adriana smith who was forcibly kept on life support after being brain dead to incubate her fetus due to anti abortion laws in georgia, usa will be taken off life support this week. she had an emergency c-section today and the child was born prematurely and is in the nicu. her family is raising funds for hospital bills (that the state didn't even pay for despite forcing this "treatment" btw!) and for the new baby. donate if you can. [source]
PLEASE donate through Paypal to help Omar and make a note when you are donating to him to help the organizer know which person the funds need to go to. His life and his father’s life are in immediate danger. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE donate!!!
Omar's father has been in the hospital for a very long time and he is struggling with many issues that are being exacerbated by the conflict in Gaza. Omar needs money to pay the doctors for his surgery and medical costs. The current goal is $1,270
Omar's campaign has been shared by @90-ghosts
You can donate to the paypal here
When donating, please indicate that the donation is for Omar as I am helping collect money for others too and it will help me keep track
tags: general!wonwoo x f!reader, historical au, established r/s, fluff
wc: 381
min's note: missing wonwoo hours so i wrote a drabble inspired by the photo taken by him, same universe as private chambers but can be read as a standalone! happy reading <3
the sun was kind that day.
its warmth settled gently on the palace garden, where blossoms fell like whispers and time dared to slow.
you sat beneath the flowering tree, skirts tucked neatly beneath you, fingers idly plucking petals from the grass. the spring air was thick with the scent of plum and pine, but you didn’t notice it as much as you noticed him.
wonwoo stood just ahead, hands behind his back, watching the koi stir in the pond, posture relaxed in a way only you could draw out of him. a soft splash echoed as one of the larger koi broke the surface — slow and lazy, like it too had grown drowsy with the sun.
you smiled.
“come here.”
he turned, one eyebrow raised.
you beckoned again, wiggling your fingers.
“i’m on duty,” he said, a soft protest.
“and i’m your wife.”
that settled it.
he walked to you, robes swaying, every step heavy with reluctant indulgence. when he stood before you, you reached up—slow, careful—and tucked a small pink flower just behind his ear.
wonwoo froze.
his eyes flicked to the side. “what’s this?”
you tilted your head, studying him, smiling like you'd found a secret no one else could see. “pretty.”
he scoffed, but the tips of his ears flushed.
“me?”
“you.”
he huffed a laugh and crouched beside you. as he moved, the hem of his robe brushed against your knee — thick, woven silk softened from wear, warm from the sun and faintly scented with cedar and steel.
“no,” he murmured, voice quieter now, “you’re the pretty one.”
and then, with surprising gentleness, he reached into the grass, found another bloom, and leaned forward. with a calloused hand, he brushed your hair back and tucked it behind your ear.
“the prettiest,” he said.
your breath caught—not from the gesture, but the look in his eyes. no smirk. no teasing edge. just quiet awe. like you were the softest thing he'd ever been allowed to hold.
a wind passed through the garden, fluttering the petals around you like rain.
for a while, you sat there in silence. warrior and scholar. husband and wife. petals on your ears, hearts on display.
“don’t tell the soldiers,” he muttered, voice thick with affection.
I can still cry for Stack when he told Sammie about his dad beating him and he says "But he ain't mean it." Even through his trauma with his father, Stack still yearned for that fatherly love, and he had to get it from Smoke who always protected him.
you ever think about the intricacies of smoke & stack's dynamic and go fucking crazy?
their abusive father zeroing in on stack as the outlet for his beatings, smoke killing their daddy, half way done burying him by the time stack came to - smoke being the BIG BROTHER from the start, keeping stack safe - stack becoming who he is - bit reckless, full of charisma and whimsy because of smoke, in a way, shielding him from the world ("doesn't know how to watch his own back").
thinking of smoke saying how stack is the best thing about him, how stack talks a big game but how it's smoke who kills the snake, smoke who shoots two men for stealing out of his truck, smoke who pulls a gun on sammie and pearline. does he ever think he got more of their daddy in him than stack? where stack can connect with people in a way smoke can't quite follow. stack laying out clothes for him, doing his hair, rolling his cigarettes- giving smoke back some of what the war took.
but I also can't help but think that there is this slight ....almost paternalistic element at times - the way stack looks around for smoke when he's with mary, worried he'll be caught, worried he'll displease him and yet that thing he says when he's turned "don't let that witch come between us again" - there's no doubt that stack loves annie and is clearly DISTRAUGHT when smoke kills her but ...was there ever resentment? did he ever feel betrayed? was it ever only meant to be the two of them against the world?
"he was the best thing about me" "i ain't doing it without you there ain't no me without you" "sorry for not keeping you safe - you always did" the way stack is just that one person smoke can't kill, the way the only time he wavers in his resolve is when his vampire brother talks with him.
(this is borderline incoherent but I have a lot of thoughts)
Creating @michaelbjordan hairstyle for #sinnersmovie was a true labor of love and commitment.
Mike made the choice early on-he didn't want to wear a wig. He committed to growing out his hair for several months before we started filming. Authenticity was key. By the time we met, his hair was 3 to 4 inches long-just enough for the look we envisioned.
To soften his natural curl pattern and create a wavy texture, l used a gentle texturizer. Then, my brother @jove14 stepped in and gave Mike a precise bald fade to match the 1930s period hairstyle we found in the Eudora Welty Photographs book.
After the cut, I molded Mike's hair with wrap foam, oil, and gel, and gave him that clean, sharp side part. Mike sat under the dryer each day like a champ.
Appreciate your patience, bro!
We shampooed his hair twice daily-once before and once after shooting. Since Mike doesn't usually use chemicals in his everyday routine, I made sure to give him regular conditioning treatments to keep his hair moisturized and healthy throughout filming.
Watching Smoke and Stack walk onto set-not Michael B. Jordan-made me proud beyond words. Mike fully transformed, and his performance was so powerful, you didn't see the actor-you saw the twins and their story.
All credits go to her coogler and everyone that helped make sinners such a special movie 🎥
I’m sorry I did not come out this evening. I have to protect my health in order to make sure I am able to complete this tour.
For context, I have not slept properly for nearly 72 hours. After the Montreal show I left the venue, slept 3 hours then flew 6hrs to LA. Once landing in LA I did a two hour drive to make a show. In order to not miss the Boston show, I opted to leave stage and immediately do a 7 hour journey to Boston which has affect my ears, health and my fatigue. I have learnt my limits today. In an attempt to make sure I could meet everyone, I’ve tired myself out. I landed this morning at 6am and have had close to no rest today but made sure that I signed as much as I could, met fans back stage, wrote letters and did everything I could to make sure my tiredness didn’t affect the show. I am not saying this for sympathy as this is the career I have chosen and it is a privilege to travel to world with music, however I tried to do my best today for all the fans and the show was amazing so what occurred this evening has been upsetting.
I made it clear I’m on vocal rest and cannot jeopardise this tour, which my team went outside told everyone who waited by the bus that I’d be straight on the bus today. I was carrying a pretty heavy bag onto a bus which fell on the floor as I tried to wave. While trying to catch my bags putting them into the bus, I got shouted at with a “is that it? A little wave?”… and some more disappointed heckling
I’m sorry that I could not be there in that exact moment, but I also need to make sure we respect the people working in the venues curfews and in that moment I had simply dropped my belongings. I do my best to be communicative with you guys. I know it wasn’t all of you who, but I am physically and mentally at a low today and that was quite a sad way to end the evening after what we’ve accomplished.
In order to not feel this low again after a great show I am stating my boundaries clearly now. If I say I cannot wait after a show, please know it is in order to preserve my health or I am making sure the people working don’t stay over time. In future I will also not go into details of why I cannot do a meet and greet, just please know that the decision does not come easy for me. I have got out the bus in pyjamas to meet fans outside the bus before, but please just give me at least a couple minutes of grace and think about what you are saying and remember I can hear you. I will always prioritise you so any decision where I cannot, just try to please be mindful that i am doing the best I can
Characters: Elias "Stack" Moore, Ruby Evers (Teenaged Black OC), and Mary.
