ in this house.

Turns out what actually hampered Peter's wellbeing these last issues was the flu! Peter does nothing to beat the "men are weak" allegations (I can confirm, I'm a baby when I get sick, although my gender is. essentially non-existent. but let's not talk about that).

AND THEN OH MY FUCKING GOD. HE'S BACK. HE'S FUCKING BACK. MY MAN HOBIE BROWN IS BACK. I'M SO HAPPY!!!!!! I'm so glad I didn't check when and if he'd be back! Oh my God, oh my God!!!!!!!

No, you don't get it. I'm ecstatic! A TEAM-UP? I NEED THIS IN MY LIFE. HOBIE AS A SIDEKICK? Even as just a five-pages event, I love it! Oh my fucking god, YES!!!!!

This issue is fantastic and I can't understate how joyous I am of seeing Hobie again, after so many years not knowing what would happen to him! Aaah I love it.

In the letters... Well.

So relatable, Alan.

This concludes today's very enjoyable batch!

Anybody read that wrong?

[miekasa]

right where you want me (eren yeager)

↯ pairings: eren yeager x (fem) reader

↯ genres and warnings: more modern au, fluff, eren is a baby but i think we all knew that

↯ word count: 1.2k

↯ notes: i saw @eremiie​’s post which reminded me of a draft i had, which resulted in editing this for eren. pls enjoy one thousand words of me, once again, pushing my quality time is eren’s love language agenda. 

“And then Jean said that he didn’t have aim assist on, but I swear he’s a fucken liar,” Eren rambles, completely in a world of his own as you rub sudsy circles into your face.

He’s been following you around since you came home from school, chattering about anything and everything that happened to him during his day off. It’s not an unusual occurrence; whether he knows it or not, Eren has a habit of hovering around you when he sees you for the first time in a while. Particularly when you’ve been out all day, and he’s been home (see: freeloading in your apartment) waiting for you to return. 

He’ll babble and follow you as you settle into your night routine like a puppy. A very loyal, very tall, very overgrown puppy. It usually carries on until you’re ready to shower, but today Eren seems to feel extra clingy; having followed you all the way to the bathroom, where he currently sits on top of the closed toilet seat, telling you about Jean and Connie and the details of their match earlier while you wash your face. 

You don’t even think Eren notices that you’re taking longer than usual; or, that, subsequently, he’s been talking for longer than usual. You know how much he hates to be home alone or bored, but you didn’t know that the result of a few hours of limited contact would be this. 

It’s cute. But you’re curious to see how far he’ll go; or, rather, how long he’ll stay. You think he might stalk you into the shower if given the opportunity. So, with a knowing smile, you pat your face dry, and decide to test your theory. 

“—Then, of course, Connie’s dumbass died. Armin was able to revive him, but he couldn’t play long after that, because he had to go to his lab.”

You hum, pulling the curtain back and twisting the knob to turn on the shower and adjusting the water to your preference, “Right, but I thought you said Armin wasn’t that good at this game.”

Eren huffs, bending his legs to sit criss-cross on top of the toilet now. You have to refrain from chuckling when you take a look at him—completely unaware of his size in comparison to the small porcelain underneath him. He looks like a child. You would take a picture of him if you had your phone with you. 

“He’s not,” Eren sighs, “But he’s more fun to play with than Jean, because at least Armin’s not a cheater.”

“But if the game comes with an aim assist option, is it really cheating?”

“Obviously, babe,” Eren gesticulates, hands flailing around him, “Everybody knows that you’re not as good as you say you are if you have to use the assist—it’s like, like… like people who say parallel parking is easy just because their car has one of those automatic sensor thingies.”

Ah, right.

You nod, pulling back when the water has finally heated up, now in search of your shower cap. “Of course, love,” you sympathize, reaching for the plastic, “Well, I’m going to shower now.”

Eren blinks, eyes wide like a baby. “Oh—now?”

“Well, we are in the bathroom. And I’m in a towel, and I did just come back from a long day at school, so, yes, now.”

Eren chuckles lightly, a faint pink dusting over the tips of his ears as he watches you unravel your towel and step into the shower. But that’s probably because of the steam—you like your showers really hot; definitely not because he saw you naked for a flash of a second.

“Oh—uh, yeah, okay,” Eren stutters, snapping himself out of his own thoughts, he stands up, stepping to the sink, “I think I’ll wash my face, too, first. Before I go.”

You hum in reply as you seemingly go on about your shower; when you simply stand under the water, keeping an ear out for Eren’s movements and words.

He suddenly takes great infatuation and care with washing his face—a whole ninety seconds if you’ve counted correctly—which, granted, is what he’s supposed to do, but you know damn well is not his regular routine. You think he might even brush his teeth, too, for the hell of it, and the familiar smell of one of your facial sprays begins to permeate the room.

He blurts out random thoughts in between—asking you briefly about your assignment, before going on to ramble about his least favorite professor; he tells you what he ate today, asks you what you had for lunch; he even asks you which body wash you’re currently using.

(The answer is none—you’re just barely holding it together trying not to laugh).

It’s almost fifteen minutes later, you think, when Eren starts whistling; clearly run out of things to say or do, but still hesitant to ask the one thing lingering on his mind.

“Are you still there, Eren?” you call wittingly. You can see Eren’s blurry figure through the shower curtain, an excited nod coming from his silhouette.

“Yup,” he chirps, hand reaching to scratch at the back of his head. You bite your lip—his hair probably needs to be washed. “I, uh… I’ll go now, though, I guess… wait for you to come out… maybe I’ll order food or something in the meantime. Do you want pizza? I think pizza would be good—oh, where should I order from? That place Mikasa recommended was really good last time—”  

It takes everything in you to not physically laugh out loud. God, he’s cute.

You pull the curtain back, just with your head peeping out to find Eren with one hand on the door, the other on the light—which you’re certain he would have accidentally tuned off had you not caught him—still lingering.

“Eren?”

He blinks. “Yeah, baby, what’s up?”

“Do you want to shower with me?”

You don’t think you’ve ever seen Eren’s eyes light up as bright or as quickly as they did in that moment. His head shakes with an overly enthusiastic nod, and is already clumsy in pulling off his clothes. He almost trips getting his sweatpants off, but you don’t think he’s ever gotten undressed that quickly—not even when you told him you would let him fuck your face.

Though, he was pretty damn quick to undress that time.

He finishes stripping with a complete lack of grace and coordination; a stupid, wide, boyish grin covers both his cheeks on his face when he finally steps into the shower behind you. He leans forward to dip his hair under the shower when you turn around to face him, resulting in droplets falling onto your forehead; you scrunch your nose, but Eren laughs, holding you face in his hands and craning his neck to peck your nose.

“Hi, baby,” he grins, his mop of hair now sticking to his face and neck from the water, “I forgot to ask—how did your assignment go?”

“You already asked me that, dummy. Twice, in fact,” you find yourself copying his smile, “You know, if you wanted to join me, all you do was ask.”

Eren squishes your cheeks between his palms and presses a kiss to your lips, “Well, I can’t make all the first moves, now can I?”

[jiamour]

take it slow

pairing: jisung x reader

genre: fluff, brothers bestfriend, ¿mutual?pining, jisung is so awkward i want to eat him

est word count: too many

est post date: 50000 months from now

a/n: this isn’t like a teaser thingy or anything i just wanted to write shy, sweet, jisungie darling and i was like might as well post this to force myself to actually write it :] it’s also mostly from jisung pov bcs i found him cute, this has been in my drafts for atleast half a year

· · · ───────── ·𖥸· ───────── · · ·

chenle: your coming over later right?

jisung: probably

jisung: is your sister home?

jisung regrets asking as soon as the text sends.

· · · ───────── ·𖥸· ───────── · · ·

chenle: idk

chenle: why?

chenle: why?

he let’s out a sigh of relief, happy his best friend didn’t immediately flip on him but he knows he’s not off the hook yet.

jisung: just wondering

jisung wipes an imaginary bead of sweat from his brow. saved it.

chenle: that’s a weird thing to wonder

fuck. his fingers are already typing away on his phone preparing to get him out of this. he types the letter ‘i’ and deletes it three times.

chenle: are you scared of her? did you break something of hers again?

chenle: you should have told me early i could have totally covered for you man

jisung: you’d rat me out for a green apple jolly rancher

chenle: so you did break something

chenle: get better hands dumbass

chenle: what was it?

jisung: i didn’t break anything

chenle: bullshit

jisung: honestly

chenle: then why are you scared of my sister

jisung: i’m not

jisung tries not to feel too intimidated by the three dots that appear on his screen in a fraction of a second. he rushes to think of an excuse that isn’t straight out admitting that he has a huge, embarrassing crush on his bestfriends sister, who he’s barely spoken to past simple pleasantries.

jisung: i was just thinking about mario party

jisung: like if we played we’d need more people right

jisung: and she could do that

jisung: i guess

jisung: if she wants

chenle: 🤨

a breath gets stuck in jisungs throat, he should have known chenle was going to see right through him. this was it, today was the day jisung would get murdered. he always knew he wouldn’t last long but he didn’t expect his end to come from someone so close to him. but maybe chenle would take mercy on him, he was kind, sometimes. jisung’s sure he’s seen chenle do something kind at least once in his life, probably. so maybe if he got down on his knees and begged he’d be saved from-

chenle: didn’t know you liked mario party that much

chenle: ok i’ll ask her if she’s interested ig?

nevermind. apparently begging wasn’t necessary.

[byunbaekby]

title — a clouded fate pairing — badboy!mark lee x female reader featuring — lucas wong/wong yukhei, johnny seo, lee taeyong, nakamoto yuta (mentioned), lee donghyuck (mentioned) word count — 17.2k   overall warnings — extreme drug use, drug dealing, alcohol use, language, religion, addiction, drug overdose, vomiting, one explicit smut scene smut warnings — fingering, protected sex (stay safe, always!), high sex, corruption kink for like 0.2 seconds, degradation collab — bad boy bingo collab, link here lyrics inspiration — “call it quits, call it destiny.” bruno major, easily ; “gotta stay high all the time, to keep you off my mind.” tove lo, habits writing playlist  — link here

author’s message — oh my gosh, it’s finally here! this has been a work in progress basically ever since early summer, when i started writing on this blog. this is one of my favorite pieces i’ve ever written, but not because writing it came easy to me; quite the opposite. i scrapped and rewrote this three times, consulted many people for their opinions because i simply didn’t think that it was good. a few thank you’s: my babe @jensungf​ for reading the first draft when it was at barely 5k, the lovely @ncteaxhoe​ for reading it at 7k and also the night i finished it, @taempteng​ the writing god for proofing it for me, and my amazing @starlit-jeno​ for getting me through everything. also thank you @legendnct​ for hosting this collab! it’s finally at a place where i am happy and very very proud of what i’ve written. i hope you all read and enjoy!

—DAY ONE.

The ice cold water thrown over him shocks Mark awake from his post-high sleep. 

“What the hell, man?” He exclaims, wiping the water from his face as he sits up in his bed, soaked t-shirt sticking to the curve of his clavicles. His eyes meet the source of the intrusion: his roommate and best friend Lucas, holding a now empty pitcher. 

“Dude. It’s past noon. Wake up.”

Lucas’ passive words only make Mark furrow his eyebrows in annoyance. “Shut the fuck up bitch, I’m awake.” 

“Someone’s feisty today.” Lucas retorts, tossing Mark a towel as he swings his legs over the bed. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he recognizes his best friend’s chastising tone in his diluted ears. “When did you get back last night? What were you doing?”

“Calm down,” Mark groans, the volume of Lucas’ voice beginning to hurt his head. Running a hand through his now wet hair, he responds, “I was smoking with Yuta. Got back around three in the morning.” 

“Yuta,” mumbles Lucas. “You know, I don’t like him. You’re always with him, getting high or something. Exams start soon, and you’re not planning to study at all? You’ve been high every day for what, like, the past two weeks?” 

This early morning lecture is enough to cause Mark’s irritation to spike. Since when is Lucas so nitpicky? Last time he checked, Lucas enjoys partying just as much as he does. Sometimes, even more than Mark himself. “Fuck, are you my roommate or my mom?”

“I’m your best friend, is what I am. I’m worried about you. All you do is party, get high, and sleep. When was the last time you even ate?” Before Mark can even think back to answer that, Lucas continues, “You’ve been like this since you broke up with Y/N, and—”

Mark cuts him off. “Don’t say her name.”

“You’re hurting, Mark. And this isn’t the right way to handle it.”

“Oh, so you take one psychology course and you think you’re an expert or something,” Mark scoffs.

This seems to stunt his roommate for a second, before he sighs looking down at the image of his best friend sitting on the edge of his bed, gaunt eyes and all. The last time he saw his friend looking so pitiful was when his dad had passed. “I’m just worried about you. You should let me be, sometimes,” replies Lucas quietly. 

“I’m an adult,” says Mark, which causes Lucas to scoff and respond, “Then act like one.” Annoyed, Mark stands and instead takes a seat at his desk chair. 

