#it's just the fact that moving his face requires concerted effort

[frownyalfred]

is he solemn from trauma and unflappable regardless of the situation, or does he just have >50 units of Botox in his face at any given time; a novel about Bruce Wayne.

[nichenarratives]

Frozen Hearts 3

[Atlas talks to Mordecai about recent decisions.]

3. Regrets

Consciousness returns slowly, trickles of sensation flowing into a scattered mind, confusing and jumbled as Mordecai drags himself from the numbing comfortable blankness. At first, he's aware of very little; a roaring heat in his face and a heaviness around his body that seems to echo in his head; his thoughts are sluggish, his throat is thick and unresponsive, and an unusual leaden quality lingers in his limbs.

It's a chore to simply open his eyes. He squints, pince nez absent, but a raging fire is unmistakable in the old, familiar hearth as yellows, oranges and reds scald his retinas. Mordecai hisses and cringes, narrowing his eyes to slits in an attempt to lessen the sudden migraine they encourage, dragging the blanket wrapped around him over his face for a moment to allow his brain to catch up.

He soon wishes he hadn't, as he becomes aware not only of a deep cold in his bones but a sharp pain in his right arm - numerous sharp pains peppering his flesh, in fact. There's a radiating ache through the same shoulder too, spreading between his shoulder blades and sending sharp twangs up his neck. An attempt to move his arm sends fire down the length of it and he inhales sharply, squeezing his eyes shut with a low gasp, wishing he'd just stayed unconscious.

"Easy, Mordy. Try t'breathe normal, get that air in ya head." The advice goes mostly unheard, though Mordecai makes a concerted effort not to gasp again with someone else in the room. He inhales through bared teeth as the warm air sends another shudder rolling through his aching body, his left hip and right leg now throbbing in rhythm with his racing heart. He feels like a popsicle, refusing to thaw. "Quack's comin', an' I made a cuppa tea. You wanna sit up and drink it?"

Sitting up sounds like an awful idea. He tries to shake his head, but moving his neck sends a shooting pain down his entire right and Mordecai groans. Bare feet pass his head as Zib sets a china cup down nearby, then sentiments lost in translation, the tuxedo is little more than a painful ragdoll as the musician slips his arms under the triggerman's armpits and with a grunt of his own, hauls Mordecai off the rug and across to an armchair, legs dragging useless on the wooden boards. "C'mon… Heller. Help me out, would ya?"

Mordecai isn't in a state to help. His limbs won't comply and his brain remains fuzzy, distracted by the immense pain now apparent in his ribs and face. Grunting when he's deposited roughly into a chair, he finds himself left awkwardly angled against the backrest. Having staggered under his meager weight and not entirely sober, Zib sighs with relief and wipes a bead of sweat from his brow once he's done.

"Or don't," Zib mutters a touch sourly, then cringes as the usually snippy tuxedo does little more than reposition with his left arm as leverage, hissing quietly in pain. His right arm notably stays protectively to his chest, rigid and unused. Zib runs a hand through his hair guiltily. "Sorry, man. I'm not good at this shit. I just wanna play the fuckin' sax an' call it a nigh', you know?"

From what Mordecai has experienced, it's generally better not to become proficient at getting injured. To onlookers, he seems to have an affinity for it though; this is his third injury requiring a doctor or surgeon in two years, with a multitude of minor injuries between. He has scars in the double digits, if you know where to look for them, most over precariously vital organs or important blood vessels and a fraction of an inch too shallow to cause disaster.

By all accounts, he should be dead a half dozen times over, as if he wants to die in a mundane skirmish over liquor.

Survival instincts stronger than willing submission, Mordecai also has a flair for pulling through with honest reflexes, snap decisions or simply by the skin of his teeth on sheer grace of fortune. He's cost Lackadaisy more in medical bills in his twenty-four months tenure than any coworker before him - he's personally doctored the fees out of company ledgers - a concerning amount, if Atlas weren't fond of him, but repeat offenses eventually might cost the hitman such allowances.

His work history has always been tumultuous; his boss back in New York City paid for the Heller family's new house, the funds skimmed off the criminal syndicate's profits not long before Mordecai fled the state. The young tom had taken advantage of their disjointed hierarchy to embezzle funds, a tactic that worked flawlessly for over a year. He managed to accrue almost seven thousand dollars in eighteen months and had been on the cusp of spending it when his scheme fell through.

It had been hard to respect a mob who's key players were more gullible than a child. Hiding the money laundering had been easy. Maintaining a façade of obedient mediocrity far less so. He'd had to pretend to be just intelligent enough to be useful, without drawing suspicion or focus from those he needed to avoid. It was a balancing act, one he played well until some nosy middle manager took a closer look at his cooked books on a whim, fracturing his success.