Warning(s): Mentions of Hoodoo, Supernatural Elements, Violence, Death, The Usual Vampire Shit, and Angst. Post-Sinners movie.
Summary: Fourteen-year-old Ruby Evers's parents haven't come home from Club Juke. Left to fend for herself and her two younger siblings, she investigates what happened to them and the other missing sharecroppers who partied the night before. As dusk looms, Ruby discovers two dangerous predators hidden inside her family's chicken coop.
Author's Note: Ruby is the young girl Smoke met at the beginning of Sinners.
"Black leaves on the Mississippi river
Black leaves in the Mississippi fire
Black leaves in the Mississippi choir
Black leaves on the Mississippi land
And we've got God and cotton
We've got sons and daughters
We've got grit and glory
We've got mama's stories
We've got strength like towers
We've got hope and power"
Kirby – "Black Leaves"
Mama didn't come home.
Poppa neither.
Fourteen-year-old Ruby Evers waited by the bedroom window early Sunday morning, as her younger brother and sister slept near her feet, piled onto one old mattress on the floor. She scratched her leg, irritating a spider bite that appeared fiery red on her tawny skin.
The window faced the path her parents would take to get home from the old sawmill. Poppa carried mama off in their horse and cart looking so handsome. He even wore his tan church vest and matching bow tie. Mama fixed her hair up, uncovering it from the pale blue and white gingham cloth she usually tied her thick braids up with. She took the braids down and added some purple pansies to look fancy for the night. They were so nervous when Ruby came home with her aunt from town and she told them about Smoke Moore paying her cash money to watch his liquor truck. He ended up giving her five whole dollars for doing a good job. She would always remember his lesson about knowing her worth in the world.
Word spread about the men who tried to thief them in broad daylight, but their concern soon shifted with excitement once they heard a new juke was opening that same day. They still had cotton quotas to fill, but the temptation to hear good music from the preacher's son was too delicious to pass up. Tongues also wagged about Pastor Moore's notorious cousins sweeping into town with money to buy the old sawmill outright from an old peckerwood like Hogwood. They wanted to see the transformation of the place themselves.
Glancing at her siblings, she wondered what to fix for them if mama didn't come home.
John-John, her nine-year-old middle brother, mumbled in his sleep. Her seven-year-old baby sister, Mae, stirred under a threadbare blanket. Ruby left the window and padded barefoot into their kitchen area where she piled wood into the iron stove. She struck a match and lit some kindling to boil water for grits. There were a few leftover biscuits from their supper the day before, but they'd gone hard. They would eat them anyway along with some day old boiled eggs, and then do their chores until their parents returned.
Worry poked at Ruby's belly. Her parents had never been gone overnight before together. She wandered over to their sleeping room to check the bed again. It hadn't been slept in all night.
Mae ambled into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes and looking around.
"Where's Mama and Poppa?"
"I dunno. Go put on your clothes and get John-John up."
"I'm already up," John-John said, pulling on his overalls.
Ruby rubbed on his puffy hair and tugged on her sister's two braids.
"Y'all go feed the chickens, and I'll clean up in here. When the grits are ready, I'll call ya."
The children nodded and scampered out the front door. Ruby dressed quickly, made up their bedding, swept the floors clean, and checked on the water. She stirred in the grits and set out plates on the kitchen table. Once the cooked grains were at the right consistency, she whipped a spoon with butter through them, and then pulled the pot off the fire.
"Ruby! Ruby! Midnight is running around out here by hisself!" John-John hollered.
Ruby wiped her hands on her dress and dashed outside.
Midnight, their coal black gelding, ran in an agitated circle near their small tenement garden.
"Whoa, Midnight…easy boy," Ruby said, raising her hands to get him to calm down.
Where was the cart and their parents?
Midnight had broken his harness away from the cart. Maybe the wheels hit a rock, and the cart fell over, injuring her parents. Ruby led the horse to his enclosure and closed the gate tight. She ran down the path the horse would've come from and didn't see the cart or anyone else in the distance. Hoofing it back to their home, she gestured to her siblings.
"Come on in here and eat," Ruby said.
"Where's Mama and Poppa? How come they not here with Midnight?" Mae asked.
Ruby hustled them into the house and scooped the grits on their plates with the biscuits and unshelled eggs.
"Eat," she said.
She ate with them, trying to look at ease, but her heart rate elevated and tension strained her shoulders. After the children cleaned their plates of every single grit and biscuit crumb, she herded the younger ones over to Miss Emmie's home. The elderly woman often cared for younger children while the teens and adults worked the fields.
Miss Emmie stood at her clothesline. She beat rugs of dust early before the temperature rose.
"Miss Emmie, can you watch John-John and Mae today?" she asked, holding up one dollar of the money she earned from Smoke.
"Where you get that money from?"
Miss Emmie took the dollar and turned it over in her hand, making sure it was actually cash and not plantation scrip.
"I earned it. They ate breakfast already. I'll be back later today. Can you feed them again before I get back?"
"Where you goin'?"
"Mama and Poppa didn't come back last night. Midnight came back without the cart. I think somethin' happened to 'em."
"They went to that juke?"
"Yes, ma'am."
Emmie sucked the teeth she still had left in her mouth.
"Maybe I should go get Ben to go look for you."
"That's alright Miss Emmie, I can do it myself. No need to bother Ben on his day off."
"You shouldn't be around no juke joint."
"Yes ma'am, but I'm worried."
"Oh, Lord. Ben!"
Emmie shouted toward her ramshackle cabin. A six foot tall scrawny man with a lazy eye trudged outside.
"Momma?"
"Ben…carry Ruby over to that old sawmill. She's looking for her parents. You can pick up a pound of rice and a pound of pinto beans for me on the way there. Get six chicken tamales for our lunch later. And some penny candy for John-John and Mae. I'm gonna watch them while you help Ruby look for Alice and Roy. Can you remember all that?"
She handed him the dollar Ruby gave her.
"I'll remember."
Ben spit into the dirt and pocketed the money in his trousers. He tucked in his faded shirt and headed back into the house.
"Lemme get my shoes on," he called out to them.
"John-John…Mae…y'all go on inside," Emmie said.
Ruby hugged her brother and sister.
"Be good and I'll be back as soon as I can."
The children nodded and headed indoors.
Ben stepped back out and pulled a straw hat over his head.
"C'mon, Ruby," he said.
She followed him around the side and watched him hitch an old mule to a wagon. He helped her climb onto the front seat and he joined her, holding the reins. He whistled, and the mule began pulling them on their way.
Ben didn't talk, and Ruby didn't engage in any type of conversation. Her mind cleaved onto anything her parents might have said that may have indicated not coming home before they departed. There was no mention of giving other folks a ride or stopping off anywhere. If Poppa was too drunk to guide the cart himself, Mama would've left him behind and come home alone to check on them. The pit of her stomach ached.
In town, Ben pulled up to the Chow's Grocery store on the colored side and tied his mule. Ruby jumped down and sat on a small bench in front of the store to wait. She noticed Lisa Chow pacing the front of an unopened business. Lisa's face appeared blotchy and pink, streaked with tears. Roughly a dozen Chinese adults surrounded her, their expressions fretful. Her eyes were red and swollen from crying hysterically.
"I don't know where they are!" Lisa shrieked. "They didn't come home from that juke joint!"
Ruby's heart lurched in her chest. Another set of missing parents who went to the juke. The pain in Ruby's belly nearly bowled her over as she started breaking into a profuse sweat. Something bad happened.