The taller male speaks up once again, starting to tear off Mark’s bed sheets that are now wet. “You need to stop. This isn’t good for you. Stop the drugs and tell Johnny you’re done. Study for your finals. Get your act together, stop acting like an idiot, and go get her back.”

When he finishes stripping the sheets and looks up, Mark’s head is in his hands. “It’s not that easy.” 

“You love her.”

“But that doesn’t mean we’re meant to be together,” Mark finally says as he looks up, voice raised in frustration at both the situation and the fact that his best friend is calling him out for it. “We can’t be together,” he declares. “I’m only going to ruin her. She’s good. I’m bad. She has a future. I don’t. She’s everything I’m not and I can’t mess it up for her. Not after... Not after—” Lucas cuts his friend off, sensing that he’s about to start hyperventilating. 

“I know. What happened, you can’t change it. It was your fault. But don’t say you’re not meant to be together. Nothing’s going to change the past. You broke up. But nothing’s going to bring you back together but yourself.” 

Mark stares at Lucas with tired, red-rimmed eyes, wondering when his tall goofy friend had grown so much. Has everything around him changed, matured, while he stayed the same?

“How do I do that?” He finally relents.

“Make yourself good enough for her. Start with the drugs. Stop doing them.” 

He knows the truth in that statement, but doesn’t want to acknowledge it. It’s a lot easier said than done. With no words to say, Mark stands and starts to walk past his friend toward the bathroom. On the way out, he accidentally kicks his guitar, on the floor propped on the wall. “Fuck,” he curses, looking down at the old wooden thing. 

Lucas follows him out as he leaves the room, and Mark steps into the bathroom. Opening the mirror cabinet, he pulls out his prescription bottle which shakes with noise. Silently he pops a pill into his mouth and swallows it with a handful of tap water. It’s probably a bad idea on an empty stomach, but he’ll eat whatever Lucas is making right after. 

“That includes the Xanax, Mark!” Lucas’ voice calls from the kitchen. 

“Baby steps,” he responds, staring endlessly into the pitiful character watching him in the mirror. 

—THE FIRST NIGHT

It isn’t his first party, but it’s his first college party. There’s a big difference.

The scale is larger, the alcohol more plentiful. And more importantly, the shame of being under the influence is nonexistent. His ziploc of kush feels heavy in his pocket, but he knows he’ll feel lighter with its effect later on. School’s only been in session a week, yet Mark’s already decided he likes university more than high school.

He hasn’t smoked yet, but clearly others have, from the haze wafting from room to room. The music is loud, the air is musty, and there’s a cloud of visible smoke surrounding a group of people in the corner. He can smell it now, the familiar scent relaxing him in a new environment. 

He’s about to venture out to said group, catching Lucas’ ashy gray hair (a horrible decision, really) sticking out from its inhabitants, but then something catches his eye. 

In a room of dark gray smoke and purple LED lights, a white dress catches his attention. He turns his head and, faded by the blurred intensity of the smoke, there you are. Leaning with your back against the wall, alone. You’re not doing much, just standing there in your awkward lonesome looking entirely out of place while swirling the contents of your red cup in your hand. With seemingly no move to drink it, you’re staring blankly into said cup, and Mark stares blankly at you. The white fabric of your dress seems to vividly attract the iridescent purple lights of the party, leaving you to stand out in the massive crowd. Though from the way you stand out from the crowd, it seems that that’s the last thing you want to do; you’d rather blend into the scene. 

But you don’t. You’re a beacon of white light in the gray bleakness of the party, and Mark contemplates his next action. He had promised Lucas that he’d be his wingman to try and win over Yuqi. But there’s something about you that pulls him. 

Oh well, he muses to himself as he slides across the room toward you. It’s not his fault Lucas needs a wingman to talk to girls, and he doesn’t. 

“Hey,” he starts, trying to make himself heard above the music. “You’re staring at that thing like you need a refill.”

At the sound of his voice you look up as though suddenly startled. Then your eyes land on him and Mark’s not entirely sure if he’s sane, but you relax. “No thanks,” you respond politely. “I don’t drink.”

“Really?” Mark glances at his red Solo cup, half filled with some sordid mixture of vodka and Fanta that Doyoung had given him earlier.

“Is that strange?” You ask curiously as he makes move to lean on the wall next to you. Except rather than lean his back to it, he presses his shoulder to the wall to face you. 

“A bit.” Mark says as he tilts his head back, pressing the red cup to his lips as he downs the rest of the liquid in his cup. 

“Maybe. I’ve learned that there are more people who drink in college than people who don’t… I guess I fall into the second category.” When he finishes his drink, he tosses it over his shoulder. 

“Nah,” he says in response. “I don’t really drink either. Only occasionally. I’m already a mess with the weed, imagine how much I’d be if I was an alcoholic.” He nearly expects you to laugh at his lame attempt at being playful, but he’s met with silence. Still, he doesn’t miss the way your eyebrows quirk slightly upward at his words. Right now, dark hair tousled and dark ripped jeans decorating his legs, Mark thinks he looks pretty good. But you don’t seem to be as interested as girls in the past. 

“You smoke…” Your words trail and Mark finds himself enraptured by the form of your lips as you talk. His mind flies, but you continue, “How’s that like?” 

He shrugs. “It’s nothing, really. Just fun. I have some right now if you want,” he says, patting his jean pocket. 

“Oh, no,” you immediately recoil, as if it were preposterous. Immediately your eyes widen and you shake your head at him. “Not-not that people who do it are bad or anything! It’s just… not my thing.”

If you didn’t drink or enjoy any substances, what were you doing here? He asks this aloud. 

“My roommate dragged me,” you explain. “We’ve only been living together for a week since the year started but she’s… something else. I’ve seen her smoke more than I’ve seen her study.” 

You almost sound scared. This causes a laugh to leave his lips, and yours. He’s finding, in the mere two minutes of conversation you’ve made, that you are very different from the girl he thought you were across the room. You were indeed like your dress that attracted him: bright, pure, and comfortable. 

And he wants you.

Your silence brings about Mark’s introduction. “I’m Mark, by the way.” His hand stretches out to you and you stare for a second.

“Y/N.” You place your hand in his, and from the jolt he feels in his heart, the first of its kind, that is the first time that Mark Lee believes in the existence of fate. 

—FIVE HOURS CLEAN.

If someone had told Mark in his freshman year of high school that he would become a drug dealer in college, he would have directed them to his father’s church and told them to pray a bit. 

Yes, prior to his entrance to adulthood and the cruel, cruel world, Mark Lee was a church boy. A good boy. He did well in school, dedicated his weekends to church and playing basketball with his boys. Up and down the high school halls, his signature laugh could be heard at any moment he wasn’t in class. 

Then the summer before his senior year, Pastor Lee passed from cancer and Mark’s boisterous laughter became a long forgotten sound. 

It was two weeks after his dad’s funeral that he met Donghyuck, a boy with shady eyes who offered him some kush. Just want to try it, Mark had tried to reason with his conscience when he took that first hit behind the school. Then he fell into the fatal world of drugs and partying. Lucas had been there since their junior high days, sad to see his friend fall so poorly, and he had forced Mark to get his shit together for graduation that year. Barely.

So yes, he was once the bright eyed boy he always wanted to be, who read the Bible front to back and wouldn’t have known how to roll a joint, but that was fantasy. He wasn’t that anymore. He’s a college student trying to get along with the little money he can make from selling weed and other things. He had first gotten into this when he met Johnny Seo, two years above him who could tell that Mark was struggling to make tuition and rent with a job at McDonald’s. Now Johnny has graduated and Mark is still doing his dirty work for him.

That’s exactly what he’s doing now, standing outside Taeyong’s house a little past 6PM with a pouch of kush in his bag. 

It’s easy money, but that never calms his nerves. 

Even when the door opens to reveal Taeyong, shirtless and red hair in disarray, Mark doesn’t stop bouncing his foot in worry. His restlessness isn’t lost on Taeyong, who had obviously just woken up. “It’s 6PM,” Mark says, eyebrow raised at his appearance.

“I was up all night working on a track.” Taeyong’s eyes flicker to Mark’s bouncing foot. “You’re bouncier than normal,” he comments as he counts his bills in his hand. 

“Haven’t had my fix today.” Mark explains simply as the older male hands over a wad of cash. As he counts it silently, Taeyong points his thumb over his shoulder to his living room. 

“Wanna come in and hit some?”

Mark looks up at his offer and sighs inwardly. It would be rather easy to just give in and smoke a bit with someone he trusted, and he wouldn’t even be paying for the weed. He’s tempted. After weeks of being stoned nearly every day, he’s starting to itch for a fix. But Lucas’ gruff voice rings in his mind and he knows that if he gives in, only five hours in, he’ll never be able to live with himself. So for now he does it for Lucas, but maybe in time he’ll see that it was for himself after all. 

“I’m good.” Mark nearly shoves the pouch of green into Taeyong’s grasp, wanting to be away from it as soon as possible. The red-haired recipient only blinks.

“You’re giving it up or something?”

“Or something,” mumbles Mark sullenly, tucking his hands into his pockets. 

“That’s good,” Taeyong declares after a short silence. Mark looks up, meeting Taeyong’s suddenly sincere eyes. “Good for you. I really couldn’t believe that you got into that stuff with Johnny’s crowd anyways.” Mark only shrugs in response. He’d long since stopped deliberating over that. This is his life now. “Still doing music?”

“In name, yeah, I’m still a music major. But I don’t have time to play.” The last time he touched his guitar was this morning when he had kicked it. The last time before that… he doesn’t know if he can’t remember due to a marijuana induced haze or if it’s because it really has been that long. 

Taeyong continues. “You know, you don’t have to do this stuff. You’re a talented guy, you’re strong. If you could dedicate yourself to your music like you do to dealing, you wouldn’t need to deal.”

This brings about a sigh from Mark. Who is Taeyong to tell him what to do, anyways? Last time he checked, he was the customer, not Mark. “You all make it sound so easy.”

“Trust me. You can do it.”

—THE FIRST KISS

The first time Mark kisses you, it’s cold outside. 

He’s walking you back to your sharehouse, down the streets of town, when he asks, “Be honest with me and tell me if that date sucked.” 

It’s been a couple weeks since the two of you first met that fated night at Doyoung’s party, and you’ve only now allowed him to take you out on a date. He doesn’t know that it’s your first. Well, in some ways, it’s his also. 

Mark’s been on a few dates, sure, but those all ended up with him getting his dick wet in the dark parking lot of a Burger King or something. He’d normally take them out for fast food, and finish with the usual fun stuff in his back seat. This time it’s… different. Not only does he figure that you wouldn’t be down for that type of date, but something in him wants it to be different. The only problem is he doesn’t know how to plan a good date.

He still took you out to get McDonalds’, but instead of retreating to the backseat, he drove the two of you to the movie theatre. It was probably a dumb choice of him in hindsight, deciding to watch an action movie, but something about the way you hid your face into his neck when one of the characters got punched out made him smile.

“No, it wasn’t… bad,” you respond, swinging your interlaced hands. You had surprised him earlier when you had grabbed his hand upon exiting his car, curling your fingers together. 

“You’re lying,” he sighs. 

“No, I’m not. Really,” you reassure him as the two of you approach the door of your home. After all, how can you have a bad date when you’ve never been on a date before? You have nothing to compare it to. “I had a good time. Actually… it was my first date.”

Mark blinks, having not expected that to be so. A groan leaves his lips as his free hand comes up to run through his hair. “Oh god, and I ruined it.”

“No, no, it was perfect. I wouldn’t change it for anything.” You smile a sickeningly sweet, charming smile at him, and he sighs. You’re too good for a guy like him. 

He’s beyond surprised actually—even though you know of his habits, his hobby of wasting time and rolling joints, you haven’t run away like others. And he likes you. A lot. Even though everything tells him that what he does is bad for you, he still wants you. You’re a comfortable presence in his life. 

“You know,” you suddenly start. Mark looks up, intrigued. “I’ve never kissed anyone before.”

He wonders if the surprise on his face is painfully evident. “Really? Like, ever?”

His question is met with a shake of your head, and he blinks. So you’ve never drank or smoked. That, he can believe. But the fact that you’ve never kissed anyone? Sometimes… you shock him with your boldness. Like earlier when you grabbed his hand and at your first meeting when you had asked for his phone number before he could. But in some moments like now, he realizes just how the duality of your personality comes into play. 

“Why’s that?”

You shrug. “I don’t know, it never really felt right,” you explain as the two of you approach your doorstep. As he escorts you up the steps and to your front door, he furrows his brows deeper. Why were you telling him this?

“Does it feel right, now?” He asks softy, gaze flickering to your interlaced hands as he turns to face you. His hand reaches forward, cupping your cheek, the touch soft despite the callused skin of his hands. 

“Yes,” you respond gently, simpering smile on your roseate tiers. 

The smile on your face is sweet and pure, two words that Mark isn’t.

