“Just fucking nothing, Petey, that shit’s magic,” Mark gushes. “I felt–calm, you know? Like all of me just… relaxed. I get so, you know–” he hunches up his shoulders in a mockery of his own usual anxious posture. “It just went away. Even my hands weren’t shaking.” He holds up his right hand. There’s no tremor there, not this early in the day, but by 4pm Mark will be gripping his mouse with white knuckles to hide it.
From the fic, “On Waffle Parties” by EightMinutestoSunrise. What if the Waffle Parties are tailored to the desires of each refiner’s outie? Mark S. gets a Waffle Party and everything hurts. Broke my freaking heart, and I had to draw it as I had pictured it.