Ben called over another man they both knew who worked on a riverboat. Calvin was a fisherman and knew everyone in town.
"Cal, what's goin' on?" Ben asked.
Calvin scratched his shaggy head and sighed.
"I don't quite know. I was supposed to drop off a new load of catfish, but the Chows ain't showed up to pay me. I've been waiting out here since eight. Lisa out here sayin' they never came home last night."
"Did you go to the juke?"
"For about an hour after they opened, and then I left early. Had to get up and check my traps at five this morning."
A cloud of dust kicked up in the street as the town sheriff sped off past them. Several other vehicles followed him.
"Something is up," Ben said. "C'mon Ruby, let's get over to that juke."
He helped her up into the wagon again, and they followed the dust of the sheriff's car.
His mouth ached.
Moving his jaw a bit, Stack licked the inside of his gums, searching for residual blood. He didn't like the taste of it hours later, nor did he delight in the pieces of flesh caught between his teeth where he ripped apart Annie's throat.
He opened his eyes.
Annie.
She had been the key he needed to get his twin to join the hive. Smoke chose to kill her instead.
Yet spared him.
He rolled over in the dense straw that covered him and Mary.
The woman who turned him into a lost soul slumbered in a deep, trance-like state, looking like a corpse in need of a casket. Blood smeared the lower half of her face. She didn't seem to mind the traces of slaughter they committed against innocent people. Her rabid mouth had been gluttonous, as if a bloodlust frenzy was second nature to her. He looked at her closely. She slept like a sated baby.
Stack's eyes longed to close. His body floated just under lucidness. He fought it as an internal alarm system kicked in. Two things he became aware of: the warmth of humans and the scent of their blood.
A young boy and girl had stepped into the chicken coop, their chatter bringing his consciousness to the surface. Mary stayed asleep.
Chickens clucked, and the children tossed feed all over the floor, some of it striking the thick straw covering Stack and Mary. Luckily, a large tree kept the coop shaded from the sun piercing through the wood slats. Stack kept still and listened. The young ones ran out quickly, and he heard the fearful neighing of a horse. After that. Silence.
"Are they gone?"
Mary opened her eyes. The sickly paleness of her skin covered in blood told him how his life would be from now on.
synopsis: if you thought your first encounter with him was not a meet cute and he was definitely going to forget about you the moment class was over, then just why was mark unable to get you out of his mind?
pairing: college student!mark x female reader
genre: fluff, strangers to friends to lovers, suggestive
word count: 8.8k
contains: college student!reader, academia induced anxiety and stress, mark falls in love fast and hard, mark is absolutely whipped and doesn't even realise it, pining, getting together. haechan makes an appearance.
author's note: can be read as a standalone! but also as an instalment for like we just met! the professors are inspired by my own professors in uni, one being a total nightmare of a man (ᵕ—ᴗ—) and the other a total sweetheart. just to make sure you get the timeline: they meet when they're 19 and by the end of this piece they're 21. if you have questions about this piece or their lore, please come talk to me! i love finding people in my inbox! not proofread (yet!) <3
You halt your steps when you reach the door of the lecture hall, feeling like your heart is going to explode after the little jogging session you did from the subway station to campus. Not a long way, but enough for your heart that was already consumed by anxiety thinking of John. John, your literature professor you have for courses, who coincidentally is also the head of the literature department. And one thing about John, apart from the fact that he’s the strictest professor you have? He hates latecomers.
He usually calls out whoever’s late, he calls out whoever’s not paying attention to the lecture, even if the hall’s full with eighty students, he has a radar for people who daydream or are too bored to take notes. If he sees anyone coming in after being late for more than ten minutes, he just tells them to get out and he’ll see them next week, no point for them to join so late into the lecture when he’s already started the presentation on powerpoint. And worst thing of all? He remembers faces and knows everyone’s names.
So you look at the time, you’re six minutes late, and you contemplate if you should go in or just skip this time, but you know he’s going to mention it in an email later this evening, talking to you about the importance of attending even if he can’t force you to show up.
Your heart is beating erratically, the anxiety you’re feeling has a droplet of sweat sliding down your spine, and you hate the feeling of it, you hate how it has your stomach churning and your throat closing with fear.
You wouldn’t be so late if it weren't for the subway making an emergency stop between stations, because something had happened. In these first months of uni, you’ve never been late, especially to John’s lectures — after having assisted to the way he shunned the latecomers. You can hear him doing some explaining with the help of the little microphone on his desk, already deep into the topic of this week’s lecture.
The palm of your hand is clammy and cold, and it presses gently on the large doors of the lecture hall, and then you summon the courage to push them gently. Your professor’s voice halts, and you know he’s looking at you as you step into the hall, even if your gaze doesn’t dare look for his. You bow your head as you make your way towards the long staircase, but his voice makes your steps come to a halt.
“Finally, Miss L/N,” you hear him say, his annoying voice scraping your ears. You turn around sporting an apologetic look, bottom lip trapped between your teeth. “You’re nine minutes late today! One minute longer and I would have seen you next time,” his tone is dripping with sarcasm, his round face beaming at you in mockery, but you hope he’ll close an eye and stop his calling out since this is your first time in your three months of uni that you’re late. “Please find a seat, Y/n, quickly,” he accentuates the last word, tone serious, and you bow your head once again asking for forgiveness.
Your eyes scan the hall, looking for an empty spot you can occupy right this moment, as quickly as possible, and you hear your professor’s voice restarting his explaining right from where he left off.
You’re met with pair of eyes that throw you sympathetic looks, others looking at you in shock that you even chose to show up late, because everyone else would have made the choice of skipping the class entirely. And then you spot an empty seat about one metre away from where you’re standing on the staircase, and you nearly throw yourself at it.
You close your eyes, trying to calm your heart that’s almost ready to leap away out of your chest. You take your laptop out, happy to have blended in with everyone else in this hall, your being late seemingly forgotten as everyone pays attention to the lecture once again. You take big breaths as discreetly as possible, and you try focusing on what your professor is explaining with the help of some powerpoint slides, but your ears keep ringing trying to regain your composure.
And then you see it, slight movements coming from the body next to you, and long and slim fingers move gently in front of your figure, passing you a sticky note.
‘You good?’ is written on the light blue piece of paper in an immaculate, cursive writing. You raise your eyes, only for them to be met by a pair of big and sparkling ones, and you look at the boy sporting a worried look while gazing at you, making you smile apologetically, nodding to him to let him know that you are indeed good, or that you will be as soon as the anxiety of having embarrassed yourself wears down.
And Mark looks at the way your fingers hold onto his sticky note a bit more, before they bring the piece of paper and stick it to the base panel next to the touchpad of your laptop.
How can a gesture so small and simple make his heart flutter? He’s never seen you during lectures before, that might be because there are over eighty people in one hall when this happens, and he’s sure your usual seat is either in some other side of the hall or you’re just someone who skips frequently. Because he knows he does the latter more than he likes to admit, but his motives are valid, and he’s sure everyone in this hall would agree with him if he said it out loud.
He hates John. He hates the way he teaches, he hates the way he talks to his students, he hates the way he basically shuns everyone who’s one second late. So every time he’s late, even if it’s just for one minute, Mark decides to walk away from the class, even if he knows he’ll receive an email later in the evening talking about the importance of attendance and making the tuition’s money worth by learning — which isn’t wrong at all, but Mark really can’t stand John’s face and attitude.
He’s assisted too many times to scenes of fellow students coming in late and getting the boot from the despicable professor, but today it bothered him more than usual. Seeing your face so flushed with embarrassment, your blown out pupils looking worriedly around yourself after John made sure to halt the lecture just to put you into a spotlight, it made Mark’s blood boil with anger, and he doesn’t know why that happened.