A flood of relief shows on Mark’s face, and you bite down on your lower lip as excitement bubbles in your stomach. “Can I kiss you?” A response quickly follows. For some reason he can’t quite figure out, you let him into the maze that is you. Despite the leather jacket, his messy hair, and the lingering smell of weed on his clothes, you want him just as much as he wants you. Even though you both know that he isn’t the type of guy that you normally like, the type of guy that your mother would approve of, you trust him. It’s bewildering to him. 

Then he guides you to him. Within seconds his lips are on yours, and you melt into him. It’s surely not Mark’s first kiss but it feels like it. The initial awkwardness, then the heat on his cheeks as you both fall into a rhythm. It feels right, like it was meant to be, just as Mark had hoped. 

You’re like the kind of irreplicable drug that Mark has sought after for years. The kind that brings a euphoric high which burns his lungs and twists his stomach, but in all the right ways.

—29 HOURS CLEAN.

The smell filling the kitchen leads Lucas to scrunch his nose in distaste when he exits his room. “Dude, what the hell is that smell?”

His answer lies in the pan on the stove and Mark standing in the kitchen, wielding a wooden spoon. Clad in only basketball shorts, he looks absolutely foreign to the environment. Lucas sighs. “Please tell me you’re not boiling crack right here in our kitchen.”

The face the Korean makes is scandalized. “What—no, what the fuck? It’s mapo tofu. I’d be insane to try and make crack cocaine.” He adds under his breath, “In the apartment.”

Lucas leans back against the counter, cocking an eyebrow. “Then why are you cooking mapo tofu of all things? I haven’t seen you eat anything but ramen and eggs probably since we moved in here. And—put on a shirt if you’re cooking, or an apron at least. You look like a caveman.” 

“Well,” sounds Mark with a roll of his eyes at his friend’s expected lecturing. “I had a shirt on, but I spilled some spicy shit on it and took it off. And I,” he pauses, turning off the stove. “I thought we could eat your favorite food together before we head out to Hendery’s party. You know, as a… sorry for being a bitch yesterday apology.”

The taller man narrows his eyes, eyebrows furrowing as he tries to make sense of his best friend’s words. “So you… decided to make my favorite food because you felt bad that I had to wake you up and take care of your shit?”

“I guess, yeah.”

Lucas laughs, a deep sound, whilst shaking his head. “Dude, I’ve been doing that since middle school and you’re only apologizing now?”

Mark purses his lips, making a face of annoyance. “Better late than never.”

“I guess. But sorry, I wouldn’t want to eat your mapo tofu anyways. Smells more like my week’s laundry than food. Maybe next time just order from that Chinese place around the corner that I actually like,” advises Lucas.

A pitiful laugh leaves Mark’s lips. “Duly noted.”

“And anyways, I’m not going to Hendery’s party. I have plans.” This causes Mark to finally take a good look at his friend. He’s normally well-dressed, but tonight he looks even better, a little too fancy for the typical college frat party. Before Mark can even question what these other plans are, Lucas explains, “I have a date with—”

“Yuqi,” finishes Mark for him. “Figured.” Lucas grabs his wallet on the counter, nodding before tucking it into his pant pocket. “Is that why you haven’t been partying with us? Or why you’ve suddenly been on this, ‘Mark, sobriety is key’ rant?” Mark questions, lowering his voice to imitate that of his roommate’s. At Lucas’ silence, Mark scoffs. “Dude, your relationship is so fucked up, how many times are you guys going to try to make it work when it doesn’t?”

All that leaves Lucas is a sigh, but Mark continues. “This is what, your third breakup so far? And fourth time trying to make it work?”

“Some things are worth the effort,” replies Lucas easily, slipping on his shoes. As he reaches to tie his laces, Mark continues, “She takes up all of your time now, you haven’t hung with us in months, and all for a relationship that’s destined to fail.”

“Nothing’s destined to fail, Mark. It’s all about how hard you’re willing to work for it.” His voice is calm, but there’s something building beneath it. To this, Mark sighs, and says, “You’ve changed, man.”

Lucas grabs his keys, clearly at the limit with Mark’s prodding. “Sometimes people are worth changing for, Mark. Yuqi forgave me for what I did, and I forgave her for what she did. We’re trying, okay? We’re not walking away. I’m sure…” The taller male pauses on his words, as though contemplating them, before continuing. “I’m sure Y/N would’ve forgiven you for what you did, but you walked away. And that’s where we’re different.”

It hits him, and Mark tightens his jaw. Yes, his relationship with Y/N was destined to fail too, there was no denying it. To fight with his friend who he had just tried to make amends with, or apologize? He goes with the latter, only because he’s too exhausted for a yelling match right now. “Lucas, I’m sorry, okay? I’m a little… on edge.”

“I know. I’ve known you for years,” chuckles Lucas softly. “I know how you get.”

“Yeah. Have fun on your date, though.”

His best friend nods tightly. “Yeah, I will. But if you care about what I told you, don’t go to the party tonight. You know you won’t be able to control yourself.” Mark nods, sighing. “And throw out that mapo tofu while you’re at it. It stinks, and not in the good way mapo tofu’s supposed to smell.”

Mark rolls his eyes while Lucas’ laugh fills his ears. “Just leave already.”

With a few smooth movements he’s already slid out the apartment door. A sigh leaves him, alone in the apartment. He does as Lucas says, tossing his attempt at dinner in the trash. It’s gonna be a long night.

—THE FIRST TASTE.

The first time that you kiss Mark, however, it’s hot inside his apartment and sweat sticks the fabric of your tank top to your stomach. 

That doesn’t stop you from cuddling on his couch however, and you gaze up at him from your position under his arm to watch as your boyfriend, focused on the TV, lifts his blunt to his lips and takes a long drag. Underneath his arm, you observe how his lips wrap around the circumference of it, sucking in a sharp breath before releasing it into the air. He knows that over your time together, you’ve come to accept the smoking. It’s obviously clear to him that you don’t particularly approve, but Mark’s responsible enough to control himself. Now however, as you gaze up at him, you realize just how attractive your boyfriend is. Dark hair tousled and arms bared through his tank top, he looks so, so good. Somehow, he looks even better with the cig in his hand. 

You never would have thought you’d fall for such a guy like him, but you keep falling. He’s not the good guy that you dreamed of, but that’s okay, because you make him good. 

“Mark?” You ask, still looking up at him. 

He hums in response, turning to look at you. 

Your voice is soft as you ask, “Do you believe in destiny?”

Your boyfriend blinks at the sudden question. “Define destiny.”

“That like, we all have a predetermined fate. That everything happens for a reason, and every challenge is just a small piece in a bigger puzzle. That we all have soulmates we’re destined to be with.” Mark’s lips purse, pouting just the slightest in thought, a habit of his. 

Does he?

It’s a question, because he used to. He used to be a good old Christian boy, of course he believed that God had a plan for everyone. Every tribulation was just something that would make him stronger in the end. Unfortunately, the last time Mark can remember being at church, he fucked one of the choir girls in the Bible study room. 

He can’t really pinpoint when he stopped believing in fate. God? Yeah, sure he still believes in him, though the big guy upstairs will probably send him south for his irrefutable sins. But fate? Not really. If fate was real then it was really messed up to make him such a failure. 

But, he realizes, gazing at the strands of hair matted to your forehead as a result of the hot summer weather, and the pure adulation in your eyes as you gaze up to him, that perhaps because of you, his destiny isn’t too bad. Sure, he’s a fuck up with addictions and demons, but he does pretty well by keeping you happy. Because you make him happy. A smooth, suave smile spreads across his lips like butter. “I didn’t before, but I do now.”

Your eyebrow perks up. “Now you do? Why’s that?”

His arm wrapped lazily around your shoulders allows him to pull your face close. With the same smile, he presses a number of kisses to your cheek (much to your sweet protest, complaining about his sweat and smoke). As though he attempts to mask his words against your skin, he mumbles, “Because I found you.”

Mark has never told you that he loves you; it’s a bit too intimate for him, who’s never been vulnerable in that way, and you, whose every first is him. 

But he doesn’t have to say it, because you know it. 

Your lips break out into a flustered smile, though you try to hide it from him. His quiet, unsaid confession fills you with glee and more importantly, confidence. 

“Babe,” you tell him. This grabs his attention, because you rarely use such sweet nicknames. He attempts to respond, but you’re already sitting up and swinging yourself over to straddle his lap. Your movement brings about confusion on his features, and you take a deep breath. This isn’t the first time you’ve been in this position with him, but the first time you’ve made the initiative to do it yourself. Mark was always leading you. So you lean forward, placing your hands on his shoulders, and you kiss him. 

You can probably taste the smoke on your tongue, but you’ve grown accustomed to that. Mark kisses back and grips your waist with his free hand, both shocked and amused by your sudden courage. Everything feels right, it’s like it’s destiny. He’s about to slip his tongue into your mouth but you break the connection, choosing instead to linger your lips over his. Your breath is hot on his as you finally speak. 

“I want a puff.”

“Are you sure?” He looks up at you, nearly breathless at the sight of you atop him. Lip gloss smeared from your heated kiss, you look delectable. Your wide eyes, once depicting innocence, are now focused and curious. He knows you don’t necessarily approve of his habits, but here you are, sitting on top of him looking irresistible and asking for a taste. 

“Yes,” you confirm, as though reassuring yourself. Mark had always liked you, been attracted to you because of the notion that you were innocent, pure, bright. Everything he was not. He had never wanted to taint you, yet his confession still hangs in the air.

But as he lifts his blunt to his mouth, taking a long drag before blowing the diluted smoke into your waiting cavern, he starts to worry that this would be the beginning of a long downward spiral which would place no blame anywhere but on him. 

—44 HOURS CLEAN.

The withdrawal forces him from his sleep at 5AM. 

Mark wakes in a cold sweat, itching for a fix. That’s when he realizes how deep he really is. 

Shit. 

His fingers are shaking, so he moves to occupy them with the only thing he can think of. He drags himself out of bed, grabs his guitar, and makes his way out to the living room. Plopping himself down on the floor next to a window, he attempts to refamiliarize himself with the strings that he had abandoned. Lucas is still asleep, so he plucks quietly. 

He has long since forgotten what it was like to lose himself in the sound. 

There was once a time when he was passionate for something other than haze. It was music. The first time he touched a guitar, magic sprung through his fingers and he knew: he was made for this. Somehow, majoring in music composition and being forced to take so many theory and history classes had caused his passion to simmer. Now, it slowly burns again. 

He doesn’t realize how the hours pass and the sun begins to shine between the blinds. 

His mind brushes over what Taeyong had told him two days ago. Is this what he had been missing all this time? All the hours he spent blinded by a foggy smoked haze, had he been neglecting his own love for music? It’s amazing what he can accomplish when he takes a break from that life. 

He starts to feel like the old Mark again.

For a second, he stops strumming and directs his gaze to outside the window. There’s not much to see except the college town, with the glimpse of the university itself just atop the hill, but he stares and relishes in the sight of the sunlight casting a glow over the town. 

A knock on the door interrupts his deliberations.

A glance to the clock tells him it’s barely 9AM. Who would be here so early? There are two options, he decides as he stands from the floor to stretch his legs, resting his guitar on the wall. It’s either Yuqi, Lucas’ renowned off-again on-again girlfriend, or Johnny coming to deliver the week’s set. 

When he opens the door, the visitor’s face is blocked by a box, but he knows those shoes. Those white ballet flats with purple bows were always your favorite. 

Suddenly the box lowers and Mark is finally face to face with you, his ex-girlfriend. He hasn’t seen your face in the months since you’ve called it quits, even though he’s spent countless moments just staring at the leftover pictures on his phone. You look surprised to see him. 

“Oh—Mark. Lucas said you probably wouldn’t be awake.” So you had been keeping in touch with Lucas? This is news to him. Had his best friend been sharing that he had been basically wasting away the past few months without you?

“Couldn’t sleep,” explains Mark almost sheepishly, running a hand through his hair. For a moment he’s glad he had the mind to put on a shirt before coming outside.

“Oh…” You trail, your gaze traveling down to the box absentmindedly. 

He doesn’t mean to be rude, but the surprise at seeing you on his doorstep makes him a bit gruff. You’re still the same as before: same face, same shoes, same bright eyes. But there’s something about you, about your aura that’s different. More mature. More independent. Because you don’t need him anymore. “What are you doing here?”

If you’re taken aback by his coarseness, you don’t show it. “I brought a box of your stuff. It’s just... stuff that was left at my house.” You gesture to the box in your hands, and Mark is quick to take it from your arms. He prays you don’t take note of the way his hands shake. 

Slowly he places it on the floor next to the door and when he stands again, you’re leaning back and forth on your heels looking rather awkward. He doesn’t ask for an explanation but you give one anyways. You had always had a habit of talking too much when you felt nervous. “I’ve had it since...” Your breakup, but neither of you want to say it. “I put it together a couple months ago but put off bringing it over. But I figured, uh, the school year’s over in a couple weeks so I should just do it. I texted Lucas, he said he’d be awake to grab it but..”

“He’s still asleep,” Mark completes for you. 