Mordecai wishes his could find joy in his work, but he does not. Whether it's clean assassination to clearing out a warehouse, interrogations, torture or mutilation, he's only disgusted by what he's willing to do for this charming man, a soul he's known only a few years. He's been sucked into the very same world he fled from and been crafted into a finely honed weapon, one so deadly, even coworkers fear him.

His heart may be of ice, his soul corrupted, but a sharp mind remains in turmoil, recalling all he's done for Atlas May.

Raised by a traditional Jewish mother and following all the teachings of his faith until adolescence, Mordecai Heller is not the man he was destined to be. If Hashem destined his life to be this way, then his faith had been misplaced, and he cannot believe the deity his mother so adamantly believed in could be so cruel. By extension, his corruption - and his failure to rectify it - are his own, and with that clarity comes a deep self loathing that can't be put into words.

"Drink this." He's snapped from introspection by the gravelly voice, just in time to have a test cup and saucer placed in his lap, the latter scalding on his legs. A cold hand comes to touch the delicate porcelain, but he doesn't raise the drink to his lips, simply stares down into the cup with distant eyes, another shudder rippling through his thin frame with the new heat on his skin. "I put a drop of whiskey in it. Mitzi says it'll help with th'shock. You in shock, Mordy? Can ya hear me? Cause you ain't even insulted me yet, an' that's worryin'."

A door opens and closes, but Mordecai doesn't look up from his tea. It's got milk, an unsettling pale brown concoction that smells far too sweet to comfortably ingest, but he doesn't complain. He doesn't even notice Zib straighten beside him, the voices in the room becoming hazy and indistinguishable as a ringing starts in his ears. He's vaguely aware of the broken glass in his arm, of the swelling turning the right side of his muzzle into a balloon, but it's all inconsequential as the world fades from focus and seems to tilt like it had when he crashed.

"Go wait for Doctor Quack outside," a deep, level voice cuts through the haze cleanly, filling Mordecai with nausea and relief all at once. He doesn't need to look up to know Atlas has entered the room. Zib's absence is finally noted, as is a thickness in the air. Olive eyes glance up and immediately meet stern, narrowed yellows. Mordecai shudders, but not from the cold, and averts his gaze. "And send Mitzi to bed. She doesn't need to see any more tonight."

The musician mumbles his affirmations and heads out to the cafe beyond, closing the adjoining door softly behind him. For the briefest of moments, it's silent beside the crackle of the fire. The tom cradles the teacup in his good hand as his tail wraps around his left ankle, large ears folding back and shrinking into the armchair in submission. For some reason, he feels an inordinate amount of shame, but can't pinpoint the cause by the time Atlas sighs and rubs his temples.

Slow steps pad closer but Mordecai doesn't look up, eyes fixed on the fire, body intermittently shivering as the last of the cold leaches from his bones. His skin is still icy, but his core has warmed considerably since waking up, slowly reinvigorating his brain. He wishes it was still dormant as Atlas pads behind the chair and stops, staring at dancing flames over the tuxedo's head.

"You're done," the man finally says in a quiet tone, a crackle of burning wood almost swallowing the statement. Sick to his stomach, Mordecai finally looks up to find the striped businessman already blandly staring down at him. Yellow eyes hold no apology, his expression set into a grim frown. The triggerman flattens his ears and sinks further into his seat as Atlas continues."Once Quack's fixed you up, you're to clear out your room."

"Mr. May-"

"Viktor has agreed to house you until you're recovered," the tiger-esque man continues, looking back to the fire as he slips a hand into his robe pocket and withdraws a cigar, the end already clipped for swift ignition. A box of matches soon follows, one extracted and struck, then cast into the fire after the cigar smokes in fine lips. "I'll write a glowing reference for your bookkeeping skills tomorrow morning."

"Atlas-"

"You're fired." The response is sharp and loud enough to make the tom flinch. Atlas doesn't seem to care, continuing on in the same vein. "Our contract ended when you totaled one of my cars on a whim, Mr. Heller. You attempted to drive in a snowstorm, without a license or prior approval. You're fortunate to be alive, more so I'm covering damages and medical fees, and you will clear out your room and be gone before the Little Daisy opens tomorrow. Am I clear?"

His chest feels tight, ribs aching as he inhales. "Perfectly so, Mr. May."

He doesn't respond but stares back intensely, a smoldering cigar pinned between pale lips until eventually, he drags on it, takes hold of the bulbous wrapping and draws it away to exhale the smoke over the tuxedo's head. Only then, as the choking smoke descends on Mordecai, does he finally turn and exit the room without another word, leaving his former prodigal triggerman to wallow in a mess of his own design.

[mariacallous]

On September 9, the Russian singer Yaroslav Dronov, better known by his stage name, Shaman, performed at St. Petersburg’s Gazprom Arena. The Putin-praising 31-year-old, known for his support of Russia’s war against Ukraine, kicked off his latest show with a dramatic short film, shared a heartfelt letter by a fan from the Donbas, and even caused one audience member to faint from one of his romantic ballads. Here’s how the night unfolded.