Maybe it’s the way he heard you trying to control your breathing as soon as you sat down next to him, or maybe it’s the way you took the first available seat — next to him — without even looking at who was sitting next to the empty spot, all out of panic of having all eyes on yourself. Or perhaps it’s the way you looked at him, and the small smile you gave him, all embarrassed, which you shouldn’t have been in the first place.
When he gave you the sticky note, he did it because he knew John would be on his ass immediately if he heard any whispering, but he really wanted to know if you were okay, so what better way than still asking you, but through the amazing art of writing? He hopes you weren’t too creeped out or offended by his gesture.
Mark looks at the way you put your hair up around a pencil, too fidgety too look around your bag for a scrunchy or hair clip in fear of being called out for disrupting the lecture once again. He looks at the way your fingers type down fast, words flowing easily and your eyes scanning the big screen feet away from you.
He stopped paying attention to John a while ago, — maybe when you plummeted down next to him, but he’s not too sure, — and he knows he’s talking about a play, Blasted, but he honestly doesn’t care. He doesn’t know how he’ll get the notes to this lecture, because all his friends attend different courses and the students he’s grouped with for seminars aren’t nice enough to give notes easily. But he’ll manage, he always does.
Mark wonders in what group you’re in, and who your seminar professor is. Are you during mornings or during evenings? And either way, are your Literature seminars on Tuesdays or on Thursdays?
And what’s your course? Are you attending literature classes? Or there’s more to it? He knows that among the eighty students present in this hall, the only thing they all have in common is this lecture. Some might be in creative writing — like he is, — others might be in linguistics, while others might be in literature. So which course are you attending? You look like you’re in linguistics, but he really hopes he’s wrong. You have the allure of a writer, and he’d love to be able to have a talk with you about the whole curricula.
He’s not close to the other students in his afternoon seminars, at least for now, so it’s really challenging to discuss anything related to the modules or creative vision. Working in groups and attending meetings is a total nightmare, — feedback is too harsh without even trying to understand each other’s line of thought and work.
Mark can feel your perfume flooding his senses, from where you’re sitting. It’s delicate, it’s musky and powdery, not too sweet, just so soft like your whole vibe. What if you’re a writer? You must be. He hopes you are, and he hopes he’ll see you again soon during lectures. He remembers how John called your name before, and it was so pretty, so fitting, exactly what you should be named — he thinks.
Mark is deep into his own thoughts when he hears rustling and sees you finally closing your laptop, packing your stuff quickly, and he’s finally snapped out of his own thoughts when he realises the lecture is over. Has he really spent nearly two hours thinking about you? The stranger who made him so flustered just by being a bit late?
He doesn’t have time to think properly, or act out and directly ask you if you’re okay, because you take off before he can force some words out of his mouth.
But he’s hopeful and at ease. Maybe he’ll see you again soon.
If he’s skipped literature lectures before, Mark made sure not to skip them again, ever. He’s always on time, the anticipation of seeing you sitting somewhere in the huge lecture hall making his stomach do flips and his heart to do a leap in his chest.
For some reason, your perfume lingered in his nose, and he can’t forget the notes that drowned him into your essence. He doesn’t know anyone in this hall except for his insufferable peers from his afternoon and evening seminars, and you. Except he doesn’t really know you, but his eyes always scan the crowds for your figure, his ears always perk up whenever John says to raise questions if you have any, hoping you’ll raise your hand and ask something, so he can hear a bit of the thoughts you have lingering in your head.
He always spots you somewhere in the first rows, and no wonder he’s never seen you before, — he doesn’t spare a look to the other rows except the one in front of him, because spying on the students sitting in the row below the one he’s sitting in is sometimes more interesting than listening to John’s annoying voice, with all the incessant explaining he does at times about facts no one cares about. But no one really bats an eye, as long as the lecture is interrupted by nonsensical talking and everyone can get a break while pretending to be interested in whatever bullshit your professor is telling you about.
He doesn’t want to be a creep, so he never approaches you, doesn’t even hope that you’d remember him after that time you were late. He’s also very busy studying and writing, working like a dog at the record store every morning until the very last minute before his afternoon seminars, and of course attending all his classes — or at least trying to, if he’s not too tired from the hectic schedules that might catch up to him, — but one thing is certain, he never skips the What is Literature lecture, ever.
“You can’t keep doing this, Mark,” his co-worker and friend, Haechan, — also a student working part time at the record store — told him during one of their shifts together, “You work crazy hours and then you’re busy studying, you have no life outside these two,”
“Thanks, dude,” Mark’s tone is cold, and he doesn’t want to be reminded that his time managing skills are a total failure. “I actually enjoy working,”
“Then skip classes, no one has a perfect attendance rate anyway,” Haechan scoffs, the tiring look in his friend’s eyes bothering him more than it should.
The truth is, Mark works really hard. Apart from his morning shift at the record store, during which he gets some reading or coursework done if there are any slow mornings, he still needs to write, to do research, but he can’t skip classes, because he learns best by being there, and skipping would mean for him to spend the already nonexistent free time he has, studying. He’s literally burning a candle at both ends, and he’s well aware of this.
“I mean, I could change my shifts,” he mumbles more to himself, but Haechan hears him nonetheless. It’s one of those slow mornings and they’re rearranging shelves and arranging records in alphabetical order.
And that’s how Mark walks up to his academic tutor, and then to the head professor of his course, — Creative Writing, — and he asks to be moved to the morning seminars instead, because he spent a few days mulling over the thoughts in his head, and he’d be more productive throughout his days if he went to uni fresh and rested in the morning and then straight to work to closing shifts.
The only problem? Mark literally forgets he changed his schedule, and it takes a confused “What are you doing here? Aren’t you closing today?” From Haechan to realise he messed up and he’ll turn up late to the first seminar of the week, with the head professor nonetheless.
There’s a long list of curse words Mark recites in his mind as he runs around the neighbourhood to reach the subway, legs moving fast, hair bouncing in the wind. The dread of being late and making a bad impression on his professor and new peers makes his stomach churn and his hands tremble, feeling nervous.
By the time he steps foot on the floor his new class is on, he’s only five minutes late, but he has to spend another minute or so in the hallway right outside by the door, trying to catch his breath and not sound like a dying pig.
He knocks softly, and he spots through the small window planted vertically in the middle of the door, how some heads turn towards his direction. He gulps, looking for the professor — he’s never been this nervous to meet new people.
“Mark!” The professor gets rid of the glasses hanging low on his nose, and he smiles at him. Mark doesn’t know this, but he’s one of professor M’s favourites. “Please come in, dear!”
“I’m so sorry for being late!” He bows his head, gripping on the straps of his bag a little tighter.
“It can happen to anyone, don’ worry! I was just telling everyone about you moving groups, so please find a seat and we’ll dive into some poetry today!” He’s very cheerful, and Mark loves his positivity and gentleness, as opposed to other professors who seem like they dread being at work every time he sees them.
Mark hears some voices joking about poetry with the professor, but he doesn’t listen, too busy sitting down in the first available seat he detects.
Way to go, Mark, he thinks to himself. Not only did he move groups to meet new people, but he thinks he made a terrible first impression on everyone. He likes being at least ten minutes early every time, hearing and trying to socialise with everyone before the seminars actually start, but now he feels like he’s started with the wrong foot.
He’s taken out of his own thoughts by a pink piece of paper, and some slender fingers passing him a handwritten note.
‘You good?’ He reads, and his head snaps to look at the person next to him, the words too familiar and the whole gesture too suspicious for it to be just a coincidence.
And there are you, staring back at him, biting on the end of your pencil. Mark can’t help but smile, and he brings one trembling hand up for you to look at. Your smile reaches your eyes, and he can’t help the way his heart flutters. He brings out his laptop so he can stick the note next to its touchpad, just like you did to his note, which he looks for, only to notice it’s still in the same place he last saw it in, last time he saw you.