“Yeah,” you say simply. No longer having a box to occupy your hands, you hold them behind your back which only furthers the idea that you’re uncomfortable in his presence. It makes him sad almost, how much things have changed.

He thinks back to what Lucas had told him at the start of the weekend. Maybe it was possible to change things back to the way they used to be. “Do you want to come inside? I have some coffee, or some—”

You look at him with blinking eyes. “I don’t dr—”

“I know.” He knows you don’t drink coffee. Of course he does. “I have tea. It’s even peppermint, your favorite.”

“You drink peppermint tea?” You look at him, incredulous. 

“I don’t. It’s leftover from when I bought it for you. I just... haven’t thrown it out yet.”

That’s what your love had done to him: turned him from a brooding boy into a softened man, so much that he was willing to keep your favorite drink around just in case you’d ever come back and want it.

“Oh,” you sound. Your teeth bite down gently on your bottom lip, gnawing it in contemplation as you look away from him momentarily. When you look back, he can see you’ve made your decision. “I don’t think it’s a good idea, Mark. I’m sorry.”

He expected it, but it doesn’t sting any less. “That’s okay. I understand.” An attempt at a smile is displayed on his face, but it doesn’t reflect any of the radiance in the smile that you mirror back at him. It’s small, the tips of your lips barely lifting, but it’s enough to remind him that you are indeed all that is good in the world, and he needs you. He loves you.

Maybe he can’t love you right now but one day, he’ll be good enough to deserve you. That day isn’t today, but it’ll come eventually. “I’ll see you around,” you say to him.

“I hope so,” is his response.

You give him another small smile before turning to leave. “I hope you’re doing okay, Mark.”

He is, or he’s trying to. When you leave, he closes the door and returns the box to his bedroom before opening it up. Inside, numerous hoodies gifted to you because they became too small for him but were still huge on you. Old songbooks from his high school days that he no longer needed. A teddy bear he had gifted you on your first anniversary. 

Pushing the box aside, he grabs a notebook and his music theory textbook. Maybe it actually would do him some good to study. 

—THE FIRST TEAR.

“What the hell, Mark?”

You don’t curse often, so when you do, it wakes him. When you find him in his room, he’s knocked out with his body half on the bed and the other half slung over the edge. His hair sticks out in numerous fluffy tufts over his pillow, but you can still smell the weed off of him. 

“He only came back like, three hours ago.” He hears Lucas’ voice selling him out, and he groans into the pillow, only lifting his head to grumble at his roommate. 

“Snitch bitch,” he says, his voice groggy and scratched. 

“Don’t get mad at him,” you suddenly speak up. “At least he answered my calls when I was calling, worried where you were because you hadn’t texted me since,” you stop to check your phone. “5PM last night!”

“I told you, I was going to Johnny’s party,” responds Mark, sitting up in his bed, head still spinning. Rubbing his eyes, he sits up, looking rather disheveled and hungover. 

“Yeah, and you never texted me to let me know you were home. How would I have known if you had overdosed, or passed out drunk, or got in a car accident? Or just died?” As your voice rises, reaching a volume you’ve rarely ever employed, you clear your throat to calm yourself and turn to Lucas. “Thanks, Lucas. I appreciate it.”

“Any time,” he responds, giving a nod before walking away, likely disappearing into his room.

When you turn back to gaze into Mark’s room, he’s slipped on a shirt. “What the hell were you doing out so late? 9AM is when you should be waking up, Mark, not falling asleep. Finals are next week, you were supposed to meet me at the library an hour ago!”

He makes an annoyed expression at your chastising, and you gaze at him with expectant eyes, awaiting an explanation. All he does is grimace and say, “Babe, can you like, quiet down? I’m hungover, your voice is too loud.” 

Your jaw drops. 

For a moment you stay like that, until you continue speaking, words coming out faster than Mark can understand them. “I’m just trying to help, Mark. You’ve partied more than you’ve studied this year, and I’m not going to let you just get away with it. Almost every weekend I have to stay up worrying about you, wondering when you’ll get home, unable to sleep until you text me that you’re home and okay.” 

“Maybe you should stop worrying then,” he retorts.

“Maybe stop giving me reasons to worry?”

He rolls his eyes, laying back in his bed. “Maybe you should come with me then.”

You quickly reply, “Maybe you should stop partying.”

“Maybe you should stop trying to control me,” he finally spits.

Once again, you’re rendered speechless. And when you turn your head away, focusing your gaze to the hallway instead of at him, Mark thinks he’s won. But then you sniff, an indication that your sensitive heart has once again been touched with tears. “Please,” you finally say, voice weak. This is the timbre Mark is used to hearing from you, not the tone you had used earlier when yelling at him. In this moment, he’s not sure which one he hates more. “Please stop this.”

In a swift movement you reach forward, gathering yourself on your knees before his bed. You grab his hand, pressing your lips to it as a tear makes its way down your cheek. “Please, please, please… please stop the drugs, Mark. It’s made you this… this terrible person and I know you’re not like this.” Suddenly, you’re crying into the palm of his hand while he gazes at you in surprise. “Missing dates, staying out late, yelling, I know that’s not you.”

“Y/N—”

“Please, just call Johnny and tell him you can’t do this anymore. Tell him you’re done. Please, for me.” 

Your begging causes Mark’s jaw to tighten subconsciously. What you’re hoping for is a better Mark, a different person. He’s not that person that you want him to be, he can never be that way. This is how he is and how he’ll always be. This is his fate, to be a lowlife drug dealer barely passing college, and if you can’t handle it then—“You know I can’t do that. You promised you’d be here through everything, all the good and the bad.” 

“That doesn’t mean I’m going to let you destroy yourself like this, Mark.”

He rips his hand from your grasp, causing a slight squeak of surprise to leave your lips. It’s almost as if he’s not in control of himself, because he blows up. “Can’t you just be like a good girlfriend and love me through the bad shit? I’m trying my best here.”

But is he really? Suddenly, as though empowered by some kind of intangible strength, you rise to your feet, the sadness in your eyes now quickly replaced by anger. “I do love you, that’s why I’m acting like this, you asshole!” You wipe your tears furiously with the back of your hand before glowering down at him. “But if you can’t keep your mind sober long enough to see that then call me when you can.” 

He registers the sound of the bedroom door slamming shut, causing it to ring in his ears. Within the blink of an eye, you’re gone. Fate is a really messed up bitch for this. 

—1 WEEK CLEAN.

It’s been a week. 

A week since the last time he touched anything, though he had been tempted when Yuta invited him over for some sativa. The drinking and partying isn’t hard to let go of. It’s the weed, because it got him through the hardest days. 

A week in, and he’s pretty proud of himself. 

Nowadays, he tries to occupy his shaking hands with guitar or studying but he’s started playing so often that his hands are now raw and in pain. Today, because the weather’s nice outside and his fingers hurt like hell, he decides to take a walk.

It’s aimless at first, just exploring the streets around his apartment on foot. But then ten, fifteen, thirty minutes pass, and without knowing it, he’s arrived at his destination. Johnny’s place. Standing in front of the door, eyes boring into the bright red paint of the front door, Mark feels himself start to slip. No, he decides, he has to do this. This is the right thing.

A shaky knock on the door is followed by another stronger one. He waits a minute before trying again, yet as his hand lifts to place another knock on it, it slides open to reveal Johnny himself in casual wear. “Hey,” greets Johnny, giving Mark a nod. “What’s up? I told you I’d drop the next batch off at your place, you didn’t have to come out here.”

At Johnny’s question, Mark feels his breath caught in his throat. Not only is the guy taller than him and towering over him in every aspect, but he could definitely throw Mark under the bus for his own crimes. But no… he wouldn’t do that, right? He had done enough for Johnny over the past three years that he would let him off easily, surely? A gulp is heard in Mark’s throat as he straightens his position in front of Johnny. 

“That’s the thing. I… I don’t want to do this anymore.”

For a moment, Mark thinks that the taller man will be angry. Johnny stands before him, eyebrows furrowed. “Why?”

“I just need to.”

Johnny immediately starts to argue, tilting his head. “You know you’re my best seller, though. No one sells as much as you, and I trust you with all the big deliveries. Who am I supposed to give the heroin to now… Ten? As if, Mark.” He scoffs, shaking his head.

“I…” Mark starts, though he stops. “I need to stop. I’ll finish the batch from this week, I promise. I only have like, two deliveries left but I just, it’s not healthy for me. And it’s not because I’m planning to sell you out or anything, or find someone else but I just can’t do this anymore.” He finds himself ranting, finding more interest in anything but Johnny’s face. “I’m not happy, I’m angry and anxious all the time, and being around the drugs only makes me want to do it more, and I just… I just can’t, John.”

When he finishes his unfiltered rant, he looks back to the taller male and tries to read his expression. Will he be angry? If his earlier debate was anything, he definitely wouldn’t let Mark off without a fight. 

But instead, the older nods. “I get it. Just finish your deliveries for this week and call it done.”

Mark blinks at Johnny’s easy acquiescence. “T-That’s it? You’re not going to fight more?”

“You want me to?” Johnny asks, cocking an eyebrow that’s almost mocking. 

“No, but I…” 

“Thought you’d be worth the fight?”

“No, that’s not it.” Mark shakes his head. “I just…”

“Mark,” sighs Johnny, standing straight from where he had been leaning rather casually against the doorframe. “I’m not stupid, okay? I know that drug dealing is hard for you. And I’m also not oblivious, I know that you and your girlfriend broke up, okay? Yuta told me what happened with the coke, and I wasn’t surprised when you refused to sell it anymore.”

Mark frowns even deeper at the mention of it, but Johnny continues. “I’m not going to force you to do something you don’t want to do. If you say it’s not good for you, then it’s not good for you.”

“But…” Mark starts, but doesn’t find the words to continue. It was… that easy. “Okay. Uh, thanks, I guess. For everything?”

“Sure. Just don’t come crawling back when you can’t make rent on your McDonalds’ salary. Male strippers make pretty good money, if you’re interested.” It’s clear Johnny’s joking, so Mark rolls his eyes and laughs, though the sound is somewhat tight. 

“I’d love to talk to you some more about ways to get a hustle going, but I have to go find a new dealer, and teach Ten how to stop giving weed to everyone he meets because he thinks they need a pick-me-up.” Johnny sighs, as though the life of a drug dealer is the most difficult of them all, which in Mark’s experience, it might just be. 

“Alright. Uh, later, John.”

Johnny nods in acknowledgement before shutting the door. Mark breaths out a heavy breath. 

That went… surprisingly well. Maybe Lucas was right, maybe it really was this easy all this time. Perhaps he had always just been the one believing that it was difficult, because he had made it so. He had been stressing over it all this time, but Johnny was more easygoing about it than he’d thought.

As he walks the path home, he thinks he deserves a reward for his endeavors. It’s a bit selfish maybe, but he opens his phone, and you’re on his speed dial. 

“Hello?” You ask, voice bright as always but clearly a bit guarded from the name that had flashed across your screen. 

“Y/N,” Mark breathes out. It’s only been a few days since you had swung by the apartment. 

“Hey, uh… what’s up?”

He doesn’t quite know either. He had quite honestly been a bit impulsive in pressing on your contact, and now that you truly rest across the phone from him, he has no idea what his purpose was. “Um, nothing much, I just wanted to tell you…” A soft breath leaves his lips. Will you be happy for him? “I told Johnny that I quit, that I’m done.” 

There’s a momentary pause on the line, and Mark begins to worry that you’ve hung up when you finally breathe out, “That’s good, Mark. I’m… I’m proud of you.”

Proud. He had only been hoping for a “good for you,” at most, but to hear that you’re proud of him, it makes him smile to the ground as he walks the trail back to his apartment. Fuck, you’ve made him weak. “Thanks.”

“I guess you really are doing well then,” you say.

When he gets home, riding the high of his successes from standing up to Johnny to calling you, he flushes his Xanax pills down the toilet and watches as they swirl away into oblivion, as if they had never existed in his life in the first place.

—THE FIRST CRASH.

Mark connects his lips to your neck and suckles on it softly, drawing a moan out of you. The sound you make goes straight to his dick, and he releases a breathy groan against your skin. “Fuck, you sound so pretty, princess.”

Princess—that’s the name he’s given you, because all he wants to do is treat you right. And he does, especially in times like these, where you feel the heat of his body on top of yours and he devours your moans in his mouth. 

He currently lays between your spread legs, your combined figure lost in his bed sheets as he softly grinds his hardened core against yours. He’s still got his jeans on while you’re laying only clad in your panties, yet the feel of the denim is enough to have you moaning. You tilt your head back as a light mewl leaves your lips, your body subconsciously grinding down on his. 

It had been complete heaven for the both of you when you had given him your virginity, your purity, at the beginning of this year, and since then you have been basically insatiable. You had never felt such desire for anyone before him. Now as his hands rub small circles over your clothed clit, you want him once more.

You’re shaking your head, so needy for him but he doesn’t relent, only smirking more while he continues rubbing sinful circles on your clit. “Tell me what you want.” He wants to hear your beg. 

