#the object series

[anghraine]

So one of the revelations from watching the entirety of TOS is that Kirk and Spock's relationship is not only every bit as homoerotic as rumored and then some—though it is—but that they are also incredibly fucking unhinged about it. So for this week's poll, I wanted to honor this discovery!

(The character limitations don't allow for much detail, and in context these are even more incredible, so I'll add the links/clips/summations beneath the cut!)

1— "The Empath" (Season 3)

Context: the girl of the week, Gem, is a member of a species of mute empaths able to absorb others' injuries through sympathy and generally drawn to positive emotion. Meanwhile, Kirk is tortured by other parties in the episode to test her willingness to take on others' suffering, and he falls into an exhausted unconscious heap on a bench.

Gem starts to head away towards McCoy, but is suddenly arrested by something she senses and turns to look at Spock, who is moving over to sit next to Kirk and watch him sleep. When Spock realizes he's being observed, he turns away and pretends to study data in his tricorder. Gem isn't fooled, however, and walks back over to him, touching Spock's shoulder and staring at him with wonder in her face over this simple feeling whatever his emotion is while delicate music plays in the background. See for yourself:

2— "Shore Leave" (Season 1)

Context: Kirk is fatigued and strained and in physical pain after ... uh, everything (this episode was aired immediately after "The Conscience of the King" and "Balance of Terror," so it's not hard to buy). He tries to stretch out his back and Spock, standing behind Kirk with his hands on the back of the captain's chair, pulls his hands back and asks him if something is wrong. Kirk explains it's just the kink in his back. A pretty female yeoman starts massaging his back (uh) and Kirk welcomes it under the mistaken belief that it's Spock doing it:

"That's it. A little higher, please. Push. Push hard. Dig it in there, Mr.—"

Spock lifts a brow and pointedly steps forward so Kirk can see it's not him, and Kirk immediately orders the yeoman to stop with a meaningful look at Spock.

(Bonus episode points: Spock's smug satisfaction at tricking Kirk into taking shore leave where McCoy failed, and them grasping at each other when they're in danger.)

3— "A Taste of Armageddon" (Season 1)

Context: After Kirk successfully uses a risky gambit to trick two neighboring peoples into making peace rather than continuing to murder millions of people via computers, he explains his thinking:

It was a calculated risk. Still, the Eminians keep a very orderly society, and actual war is a very messy business. A very, very messy business. I had a feeling that they would do anything to avoid it, even talk peace.

When Spock is dubious about acting based on "a feeling," Kirk adds:

Sometimes, Mr. Spock, a feeling is all we humans have to go on.

Spock replies:

Captain, you almost make me believe in luck.

And then Kirk dials it up to:

Why, Mr. Spock, you almost make me believe in miracles.

Then the camera just focuses on Spock visibly trying to process this and the episode ends.

4— "Requiem for Methuselah" (Season 3)

Context: this is one of relatively few episodes in which Kirk actually gets to pursue a woman because he likes her rather than desperate circumstances; as usual with people he cares about, she dies. He's so emotionally drained at this point in the show that, upon returning to the ship, he describes his immortal rival for her love and himself as "A very old and lonely man, and a young and lonely man," mutters that he wishes he could just forget it all, and falls asleep at a table.

Meanwhile, Spock (who has been visibly intense and uncomfortable throughout the whole episode) stays nearby as McCoy enters. Spock gestures at him to stay quiet and McCoy briefly exposits a plot point to Spock, then segues into an unexpectedly vicious, half-smiling monologue about what Kirk's gone through in the episode and how Spock could never understand it:

Considering his opponent's longevity, truly an eternal triangle. You wouldn't understand that, would you, Spock? You see, I feel sorrier for you than I do for him, because you'll never know the things that love can drive a man to. The ecstasies, the miseries, the broken rules, the desperate chances, the glorious failures, the glorious victories. All of these things you'll never know simply because the word love isn't written into your book. Goodnight, Spock.

Spock just endures and politely replies "Goodnight, doctor," but after McCoy leaves, he allows himself to respond. Without so much as a scene break, Spock slowly walks over to the unconscious Kirk, touches his face, and mind-melds with him while he sleeps. And then he wipes Kirk's memory (!!!) of the tragic romance with his rival this girl, murmuring:

Forget.

5— "And the Children Shall Lead" (Season 3)

Context: a simple instance from a weak episode, but also ... damn, it's a lot. A bunch of children under the malign influence of an evil imperialist alien have managed to take over the Enterprise. This isn't the first time something roughly similar has happened, but at this point, Kirk has a full on panic attack as he and Spock leave the bridge and take the turbolift. Kirk clings to Spock as he melts down and Spock unsuccessfully tries to calm him with "Captain," but it only works when he murmurs, "Jim."

Kirk freezes and then immediately calms back down to his usual rational self. Spock is still concerned and Kirk assures him he'll be fine now (and is).

6— "Miri" (Season 1)

McCoy, Janice Rand, Kirk, and Spock are all gathered around trying to figure out the disease of the week, which has infected all of them (though Spock is asymptomatic). Kirk and Spock lock eyes and Spock points out that they can't go back to the ship, including him since he'd be a carrier, and then he adds:

Whatever happens, I can't go back to the ship ... and I do want to go back to the ship, captain.

Kirk smiles slowly and they just stare at each other as if Janice and McCoy had dropped off the face of the planet.

7— "The Tholian Web" (Season 3)

Context: Kirk is trapped in a different phase of space while a local anomaly is gradually driving the crew of the Enterprise to insane rage. At the same time, the hostile Tholians are threatening the Enterprise with the obvious intent of killing them all within short order, and Kirk's disappearance places Spock in command throughout this triple crisis. Spock refuses to order an escape, instead insisting on the Enterprise remaining in place to keep trying to rescue Kirk, homicidal insanity of the crew be damned, even as the Tholians began attacking.

McCoy urges Spock to prioritize the welfare of the Enterprise and its crew above Kirk, telling him they can't afford to stick around and keep trying. Spock refuses and things predictably get worse.

McCoy confronts him about his priorities:

You should've known what could've happened and done everything in your power to safeguard your crew. That is the mark of a starship captain, like Jim.

Plot events lead everyone, including Spock, to believe that Kirk is dead, and as acting commander, Spock also has to lead the memorial service:

as a result of the battle, we must accept the fact that Captain Kirk is no longer alive. [...] I shall not attempt to voice the quality of respect and admiration which Captain Kirk commanded. Each of you must evaluate the loss in the privacy of your own thoughts.

McCoy continues to lash out at him directly afterwards:

He was a hero in every sense of the word, yet his life was sacrificed for nothing. The one thing that would have given his death meaning is the safety of the Enterprise. Now you've made that impossible, Mr. Spock. [...] I really came here to find out why you stayed and fought. [...] You could have assured yourself of a captaincy by leaving the area. But you chose to stay. Why?

Spock coldly replies:

I need not explain my rationale to you or any other member of this crew.

They snap at each other until they find the recording left for both of them by Kirk in the case of his death. It (hilariously) begins:

Bones, Spock, since you are playing this tape, we will assume that I am dead, that the tactical situation is critical, and both of you are locked in mortal combat.

The message is honestly both wise and heartwarming about how they should respect each other and both have important qualities to offer in a crisis. McCoy immediately feels ashamed of how he's been behaving at such a moment, and tells Spock:

Spock, I, er, I'm sorry. It does hurt, doesn't it?

Spock bleakly replies:

What would you have me say, doctor?

8— "Turnabout Intruder" (Season 3)

Context: in the very peculiar series finale, Kirk's autocratic and vengeful ex-girlfriend uses some kind of machine to take control of his body, leaving him trapped in her body. Spock notices almost immediately that "Kirk" is acting out of character and that "Janice" clearly knows something, so he goes to talk to "her" and Kirk tells him everything. Spock thinks it's possible but there's no certain proof, and Kirk urges him to mind-meld with him:

You are closer to the captain than anyone in the universe. You know his thoughts. What does your telepathic mind tell you now?

Spock melds with him and is promptly convinced.