So he was right, after all, you are a writer, and there’s newfound confidence blooming in his chest as he forgets about the bad feeling his being late left behind in his guts.
As the seminar starts, he sees you looking for a blank page in your notepad and you start writing down, only to then extend the item towards him, so he can read the words plastered on the paper. Very creative way of not disturbing the seminar, Mark thinks.
‘Why so nervous?’ You ask him, and he makes a gesture with his hand, asking for your pencil so he can write down his answer.
‘I don’t know anyone here,’ he writes down with his pretty handwriting, passing the paper back to you as discreetly as possible for you to read, even if your eyes followed the way the pencil waltzed on the piece of paper as he wrote.
You smile, raising your gaze to look at the presentation in front of you for a few seconds, so it seems like you’re paying attention. But you hate poetry and you’d rather talk to the guy next to you. ‘You know me,’ you gnaw on your pencil looking at the way his eyes scan your handwriting, and he bites back a smile.
And that’s how Mark becomes a big part of your life. He’s in all your seminars, and in the only lecture you have to attend, and sitting next to each other becomes second nature to the two of you. No agreement has been made on this, it’s just something that started on the first day when he changed his timetable, — he looked for you in every class you had to attend, and you scanned the seats around, looking for him.
You exchanged notes, comparing them to see if they lacked anything, with either you or him completing them if something was missing and the other managed to write down. You started studying together, because both him and you had afternoon shifts at work, and the spare hours before you had to clock into work, you spent them together in the library, writing or doing coursework together.
Mark did a great job blending in with your other classmates, he was a social butterfly and everyone likes him, especially after he opened his mouth during his first seminars, bringing new perspectives into the picture and discussing his points of view every time professors asked questions. But Mark had to thank you for doing such a great job helping him out. You took him out for coffee, filling him in about the class dynamics, and then you invited him to the class outings, where he met some of your friends and he made friends of his own with your other classmates. And he doesn’t know if it’s because of your misfortune of being late that time, and then him going through the same thing, but he felt closest to you, and can anyone blame him? After only three weeks with you as his classmate, he felt like you knew him better than some of his friends, and it made him feel like he could walk on air and jump on clouds.
And even if he felt this way, every new day brings up some new fact about you, that he never thought was possible. You’re so full of surprises, you’re everything you’re letting him see and so much more, something beyond expectations, and he wonders if he’ll ever make it far enough and know every jot and tittle of yours.
And he can’t believe how you’re giving him a peek into the real you every single day, even after months of already knowing each other and being good friends. You’re leaving the library with him mere centimetres away from your figure, both of you leaving campus to clock into work, when you halt your steps all of a sudden, making him walk into you, his chest slamming into your back, but you don’t seem bothered by the sudden contact or the force of it, which makes you jolt a bit forward. Thankfully, Mark’s quick senses steady you, when his hand reaches for your forearm with a gentle but firm grip, which you don’t seem to mind.
“You good, Y/n?” Mark asks, touching his snapback cap, fixing it after the impact of your bodies touching. He’s worried, especially because he knows he was walking fast and the force he ran into you with might have hurt you, or at least might have caused you some type of discomfort.
“Mark,” you whisper. Your voice is calm, but you’re reaching behind your figure, fingers wiggling in the air looking for his arm. “Is that a cat or am I seeing stuff?” You ask, and Mark looks from behind you towards where you’re pointing at with your finger.
“Yeah, that’s definitely a cat,” he rasps, not sure where you’re going with this.
You gasp, turning around to look at him. He’s never seen you beaming so hard, your eyes are literally sparkling, and he raises his eyebrows as he keeps looking at your reaction. You grab his hand, dragging him after you towards the cat.
It’s the first time you’re touching his hand, the only time you touched him was when you gave him a drunken hug when he took you home after karaoke with your friends, when you lost multiple games and had to drink as a penalty, — and when he walked you home, making sure you’re safe and sound, you gave him a hug as a thank you, and he couldn’t think straight for the rest of the night as he made his way home.
And even if drunk, you didn’t forget the gesture, bringing it up the next day when you met at the library before the only seminar you and Mark had for the day. “I’m sorry if I crossed a boundary last night,” you whispered, the silence in the library still too loud for the splitting headache you were having.
“What boundary?” Mark whispered back, squinting his eyes trying to remember if you kissed him or said something and he couldn’t seem to remember. Although he was sure he would have remembered, because it was you. “Oh, you mean the hug?” He asked, and he saw your almost imperceptible nod, but he noticed it nonetheless.
You were holding your head in one hand, palm resting on your forehead and Mark was sure your temples were throbbing, “Sorry about that,”
“Don’t be!” He assured you, shaking his hand in front of his figure, looking at you from across the relatively small table in the library, but that was all you managed to get for the short time you were going to spend there before your seminar. “I didn’t mind it,” he explains, a relaxed smile plastered on his features as soon as you looked back at him, making sure he was telling you the truth, “That’s perhaps the most tame thing a drunk person can do anyway, so don’t worry!”
And his reassuring made you feel a bit better. Realising you might have crossed a boundary with your guy friend — who had always been respectful towards you — ate at you, mentally and physically, making your insides churn on top of the tedious headache you had to carry around.
“Now, do you want an Advil or something? I brought some just in case,” his hands moved around, reaching for the pockets inside his bag.
“Just in case?” You asked, eyeing him with tired eyes. You were sure your eyes gave away just how badly you were feeling.
“Yeah, I know a hangover headache is a heavy burden,” he popped the pill blister pack with fast fingers.
You only smiled, closing your eyes and extending your hand on the table, and he positioned the pill on your palm, his cold fingertips touching the warm skin of your hand.
And now, your warm skin is touching his, your fingers wrapping nicely around his hand, before you reach the spot the cat’s sitting patiently in, and you crouch down, letting go of him so you can pat the cat with both hands.
He suddenly misses the contact of your skin on his, like you just ripped something out and away from him, but he pulls the legs of his jeans before crouching down next to you.
“You like cats, huh?” He asks, reaching for the kitty’s head. It relishes in both your touches, purring loudly.
“I love them!” You squeal, beaming at him, the same sparkle he saw before still present in your eyes and on your features. “I wish I had something for you, little baby,” your voice babies the cat, and your hands squeezes its face gently, which it allows you to do.
So it’s only normal for Mark to think about your little interaction with the cute cat for the rest of the week. And the next time you’re dragging him to a cat and you baby the animal around, patting its head and pondering if you have anything edible left in your bag, you see Mark rustling around in his own bag.
Your curious eyes follow his movements, intrigued by the way he doesn’t even fully crouch down next to you and the cat before he starts rummaging through his bag.
Your eyes become the size of saucers when he takes a small pack of treats out of it, shaking it in front of the cat’s face, making the animal bump its head against the hand he’s holding the treats with.
“Did you really bring treats?” You ask, your tone dripping with disbelief, and your eyes start sparkling while looking at the side of his face, adorned with moles.
“Yeah,” he laughs softly, putting some of the treats in his hand before extending it towards the cat in front of your figures. Your elbow is touching his knee as you’re both crouching down, and Mark feels like your touch is burning through the thick fabric of his trousers. “You said you wished you had something for these little babies, so I thought it’d be nice to be prepared for when we see one again,” he doesn’t look at you as he talks, but maybe it’s for the best, because the way you’re looking at him might have haunted him for days, weeks, and months.
Mark’s heart is so full of love and positivity, knowing and seeing the best in people and in everything around himself. That’s one of the many things you like about him. He’s selfless, he helps out even if you don’t ask him to, he makes sure everyone’s day is at least a little bit brighter after meeting him.
You never looked for the cute and polite guy that comforted you in a funny and unique way when you were late a few months ago, but you were pleased to find out he had moved to your morning seminars, and you were even more pleased seeing him a bit distressed, so you thought it would be funny checking on him and trying to cheer him up the same way he did to you.