Voice soft and breathy, you say, “Please, Mark, I—”

The doorbell rings. It’s heard through the apartment and Mark groans, rolling his eyes while attempting to keep you going. “Keep going. It’s probably just Lucas forgetting his key again.”

Though the mood was momentarily killed, you both try to fall back into place. Now his fingers have left your clit, instead pulling your panties down to your midthigh. “Shit, you’re soaking,” he moans out in amazement, running a finger through your wet folds. As much as he wants to dive in and fuck you until you’re cumming all over his cock, he needs to hear your sweet voice dripping dirty words for him first. Easily, he slides a finger in, to which you groan at the stretch. But it’s not enough. 

“Don’t tease me, please.”

He smirks, slowly sliding his singular digit out of your sensitive core whilst he thumbs your clit. “Go on then, princess. Tell me what you need.”

“Fuck,” you curse and he finds it so hot. “I… I want you to—”

The doorbell again. This time, Mark audibly curses. “Fucking hell,” he sighs, removing his fingers from where you need him. Instead, he moves up and places a sweet kiss on your lips. “I’ll be right back.”

He’s still fully dressed, so he simply opens the door and slips outside before closing it again behind him. As he’s walking down the hall, the doorbell rings once again, causing him to roll his eyes. God, how many times was Lucas going to lose his keys?

The person at the door, however, isn’t his roommate. It’s Johnny, holding a black gym bag. Mark already knows what it is. He runs a hand through his hair, already crazy from how you had been running your hands through it. “Hey, John,” he says, taking the bag clearly in a rush. It’s Sunday, which means Johnny’s dropping off Mark’s deliveries for the week. 

“Hey, man,” greets Johnny, handing over the list. Mark doesn’t even bother to check that everything’s there, so the older man raises an eyebrow. “Busy?” He asks, eyeing Mark’s disheveled clothes and the fresh hickey on his collarbone. 

“Kind of.” 

“Nice. See you next week,” says Johnny with a click of his tongue and a wink, then Mark closes the door and he’s gone. Now, back to what’s important. He slings the strap over his shoulder and makes his way back to his bedroom. As soon as he enters, you look up at him with wide, anticipating eyes. 

You’ve pulled your undergarments back on, much to his displeasure. Mark drops the dark bag on the floor in the corner, and your eyes find it. “Johnny came?”

“Yeah. Just dropping off for the week,” replies Mark, his mind not exactly on it as he takes off his shirt, tossing it somewhere. He moves back over your figure on the bed, lips on the curve of your breast fully intending to return things to the intensity they were at just earlier. 

Though his lips trail up to meet yours and his hands begin tugging your panties back down, he can tell from the way you’re kissing him that you’re not fully there. So when you moan his name, he knows it’s not out of pleasure. “Mark,” you say softly against his lips.

“Hmm,” he responds, callused hands gripping your thighs and leading them open. He’s about to slip his hand inside your panties, but your hand stops him. 

“Can I have some?” When he looks at you, your eyes are not focused on him, but the bag in the corner. Your eyes are faded, clouded as your both ascend to a place of pleasure. You… wanted drugs? Sure, he’s blown a few times in your mouth but in your relationship spanning over a year already, you’ve never directly asked for any.

His dark eyebrows furrow. “Are you sure?”

You bite down on your lip. “What’s in it?” 

“I don’t know,” reveals Mark truthfully as he gets off of you and makes his way over to the package, picking it up and placing it on the bed. You’re sitting up now, peering over the bag with interest as he unzips the gym bag open. Though the exterior looks unsuspicious, the bag opens up to reveal bags of white powder and green kush. 

Cocaine. 

It’s dangerous. Mark gazes down at it, biting down on his lip. 

“Is that… cocaine?” You ask, not unaware of the extreme drug sitting in your boyfriend’s room. 

He nods, almost ashamed. “Yeah.”

A silence falls over the two of you, both just staring at the white bags. It’s almost unbearable, how much Mark wants to throw the bag away and just resume your activities, but you’re still gazing into the bag with contemplation, fear, and even… curiosity. 

“So, can I have some?” You ask again. 

Mark sputters for a second, blinking. “Babe. I—are you sure?” 

You nod, eyes dark and curious. “Yeah.” At your confirmation, sounding like it was more to assure yourself than him, Mark stares holes into the white substance. It’s filling the bag to the brim—surely whoever he has to deliver it to won’t notice a line’s worth missing. 

So it’s with steady yet hesitant hands that he pulls a pack from the bag, directing you. “Grab your credit card,” he says, walking over to his nightstand. Unzipping the bag just the slightest, he pours out a small amount. Just a little bit, he swears. 

When you return to his side with your said card in your hand, he takes it from you and lines up the coke on the table. In a neat little line, it’s set up for you. “Okay,” he starts, looking at you. “Just hold down one nostril and—”

“I know how to do it. I’ve seen it at parties.” You interrupt him as you kneel, finally head level with the nightstand. It’s true; the few parties you have attended alongside your boyfriend, there’s more than enough depictions. He watches with interest as you lean forward, holding one side of your nose closed, and snort up the entire line in one go. 

First, you cough into the nightstand. When you turn and look at him, you’re wiping the remaining white dust from your nose. “You okay?” Your boyfriend asks you, to which you nod. “It takes a few minutes to work.”

Again, you nod silently, sitting down on the bed and gesturing Mark to come to you. When he approaches, you lay back in his bed, looking up at him with lustful eyes. “Now, hurry up and fuck me.”

The words are so rare from you. It’s all he needs to hear, unbuckling his belt and dragging his jeans to the floor in two swift movements. Within moments he’s back on top of you, feeling your heat once again. He starts slow, pressing kisses to your stomach, breasts, and neck while waiting for the drug to take effect. He knows the exact moment that it begins to work; your pupils immediately dilate, and suddenly you’re a loose, moaning mess underneath him. 

Your muscles relaxed, Mark immediately presses a long kiss to your swollen lips while dragging down your panties. He would usually opt for more foreplay, but he’s waited long enough. He pulls away for the shortest moment to slip on a condom, but before you know it he’s already flush against you again. 

It feels so good, even just his touch on you. You’re so sensitive, senses heightened by the drug that you feel everything: his large hands on your breasts over your tips, his lips marking your neck. When he leads his dick to your dripping entrance, you watch in anticipation, though you’re shaking. 

As he finally slides in, finally filling you up, you tilt your head back and let out a loud moan, the loudest yet. It just feels so good, you feel so full, and he’s so, so deep.

Everything is…. so good. Euphoria creeps into your headspace. 

He pulls out, and you moan again. “Ah,” you gasp sharply, feeling every ridge, every muscle stretched as he slides out, only the tip inside you. Then he slams back in, causing your back to arch and your toes to curl. “Oh, fuck,” you moan out again, eyes closed tightly, lost in the pleasure. 

Mark’s hand grips at your hips, eyebrows furrowed in focus as he falls into a rhythm. He would have taken some himself, but he wanted to watch you fall apart under him. Suddenly you grab at his free hand, and he intertwines your fingers. You’re squeezing him, his hand and his dick altogether, so tightly as you’re lost in your pleasure.

“Fuck, princess, you feel so good,” he moans out, closing his eyes. He immediately opens them again, not wanting to miss a second of you. “You love my cock, huh?”

Breathless, you nod without words. 

“And to think, just a year ago you were an innocent little prude. Now look at you, taking my cock like the slut you are. High on my drugs, fuck—” Mark taunts, moaning aloud as you suddenly clench around him. “Fuck, you feel so tight.” 

When he adds his hands to your clit, rubbing the nub in circles the way he knows you love it, the pleasure is heightened for your sensitive body. Your temperature rises, your heartbeat uncontrollable—all the telltale signs of that euphoric high. 

A few minutes pass like this, you completely out of it and moaning at the top of your lungs whilst your boyfriend fades in and out of your vision. You grasp onto his arm, tilting your head back. “Mark, I’m—I’m gonna—”

“Do it,” he musters out, never stopping his hips. “Cum for me. Cum all over my cock like the good girl you are.” 

And you do, losing it as you tighten around his length, walls clenching repeatedly. This brings him over the edge, cumming into the condom with a shaky breath. He keeps the rhythm going for both your sakes, though his thrusts go erratic as he comes down. 

You do the same, your thirty minutes of elation coming to an end soon. As soon as you’ve come down from your orgasmic high, you immediately relax. Your breathing is labored as you relax into his sheets. 

Mark pulls from you with a low groan. By the time he’s tossed the condom off into the trash and returned to his bed, you’re already asleep, chest rising softly. A post-cocaine high can do that to you. A soft chuckle leaves his lips as he slides into bed with you, slipping a hand over your waist. 

With the way your body fits right into his, one could say you were made for each other. In Mark’s mind, maybe you were. 

—3 WEEKS, 6 DAYS CLEAN

His hands shake as he curls the wrapping paper, giving it a soft lick to secure it. 

Tomorrow will be four weeks, a whole month since the last time he had done anything. He had passed his exams. After he had thrown the pills away, he was sure that everything would be smooth sailing. But he was wrong. 

He’s disappointed in himself, he is. He wanted to be better, but it’s harder than it seems. Lucas would be disappointed in him. You would be too.

Luckily, neither will find out. 

Right now he’s tucked in his bedroom away from Lucas with the excuse that he was napping, but he’s not. Instead, he’s wrapping a joint with the leftover weed tucked in his nightstand. 

It’s not because he wants to, or because he’s being peer pressured by anyone around him. It’s for one person only—his dad.

On this day, five years ago, Pastor Lee passed away. 

The first three years, the hardest ones, he had Lucas. The past two years, he had you.

No—the first three years weren’t hardest to face, this one is. He still has Lucas, but not really. Had he swallowed his pride, had he just told his best friend that he wasn’t okay when he had asked about his father’s death anniversary, things would have been okay. Lucas would have nodded in sympathy, then dropped everything he had to be there for Mark. They’d chill and drink a couple beers—no, not drink, not anymore—but maybe watch a movie and play some games until the day had passed. That would have been bearable. 

But that hadn’t happened.

When Lucas had asked Mark how he felt about the day, Mark had lied and blubbered out a, “Oh, was that today? I totally forgot.” Why had he done that? He doesn’t know. 

Because he had had too much pride to admit to his friend that he was struggling… Now he’s here, trying to take care of his pain in the only way he has left. 

He lights it, fingers still shaking, and his body relaxes into the mattress as he finally gets a taste of the clouded, sinful smoke once more. The only downfall to this is that he knows, oh he knows well, just how much pain that it causes for him and those around him. 

—THE FIRST BURN.

Over the years, Mark has grown accustomed to the warmth.

It’s what you do to him, what he associates you with. Your first kiss, despite the cold winter air, warmed his soul from the inside. Whenever he looks at you… there’s a feeling of espousement that explodes within his chest. Yes, he loves you, even if he doesn’t say it often. He doesn’t need to. You know. You’ve opened his eyes to the beauty of love, the exhilaration of showing yourself to someone and being fully accepted. In his life once frozen over with the loss of his father and the death of his innocence, you showed him warmth. 

When he wakes, you’re burning up. 

More than you should, even with the two of you naked beneath his blankets. You’re sweating, he realizes as he slides his hand, which he had slung around your waist as the two of you drifted into dreamland, over your skin. 

You must be hot underneath the blanket, so he starts to slide it off the blanket from your figures. Then he hears it: you cough, the choked sound coming out scratched and labored. Though you’re turned away from him, he can hear the struggle in it. It’s as if… there’s something blocking your throat. 

His eyes immediately widen, adrenaline spiking as he sits up, grabs your shoulders, and turns you around. No, no, it can’t be. Where you had been laying, facing the wall, there’s remnants of your vomit, though some had gotten lodged in your throat. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck. His fingers grab your wrist. You’re still breathing. You’ve still got a pulse, but it’s fast, too fast. So fast, he can barely count it. “Shit,” he curses. You’re overdosing. You’ve overdosed. Fuck. 

It’s the cocaine. 

“Y/N,” he calls, voice already loud enough to make the house burst into flames with the amount of desperation he puts into it. Shaking your shoulders, he tries again. “Y/N, baby, fuck—wake up!” When you don’t come to, he turns his head over his shoulder, screaming, “Lucas!” 

It’s only the early morning, will he be awake? “Lucas!”

“Mark…?” Your voice draws him out from his panic, and he turns to you with wide eyes. Your eyes, pupils dilated and shaky, fly all over the room. “W-What’s—” You don’t finish, because immediately you’re flinging yourself over the side of his bed and throwing up the remainder of what’s in your throat out on his bedroom floor. 

The door slams open. Lucas’ worried face appears. Mark is trembling, breath shaking, and you’re still vomiting over the carpet. At the moment, Mark doesn’t care that the both of you are naked in his bed. “What the hell happened?”

Mark feels himself start to slip away, only a moment from hyperventilating, but he speaks. “Hospital… cocaine—overdose, I—” 

“I’ll go start the car.” Lucas is immediately out the door, loud steps running down the hallway to grab his keys. At least somebody is in a stable state of mind. Mark starts to move, standing to dress the two of you, but you grab his arm as he steps out, perhaps using the last of your energy. Your eyes are wild, your mouth parted as you heave heavy, labored breaths. 