Bonus: Spock tries to help Kirk escape shortly thereafter and holds his wrist/hand for a good twenty seconds.

9— "The Paradise Syndrome" (Season 3)

Context: Kirk becomes a carefree amnesiac stranded on a planet of transplanted Indigenous people (it's as bad as it sounds), but there's a much more well-done subplot around Spock commanding the Enterprise in the meanwhile. He stubbornly risks the ship (again) to try and rescue Kirk, but the attempt disastrously fails, leaving the ship with only impulse power. McCoy says in some frustration:

Well, Spock, you took your calculated risk in your calculated Vulcan way, and you lost. You lost for us, you lost for that planet, and you lost for Jim.

Despite his exasperation, McCoy still tries to get Spock to rest. Spock simply ignores him and orders the ship to head towards the planet Kirk is stranded on, still stubbornly set on rescuing him, even though they have no warp capabilities and have to travel entirely by impulse power. When McCoy protests that it'll take months, Spock replies:

Exactly 59.223 days, doctor.

And there's no clever solution around it, either. They do take nearly two months getting to the planet and Spock spends 58 days of the journey fixated on figuring out the puzzle that will allow them to save Kirk. McCoy tries to get him to eat or sleep, since he's done little of either for over 50 days, but Spock refuses to do anything except prepare for rescuing Kirk:

I'm also aware when we arrive at the planet, we'll have barely four hours to effect rescue. I believe those symbols are the key. [...] I am not hungry, doctor. [...] My physical condition is not important, doctor. That obelisk is.

McCoy eventually threatens to call security to force him away from studying the puzzle and make him lie down, so Spock finally goes to bed. As soon as McCoy is gone and out of earshot, Spock just gets back up and returns to contemplating the puzzle until he has a breakthrough.

Then upon beaming down and finding an injured, still-amnesiac Kirk, Spock mind-melds with him to try and repair his memory.

I am Spock. You are James Kirk. Our minds are moving closer. Closer, closer, closer, James Kirk. Closer. [...] Our minds are one. [...] Spock!

Spock breaks the link and falls back, gasping. When McCoy asks what's wrong, Spock just says:

His mind. He is an extremely dynamic individual.

10— "The Enemy Within" (Season 1)

Context: Kirk has been split into two people, representing each half of his personality: one half is noble, intellectual, and restrained, but cautious and indecisive, while the other is strong and bold, but vicious, selfish, and violent. At this point in the episode, Spock et al don't know about the split, so good!Kirk is oblivious and evil!Kirk's bizarre behavior is being attributed to normal Kirk. McCoy sends Spock to the captain's quarters to find out what's wrong with him.

Spock dutifully goes to Kirk's quarters, where he finds good!Kirk relaxing without a shirt on and promptly realizes he's gay loses the ability to put normal sentences together. It's difficult to overstate or even describe the homoeroticism of this scene, so judge for yourself:

Bonus: after Spock realizes he's dealing with only half of Kirk and has taken up helping him present a good front, he has to keep correcting good!Kirk's weaknesses and tells him that acting like actual Kirk means "You can't afford the luxury of being anything less than perfect."

11— "Errand of Mercy" (Season 1)

Context: Kirk and Spock are trying to pass themselves off as members of a species of ostensibly docile, peaceful people being (ostensibly) colonized by the Klingon Empire. Kirk in particular struggles to keep his head down, and when a Klingon shoves and threatens Spock, Kirk loses his shit and nearly clobbers the Klingon. Spock manages to calm him down and as they walk away, Kirk mutters:

You didn't really think I was going to beat his head in, did you?

Spock replies:

I thought you might.

Kirk says:

You're right.

12— "Amok Time" (Season 2)

We all know about this one, let's be real. It's difficult to even choose a moment—Spock confiding in Kirk about Vulcan mating practices (Kirk: O_O) and his loathing of the prospect, with Kirk protecting his confidentiality ("I haven't heard a word you've said"), Kirk defending his own choice to implode his career and defy Starfleet (without breaking Spock's confidence) to rush Spock to Vulcan ("I owe him my life a dozen times over. Isn't that worth a career? He's my friend"), Spock telling Kirk he'll undoubtedly find pon farr "distasteful" and Kirk responding "Will I?", Spock begging T'Pau not to let T'Pring choose Kirk as her champion ("I will do what I must [in combat], T'Pau, but not with him! ... In the name of my fathers, forbid. Forbid! T'Pau. I plead with thee! I beg!"), Spock's bleak response to T'Pau's "live long and prosper" after his victory ("I shall do neither. I have killed my captain and my friend"), Spock explaining that his pon farr vanished the moment he thought he'd killed Kirk ("When I thought I had killed the captain, I found I had lost all interest in T'Pring"), McCoy trying to get Spock to admit that his relief at Kirk's survival is illogical and Spock blatantly lying that he is just concerned with the loss of an effective captain, to which Kirk simply responds "Yes, Mr. Spock. I understand" while McCoy splutters ...

But honestly, my favorite is the brief moment of unrestrained emotion when Spock discovers Kirk is still alive and he cries "Jim!" as his whole face lights up and he grabs him. It's one of the only times in TOS that he's in his right mind and yet too overwhelmed to hide what he feels, and it's famous for a reason.

[deimostes]

alright jacknjellify where is she.

[goldensunset]

when people refer to canon story-relevant kingdom hearts games as ‘spinoffs’ it makes me sad not only for the obvious reasons i always say but also bc like man i WISH this series had spinoffs. imagine what they could do if they had permission from nomura to truly go off the rails and ignore the greater canon for a second and just do some fun whimsical plotless thing in an alternate universe. imagine a fishing/boating game on destiny islands. kh fighting game. it is an injustice that we have been deprived of kingdom karts. can anyone hear me

[mimefish]

proposal everybody. the chariot for Joel's winner's tarot card because. because the car. guys please hear me out

[a-alexysss]

I uuuhhhhh uhhhmmuh uhhhhh errrrrrrrrrmmmmmm guhhhhhhh uhhhh can I violently throw Miku figures at Donnie or whatever uhhhhhhhhhh uhh erm eruuuuuuuhhhhhhh uhmmmmmmmm

He doesn't know if he should feel attacked or happy...

- ♡ - Taglist

@coffeestation , @randomcerealbrand , @alextheleoandraphsimp, @yabadaba9000 , @hamthepan , @purplish-hue , @jazzjuju , @xxsociallyunacceptablepuppetxx , @funtimefreddynaofficial , @hyperfang6900 , @r1la , @lizzybugsblog , @themaidenofdarkness , @hakutheprotector , @bones-the-skelecat , @alexfiretruck , @jynx-fortune , @flurry-bace , @startheimpactfangirl , @little-star-kitty17 , @tf-wildstrike , @rottmntsimp , @eliankm , @juhamato ,

[oh-no-its-bird]

Canonical MILF energy gender nonconforming single mom boruto Orochimaru you continue to be the funniest thing in the whole wide world to me

[pkaykim]

studies of lovesick the series

[alive-gh0st]

❝Nostos❞

⚜️Odysseus!Mark Grayson x Penelope!Reader⚜️

𓊈Part II — ”Epistrefó”𓊉

࣪ ˖ ࣪ ⊹˖ ࣪ 𓂃﹏﹏𓂃 ོ☼𓂃𓊝﹏﹏𓂃𓂁﹏﹏𓂃 ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖ ࣪

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

📜 summary: he left. not with cruelty. not with goodbye. mark just vanished—and you stayed. it’s hard to stay normal. you try to move on. you really do. but mark’s jacket still waits on the chair. his name is still pinned in your phone. the coffee still brews for two. and the letters? they pile up. this isn’t about hope. it’s about absence. you’re not hoping. just staying, even when no one asks you to. (aka: grief without a grave. love without closure. devotion without return.)

📜 contains: sfw. slow burn. heartbreak. memory as a character. one-sided presence. two-sided ache. grief without death. love in limbo. emotionally repressed!reader. odysseus-coded!mark. penelope-coded!reader. messy handwriting vs neat black pen. polaroid keepsakes. lots of flashbacks. debbie grayson being a mother figure to reader. soft domesticity haunted by absence. boxes of unsent letters. a jacket no one can move. a girl who stays. a boy who doesn’t come back (yet).