And befriending Mark was one of the best decisions you’ve ever made. Apart from the studying together and enjoying him and his personality, him as a whole person, he’s also a great friend. He visits you during your shifts at the bookstore whenever he’s off work, he brings you iced tea or hot chocolate — depending on the weather outside, — he comes looking for books and he listens to everything you have to tell him about the new releases and your recommendations. He’s also a great listener, he loves hearing you gabbing about work gossip — especially because he’s met your coworkers many times and he got to really know them, — so the gossip sessions are always juicy, because he gives proper reactions and then wise pieces of advice.
It becomes sort of a habit, visiting each other at work whenever one of you has time off and the other is working, and you drop by the record store often, visiting him becomes a normal activity in your schedule after doing your regular tasks and chores.
“Hi, Y/n!” Haechan greets from behind the till, eyeing the bag you’re carrying in your hand, “Mark! Y/n’s here!” He screams towards the backroom, and you look around yourself, noticing no customer’s around.
“Slow evening?” You ask, reaching the register, soles of your sneakers thumping on the wooden floors.
The boy in front of you scoffs, moving his hand around, “Do you always have to ask the obvious?”
You throw him a look, raising your eyebrow at him, but your incoming bickering is interrupted the moment Mark comes back from the backroom, huge cardboard box in his arms, which he places carefully on the floor before straightening up to look at you.
“Hi,” he beams, the lights hanging from the store’s ceiling making his eyes sparkle.
“Hi, Mark,” you reply back, and you place the bag you’ve been holding on their till. “I brought dinner, your favourite,” you let him know, and he gasps, looking inside the bag for all the stuff you bought, “And you,” you turn your head to look at Haechan, “You don’t get to eat any, I’ll have your portion instead,”
“Wait, what?” He whines, looking inside the bag Mark is inspecting, “Is it because of what I said?”
But you can’t reply or mock him, Mark interrupting you once again, “What did you say to her? Did you upset her?” His tone is serious, inquiring, and his hands are still inside the bag, his attention fully on his friend now.
“I swear it was nothing bad!” He defends himself, and the serious and menacing way Mark is looking at him is making you let out a huff of laughter.
“Let’s just eat, I worked all day on that play and I’m starving,” you tell them, following them in the backroom, where Mark offers you his usual sitting spot, and you plop on it waiting for him to unpack all the dinner you brought over.
“Yo what? You already finished the play?” Mark suddenly remembers your words from a few minutes ago, and he stops his movements, extending a plastic fork towards you, but he doesn’t wait for you to answer, his attention back on the takeaway containers. You know he’s hungry, and you know you made the right decision when you stopped by his favourite diner on your way here. “You wanna have the chicken?” He extends it towards you as he inspects the other containers.
“That’s yours Mark, I got you your favourite dish,” you push it back into his hands, because you want him to have his favourite dish and you don’t mind eating something else. You bought portions for the three of you and you like all three of them, so it doesn’t matter which one is ultimately yours.
“Don’t be silly!” His voice breaks with sassiness, rolling his eyes and grabbing a plastic fork for himself, “You love chicken, we’ll just share,” he sits on the floor by your feet, placing the container on your knees before taking a forkful of food, and you have to keep the container with both hands so it doesn’t spill all over yourself and him. “The play…” he remembers where he left off earlier, chewing on a mouthful of chicken, “Did you finish it? Want me to look over it?”
“You’re already busy as it is, Mark, I don’t want to bother you,” you reply back, moving the pieces of chicken around in the the aluminium container.
“Hey, stop it! I’m basically here volunteering and just so you know, you would never bother me. As a matter of fact, I love your works, you’re like my own personal Virginia Woolf!” He struggles to grab a piece of chicken with his fork, “Besides, we do it all the time, you’ll read mine when I’m done with it,” he winks at you, and for some reason heat creeps up to your cheeks while you struggle to get the conversation going, and a gagging sound can be heard from beside you.
“You guys are disgusting,” Haechan retorts, taking his beef casserole away as he stands to his feet, “Talking about uni and literature all the time,” he tsks, exiting the backroom while carrying his container with both hands back to the cashier till.
And in all truth, you guys really are disgusting. Disgustingly oblivious, that’s what you are. ‘Virginia Woolf’? What the fuck is wrong with Mark? With you? Is this writer rizz? Haechan thinks to himself, and most importantly, does it work?
In all fairness, there’s nothing disgusting about literature. Haechan actually loves spending time with both you and Mark, because that’s his getaway from his limiting engineering degree, which the arts have absolutely no business being part of. But he loves literature, loves hearing your discourse and criticism of literary works, the debates you and Mark have about genres and some author’s writing style being under scrutiny whenever you have to read a book you despise. It brings joy and light into his calculated life, and he gets to enjoy everything you enlighten him on.
But he can’t stand being next to you and Mark, because the both of you are painfully oblivious. He sees the little bubble the two of you are in, but he’s not sure you’re realising where your friendship is heading. And Haechan thinks it’s going to be either the best outcome for the both of you, or a fucking heartbreaking disaster.
Throughout the one year and a half you’ve known and become friends with Mark, he’s never really thought about dating or going out with anybody, and he doesn’t know how or why, or what part of him was hoping for you to feel the same way. Yet here he is, walking alone from his stupid shift at the record store while you’re out with an idiot you met through him. An idiot you went on a date with and then started seeing regularly.
Damn the day Mark thought it would be a good idea to meet people through his other friends, and then ultimately introducing you to them as well. Additionally, damn the day Mark actually realised he had feelings for you, because it made him become literally sick. You were, and still are the only thing on his mind. He’s worried sick about not hearing from you that often anymore, and he realises you’re spending less time with him outside of uni because of this new potential relationship you have going on. He doesn’t even know what to call it, he’d never ask you something so private even if you’re close friends, because hearing the answer come out past your pretty lips might break his heart.
He’s not sure if it started when you were so kind to him the day he moved classes last year, or maybe when you started being by his side so often he doesn’t even recall how and when it happened, it just did — you were there for him and he swears he doesn’t remember what life was like before you made an appearance. See? These are the kind of thoughts that got him in trouble in the first place. Thinking of you this way, everything is revolving around you and he doesn’t know when it started, he just knows that you’re his whole world, yet he can’t let you know right now while you’re seeing that dude. The guy might be great for you, although Mark thinks he’s an idiot and you’re way too beautiful and smart to be with… him. You’re everything and that dude is just… a dude. He’s nothing but ordinary, nothing but a walking red flag that should have alarms ringing in your head. Again, damn the day Mark introduced him to you.
But Mark is very respectful, and only has your best interests at heart, only wants the best for you, and if that means only seeing you during classes and study sessions at the library and not outside uni and work, then that’s it, he’ll learn to live with it. He’ll learn to live with the knowledge that to him, you’re the one that got away.
He hasn’t seen you around that often in a month or so, you stopped coming to the record store, and it even made Haechan question him about everything that’s going on. But at least he’s glad you’re still close to him and you still sit next to him every seminar and lecture you attend, just like you always did.
And the moment John starts the lecture and you’re not by his side, Mark stiffens in his seat. Are you sick? Are you okay? He hopes nothing happened to you — he thinks he’d do the unimaginable to that guy you’re seeing.
He looks at the time in the corner of his desktop, knowing John’s ten minutes policy. You still have seven left to show up.
He fishes for his phone, although he knows John has another strict policy of no phones allowed, but honestly Mark doesn’t care. If John kicks him out today, it’d be perfect, it would allow him to come look for you. He stops his fingers from unlocking the phone when he hears a soft knock on the lecture hall’s door, and he hopes you’re the one knocking. Many people are missing today, and he wants — needs — for you to come through that door. You haven’t skipped the literature lecture in a year and a half, and Mark is already on the edge of his seat ready to find a bullshit excuse as the reason for him leaving the lecture unexpectedly, in case you’re not the one knocking.