“I… I can’t breathe—Mark, I can’t,” you start between hurried breaths, but don’t finish. Immediately you go slack, falling back in his bed with closed eyes rolled into the back of your head. 

“Fuck,” he curses, immediately throwing on his jeans and sliding your dress over your sweltering body. Though he’s stumbling and racing to gather things, his phone, his wallet, and your’s, he picks you up into his arms bridal style, racing out of his bedroom into the living room. 

Flying out the front door, the cold morning air greets him in an unpleasant fashion, only making your perspiring body seem even warmer, reminding him of his faults. Lucas is already sitting in the front seat, ready to go, but Mark throws the two of you in the backseat. At this point you’re completely gone to the world, head thrown back against the cushion as he struggles to put on your seatbelt. It seems like an arbitrary precaution in this case. 

As Lucas starts to drive, moving as fast as he can possibly go, Mark clutches your hand. “Baby,” he finally breaths out as reality begins to set in. This is his fault, he did this to you. He doesn’t deserve to hold your hand, so instead he lets go, placing it in your lap before leaning forward to place his head in his hands.

“Oh my fucking god,” he finally lets out, exasperated.

—1 WEEK, 2 DAYS CLEAN

“My name is Hyunjoon, and I am addicted to alcohol. It has been… six weeks since my last drink.”

Mark bounces his leg erratically, glancing around the room. There’s some people he knows, recalling their faces on campus or around town, but some people he's never seen in his life. He’s supposed to reveal himself to these people? He doesn’t belong here.

Or maybe he does. After his last breakdown, it had taken him three days to fess up to Lucas. His friend, though disappointed, was more than understanding. “It’s a long road,” he had told Mark at the time. He said that he knew of an addiction support group in town, and encouraged Mark to attend. He’s right; Mark knows he can’t do this alone.

“Glad to see you’ve gone another week, Hyunjoon. Happy to see you back.”

He’s next, so he stands. “Um,” he starts, rubbing his nape and feeling awfully out of place. “I’m Mark, and I’m addicted to…” he sighs. “A lot of things.” 

The kind looking leader of the meeting offers him a smile. “You can share if you’d like.”

He takes a deep breath. There’s so many people, so many eyes. “Mostly weed. I drink a lot, or I used to. I… I was trying to stop everything then I had a—” How to describe it? “Relapse, last week. I don’t think I can do this alone.”

“We commend you for your courage, Mark.” There’s a soft round of applause in the circle. The smiling leader then continues, “We ask everyone who is new to this group, ‘why.’ Why do you want to stop your addiction? Why do you seek help? Besides the obvious reasons that it’s bad for you.”

This question doesn’t take long for him to answer. “I hurt someone. Someone that I really loved, and honestly… I hate myself for it. So I have to stop.”

There seems to be a couple of nods around the circle as Mark sits back down. He releases a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. This will work. Things will be okay. He will get better. He will get you back.

“Thank you for that, Mark. Welcome.”

—THE FIRST REGRET.

Mark finds himself in the same position he had been in earlier in the car, except this time he’s sitting on the floor right outside your room on the hospital floor, hiding his head in his hands. What is wrong with him?

What had he done to you? What had he allowed you to do to yourself?

God, he’s fucked up. 

Lucas is inside with you. He had wanted to be there when you woke up, but he couldn’t. He could barely look at his face in the hospital bathroom mirrors; how was he supposed to face you, IVs hooked up to your arms as a result of the drugs that he gave you? It was supposed to be fine, it was just a little bit! It was supposed to help the experience you two were having. But instead, it almost ended your life. 

He looks back now. Just two years ago, when you had first met, you didn’t even drink. You’d never been kissed, never been touched. Now he’s… done this to you. He’s despicable. You don’t deserve him. You deserve better. 

The door opens, and Mark finally pulls his head up to see Lucas step out with a somber expression. It’s a stark juxtaposition that saddens him, for Lucas is so often the light hearted joking one of the two. “She wants to see you.”

Mark parts his lips, shaky breath exhaling. “I can’t.”

Lucas takes a seat next to him on the floor, sighing. He probably looks crazy, shirtless and puffy eyed on the floor, but his best friend moves next to him anyways. “I know. She’s not angry, you know.”

“That’s the worst part,” mumbles Mark, staring out at the bleak white walls of the hospital in front of them. He doesn’t say much, but Lucas understands him it seems. 

“Something’s gotta change, Mark. Something’s gotta give.”

He knows, with a soft nod of his head. Of course, he knows what Lucas means, but what it means to him is different. He has to give something up, and it’s going to be you. Not because he can live without you or because he doesn’t love you, but because it needs to be you. You can’t be around him any longer. You’ll only continue to be hurt.

When this thought finally occurs, and he accepts it, it becomes a little easier to face you. 

He rises to his feet. “I’ll… I’ll see you later,” he finally says, twisting the doorknob to your room open.

—1 MONTH, 4 DAYS CLEAN

He doesn’t know why you asked to see him for lunch, but he does know that you look good. You look healthy, you look better than you did that day when he slipped into your hospital room and saw you there, laying lifeless and gray. But that day, you still smiled when you saw him. 

You look rather happy, like you’re doing okay without him, though he hopes that’s not that case—no, that’s not a good thing to hope for. He hopes that you’re doing okay, but that you’ll be even happier when you’re together again. Again, you smile at him over your food. Even after all this time, you still look at him like he’s the center of your universe. 

Though you had made small talk about your lives, what you were both doing, how your mom is, how Lucas is, and other unimportant things, it’s at the end of the meal when your voice finally sobers, though you keep a smile on your lips. 

“I’m sure you’re wondering why I brought you out here.”

“I…” Mark starts, blinking, before nodding. “Yeah.”

You laugh, causing the slightest smile to break out across his lips. It’s still the same laugh you had, that fated night when you met. “I just wanted to see you again. And talk. We haven’t talked in a while.”

Mark’s smile turns into a bittersweet simper. “I thought that was because you didn’t want to talk.” Though you had spoken to him on that phone that one day, he had chalked that up to you being polite when he suddenly called. 

“Well, at first, yeah, but you know it’s been almost a year since we broke up and… I had some things I wanted to tell you.” Him too, but he’s not entirely sure he’s at his best just yet. Nevertheless, he smiles and nods. 

“I’m listening. You know I always am.”

You take a moment or two to simply stare at him with thoughtful eyes as you think over your words. All the while, your sweet smile never leaves your roseate tiers. Finally, hands folded over your lap, you start.

“Thank you.”

Mark blinks, but you continue. “I know that we didn’t end off on the best terms but I wanted to make sure you knew that I was thankful for you. For having you. You’ve done a lot for me. You’ve taught me a lot, and I can’t thank you more for everything you’ve done.”

You blink repeatedly, eyes fluttering before you continue, which leads Mark to think that these words might be just as emotional for you as they are for him. “Thank you for teaching me love. Because of you, I’ve grown a lot and become a better version of myself. A stronger one. I’m really thankful that you were my first everything: my first real date—” His mind flies back to that night. That movie really was a horrible movie.

“My first kiss.” Does it feel right, now? Yes. Can I kiss you? Yes.

“My first time.” It was awkward, but it felt, as it always did, right. 

“Thank you, for being the first guy I loved. I really… really loved you, Mark. But most of all,” you say, gazing at his wordless figure with those eyes of yours. They’re not as innocent and naive as they used to be. They’re matured now, hardened, but still, the sparkle is there. The same sparkle that had attracted him that night, three years ago, with that damned white dress.

“I forgive you.” Mark releases a shaky breath. “For everything. I don’t want you to blame yourself anymore. It’s not your fault, really. I’m better now, I’m healthy. Please, don’t hurt yourself anymore because of me.”

“Y/N, I—”

“I met you in my first year here. We’re going to be seniors, Mark. We’re going to graduate and be thrown into the real world, where there’s real consequences. I don’t want the consequences of what happened to weigh you down. I just want to move on, and you deserve to move on too.” From the glint in your eye, it’s clear how long you’ve pondered over these words. 

He wants to reach out to you, to grasp you and bring you back to him. Because he’s trying to let go of the past so that he can focus on loving you fully as you are. 

Sure, you can forgive him, but he needs to forgive himself first. He’s not quite fully well yet. He has to be patient.

A soft exhale leaves his lips. “Thank you. For forgiving me.”

Yet another sweet, beautiful smile spreads across your lips. It’s the smile that haunts Mark’s dreams. “You’re welcome. And thank you again for everything.” As the waitress appears, returning Mark’s credit card that he had graciously used to pay for the meal, you stand with your bag.

No, you can’t be leaving just yet. “Stay in touch, okay, Mark?”

But he has to let you leave. The day will come when it’s right. “Yeah,” he manages, swallowing the lump in his throat. Yet as he watches you walk away, he can feel that that string of fate he had always believed tied the two of you together slowly wearing, twisting, breaking.

—THE FINAL TEAR.

“What do you mean we should break up?” 

Your voice is scandalized, angry. Mark simply keeps his gaze to the living room floor, eyebrows furrowed in complete unhappiness. He never wanted it to end like this, but he’s run horrible with thoughts that the things he did brought pain to you. It’s time to end it. Not because he wants to, but because he should. 

“We just should,” he responds bleakly. “After what happened, I think it’s clear that we’re not good for each other.” 

It’s been a month now since you’ve been discharged from the hospital. After you had convinced your doctor that you weren’t addicted to drugs and in need of rehab, you had gone home. Mark had luckily had enough saved to pay off your hospital bills; neither of you wanted your parents knowing. “Mark, it’s okay. I told you it’s okay!”

“No, it’s not. It’s not just because of the overdose. Things have been like this for a while now.”

You attempt to grab his hand. If he allows himself to bask in just one moment of your kindness, he’ll give in. You beg, “Mark, please, hang on for me, for us. I promise things will get better, things can change.”

He snaps, pulling his hand from your’s. Your eyes widen up at him, shocked and appalled at his sudden movement. “No! Can’t you see? You didn’t even take that much. I took more coke in my first snort than you took in that entire line. The overdose shouldn’t have even happened, but look, it did. This is wrong.”

“What, the drugs? I’ve been telling you that. Please, we can get better. We can find help.” The fact that you’re still pleading him with kind, gentle eyes, makes this all worse. It only further proves that you’re good. He’s not.

“No, not the drugs. Us.”

“Us?”

He runs a hand through his dark hair, shaking his head in frustration. “We’re not right for each other. This isn’t working.”

“What do you mean? Tell me why.”

“We’re just not… destined to be together. What happened, it was God’s way of telling us that this is not right. We’re not right for each other,” he explains, voice exasperated as he tries his best to explain the mess of his thoughts. 

This seems to take you aback, your voice finally rising. “Oh, so now you care what God thinks?”

No, not really. But sometimes he has to listen. He doesn’t respond, so you continue. “I’ve been more than willing to make this work for two years, Mark. You think any of this was easy for me? My first boyfriend and he’s a freaking drug dealer for God’s sake. I tried to take it all because I loved you! I took care of you when you were hungover, I waited around shady areas at night so that you could drop off deals, I stuck with you for everything. Fuck,” you shout, causing Mark to tense. You rarely curse, and based on your usage of it now, he knows just how upset you are. “I even overdosed and I’m still here. Yet it’s always you pushing me away, making it difficult. Why are you running away from us?”

He’s not running away. “I’m not running away,” he declares. “I’m letting you run away.”

“And what makes you think I need to run away from you?”

“Because! You heard yourself, don’t deserve those things. You should have someone to take care of you when you’re sick, not always be the one fixing me when I’m sick. You should have someone to walk with you through the shady areas. That’s not me. I’m not… right for you.” He finally spits it out, eyebrows tightened together as he releases the thoughts that have been on his mind for a month now. 

You’re silent for a moment, taking in his words with your arms crossed over your chest. When you speak, your voice has returned to its normal speaking volume. “You told me that you believed in fate, that you believed in us. Is this fate? Fate that we met, and fell in love, and broke up? Is it fate that you hurt me over and over again and I came back, every single time? Because if that’s fate…” A single tear falls from your eyes, though you wipe it away so it’s as if it never even existed. It seems even you have some pride now, not to cry in front of him. “It seems like your idea of fate is pretty messed up.”

Mark takes a large breath, looking away to gather his thoughts before looking back to you. You’ve both come so far since that night, the image of her clouded by the purple lights, the energy of the party. Now, all that glamour is stripped away. It’s just you and him, as you are. “You had to meet someone like me, so you can know what you deserve.”

“So that’s it? You’re just going to call it quits, and blame it on destiny?” Your tone is mocking, questioning his reasons and probably his sanity. 

“I’m not calling it quits,” he immediately retorts, responding sharp and quick. “I’m letting you go.”

“No,” you say as you approach him. “You’re giving up. On us, on everything we worked hard to build. Our trust, our relationship, everything.” Your finger digs into his chest, pointing an accusing blame. “I broke up with you,” you emphasize. “Not the other way around. I broke up with you because you tugged me around, you pushed me away, and you never listened to me. I got tired of it, and broke up with you.” 