📜 warning: emotional themes. ambiguous grief. depressive routine. unresolved love. emotional repression. survivor’s guilt. mentions of blood/injury (light). isolation. loneliness. ambiguous trauma. post-battle exhaustion. implied memory loss. existential ache. quiet breakdowns. longing dressed as daily routine. no happy ending (in this part). read gently.

📜 wc: 5983

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌a/n: thank you for waiting so patiently for this story. i had a very specific ache in mind when writing this, and it wouldn’t leave until it was posted. “Nostos” is the first half of a two-part heartbreak duology (the second part, Epistrefó, is in the works). remember that sometimes, love doesn’t vanish—it just lingers in doorways and folds itself into jackets we simply can’t put away.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

You don’t check your phone anymore. Not really.

Not for him.

You check the battery. The time. The weather. The signal bars in the top corner that say you’re still here, and he’s still not. But you don’t expect anything.

You don’t hope.

Not anymore.

Not since Mark disappeared one night and never came back. Not since his contact slipped further down your recent list with each passing day, replaced by bills, deliveries, and people who went back to normal too quickly.

Still, you charge it every night. Still, you leave the phone ringer on.

Maybe that’s not hope. Maybe it’s just routine. The kind that sneaks in and settles behind your ribs when life starts to rot slowly.

The kind that whispers—if I just do this one more time, maybe…

You wake before your alarm.

The morning light creeps in like a slow apology, filtering half-heartedly through the curtains. Your hand finds the phone instinctively, thumb brushing the screen without really looking.

No missed calls. No new messages. One software update.

You ignore it all.

The house is quiet. But it’s not peace. It’s absence.

The faucet drips every six seconds. The kettle clicks on. You don’t remember pressing it. The hum of heating water sounds too loud in the silence you’ve been pretending doesn’t suffocate you.

You sit at the table with your legs folded underneath you, the mug pressed between both palms. The steam curls upward, ghostlike—like something leaving.

No movement, no noise, no presence.

You scroll anyway.

His name is still pinned.

“Mark 💫”

You don’t remember what the emoji was supposed to mean.

He added it himself like it was hilarious. Said it made him look mysterious. Said he was “a riddle in human form” and you had laughed so hard you snorted.

Mark grinned like he liked the sound of your laughter too much.

That was before.

Now the last message from him still sits there like a paperweight you never moved.

be there soon

You didn’t respond.

You never got the chance.

And you remember—

It was late.

You were at your front door, holding it open with your socked foot, arm crossed over your chest, just watching him from the hallway.

His jacket was unzipped, hoodie strings uneven, hair still wet from the shower he’d apparently taken somewhere else.

Mark didn’t say where. You didn’t ask.

You always meant to ask more questions. You never did.

“I’ll be quick,” he’d told you.

You frowned. “Isn’t that what you said last time?”

He gave you that look.

The one that said ’don’t ruin this’. The one he always pulled when he was five seconds away from pulling you into a hug and ten seconds from disappearing entirely.

He kissed the side of your head instead.

“You’ll see me soon.”

A look. A promise. Nothing more.

You’d watched him walk off with his hands shoved in his pockets, like he didn’t know what to do with them when they weren’t on you.

And then Mark never came back.

Back in the present, you unlock your phone again. Not for anything. Just for motion.

The drafts are still there.

You don’t even know how many you’ve written now. Some are seconds long. Some are full paragraphs. All unsent. All useless.

U alive or what lol

Remind me again why ur hot when ur annoying

It’s raining and you’re missing it. Again

Mark where are you

I should’ve told you not to go

Just say you miss me already. Coward

You promised, you promised, you promised

Just say something… anything

I hate you for this.

You tap a new one open. Blank screen. Blinking cursor. And you type.

Hey. You probably won’t see this. That’s fine. But I saw someone yesterday who almost looked like you. He smiled. You don’t really smile like that, but I wanted it to be you so bad I didn’t care. Just thought I’d tell you that. That I thought it was you.

That I wished it was.

You stare at it for a long time.

Then you lock the screen. Set it facedown. You don’t delete it. You don’t send it. You don’t do anything, really.

The ringer stays on.

Because maybe tomorrow, the silence will break. Maybe tomorrow, he won’t still be gone.

Or maybe because that’s what you do when you love someone.

You wait.

══⊱≼⚜️≽⊰══

You didn’t mean to hold it.

Today was supposed to be about cleaning. Supposed to be about moving things around—there were sheets to wash, shoes to line up, that one drawer that collects things nobody owns.

You were supposed to finally put away the pieces of him that stayed even when he didn’t.

But the chair stopped you.

The jacket was still there. Still slung across the back like he just left it yesterday.

Like Mark might still come back for it.

It hangs exactly where he used to sit, where he’d tip backward on two legs and pretend he wasn’t breaking the chair every time. You used to scold him for that.

Not seriously. Not like you meant it.

Now, there’s no one left to play pretend-annoyed with.

Your hand brushes the sleeve as you pass. And then you pause. Fingers curling into worn fabric that still holds his shape.

You lift it gently. Not all the way. Just enough to hold it against your chest.

It smells like dust now.

But beneath that—beneath time, and distance, and everything he didn’t say—there’s still a trace of him.

That warm scent of something musky and clean and entirely Mark.

Something you only noticed the first time he hugged you and it stuck to your hoodie for days. Something that crept into your sheets and your sweaters and your bloodstream without permission.

You breathe it in.

Then again. Slower.

It’s not grief, exactly.

Not yet.

It’s something duller. Something quieter.

You keep the jacket in your arms as you move to the kitchen. You don’t even realize you’re actually wearing it until you catch your reflection in the microwave—shoulders swallowed by dark fabric, sleeves dragging.

It’s too big. Always was.

He used to joke about that, too.

“That’s the point,” he’d said once, tugging it over your shoulders when you were shivering outside. “If it fits, it’s not boyfriend-coded.”

You’d rolled your eyes. “You’re not my boyfriend.”

He’d shrugged, lips tugging into a crooked smile. “Yet.”

You hadn’t answered. But you hadn’t taken it off either.

It was cold that night.

Not freezing, just sharp in the kind of way that nipped at your fingertips and made you hug yourself tighter.

You’d both been walking back from something—food, maybe. You don’t remember the details.

Just that your arms were bare and your voice was quieter than usual.

Mark had slowed beside you, watching the way you rubbed your arms.

He didn’t say anything yet. Just unzipped his jacket and handed it over like it was instinct.

You hadn’t asked. He hadn’t offered.

He just—did it.

And you took it.

He didn’t make a joke after that. Didn’t flirt. Just kept walking beside you like it was the most normal thing in the world.

But it changed everything.

Not right then. Not obviously. But something shifted.

You remember the way your stomach twisted and your heartbeat picked up. You remember thinking—

Oh.

He didn’t touch you again that night. Not once. But you felt him everywhere.

You slide the jacket off and drape it over the back of the same chair again.

Smoothing the collar down. Adjusting the shoulders like he might sit there again.

Like maybe if you leave it just right, he’ll feel it.

You keep it where you’d reach for him if he were here.

Right there. In arm’s length.

Because if you moved it—if you packed it away in a box or folded it into the back of your closet—it would mean he’s not coming back.

And you’re not ready for that.

You stir the tea. One cup. Steam rising.

Mark’s chair stays empty.

But the jacket waits.

══⊱≼⚜️≽⊰══

It just… happens.

You measure out the coffee, same as always.

Scoop. Scoop. Pour. Wait.

The rhythm is muscle memory now—something buried into the mornings like breath, like heartbeat, like him.

Then you finally catch yourself.

Two mugs.

One for you.

One for Mark.

It’s like the whole room freezes.

You’d promised yourself you stopped doing this. That you finally broke the habit. You even shoved his mug to the back of the cabinet.

You swore you were done waiting.

But it’s still there.

Still chipped on the side where he knocked it against the sink one morning and said it gave the mug “character.”