But he lets out the breath he definitely knew he was holding when he sees your head peeking from behind the door, looking at John with a small smile and you bow your head apologising for being late. Your professor doesn’t stop the lecture like he usually does in order to chew your head a bit, instead he continues doing his explaining like he knows the script by heart — which is probably true — doing a swift movement with his hand to instruct you to go to your seat. Maybe it’s the fact that there aren’t many students here today so he’d rather let even latecomers attend just to have an audience, but Mark is glad he doesn’t have to go through five minutes of John telling everyone for the millionth time about the importance of attendance.
You take your usual seat next to him, and he visibly relaxes feeling you close, and knowing you took your usual seat next to him. Exactly where you belong. Mark’s head falls into his hands, — he has to be able to control these thoughts, especially when he’s near you so he doesn’t just blurt out to you something you’d be horrified of.
You tap your nail on the already old sticky note on your laptop, trying to get his attention. ‘You good?’ You ask him through the note he gave you in this very hall, what feels like a hundred years ago instead of not even two.
He looks at the note, and his chest feels heavy. The sticky note has become something so important to him, that’s how he met you, and then every time he works on his laptop he’s reminded of how you befriended him, while looking at your handwriting on the note you gave him. The day the sticky notes are gone it will be the day it will really dawn on him that you’re unreachable, and he has to prepare himself for it.
You tap your finger on the note once again, seeing as he’s lost into his own head while his gaze kept lingering on the blue note on your laptop, and you see him jolting a bit in his seat, immediately nodding to you as soon as he realises he had spaced out for a bit without giving you a proper answer.
He doesn’t take a single note during the lecture, he knows you’ll give them to him anyway after today’s over, and he patiently waits for the two hours to pass, looking at your fingers typing down with fast precision, sometimes leaning a bit into your space without realising, retracting himself immediately when he starts sensing your perfume. You smell clean, you still have the same musky fragrance you wore the first time he met you, and he can’t help but think that he wants his pillows to smell like this, he wants his hoodies to engulf him with your scent. Mark scratches his head once again, pulling a bit on his hair along the way. Get it together, he warns himself.
So he starts looking at what the people in the front rows are typing down, what they have on their desks, he even pays attention to John’s idiotic and lowkey misogynistic views. The moment the class is dismissed, Mark breathes with relief, grabbing his stuff quickly and reaching for you arm, making sure you’re not getting away from him too fast.
“Is everything okay, Mark?” You question him, looking at the way his hand is slightly squeezing your forearm, like he’s afraid you might go away if he’s not careful enough.
Mark looks at the way everyone leaves and you’re taking your sweet time packing all your stuff up. “Is everything okay, Y/n?” He turns the question on your end.
“Why wouldn’t it be?” You let out a forced laugh, and he can tell you’re trying very hard to sound your usual self. But he doesn’t push it, hoping you’ll be the one to open up to him instead of him having to force words out of you.
“Are you working today?” His voice is just a bit above a calm whisper, laced with raspiness, and his eyes hold a glimmer while looking into yours.
You set back comfortably, half of your items still on the desk in front of you, and your shoulder touches his.
“I have today off,” you mumble, and his eyebrows furrow with worry, knowing you don’t usually take days off. “Can I,” you mumble, turning your head to look at him, “Can I drop by later?”
Mark thinks angels just started serenading him when he registers your words. He wants to ask you if your idiot sort of boyfriend wouldn’t mind letting go of you for a few hours, but he keeps his curiosities to himself.
“Of course!” He grins at you, bumping your shoulder with his, and you’re sure that if anyone saw you right now they’d think you’re a pair of idiots who are also high as a kite in the sky. You’re the only two people left in the lecture hall and you love the quiet of it. “I’m alone tonight, Haechan’s out of town,” he lets you know, “I’ll sort through some old stuff, it’d be nice to have you there with me,” Mark gulps as soon as he realises what the last two words might be implying, and he wants to kick himself. He warned himself about this.
“Do you have some music to show me?” You ask, beaming at him, and it’s a sight he’s missed terribly much, and it makes his chest feel so full, suddenly.
“Maybe,” he lets his answer linger, knowing you like coming by so he can put some records on for you. Besides reading and recommending stuff to each other, Mark really loves sharing his taste in music with you, and getting a peek into yours. Your writing and the music you listen to will always be the mirror to what’s going on inside your mind and heart, and Mark hopes he’ll be able to take a peek tonight.
“I brought chicken,” you raise the bag you’re carrying, for him to see. You took your sweet time getting to the record store, while Mark literally started feeling like his insides might start boiling with anticipation. Anticipation of seeing you, of just spending some time with you outside of classes.
“Wanna share?” He asks, pushing his glasses higher on his nose. You smile softly, getting behind the counter and sitting on his high chair while he stands by your side, and you both start digging into the steamy container with your plastic forks.
Before you arrived at the store, Mark made sure to finish most of his work, so he’d be free to actually spend time with you instead of worrying about work.
You swallow the bite you’re chewing on, tapping Mark’s arm, “Does anyone ever come in here? Cause every time I’m coming over I can hear crickets! How are you guys getting paid?” You’re outraged, and Mark bursts out laughing, mouth half full of chicken, which prompts him to turn his head away from your view.
“Mornings are the worst,” he lets you know once he recomposes himself, “Thankfully I changed my shifts to the afternoon ones,”
You hum in understanding, going back to your chicken. There’s comfortable silence between you two, the sweet lulling of Aretha Franklin’s voice soothing the atmosphere around the deserted record store. But Mark decides he can’t keep his mouth shut any longer, his tongue itching to speak the words that have strangled him for a few weeks now.
“How have you been? How’s your-” he stops himself, suddenly too aware that there’s no going back. His choice of words might come back to bite him, “Is he your boyfriend?” It takes him all the self control in this world not to call him an idiot in front of you.
You choke on your bite, giving him a bewildered look. “Mark,” you warn, but your tone is still soft, “He’s not my boyfriend, and I’d rather we didn’t talk about him right now,” you take a sip from your can of coke.
“What did that fucker do?” He sighs, throwing his fork into the container before turning to look at you, still sitting on the hair chair. “Did he ghost you? I have his licence plate, I can lure Haechan into slicing his tyres,” he was already making plans, thinking out loud, giving you a peek into his own thoughts.
“What? No!” You frown, grabbing him by the arm to give him a little squeeze before turning him around to look at you, “I haven’t seen the guy in more than a month, Mark, there’s nothing to worry about,” you try to reassure him, but his eyes become the size of saucers while looking at you.
“A month? What happened between you two?” He knows this is a very risky question and he’s not sure he wants to know the answer to.
You take another sip from your can of coke, a hiccup interrupting you right before you were going to open your mouth to talk. It’s something that happens to you very frequently when you drink soda and Mark finds it incredibly endearing.
“He wasn’t that bad, actually,” you tell him, and you see him rolling his eyes at you. He needs to take the sassiness down a notch if he wants to hear the end of your story, “We had a few talks and he opened my eyes on some things, made me realise I have feelings for someone else,”
Mark feels like fainting. There’s no way you’re openly telling him you’re going after another man after he was ready to jump around this store out of joy of getting rid of the idiot dude.
“You have feelings for someone else?” He makes sure he heard you right, and you don’t miss the way he scrunches his nose without realising.
You nod, lips firm in a straight line, “Kinda,”
Mark takes a big breath before propping himself on one of his elbows on the counter, throwing away the glasses resting on his nose, “Who is it?” He asks shamelessly, and it takes everything in your power not to smile at him. The way his eyes are so big in size, and so sparkly while looking at you, you can see your reflection into them.