With that, you pull away from him, though when he finally comes to realize the weight of the conversation you just had, he sees you grabbing your bag and slipping your white ballet flats with purple bows on. “Y/N.”

He wants to say he’s sorry, because it wasn’t supposed to be like this. He hadn’t planned for the conversation to go up in flames. 

Whenever you walked out during arguments, there was always a promise to call later, to talk when your minds were stable. But now, as you turn over your shoulder, walking out of his apartment and life, you muster a goodbye.

“Don’t call me.”

—3 MONTHS CLEAN.

“Senior year!” Lucas yells as he throws open the front door with the power of the Hulk, startling Mark who’s still unpacking some boxes of cookware in the kitchen. “It’s our time, time to shine!”

A soft laugh leaves Mark as he places some cups in the cupboard. He and Lucas had left their apartment for two months for the summer to return to their homes, but here they are, back and ready to take on their final year. They had finished middle school and high school together, and now they’ll graduate college together. It makes Mark smile. 

As he leaves the kitchen to greet his best friend in the living room, he sees that the guy has already brought in a number of his boxes. “Hey, man,” calls Mark, who leads Lucas in for a dap. 

“Hey yourself, you barely talked to me this summer,” Lucas chastises playfully. “Ignoring me, I see.”

Mark laughs, shaking his head. “Not ignoring, just… working on myself.” 

“Good,” responds Lucas, turning to bring in the rest of his boxes. Yes, Mark had spent the entire summer dedicating himself to the lost cause that was himself. He started working out again, got a job, and even worked on rebuilding his relationship with his mother. Things were looking up for him.

He feels ready. Lucas’ voice interrupts his thoughts. “Hey, wanna take a break and get some food?”

His question meets a raised eyebrow from Mark. “You just got here, like, two minutes ago.”

“And?”

A laugh leaves Mark’s lips, and he shakes his head. “Nothing. But, uh, I can’t. I was going to go… see Y/N.”

“Oh?” asks Lucas, leaning down to tear the tape on one of the dark cardboard boxes filled to the brim, probably with Lucas’ pillows; the man was like a giant baby, sleeping with ten pillows. “You called her and asked to meet up?”

“No,” responds Mark, who follows these words with a deep breath. “I’m going to go see her.” 

Lucas stands straight once more, his playful expression from earlier now serious. He shoots Mark a soft smile, patting him on the shoulder. “Nice. I’m happy for you. Are you leaving now?”

“Uh, yeah, I was planning to go after I put all the kitchen stuff away.”

Lucas’ grin grows even wider, stretching from ear to ear as he gives Mark a little pat on the bum, which is supposed to be encouraging. “Well, then go get her, tiger! Good luck, man,” he yells supportively as he pushes Mark out the door. 

As he shuts the door, Mark blinks. “Dude! I don’t even have shoes on! Or my car keys,” he laughs, banging on the door.

Some time later, Mark finds himself hesitating as he parks his car a block down the street from your sharehouse, the same place he had kissed you, that many years ago. He doesn’t even know if you still live here. You had been broken up since the beginning of your junior year, who knows if you had decided to move out?

He contemplates this as he walks down the sidewalk to your place, hands in his pockets and gaze on the floor. Surely, if you’re not there, one of the girls will point him in your direction? Hopefully.

Oh, but you are there. As your home comes into view, he sees you. You’re there on the front porch, dressed in a simple white skirt and the same white ballet flats with purple bows that you can never seem to grow out of. 

But you’re not alone. 

There’s a man with you, though his back is turned to Mark’s view. He blinks. His steps stop completely. Surely it could be anyone right? A neighbor? A classmate? 

But that’s impossible. Not because class doesn’t start for three days or because you and him met the neighbors on all sides of your house, but because you lean up on your toes, the way you always did with Mark himself, and kiss the stranger’s cheek. 

It would have been easy to lie to himself, but then it’s much too clear. He realizes it then as he stares, only a few steps away from the path that would have led to your steps, the steps he took when walking you back on your first date, intertwined hands swinging between the two of you. 

He’s too late. Maybe much too late. 

He was a fool all this time. Thinking that he could be better for you, that he could defy fate with his free will and urge the universe into letting you be together. Lucas was wrong; life isn’t free will, neither is love. 

This is his fate, there’s no use denying it. 

He stands staring for a few moments, simply gazing in complete desolation at the sight before him. This is it, this is the end. He’s ready to submit to his poor fate, the internalized idea he’s housed that he’d never be able to find a love like yours ever again, but then you see him, probably because he stands out like a stain of black paint on the green canvas of your lawn. 

He doesn’t hear you, but your lips form his name, “Mark?” and your eyes blink in confusion.

He doesn’t wait too long anyways, for he’s already turned on his heels back to his car. Fuck fate and its tendencies, giving hope where there will only be heartbreak. 

—SOMEWHERE BETWEEN THE FIRST TEAR AND THE FIRST CRASH.

The smell of you invades his senses, but he doesn’t care. It’s one of the first nights in a long time where you’ve agreed to go to a party with him. Though other girls beg for his attention, he’s still only got his eyes on you. Your outfit tonight is much too nostalgic.

“You know,” he whispers in your ear, dancing against your backside with a hand on your waist. “You look best in white.” 

“I know,” you respond, chuckling whilst dancing back against him. He had taught you how to dance a while ago, and you just keep getting better and better. 

“You wore this dress on purpose, didn’t you, you little minx,” he teases, though a playful laugh leaves his throat. His words draw a knowing giggle from you, and Mark feels as though he could get drunk on the sound alone. 

“Maybe,” you respond back, turning and pressing a chaste kiss to his lips. This is when Mark gets a good look at you. 

It’s so easy to remember the way you first appeared to him, standing awkwardly in a corner of a party just like this. This time the lights decorating the aura of this party are not purple, but his heart is all the same. You’re wearing the same outfit now, definitely at this point to tantalize him and tease him; you loved to make fun of him after he told you that he had fallen for you because of that dress alone. 

But you’re different now.

You’re brighter, taller, more mature. Now you are not just your person carrying your own thoughts, but his as well. You know him, know his thoughts and his feelings, know his worries without asking. Your smile is bigger, it reaches your eyes more now than it did that first night, a forced simper at the strange guy coming to flirt with you. You dance with more confidence, you carry with yourself a quiet strength despite your hesitant nature. 

He loves you. God, he loves you. He tells you just as much.

With a hand over your hip, he pulls you close. You think he’s going to press another tipsy kiss to your lips, but he doesn’t. Instead he brushes his lips to your ear and he whispers, so softly you would have missed it if you hadn’t been purposely filtering the party’s music to focus on his voice: “I love you.”

You blink, and stop your dancing. It’s the first time he’s ever said this to you. 

“Mark…” you start, lips parting in surprise, but he’s pulled away to smile sweetly at you. It’s not flirtatious, the kind of smile he gives you before attempting to pull you in the bathroom for a quick one. Nor is it the knowing grin he shoots before guiltily asking you to go refill his drink. It’s a small one that barely touches the tips of his lips, and the look alone makes your heart melt in espousement. “I… I love you too.”

You had told him, of course, the other month when you had tore him apart in his bedroom after finding him hungover. But this time it’s real, and in the future you both will choose to remember this as the first time. 

Some might think that it’s unorthodox to confess such strong feelings such as love in the middle of a party, sweltering with the heat of dancing bodies and the musky smoke in the air. But for the two of you, it doesn’t matter. It’s just you two in here; you only see each other.

—3 MONTHS CLEAN, ONE HOUR LATER.

Mark’s currently in his room, completely bare except for his bed and desk, sulking away. When he had returned home with a bitter lilt in his steps, Lucas didn’t need any explanation, stepping out to “meet Yuqi.” 

Of course, it had been Lucas who had put him in this place of thinking he could get you back but in the end, it was only himself that he had to blame. He never had the chance, it was his fault for thinking he ever did.

He’s learned his lesson. 

It’s only an hour later when Lucas knocks on the door again. Fuck, Mark thinks inwardly while rolling his eyes. It’s only the first day back, has this giant managed to lose his keys, again? He makes his way out to the door, already preparing to give Lucas hell for being so irresponsible, but Lucas never makes his appearance at the door.

“Y/N.”

“Mark, I’m sorry, but—”

“No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have shown up at your place uninvited.” He’s quick to interrupt you, shaking his head. It’s easy to pretend to be strong; he just needs to maintain a strong front until he shuts the door again. 

“It’s not that, I—”

“I won’t do it again, I promise. I know you said you wanted to move on and I shouldn’t be surprised, it just hurts to see it, and so, I’ll—”

“Mark—”

“I hope that you’re very happy, and that he can make you happier than I di—”

“That’s my brother, you daft idiot!” You finally cut him off, voice rising to a volume louder than his. He had flinched at your sudden peak in volume. You give him a pointed look, and when he doesn’t dare speak again, you continue. “That’s my brother, Mark. He helps me move in every year, you know that!”

That’s true, he does know that. And he’s met your brother many, many times. Shit, he realizes.

“... Oh.”

“Mark Lee, you think I could move on from you that quickly? It’s been like, two months!” You scold him, as if the idea is preposterous. 

“Well,” he reasons. “Technically we broke up a year ago.”

You seem to have the energy to argue back. “Okay, but I only really let you go when school ended this year.” 

The two of you stare at each other for a long moment following your words, before you both start to laugh. You crack first, trying to remain serious when all you want to do is envelope him in a hug, for how could you ever love anyone else? You can’t even imagine trying to date anyone right now. He follows right after, shoulders relaxing as you start to chuckle. 

“We look insane right now, you know,” he says, sighing as his chortle comes to an end.

“Yeah, and I’m insane because I drove like a madwoman chasing after my ex because he saw me with my brother,” you say with a pointed tone, to which Mark sighs.

“Okay, in my defense, I saw him from behind, and you are awfully touchy with your brother!” He starts, when you begin to laugh again, pure amusement breaking out across your visage. Wow, just five minutes ago he had been regretting all his life decisions, yet here he was with you again, making conversations like you had years ago in your relationship. 

When the laughter dies down, the two of you are left staring at each other, and reality sets in. Yeah, he had run away when he saw you with your brother of all people, and you had chased after him, your ex. Where does that place you?

Mark speaks first, breaking the short silence. “I’m sober now, you know. I haven’t done anything, anything at all, in three months now.”

Surprise seems to claim your face at the revelation, and he’s not sure if he should feel proud that he managed to shock you with his success or saddened that it seems to be that much of a surprise. “Oh?” Your surprised expression is replaced with a smile. “I’m proud.”

He nods, unsure what to say next, but luckily you add on, “What made you decide to stop?” You’re undoubtedly reminiscing on all the times you had begged him to give it up, to which he would stubbornly resist. 

“You.”

Your features contort into an incredulous expression. “Me.”

“Really,” Mark urges. “I…” he pauses, preparing himself for the words about to leave him. He had long pondered over this moment, wondering if it would truly happen. “I lost you, and I know that I said it was because we weren’t meant to be together but somewhere along the line I realized, I can live without weed, and parties, and alcohol but I can’t live without you.”

“Mark…” You start, lips parted as you grow silent.

“No, please, let me finish, I don’t want to take all the credit because it was Lucas who had to come and knock some sense into me and make me see: sure, fate can be real and that soulmate shit might be real too because I believe you’re mine, but I know that everything is a choice, including love.” His mention of Lucas has you smiling, and he has no doubt Lucas has talked to you recently, attempting to be the middleman once more. “I love you, there’s no doubt about that, I love you more than I love partying, my friends, or anything. And if I love you that much, there’s nothing that can keep me from you.”

He grasps at your hands, and thankfully, you don’t pull away. “Not God, not fate, not anybody. Only me. I was the only thing keeping us apart. I want to be with you, I want to make things better, and I promise… I promise I’ll do everything in my power to be the best for you.” Mark takes a deep breath, taking a moment to glance down at his hands holding yours before looking back to your eyes. “I can’t promise that I won’t have relapses. But I promise that as long as you’re there for me, I will be there for you. I’ll walk you through the shady areas, I won’t run away.”

“Mark—”

“I don’t know if my words will be enough for you to take me back but I swear to you on my entire being that I will be here—”

“Geez, Mark does sobriety make you extremely prone to interrupting, or what?” You butt in, but you laugh, looking up at him with sparkling eyes. Whether it’s you natural shine or tears building in your eyes, neither of you know. “Don’t even go there, or explain anymore. Of course I’ll take you back, you idiot. You think I would chase after you like that if I didn’t think about running back to you every day?”

This causes him to laugh. “I’m glad you didn’t. I wasn’t ready. I was waiting until I was good enough to run to you.”

“You ran away earlier,” you point out teasingly, and he rolls his eyes, pulling you close over the threshold of his apartment. 

“That was the last time.”

Your hands find his chest, resting upon the expanse of it as you look up at him with a cheeky smile. “Better be, mister.”