It’s still black with those stupid yellow stars.

Still his.

You should’ve noticed when your hands reached for it before your head did.

Still him.

You pour the coffee anyway. Two mugs.

No sugar in either.

Just the way he drank it—and the way you learned to drink it too.

And you leave the other warm, just in case.

You sit at the table.

Mark’s cup across from you.

Untouched.

And you remember—

It was a mess of a morning.

You were late. He was later. The kitchen was a disaster, and Mark was shirtless for absolutely no reason. You were trying to make toast while he danced barefoot on the tile to a song you couldn’t stand.

You’d told him to stop being annoying.

He’d winked. Stole the toast off your plate.

You’d shrieked—actually shrieked—and chased him around the counter, barefoot and giggling so hard you nearly slipped on the corner rug.

Mark dodged you once. Twice. Then let you catch him.

Hands on your waist, your breath in his mouth, laughter tangled between your fingers as they clutched the front of his hoodie like it meant something.

It didn’t mean anything—yet somehow meant everything.

He kissed you on the cheek. And you kissed him back.

Then he whispered, “Keep the mug warm for me.”

And of course, you do.

Every morning.

You lift your own cup. Blow on it. Sip. It burns your tongue.

The second mug cools across the table.

Quiet. Still. Full.

You rinse it out before you leave the kitchen.

You always do.

Not because it’s dirty. Not because it was used. Just because that’s what you do.

When you’re still hoping.

Even if you won’t say it out loud.

══⊱≼⚜️≽⊰══

Stay productive.

That’s what people say, right? Structure helps. Routine is good. Keep busy.

Keep moving. Keep going. Keep making plans. Keep pretending you’re fine.

Like motion can patch what memory keeps splitting open.

So you write lists now.

Groceries. Cleaning. Meal plans. Things you need. Things you might need. Things to make it look like you’re okay.

Tiny tasks that make up a life—yours now missing half of what made it feel like one.

Today’s list starts the same way as always. Blank paper. Black pen. You write the date at the top like it matters.

Like it’s going to mean anything in a week.

Monday:

• Bread

• Tea

• Paper towels

• …

You pause after the third item. Pen hovers. Eyes drift toward the drawer to your left.

You shouldn’t open it. You do anyway.

You rifle through receipts and extra takeout menus, an old flashlight that barely works. And then you find it.

Folded. Yellowed at the edges. Paper soft from time and… something else.

You unfold it slowly. You already know what it is. You know how it ends.

Mark’s handwriting stares back at you—lopsided and confident, faded blue color with that kind of controlled madness that always looked better on him than it had any right to.

Like even his grocery lists didn’t know how to sit still.

• eggs

• bananas

• that almond milk you swear tastes different but doesn’t

• granola (get the one you like, I don’t care)

• more tea, we’re out again

• the cookies you pretend you don’t eat at 1am

• trash bags

• shampoo (the purple one)

• soap

• strawwber strawberry toothpaste

• something sweet (if you’re still mad at me)

Underneath that, at a slight diagonal across the corner—

’get flowers if she still looks tired.’

Drawn beside a doodle of what might be a dog—big eyes, lopsided ears, tongue out—and just next to it those three words…

’Love You…♡’

You laugh. Or maybe choke. The sound comes out somewhere in between.

You remember this list.

You’d been teasing him for writing everything on paper instead of using his phone. He’d argued phones were ”soulless,” and that “real men use Post-its.”

You’d rolled your eyes. Mark kissed your temple.

Said lists were how he kept you with him when you weren’t there.

You press your thumb into the little heart he’d drawn beside your name. The blue ink’s slightly smeared—maybe it got wet once.

Or maybe you just touched it too many times.

It’s stupid. It’s so stupid, the way it still folds exactly the same.

The way the creases fall into place like they know how to find their way back.

Like him.

You think about throwing it away.

You even fold it once.

Then unfold it again.

You stare at it until your eyes blur—until you stop seeing the letters and only see the way he handed it to you, smug and soft and so full of quiet affection you didn’t know what to do with it.

You don’t throw it out.

You just slide it back where it came from. Like it belongs in the drawer. Like it still has a purpose.

The new list started on a different page.

And you don’t write your name on it.

You don’t add cookies or shampoo or flowers. You just… let his list stay.

Right where it was. Blue ink intact. Doodle untouched.

Like maybe it’s not a list at all—maybe it’s a letter. A timestamp. A small, stupid way to say Mark was here.

And maybe that’s enough.

══⊱≼⚜️≽⊰══

It starts like they all always do.

Somewhere between a joke and a lie. Between habit and hope.

You sharpen the black pen you always use—neat, intentional, boring—like if your handwriting is steady enough, your heart will be too.

The paper is folded once, creased twice, tucked behind the tray of teas and old receipts in the kitchen drawer.

There’s more where that came from.

This isn’t the first.

It won’t be the last.

You press the pen to the page, and let your hand lead.

﹏﹏

Hey, idiot,

I saw a guy today with the same shitty walk you have. Thought it was you.

Wasn’t. Obviously. He was taller.

And had better posture. So now I’m mad.

Not at him.

At you.

﹏﹏

You exhale.

It’s stupid—you know it is. But it doesn’t stop your fingers.

Doesn’t stop the ache curling behind your ribs like something left too long in the cold.

﹏﹏

I made coffee.

You’d say it was too sweet. You’d drink it anyway. And lie.

Like you always did.

Like I let you.

﹏﹏

You swallow hard. Blink twice. Don’t stop writing.

﹏﹏

I keep the jacket on your chair.

The mug near the kettle.

You’re not here. But yet you’re everywhere.

﹏﹏

The pen presses harder now. The strokes sharper. Angrier.

﹏﹏

You said I’d see you soon.

You never said it’d be the last time.

I didn’t get to say goodbye.

I don’t even know if this is goodbye.

I don’t know anything.

Except that it still smells like you when I open the closet.

And I haven’t changed the sheets. And I keep forgetting how your voice sounds when you laugh. But I remember how it sounded when you said my name.

I hate that.

I hate you for that.

﹏﹏

The paper blurs.

You don’t notice the first tear until it hits the corner of the page. A soft smear—like watercolor. Like proof.

You don’t wipe it away.

More come.

Slow. Heavy. Quiet.

Your body doesn’t sob. Doesn’t heave.

You just… leak. Like your heart sprung a hole somewhere too deep to find.

And still, your hand moves.

﹏﹏

I remember the first time you touched me like you meant it.

Not the kiss. Not the teasing.

I mean your hand on my back. Just resting there. Just… there. No pressure. No agenda.

I think that’s when I knew.

You brushed my hair off my forehead the night you stayed late. We weren’t even together. You didn’t ask. You just did it.

And I wanted to cry, even then.

﹏﹏

You’re shaking now. Just a little. Just enough for the words to tilt downward, slope off-kilter—like they’re falling away from you.

Like he did.

﹏﹏

You used to hum when you thought I was asleep. Through the bathroom door. While brushing your teeth.

I never told you I heard it. I just listened. It made me feel safe.

You made me feel safe.

﹏﹏

You pause.

And for a second, your mind goes completely blank.

You sit in it. The silence. The space where Mark used to be.

The world moves on. The faucet drips. The light buzzes. Somewhere outside, a car starts.

You look down at the page.

﹏﹏

I’m scared you’re gone.

But I’m more scared I’ll learn how to live with it.

﹏﹏

That’s the last thing you wrote.

No signature. No goodbye.

Just a confession.

You fold it slow. With care.

Then you rise. Move across the apartment like sleepwalking. Like prayer.

You kneel by the closet. Reach behind the stack of scarves and that one box of photos you haven’t opened since fall.

There’s a shoebox there. Faded cardboard. Tied with a string. You lift the lid.

Letters.

Dozens of them. Maybe more.

Some are bent. Some warped at the corners. Some tear-stained.

All unopened. All unsent.

You place the new one on top. Neatly. Lovingly. Like it belongs.

Then you close the lid. Tug the string taut again. And push the box gently back into the dark.

You don’t say anything. But in your head, you whisper—

If you come back… I’ll give you all of them.