You shrug, looking elsewhere. The chicken dish suddenly becomes very interesting as you start playing around with the veggies.
“Who do you have feelings for, Y/n?” He presses, and he swears he’ll die tonight if he doesn’t find out the one who might be on the receiving end of all your affection.
You look him straight in the eye for a moment, “Do you have a crush on someone, Mark?” You inquire, and his heart drops to his stomach while looking at you.
He furrows his brows in confusion, his gaze piercing as he looks into yours. How did you turn this on him? And why did you do it?
Wait, he tells himself, and he takes a minute to rewind the whole scene in his mind. Him bringing up the dude, you telling him you have feelings for another guy. Everything replays in his mind and it hits him.
“Do you?” You push it, swinging your legs a bit while still on the high chair, waiting to see if it clicks in his head, and by the way the look in his eyes changes, you can tell he’s gotten there, finally.
“Yes,” he mumbles, eyes roaming around your face, searching for something, “Big, fat crush on someone very important to me,”
You bat your eyelashes, feigning innocence. You know and he knows, you both know now, “Is that so?”
“Mhm,” he hums, nodding slightly, eyes still searching for something, “What would you tell this guy, the one you have feelings for, do to right now if he could hear you?”
Oh, he definitely knows, you think to yourself. “I’d tell him to kiss me,” you respond without mulling over your answer for too long. You know what you want, you’re sure of it, especially because it’s Mark who’s standing in front of you, whom you’re opening your heart to.
“Is that so?” He repeats your choice of words from just a moment ago, and you see his gaze falling on your lips. He licks his in an automatic motion, and he brings a hand up, fixing a strand of hair that was falling on your temple, behind your ears.
He gets closer to you, and you can’t help but smile as your skin prickles with anticipation. You don’t even know how it happens, but his lips are on yours in mere seconds, chasing after your velvety lips in a hungry yet content kiss.
It’s breathtaking, it’s hot, it’s sweet, it’s everything Mark imagined it to be, and the moment you bring your hands up to his neck, sliding your hands up to reach for his jawline and face, everything dawns on him.
The countless hours he spent thinking about you, he might have manifested everything into reality, and he feels like a huge weight is being lifted off his chest as he feels getting drunk into your kiss, into you, and the realisation that you aren’t and won’t ever be the one that got away.
He just hopes Haechan won’t tease him too much when he’ll check the cctv footage tomorrow.
wtf is wrong with america. elon doing that fucking salute, trump shutting down a reproductuctive health website, him admitting to rigging the election with elon (???)
The whole world witnessed the tragedy that struck our lives in Gaza, where my family and I survived many previous wars. But today we face the most dangerous and fiercest battle in the current war. We are in urgent need, as we have nothing left and are unable to secure our basic needs of food, water and safe shelter.😍💔
Here is our story - On October 7th, our lives changed forever, as my family and I were evacuated from southern Gaza to West Mawasi Khan Yunis, hoping to return soon, but it was not meant to happen. It was a new house I built before the war, it cost me a lot of money and I couldn't be happy with it. It was surrounded, burned, and then completely destroyed. Our home, once a bastion of hope, is now in ruins, a stark reminder of our shattered dreams.
The night before we left for Mawasi Khan Yunis al-Bahr was terrifying. The sounds of bombing were everywhere, making a loud noise that seemed to penetrate our souls. Each explosion shook the ground like an earthquake, sending waves of fear through our trembling bodies. It fills us with fear. The smell of destruction and blood wafted through the air, making it difficult to breathe. When dawn came, we saw the devastation all around us💘💝❤️🔥
I am Jamie Grime, I am from Corpus Christi Texas, and I am hosting this GoFundMe to help Asmaa… Jamie Grime needs your support for Help Asma
asmaa's account and campaign were recently created, and have not yet been verified. i personally cannot vet/verify fundraisers, however i can say that i did not find any duplicates of the photos shared through reverse image search, and i am inclined to believe this campaign is legitimate.
$300/$20,000 has been raised as of august 28. please share and consider donating! if you can spare even $5, it adds up to make a difference, especially for a recently created campaign that needs help to build up momentum.
This campaign is vetted by association through @mohiy-gaza2 (vet). Asmaa is his sister. Proof under cut.
Disclaimer: I am NOT an official vetter and I did NOT vet this. That was done by the aforementioned vetted Palestinian, I'm just the messenger. I personally believe this campaign is legitimate given the evidence and encourage you to share and donate if you feel comfortable.
Although Asmaa's campaign reached its original $20,000 goal this week, she has extended her goal because the cost of evacuation and survival is much higher now, and the various fees are very high.
As of 00:20 GMT on 29 November 2024, Asmaa's campaign is up to $21,692 / $100,000.
Like many Gazzans now, Asmaa urgently needs help to buy food, and particularly flour, which can cost as much as $300 per bag and is becoming harder and harder to get. Please help her to buy more flour now while it's still available!
From Flour to Rubble: Ismail's Journey of Resilience
Ismail, a baker from Gaza, on… Valeria V needs your support for Please Help Ismail
I'm Ismail Almughanni an entrepreneur from devastated Gaza trying his best to rebuild his Bakery 🍞🥐🥖
On a quiet morning, the aroma of freshly baked bread filled the street, signaling the start of a new day at your small bakery, a place you took immense pride in. For years, this bakery had been a haven where people from all around would gather to enjoy the warm, delicious pastries and bread that you carefully crafted. It was a symbol of hard work, a beacon of hope, and a destination for anyone seeking a taste of comfort amidst life's challenges.
But one day, in the blink of an eye, everything changed. The sounds of bombing began to shake the city, and it wasn’t long before the fires of war reached your neighborhood. There was no warning, no chance to escape or save what you could. Shells rained down on the district that housed your beloved bakery. You watched helplessly from a distance, unable to do anything.
Minutes passed like hours. When the noise finally subsided, and the thick smoke that blocked out the sun began to clear, you looked towards your cherished place. It was destroyed.
The walls that once protected you and brought you closer to your customers had collapsed, and the oven where you had kindled the flames of hope had turned to ash. Everything was shattered, broken, as if that place had never been a sanctuary of peace and comfort.
But the destruction wasn’t just physical. The pain in your heart was far greater than any material loss, a place filled with beautiful memories now reduced to rubble. The moments when you saw smiles on people’s faces as they savored your bread, the laughter that echoed through the bakery—those were now just memories, dissolving in the ashes of devastation.
As days went by, you tried to piece together the fragments, not just of the bakery but of yourself as well. You knew rebuilding wouldn’t be easy, and the wounds left by the war wouldn’t heal quickly. But you also knew that the hope you had infused into your bread would remain alive in your heart, even if the tables and chairs were destroyed, even if the bakery itself was gone.
The bakery may have been destroyed by war, but its spirit lives on in you, in everyone who tasted your bread, and in everyone who walked into that small place and found a slice of happiness.
From Flour to Rubble: Ismail's Journey of Resilience
Ismail, a baker from Gaza, on… Valeria V needs your support for Please Help Ismail
I suffer from kidney failure, and with limited hospital resources, I ask you to help me go out to receive treatment so that I can take care of my children.
I am displaced in tents. I have been displaced more than 10 times, and my house was bombed, and I have no shelter, and this makes my condition worse.
Every $10 or $20 will contribute to saving my family
My son Adam, who is two and a half years old, suffers from constant constipation and we do not know the reason Please help Adam go out for treatment outside the Gaza Strip 🍉🇵🇸 and be of help to us We cannot provide any kind of treatment or healthy food. Any donation, even a small one, makes a difference Please donate and share 🙏🙏🙏
Hello everyone, I will tell you my story in the war in the Gaza Strip and … Hasan hamdan needs your support for Help us survive 10 months of