“Oh,” he muses, as you wrap your fingers around the fabric of his shirt and all feels right again. “You’re bold.”

“A year apart does that to you,” you smile, still a hint of shyness on your lips as you finally tug him in, kissing him. You melt into him and his hands immediately find themselves on your hips, just where they belong. 

Oh yes, there it is again, that feeling of euphoria. You’re the only drug, the only high he needs. 

[marley-manson]

☕️ post-war hawkeye

Thanks for the ask!

I cannot stand the idea of Hawkeye retiring from his surgery career to be a small town doctor. As far as I'm concerned Hawkeye's post canon character arc should be getting back into surgery and reclaiming the career that he’s described as the only thing he ever wanted to do with his life.

I mentioned in the last ask that I'm not sure what the intent was with that in canon, it probably wasn't meant to be this tragic, but imo it's pretty easy to draw some angsty connections to explain why Hawk quits surgery. Maybe someday I'll write a fic about this, but til then here's meta I guess.

SO I think it comes back to Letters and Hawkeye questioning his role as a surgeon in a war zone, equating it to weapons repair, and saying he can't deny it and he can't live with it. In Letters the one thing that keeps him going is saving an innocent life, a Korean kid who presumably won't go on to kill more people.

Then, yk, in the finale he feels responsible for the death of an innocent baby. So that kind of rips away the one ray of hope in his existence as part of the army. It counteracts his ability to save people, makes it feel worthless and futile, and leaves him with nothing but death on his hands to show for his last two years as a surgeon. So now the thought of doing it for a living fucks him up.

And my ideal post-war Hawkeye fic would be Hawkeye dealing with this and getting over it by internalizing the fact that he was essentially a victim of the draft and he did what he could in the situation he was stuck in.

Anyway aside from that, hmm.

I don't think Hawkeye would isolate himself, or if he did, it would be... bad. A huge warning sign. Hawkeye always seeks people out, he hates being alone. I think his mental health would deteriorate very quickly in isolation, and Hawkeye knows it, and if he was isolating himself I would frankly expect like, a suicide attempt to follow lol.

tbh I don’t think he would necessarily be outwardly, overtly... troubled? idk a lot is made of Hawkeye coming home broken and fucked up and depressed and miserable etc and like, yeah he had a breakdown and he’s been in a war and he’s gonna have issues about it (and like I just detailed one of those issues up there), but I think he’s actually pretty well equipped to recover and already started the process in GFA, and I don’t think he’d be completely miserable at the start, or fundamentally changed overall.

Also while I’m planning to lean into the alcoholism in my own post-canon fic if I ever get that going, I actually think canon kinda implies the opposite. First with Bottle Fatigue where he belligerently proves he can drop the booze and is also the only one who worries about it, and then not drinking, or at least staying sober, in pretty noticeable contrast to BJ getting wasted at the farewell party, iirc.

I guess I think Hawkeye is actually pretty resilient, which is also a reason I can see him getting back into surgery once he deals with what I think is the underlying cause. His emotional vulnerability makes him more susceptible to the trauma of the war, as we see when he’s the character who has a climactic mental breakdown, but I think it also makes him more capable of healing.

Like whereas I envision BJ being a huge mess for years to come, eg, because he doesn’t really do self reflection or therapy, I see Hawkeye coming out the other side relatively soon (months, rather than years) and picking his life back up where he left off.

I think that’s also supported by a lot of what Sidney says to him in the various Hawkeye therapy episodes, eg suggesting that Hawkeye’s intense negative emotional reactions are a sign that he’s emotionally healthy in Hawk’s Nightmare, and again the general theme of “going insane in a war zone is a sane reaction.”

I also disregard Alan Alda pushing 50 while playing a 30 year old lol. I buy that he has greying hair now, that’s a fine detail, but I’m not really into taking every flaw and inadvertant side-effect of a long running tv show as diegetic canon, I’m more of a ‘just take it in the spirit intended and suspend your disbelief sometimes’ type, at least when it comes to Mash. So I’m not that into the idea of Daniel Pierce seeing Hawkeye and going omg he’s aged 20 years in 2 years what did the war do to him???? it feels a little over the top to me. Same way I just ignore that Radar is balding at 19.

I lean sliiiightly towards BJ keeping in touch with Hawkeye as opposed to detaching himself completely, because I really like the idea of BJ getting as weird about Hawkeye as he was about Peggy lol, but I also like the idea of BJ’s finale promises that they’ll keep in touch being as empty as his promise that a kid’s leg will be fine in that one episode. Tough call. If he did keep in touch Hawkeye would respond, and if he didn’t I could see Hawkeye not sending letters first. He does seem to have a bit of a fatalistic view of long distance relationships lol.

I’m a big fan of Hawkeye and Charles staying in touch and visiting each other, possibly working together. I think they could have a great post-war dynamic. Also a big fan of Hawkeye and Trapper reconnecting. I don’t think Hawkeye and Margaret would stay friends (I say this despite them being my favourite platonic relationship on the show lol) but they’d send each other yearly Christmas cards. Klinger would keep in touch. I’m ambivalent about everyone else.

And I’ve mentioned this a little bit but I like the idea of Hawkeye getting more political rather than dropping it after the war. He’s talked about how great protesting is, he writes angry letters about societal issues, when he cares about something it translates to wanting to actively do something, and I don’t see that as just a war-time coping mechanism. If he was a real person who knows how his politics would e or devolve lol, but as a fictional construct he’s essentially defined as a politically aware bleeding heart with socialist tendencies in comparsion to everyone else on the show so I see no reason to assume that would go away.

Oh also finally in theory I kind of dig the idea of Hawkeye/some dude he didn’t meet in Korea. I like Hawkeye/Trapper post-war endgame a lot, but I think like... thematically Hawkeye getting together with some guy unassociated with the war would be the most fitting post-canon relationship.

send me a ☕️ and a topic and i’ll talk about how i feel about it

[chloelucia13]

It’s Nice to Have a Friend

Pairing: Steve Harrington x platonic!Henderson!reader, Jonathan Byers x reader (mentioned)

Prompt: After Jonathan had abandoned you so he could go god-knows-where with Nancy, you found comfort in the boy who had also been ditched and a beautiful friendship began to bloom.

Warnings: this is some nice comforting fluff, maybe a tiny bit of angst, some language, pretty chill

A/N: So this is a sort of deleted scene that I couldn’t fit into the Stranger Things rewrite, but I felt like it was still important to the character development with the reader and Steve, so I’m deciding to post it separately. You don’t need to read the whole rewrite in order to understand the plot (it’s based in season 2, so if you haven’t watched it then there will be some spoilers), but I would appreciate it a lot if you did read my rewrite! As always, requests and tag lists and my inbox are all open!

“Y/N, hey!” a voice shouted to your right, prompting you to turn your head and look at who was speaking.

Steve rushed over to you, his backpack hanging on one shoulder and a couple of crinkled papers held in his hand.

You furrowed your brows slightly in confusion, stopping at the side of the hallway and waiting for him to catch up. “Hey, Steve,” you drawled out, slightly confused by his presence.

Steve had sat at the bleachers with you that day after both of you had been ditched. Steve was ditched by Nancy and you by Jonathan, both of whom were now attached at the hip.

It was nice to talk to Steve about everything that was going on and, frankly, it was nice just to have someone there. You two seemed to have more in common than you once thought, and though some of that common ground was the fact that you both were abandoned by the person you loved, it was still something.

However, you thought that lunch was it. It was surprising that Steve Harrington, the former King of Hawkins himself, wanted to spend time with you.

"What’s your next class?” he asked, nervously shifting from one foot to the next. 

“It’s, uh, English. Why?” You tugged on the strap of your backpack.

“I was wondering if you maybe wanted to help me with something?”

A look of hesitation washed across your face for a moment. “I don’t know, Steve. I really can’t miss class-”

“Please? I just need help on this essay for my college applications and I have no one else woh can help me. I just... Please?”

You let out a sigh, glancing around as you mulled it over in your mind. “I... I guess. Should we just go to the library and rent out a study room?”

He let out a sigh of relief, all of the tension leaving his shoulders. “Thank you so much. And I already did.”

“Oh, so you were planning on me saying yes?” You squinted at him and tilted your head.

Panic crossed over his features. “No-no, I didn’t mean it like that-”

“Steve, I’m kidding. Chill out.” 

He let out a chuckle, nodding as the two of you began to walk to the library. His actions were clearly fueled by anxiety, with his shifting gaze and his hands constantly going in and out of his pockets.

“Why are you so nervous around me?” you asked, glancing up at him as the two of you stepped through the entryway to the library.

“What do you mean?” he scoffed. “I’m not nervous.”

You arched an eyebrow at his response, falling behind his step so he could lead you to the study room he reserved. “You’re fidgeting and you won’t look me in the eye. You weren’t acting like this earlier at lunch.”

He pushed the door open and waited for you to step inside before he also entered the room, closing the door behind him. A small sigh left his lips as he set the papers down on the table. “I don’t know, maybe... I guess I’m just not used to spending time with anyone other than Nancy. Especially when other people see me.”

You gave him a sympathetic look and nodded, sitting down at one of the chairs and taking the papers in your hand. “Well, there’s no need to be nervous around me. You know that. I’m not exactly some cool person that you have to act perfect around.”

Once again, he scoffed. “You are a cool person.”

You let out a laugh, shaking your head as you searched in your bag for a pen. “Come on, Steve. I’m already helping you with your essay, you don’t need to butter me up.”

He sat in the chair next to you. “But you are cool. You don’t give a fuck what people think about you, and I think that’s pretty damn cool.”

You sighed, beginning to scribble a few notes on the paper. “If only you knew, Steve.”

“What do you mean?”

“God, I care so much about what people think about me all the time. It’s exhausting.”

He was silent for a moment, watching you mark the paper as he thought. “Do you care about what other people think about you, or do you care what Jonathan thinks about you?”

You were about to argue with him, but once you realized that he was right, your mouth shut. Instead, you lifted your pen from the paper. “Did someone else edit this already? There’s pen all over it.”

He stiffened awkwardly in his chair, his lips pursing into a fine line. “Nancy was, uh... She was helping me out with it. Until, ya know, everything happened.”

You nodded slowly, slipping the cap on the pen before setting it down on the table. “But why are you having me check the draft that Nancy already checked?”

He let out a sigh, a hand combing through his hair as he stared at all of the markings on the paper. “I think Nancy wasn’t being honest with me about it. I thought that you would be more blunt about what you think about it.”

You searched his expression, leaning back in your chair and taking the papers in your hands. “You want me to be honest about it?”

He gave you a nod. “Please.”

A heavy breath fell past your lips. “Steve, it’s awful.”

His eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Geez, at least sugarcoat it a little!”

“You told me you wanted me to be honest!”

His mouth opened so he could retaliate, but no words came out. Instead, he huffed and crossed his arms over his chest. “What-What’s wrong with it?”

“It... It just seems very disingenuous. Shallow.”

“What’s shallow about it?”

“You wrote about a basketball game for one of your biggest struggles that you’ve overcome.”

“And then I said it was like how my Grandpa fought in the war! That’s genuine and powerful!”

You stared at him for a moment, completely at a loss for words. “At least you’re pretty, Steve.”

“Okay, fine. What should I have done instead?”

“Steve, we’ve fought literal monsters. There has to be more to talk about than a basketball game.”

“But I can’t write about that. Can you imagine how crazy they’ll think I am?”

“That’s just an example. We’ve gone through a lot this past year. There has to be something from that time that you can write about.”

He nodded, silently thinking over what had happened in the past 12 months. “Do you think that leaving your bad friends and becoming a better person is a good example of overcoming a struggle?”

You gave him a kind smile. “Absolutely.” You crumpled up the papers you had in your hands and tossed them in the trash can before pulling out a few clean pieces of looseleaf paper and sliding them over to him. “Let’s get an outline going. What made you realize that you should change?”

He thought for a moment, a sad look settling on his features. “Last year. I uh... I did something really mean to Nancy.”

Your head tilted in confusion. “What do you mean? What happened?”

He leaned back in his chair, his eyes flashing from left to right as if he was reading from a script, when in reality he was trying to find the right words to say. “After Nancy had ditched me for Jonathan, Tommy and Carol thought that it would be funny if I spray painted ‘Nancy the slut Wheeler’ on the marquee sign at the theater. So I did it.” He risked a glance over at you, noticing the look of disappointment on your face that you failed to disguise. “Nancy and Jonathan saw it, and it escalated.”

His words slowly sank in, and your eyes widened in realization after a few moments of silence. “That’s why you were all beat up? Because Jonathan fought you?”

Steve nodded, his lips pursing closed as he didn’t know what else to say.

“Well, I can’t say you didn’t deserve it.” Again, he nodded. You reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder. “But I can say that you’ve gotten a lot better. And ditching Tommy and Carol definitely helped a lot.”

“So should I write about that?”

It was your turn to nod, a kind smile on your face. “Absolutely. Should we get started?”

He mirrored your smile, leaning forward and pulling a pencil from his backpack. “Let’s do it.”