══⊱≼⚜️≽⊰══

It was raining.

Not the cinematic kind. Just grey, steady, apathetic. Like even the sky had given up.

You hadn’t spoken to anyone in two days. Hadn’t opened the blinds.

It was a Tuesday. Or maybe a Wednesday. You didn’t care anymore.

There was a knock at the door. Three short taps.

You knew it was her before you even looked through the peephole. There was a pause. Then the sound of her key turning in the lock.

Debbie didn’t wait. She never did.

She stepped inside with the same quiet confidence she always had—like someone used to walking through grief.

Like she already knew the shape of it.

You stood barefoot in the doorway. Hoodie too big. Eyes too tired.

“I brought soup,” she said simply.

Her voice was gentler than the rain.

You didn’t reply. Just nodded.

Let her set the bag on the counter and pretend the room wasn’t full of things neither of you could say out loud.

“Tea, too,” she added. “The one you like. With the weird flowers in it.”

You didn’t remember ever telling her that.

Maybe Mark did.

You didn’t ask.

The kettle clicked on. The air started to fill with steam and silence. You sat at the table while she moved around the kitchen with quiet ease—like it was still hers too.

Debbie moved like she knew where everything was. Because she did.

You sat at the table, watching her stir the broth like it was a spell.

She didn’t ask how you were. Didn’t mention him. Just placed the bowl in front of you and cupped your shoulder in one hand, soft but steady.

“Eat,” she said. “You don’t have to talk.”

So you didn’t.

The soup scalded your mouth, and maybe that was the point. You blinked too hard once. Looked down instead of up.

Debbie sat across from you. Elbows on the table. Tea in hand.

She looked tired too. But not the same kind of tired.

The kind that comes from knowing too much and saying too little.

She let the silence stretch. Let it fill every corner of the kitchen without trying to sweep it away. She sipped her tea, slow and steady, like the world wasn’t breaking apart right in front of her.

At one point, she opened her mouth. Paused. Closed it again.

You looked up.

Her eyes were fixed on the jacket. Still on the chair. Still untouched.

Still his.

Her jaw tightened. Just a little.

“You keeping it there on purpose?” she asked, like it didn’t mean anything. Like it wasn’t the first time either of you had acknowledged it.

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to.

Debbie nodded once. Almost like she understood. Like she was doing the same thing in a different house.

“He used to leave his socks everywhere,” she said quietly. “I found one under the couch last week.”

You didn’t know what to say to that.

Eventually Debbie started cleaning while you ate.

Folded the dish towel. Organized that one drawer you kept forgetting about. Hummed a song you didn’t recognize under her breath.

At some point, she slid the other tea towards you.

You blinked. “I don’t—”

“I know,” she said. “But you need it today.”

You obeyed.

It was awful. It tasted too sweet. Too floral. Like comfort where it didn’t belong. But you drank it anyway.

Because Debbie was right.

When she left, she kissed the top of your head and pressed a folded napkin into your hand.

“I’m not him,” she said, quiet and steady, “but I’m not going anywhere.”

You didn’t open the napkin until the door clicked shut behind her. Inside, in her neat cursive, it just said—

Eat. Sleep. Let yourself be loved.

Below it, smaller—

Call me if you forget that.

You blinked hard again. This time, it wasn’t because of the soup.

You tucked it in the drawer. Right under the first letter you ever wrote to him.

And you never threw it away.

══⊱≼⚜️≽⊰══

It’s not hard to lie.

You thought it would be.

You thought the shape of his name in your chest would make it catch somewhere between your teeth, twist your mouth into something unreadable—but no.

When people ask if you’re okay, your voice doesn’t crack. Your face doesn’t fall. You just smile.

Tight. Bright. Fine.

”I’m fine.”

It rolls off your tongue like water. Like breath. Like maybe, if you say it enough, it’ll start being true.

You say it at the coffee shop. At the pharmacy. To the neighbor with the loud dog and the judgmental eyes.

And you say it tonight, too—when you’re out.

You weren’t planning to go.

You don’t remember saying yes. Don’t remember texting back. But somehow, you’re here anyway.

Same bar. Same table. Same people.

Same everything—except the part that matters.

The seat next to you is empty. No one takes it. They don’t even try.

It used to be Mark’s.

Always.

He’d sprawl too far, take up too much space, nudge your knee under the table like it was a secret only you two knew.

He’d make jokes too loud, smile too wide, say your name in that ridiculous sing-song tone that meant he wanted something.

You look around.

Someone laughs—you think it’s William. A real sound. Loud and open and bright.

You wonder how he can do that so easily without his best-friend but you mimic it.

And it almost feels real.

Almost.

They’re his friends.

But they became yours too, at some point.

Somewhere between group dinners and stupid game nights and Mark dragging you along even when you said you were tired.

Now they invite you without him. Pretend it’s the same.

Maybe they also don’t know what else to do.

You nod at the right times. Ask the right questions. Sip the drink Amber handed you earlier and pretend it doesn’t taste like guilt.

Eve tells a story you’ve heard before. You laugh.

It feels like theft.

On your way home, every man you pass looks a little like him.

A curl of dark hair. A familiar height. A walk that’s too casual to be a stranger’s.

And every time, your heart stutters.

Then sinks.

You’re not even surprised anymore. You barely blink. It’s like your brain keeps pressing the bruise just to make sure it still hurts.

It does.

There’s a couple ahead of you on the sidewalk. The guy lifts his girlfriend’s hand and spins her. She laughs, off-balance, clutches his jacket.

Mark did that once.

You’d told him to stop being cheesy. He said you needed more magic in your life. That he could be that for you. That he wanted to be.

You’d called him stupid.

Mark had grinned and spun you anyway.

You’d laughed.

And believed him.

It’s late when you get back.

The apartment smells like lemon cleaner and leftover memory.

You peel off your jacket, toss your keys in the bowl by the door. Kick your shoes off. Shrug.

The chair still holds the jacket.

The mug is still clean.

The box of letters stays untouched in the closet, tucked beneath everything else. Like muscle memory. Like something sacred.

You flick on the lamp. Just one. The soft one by the couch. It doesn’t light the whole room—just enough to see by. Just enough to remember.

You sit.

No sound. No movement. No laughter through the wall or door slamming shut or Mark calling, “I’m back!” with a grin in his voice like he never left.

The couch is too quiet.

Your hands too still.

You don’t cry.

You’re not even sad, not really. Not tonight.

Just… empty.

You wonder what it means to miss someone without being abandoned.

Because he didn’t leave you.

He just… left.

And you stayed.

That’s what you’re good at.

Staying.

Even when everything else doesn’t.

══⊱≼⚜️≽⊰══

You don’t know how long it’s been.

You could count the days. You could scroll through the calendar, trace your finger back through mornings and meals and missed alarms—but you won’t.

You already know time doesn’t move right anymore.

Not forward. Not backward. Just… around.

Looping like bad weather. Like a door that won’t shut all the way.

You clean the kitchen for the third time in two days. It doesn’t need it. The counter gleams. The stovetop is spotless. You scrub anyway.

The rag smells like citrus and ache.

The music you put on in the background stops three songs in. You don’t notice until the apartment goes still again—until the silence feels too loud, too final.

Like a punchline that never came.

You breathe. Stretch.

Decide today is drawer day.

You start with the junk one. Pens, batteries, some keys that don’t fit anything anymore. You find a single glove. Three twist-ties. A coupon that expired last year. Then, tucked in the very back—

A pen. Blue.

You freeze.

Not yours.

You only use black.

It’s scratched along the clip like he chewed on it. There’s a tiny smear of ink dried at the tip. The weight of it in your hand is so stupidly familiar your chest hurts.

You test it against your palm.

It still works.

You set it down like it’s fragile. Like it might vanish if you breathe wrong.

And for a second, you just… stand there. Hands on the counter. Eyes on the pen.

It’s nothing. It’s just a pen.

But it’s his.

Still here.

Like you.

You think about burning them.

The letters. The box. Everything unsaid.

You even set them out once.

One night when the air felt too heavy and your body buzzed with something desperate—something like grief or anger or just plain madness.

You pulled the box from the closet. Untied the string. Stacked the envelopes like firewood. You think there are thirty-seven now. Maybe more. You don’t count anymore.

And then you stared.

You imagined the flame. Imagined the way the ink would curl and vanish. How the words would finally mean something if they disappeared.

But you couldn’t do it.

Not because you believed he’d come back. Not because you were hoping.

But because letting go would feel too final.

Too loud. Too much.

So you put them away again. Tucked them back in the dark. You didn’t even read them.

Just… stayed.

The jacket’s been on the chair too long.

You know it. The collar’s starting to droop. The sleeves are dusted in sunlight and stale air.

So you fold it.

Not like packing it away. Not like forgetting. Just gentle. Careful. A quiet kind of reverence.

You press out the creases with your palms. Smooth the fabric like it’s skin. Like it’ll wrinkle if you look at it too hard.

Then you hang it.

Not deep in the closet. Not hidden. Just inside the door. Where you could still reach for it, if you needed to.

You do that a lot.

Not need. Not want.

Just… reach.

The call wasn’t planned. It’s not even brave. Just—impulse. A moment where your thumb hovers over that name and you press down before you can talk yourself out of it.

Debbie Grayson.

It rings once. Twice. Then her voice.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

You freeze.

You didn’t know how much you missed being called that. How much you missed her warm voice.

The conversation is short. Gentle. Careful in all the places that still hurt. You talk about the weather. Groceries. Some show she’s watching. You tell her your heater’s been acting up. Debbie says she’ll send someone.

The call went quiet for a few seconds. You could hear a bird outside her window, maybe. The soft clink of glass.

“How are you… really?” she asked gently.

You said, “Fine.”

Too quick. Too flat.

She didn’t challenge it.

“Me too,” she said. Then a pause. “Liar.”

You laughed once. Quiet. Bitter.

“Still keeping his jacket out?” she asked.

You nodded before realizing she couldn’t see you. Then whispered, “Yeah.”

Debbie hummed. “Me too. It’s his hoodie, though. The one with the dumb band on it.”

You smile. “He loved that one.”

“He stank in that one,” she corrected, and you laughed again—this time without choking on it. “Wouldn’t let me wash it for two weeks.”

“He said that ruins the ‘vibe,’” you added.

“I swear, he made up half of his vocabulary.”

You fall into silence again. But this time, it doesn’t feel crushing.

Just familiar.

She sighs softly. Then—

“If he could’ve called… he would have.”

You know what she means. You also know it doesn’t help.

But you’re glad she said it anyway.

“I know,” you whisper.

But before you hang up, her voice goes soft.

“Call me anytime if you need anything, okay?”

„Okay.”

“Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

Debbie hangs up. And you’re left alone again. But not quite the same.

You say you would call.

You both know you won’t.

After the call, your hands are shaking.

You go to the bathroom. Not because you need to. Just… because it’s something to do.

The faucet hisses. The water runs warm.

You scrub your hands harder than you need to. Focus on the spaces between your fingers. The creases in your palm.

Like if you scrub hard enough, you’ll find something still yours underneath it all.

When it happens, it doesn’t feel like a breakdown.

It’s not messy. It’s not loud. You don’t drop anything. You don’t scream.

You’re just staring at the sink. At your own reflection in the mirror. You don’t recognize the girl looking back.

She’s too still. Too tired.

Too not you.

And suddenly, the weight of your own body feels too much to carry.

Your knees fold before your heart does.

You sit on the floor, palms flat to the tile, breath shallow. The water still running behind you.

Your chest stays quiet—your eyes don’t.

It’s not the ugly kind. No heaving, no sobbing, no gasping for air like you thought heartbreak was supposed to look like.

It’s just tears.

Fast. Full. Final.

You don’t stop them. You don’t wipe them away. You let them fall. Don’t curse them. Don’t name it healing.

Because it doesn’t feel like healing.

It just feels like staying.

Still here.

Still.

You crawl to the couch eventually. Turn off the faucet. Leave the light on.

The pen’s still on the counter. The jacket’s still by the door. The box stays closed in the closet. The chair is empty.

But you’re not. Not really.

You sit in the same corner of the couch where Mark used to throw his legs across your lap.

Rest your head on the same pillow he once stole for himself.

You breathe.

And in the stillness—in the ache, in the quiet, in the thing that doesn’t have a name yet—you can’t help but think that,

Mark was always good at leaving… you just never got better at staying.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌The rain had stopped hours ago, but the ground still glistened.

Mud clung to his boots. Blood dried in thin lines along his ribs. The air smelled like iron, smoke, and burnt-out stars.

Mark didn’t feel any of it.

He sat still. Quiet. Shoulders hunched beneath the battered weight of his suit. Eyes unfocused. Breathing steady, but shallow. Like he didn’t want to take up space.

Like he didn’t deserve to.

He’d stopped keeping track of time weeks ago. Or maybe months.

There was no sun where he’d been—no moon, no clock, no human-made markers to tell him whether the world still turned without him.

He guessed it did.

It always did.

The cold crept in first—through his gloves, up his spine—but he didn’t shiver. He hadn’t in a long time. Everything about him was different now.

Everything except…

His hand moved. Slow. Careful.

Fingers brushed against the hidden seam in his suit—just under the chest area, where fabric frayed from wear and war.

He peeled it back.

And there it was.

A folded square of photo paper. Faded at the corners. Edges curled with time and sweat and memory. He unfolded it with the kind of care he didn’t show to anything else anymore.

The Polaroid was creased. Smudged. Soft in places where his thumb had held it too long.

But your face—your face was still there.

Captured in half-light and joy.

One of those accidental shots—mid-laugh, hair messy, your eyes looking somewhere off-frame like someone just said something ridiculous and you couldn’t help but smile.

He didn’t even remember who took it.

Just that you hadn’t wanted to keep it. And he had.

He kept it when he left. He kept it through everything. Buried it in the lining of his suit like it was armor.

Like if he held it close enough, he wouldn’t forget how you looked when you were happy.

When you were his.

Mark stared at it now like it could answer for everything. For the silence. The distance. The cowardice.

He’d nearly lost it once.

The suit got torn in some place he didn’t have a name for. He hadn’t even noticed the rip until hours later, bleeding from the mouth and limping through someone else’s wreckage.

When he found it again—caught in the lining, damp but whole—he almost broke.

He’d never let it out of his sight again.

Now, it rested against his palm like a heartbeat.

His fingers trembled. Not from the cold. Not from pain. Just from you.

He looked at your face the way you might look at something holy. Not like forgiveness—but like the memory of it.

And then, quietly—so quiet it almost didn’t leave his lips—he whispered your name. Soft. Once.

Like prayer.

Like penance.

He tucked the photo back where it belonged. Right over his heart. Pressed the seam shut like it was a secret.

Then Mark stood.

And didn’t look back.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌With Love, @alive-gh0st

[mushiemadarame]

⇢ Boom Raweewit Jiraphongkanon as Akin Tahra (Top Form, 2025, EP04)

[secriden]

This line. God, this line! It has been eating me up inside for 2 days now, because let's not forget, this line isn't about love, it's about trust. And that has implications that make me want to scream.

It's a direct reference to this moment earlier in the episode:

At the start of this discussion, Style and Fadel still have a kind of playful air about their conversation:

Style: Oh? Not even me? Fadel: You're at 80% at best. I feel like you're hiding something from me in the 20%.

In this exchange, though, there's a sense that Fadel is issuing a challenge, like there's something specific which Style can do to gain Fadel's full trust. And while Style knows there are things he cannot (yet) reveal to Fadel, I think a part of him is determined to be as honest as he can be, which is why he issues a challenge of his own by asking for more specificity:

Style: What do I have to do to gain your complete trust?

Part of this question is a simultaneously inquisitive and deflective - What (and why) do you think I'm hiding (something) from you? - but there's also a moment after Style finishes speaking where he stills and goes quiet that feels... genuine, weighty. Or, as @airenyah has pointed out in her meta on Style in episode 4, the "grounded[ness]" in Style's demeanour is a signal that Style means what he's saying in the moment. Maybe about his own desire to be worthy of Fadel's trust, maybe about how he genuinely does want this relationship to be real in whatever way that matters to Fadel.

I think Fadel sensed that too, because the moment looses all the lightheartedness it had before. Fadel pauses, and then gets a look on his face that just... breaks my heart. There's a sombreness there, like he knows he's going to have to say something that makes him sad. Fadel looks away, and then down, before he seems to steel himself and says:

Fadel: It'll never happen. No matter how much you love someone, I just don't believe that you can completely lay yourself bare in front of them.

Fadel says this like it's fact. Like what he's expressing is something foundational and true and irrefutable. It's not even about his doubt in Style's honesty, because this statement has no qualifiers or conditions put on it to connect it to Style. Rather this is what Fadel fundamentally believes about relationships and trust: he finds the very concept of being fully known and still accepted an impossibility.

Sure, maybe this is because of the falling out (or betrayal or disappearance) associated with the former lover; but I also think it might be because Fadel is acutely aware not only that he's hiding a rather big and dark secret (not to mince words, but: actual literal premeditated murder), but also about what it implies about Fadel. Because being able to kill another human, coldly and clinically and without remorse, takes a certain type of person. Because, yes, Fadel has lived through an absolutely harrowing and traumatising event (his parents' murder), but it's also undeniable that it changed him. Because there's something about Fadel that twisted dark and which he never quite got back. There's an anger, a hurt that colours every moment of his life; that enables him to look a man in the eyes, smile politely, and pull a trigger.

And at this point in their relationship, Fadel's understanding of Style is that he's... well, kind of innocent. Especially in comparison to Fadel and Bison, and even Kant.

Style, who easily reveals facts about his life which Fadel already knows (winning a car tuning competition), making Fadel doubt his own instincts about Style hiding secrets. Style, who also reveals the things Fadel doesn't know, like the tender and secret pain of a mother lost to cancer (which, now that I think about it, Fadel may also know) and his worries about a father who "lost his bearings for a bit" (which he probably doesn't). Style, who tries to comfort Fadel in his own loss by offering a safe space and a sympathetic ear.

Style, who doesn't just see Fadel for his tragedy, but is asking to be given the chance to accept all of Fadel as a person. Style, who not only wants but has the capacity, to be the only person Fadel needs to rely on. Style who, despite the sea of differences between them, understands Fadel on a level that is so very foundational.

I'm going to slightly segue and mention something that may not resonate with everyone, but really hit me in the gut this episode: because I lost my father when I was 16 after he battled cancer for 2 painful years. And this revelation about Style has totally shifted and coloured everything Style has done in a new light for me. Because not only does this totally explain Style's sometimes almost stubbornly childish demeanour (it's common in adults who've had to 'grow up' too early), but also why Style shows seemingly random flashes of insight and maturity when they are most crucial. Notably, Style has this almost instinctive sense of when he needs to back off a sore point with Fadel that I couldn't quite put my finger on until this episode.

I've seen a few jokes about Style's awkward subject change, but I've actually got a friend who I hold very dear to my heart who was one of the only people to give me a sense of normalcy and comfort when my dad was on his last few days and then at his funeral. And part of that was the instinctive way she would know when I needed to just. Not be a grieving daughter for a few minutes. To get a small respite from the overwhelming hopelessness and sense of impending loss. To get a moment to breathe and gather my strength, because knowing I was never going to see my dad again, or hear his voice, or hold his hand was tearing me apart back then. Sometimes she'd talk to me about college drama, sometimes she'd introduce a new kpop video to me, sometimes she'd just ask me what I wanted to eat and take me to go have a meal with her. And sometimes there really just isn't anything else to say other than "I'm sorry." Nothing you say - nothing you can say - is going to ever, ever make this grief go away, and in most cases, it was better when people (especially those who couldn't really understand) didn't try.

And I think if you look at Fadel very closely, there's a moment of genuine surprise (Fadel wasn't expecting the subject change at all) and then... something that looks like fondness mixed with exhausted relief. Because I don't think Fadel was ready to talk about his parents yet. This was honesty he wasn't ready to give Style, mostly prompted because Style himself had willingly been so vulnerable that a part of Fadel wanted to reciprocate. But further down that path lies not only his darkest memories, but also the connection to the part of his life he is not willing to share with Style yet. So this subject change is a relief, it's a blessing, but it's also Style knowing when he shouldn't push any further with Fadel's fragile heart.

Which brings me back to how well the episode's theme of trust (both deserved and undeserved) was woven in this episode. This is true on multiple levels and characters but I'm not even going to attempt to touch Kant in this post because... Lord, that is beyond me at the moment. Someone else needs to do that, pretty please, so I can reblog it and scream.

It starts, somewhat unexpectedly, with Fadel asking for entrance into the intimate spaces of Style's life.

So, this episode was not about Fadel's fear of his own feelings, desires, or even affection for Style - that appears to be fully addressed in episode 4. I think that's why we see Fadel be so physically affectionate and indulgent of Style in this episode. He's come to terms with his lust for Style's body (hence his comfort in initiating sex), he's accepted Style as his boyfriend and so can enjoy Style's playful teasing (still reluctantly, but Fadel is still an introvert even if he's mostly enjoying Style's rambunctious nature), and give into Style's (and Bison's and Kant's) cajoling with relatively little fuss.

He's even comfortable toying with the edges of revealing his darker and more sinister side by reminding Style implicitly about how violent Fadel has the potential to be. Recall that Fadel knows Style knows some of his capacity for violence; he just doesn't know how very thoroughly Style is aware of the full scale of this truth. It does help that Style evidences no actual fear and, in fact, looks positively euphoric. Like, buddy, pal, dearest one... please control yourself.

And yet something very, very telling is the way the show makes it a point to depict Fadel very deliberately getting drunk during the double date. Even before the date has started, Fadel looks to be about half a beer in and we see him constantly drinking, drinking, drinking during the whole date. From the conversation about trust he has with Style while Kant and Bison are being off key and adorable about it, to after Kant leaves and Bison gets worried. And we've seen Fadel cope with emotional and mental distress with alcohol before, so we know that Fadel is internally fighting some kind of very intense battle even as he is also very clearly enjoying moments with Style on this date (most notably when they're dancing by the bowling lanes and when Style asks him to go home with him).

So here's my take: rather than being about love, this is about Fadel fighting to hold onto his own philosophy on relationships and trust. Because as much as I do believe Fadel believes he's telling the truth when he tells Style that 100% trust is "impossible", I think it's clear that's not what he wants.

What he wants is to finish this last job so that the only thing he can't be honest about with Style will finally stop being a factor in his life. What he wants is to fully and completely reciprocate the openness Style seems to be giving Fadel. What he wants is to switch off his brain and let his heart lead for once, to stop fighting a battle he has no desire to win anymore, only he can't. Trust (not love) is Fadel's final frontier, and one which he can't quite give up in spite of himself.

Which is why I think Fadel intentionally gets himself drunk here. Because he wants to let his guard down around Style. He wants to open himself fully, he wants to "lay himself bare" for Style, he wants Style to know the full truth and accept him anyway - and he gets so close, but can't quite get there - because he doesn't know that Style already has.

When Style says this, Fadel thinks it's empty words, not knowing that Style has long passed the bar Fadel thinks is insurmountable. And just like Style was able to offer safety and reassurance to the vulnerability Fadel was showing in episode 4, Style instinctively gets to the core of Fadel's darkest fears again:

Style: One day, I'll be your 100%.

This isn't (just) a promise that Style will wear Fadel's stubbornness down, or that Style will be worthy of Fadel's 100% (which, already, has me in tears, ngl). Beyond that, this is Style promising Fadel isn't ruined for this; that it isn't too late, that whatever hurts and wounds Fadel has can be made whole again. That the kind of honest and all-encompassing and unconditional trust which Fadel says is impossible can, in fact, be his. That Fadel still has the capacity to trust and be trusted the way he so desperately, painfully longs for.

I know a lot of people have said Style in this episode is writing cheques he has no ability to honour, but I think it's more layered than that. Because in a very significant and profound way, Style is wholly deserving of Fadel's trust. Because in all the ways that Fadel has ever known he should want, Style actually IS worthy of his trust. Style knows the truth Fadel is hiding, knows what this man is capable of, knows the danger of being in his arms, knows the likely nonexistent future Fadel has to offer him -- and wants him anyway. Style is a man who would stare into Fadel’s darkness and reach out first. Strip away the complication of Kant being blackmailed and dragging Style into his mission, and Style is literally perfect for Fadel. He is exactly what Fadel wants (and possibly has wanted for a very long time). He is, in fact, exactly what Fadel needs to ever experience anything beyond the shadow of a life he's had so far.

But oh, the cruel narrative means that Style is also, simultaneously, painfully undeserving of Fadel's trust; and this is something Style is very much aware of. I think that's why he's trying so very hard to be worthy in all the other ways he can be. Style's awareness of what Fadel is hiding enables Style to (counterintuitively) be completely honest about his feelings for and about Fadel even as he cannot reveal his motivations. So he gives Fadel as much honesty as he can: offers the vulnerability of his own pain and hurts; the comfort of his true understanding and acceptance.

And just as Fadel's vulnerability in the abandoned factory was met with Style choosing a form of physical connection that prioritised Fadel's pleasure (it's made very clear that Style is jerking Fadel off and that all his focus in that moment was on Fadel, not his own pleasure), so too is this moment met with Style very intentionally choosing to worship Fadel's body with all the tenderness and genuine emotional weight that Style wanted Fadel to have in their first time in the storeroom.

Because, crucially, this was Style giving Fadel the chance to lay himself at least physically bare. This is the closest either of them can get to full honesty with the secrets they both are keeping. It's why Style tries so very hard to show the care and adoration and genuine feelings he has for Fadel. Why he makes sure that the vulnerability of Fadel getting himself as drunk and as relaxed and as trusting as Fadel can allow himself to be is tied only to gentleness and tenderness and pleasure.

Because Style actually knows that Fadel can't (and shouldn't) trust him in the way Fadel truly wishes to.

And as much as I believe that Style genuinely means this from the bottom of his heart, the horrifying full truth is that it is Style that has the metaphorical knife hovering over Fadel's chest. He is the one with the capacity to actually give Fadel a new scar that would truly matter. He is, in fact, the only one Fadel wants to fully trust -- and this, along with Style's compromised heart, makes it so that the circumstances will doom them both.

[anghraine]

It's silly, but one of my favorite Kirk/Spock things is that they are clearly very much more on each other's wavelength intellectually than most others are, but—

There are so many scenes in which everyone else is baffled or missing something important that Spock or Kirk see in the other's behavior. Probably the peak moment for this is Spock, and Spock alone, realizing in "Arena" that Kirk has the raw materials to make gunpowder just as Kirk himself realizes it. So you get Spock murmuring "good, good...yes...yes..." right there on the bridge as his beloved starts reinventing the bazooka (pretty sure this counts as sex for him), but McCoy and the bridge crew are completely confused about what they're seeing. And there are plenty of moments of this kind of half-unspoken mutual brilliance while their co-workers wish they'd just use their words.

However. The important counterpoint to this is that Kirk and Spock each possess the special ability to instantly incinerate entire neuron paths in each other's brains and become 10x stupider around each other, also. Spock barges into Kirk's quarters in "The Enemy Within" without explanation, sees his naked chest, and his higher functions crumble into ash on the spot; when he regains the power of speech, he asks the baffled Kirk what he can do for him as if this somehow explains what he's doing there, and Kirk is just confused but pleased, and smiles enough that Spock's gay awakening visibly burns through even more neural circuits until he runs away.

And Kirk himself doesn't need to see skin to completely lose track of what he was even talking about because Spock did a thing. For instance, the scene when Kirk looks at Spock with flirty adoration at the end of "A Taste of Armageddon" and bats his eyelashes and says, "Why, Mr. Spock, you almost make me believe in miracles"—yes, it's extremely gay, but I feel it's important to understand the immediate context is a general conversation on the bridge about the horrors of war. But then Spock raised his brows and ambiguously complimented him, so Kirk's entire cognitive process melted into Spock Spock Spock Spock. In S3, Spock sits down beside Kirk to tenderly watch him sleep, without appearing to consider that anyone (like say the empath standing right by them) would notice, and then poorly fakes looking at tricorder readings when said empath picks on his emotions. Surely that will fool her psychic powers! (It doesn't.) Kirk, often a master of performance and theatricality, has to be physically held back from trying to singlehandedly maul a Klingon while in disguise and surrounded by an occupying Klingon force because one guy slightly shoved Spock.

They're a brilliant and wildly successful command team together and they are also so incredibly stupid about each other, it's beautiful

[somedudewithantlers]

object show fans b like “oh my gosh i cannot believe Rusty Screw betrayed Tape Dispenser in the semifinals, u can see the pain in Dorito Bag’s eyes when it happens…. i really wish Cucumber got voted back in instead of HDMI Cable, but it was really cute to see HDMI & Piece of Lint’s relationship progress”

[astronomodome]

I think it’s kind of crazy how Skizz’s arc in the life series is so integrally defined by his being a loyal soldier of the Red Army in third life, a position in which he felt comfortable and confident in his value to the server. The archetype he sees as the ideal team, one that not only protects each other but works for the wellbeing of the server, that template that he follows is the Red Army. Every season since, he falls into a leadership role whether he intends to or not, and every time he tries to recreate that formula with the team he leads. And here’s the thing: it never works.

In Last Life, team BEST’s first objective is to not only secure the enchanting table, but to make it free to use for everyone. Their goal here is to become the “heroes of the server” through this, and Skizz openly says that. However, any victories they achieve are plagued by the fact that… well… there never really was a team BEST. There’s a team BE and a team ST and they work together in theory, but as soon as there’s cracks in the foundation- a boogeyman here, an accidental death there, it falls apart (never all the way while Skizz is alive, but still). Skizz dies a lonely failure of a red life, wearing the initials of his team on his head and haunting them after he dies.

In Limited Life, he gets a chance to try again. Bdubs was the most obvious point of failure for BEST, so why not replace him with sweet and reliable Impulse? And yes, as a group, TIES works much better. Unfortunately, this season doesn’t go well for Skizz, and he’s in the weeds so to speak pretty much the whole time. But one of their crowning achievements- blowing up Bread Bridge- is rationalized by Skizz to his team as a heroic and charitable act. Another set of heroes. But not the strongest players out there. Skizz dies to keep it going just a little longer.

In Secret Life, he has the Heart Foundation, which differs a lot from what Skizz claimed it to be. On paper it’s three people, but in practice it’s just him and Tango (I love BigB but he really was not the most engaged with the group here). On paper Tango’s the leader, but Skizz can’t really keep from taking charge. Again, we get a charitable motive: using the heart-giving system for good (and profit, of course). And Skizz even has plans for when it goes south: they turn the heart’s smile upside-down and start killing. But even this plan fails; as in Last Life, people take advantage of the team’s kindness, and then the heart itself burns down before they get a chance to change it. Skizz dies trying and failing to right this wrong, even by proxy.

What makes this so so interesting is how formulaic it is. I don’t even mean that in a bad way. It’s fascinating how Skizz always, always falls into this pattern. Icarus reaches for the sun and, for his hubris, falls the same way every time. And Tango is there

[alsfunkyalbum]

Got bored or som 🤷🏽 (Au belongs to @somerandomdudelmao)

[squishymochithethird]

I genuinely don’t understand how people are still so gung-ho about Harry Potter bitch Septimus Heap is RIGHT THERE

[scribbled-entity]

Bfdia 20 was certainly something alright. While there's the obvious. (Staring at Coiny and Pin)

I can't help but absolutely love this quote from Leafy in that episode.

Something about Leafy admitting what they're doing is menace behavior, and kinda admitting how it can be a bit fun to do sometimes, kinda just....

Clicks for me somehow. Not sure what or how or why exactly.