‘I didn’t think there would be so many fans’

As you approach Gazprom Arena, chants from street vendors fill the air: “Scarves, caps! 500 rubles!” They’re hawking unofficial Shaman merchandise, much of which is adorned with slogans like “I’m Russian,” the title of one of Shaman’s most well-known songs. Most concert attendees, however, don’t seem to be interested. Some have brought their own patriotic paraphernalia instead; one man has the flag of the Russian Empire (yellow, black, and white with a double-headed eagle in the center) draped over his shoulders. Printed across it are the words “God is with us.” 

Despite the efforts of stadium staff, the queues outside are painfully long and slow-moving. 

“I didn’t think there would be so many Shaman fans,” one attendee wonders aloud. “Do they all really want to see Shaman perform, or are they just here for a laugh, like me? I’ve never even seen these sorts of queues at a football match.”

Before entering, every person has to undergo a thorough security check. Attendees are required to empty their pockets and leave behind any “suspicious” items, such as nail scissors. Each attendee then receives a pat-down from a security guard.

For those who make it through, an official merchandise stand awaits inside the arena. It sells T-shirts and sweatshirts featuring Shaman’s face and slogans such as “We” (the title of one of his songs), “Family” (Shaman’s term for his fans), and, of course, “I’m Russian.”

When they enter their designated sections, many fans, predominantly women in their fifties, discover that there are, in fact, no seats, and that they will have to stand for the entirety of the evening. To make up for this apparent oversight, arena volunteers hand out small Russian tricolor flags for free. Some people grab upwards of five in each hand. Some also have white, blue, and red stripes painted across their cheeks and foreheads. 

The concert is scheduled to start at 7:00 pm, but at 8:00 pm, the stage remains empty. The crowd is chanting Shaman’s name.

Finally, on large screens near the stage, a dramatic film begins to play. As the sun is shown setting over the Gulf of Finland, Shaman, wearing a silver leather jacket with the Russian flag on the left shoulder, boards a helicopter and sets off in the opposite direction from the Gazprom Arena. 

A moment later, the aircraft returns, and another man in a jacket, sporting dark glasses and a large chain around his neck, climbs out. In his hands is a suitcase in the colors of the Russian flag. He hands the case over to third man, who’s wearing similar tinted glasses as well as a suit and bowtie. Finally, Shaman emerges from the helicopter, before looking thoughtfully into the distance, the Gazprom Arena directly behind him. Then, accompanied by two armed guards, he walks towards a motorbike parked next to the arena. He puts on a white, blue, and red helmet, climbs onto the bike, and rides towards one of the arena’s entrances. He’s followed by other bikers, carrying passengers who wave burning flares in the Russian flag’s colors. 

After a few moments, Shaman, riding the motorcycle, appears onstage. He dismounts the bike, casts off his tinted glasses, and immediately launches into a song called “Give It Some Heat.”

The audience chants along, and flames begin shooting up from the edges of the stage. “I want to see your eyes, I want to hear your hearts, I want to feel your love!” Shaman sings out. The crowd roars in response.

“Yes, my Russia will say yes, and we’re united forever, like sun, air, and water, all together,” he sings.

The concert continues with Shaman’s usual energy until, midway through the night, he reveals a “surprise” for the audience: a live reading of a letter he says he received from one of his fans:

Hi Shaman,

I'm writing to you from Makiivka, a city in the Donetsk People's Republic. Our entire family is really fond of your music, and your songs emanate one of the deepest and most powerful emotions — love. This love is not only for our fellow citizens but also for our vast homeland. Your songs hold a unique significance for us: they inspire us and give us hope. 

There are four of us in my family: my mother, Oksana, who works as a cleaner; my father, Alexei, who is a construction worker; my younger brother, Matvey; and myself, Nikita. I am currently in the tenth grade and am really into video editing. In the future, I want to become a journalist. My brother Matvey is in second grade. He loves math.

Dear Shaman, I dream of one day being able to come to one of your concerts and listen to your songs live. We have a great amount of love and respect for you.

Matvey (Note from Meduza: It’s unclear why the letter is signed by Matvey if Nikita wrote the letter) and our whole family.

After reading the letter, Shaman’s press secretary, Anton Korobkov-Zemlyansky, emerges from the wings and announces that the singer’s team managed to locate “Nikita” and his family — and that they’re here at the concert this evening. 

“You know, folks,” Shaman proclaims over the noisy crowd, “it’s moments like this that we artists live and breathe for. I want to thank each and every one of you for allowing us to do this.”

“They should bring him on stage,” one spectator says to her friend. But no one comes up; the cameraman doesn’t even manage to catch the face of “Nikita from Makiivka” in the crowd. 

(After the concert, Shaman’s Telegram channel reposted a message from “Nikita” expressing his gratitude. Meduza managed to trace the account that sent the message. In one of the profile pictures, a young man can be seen wearing a T-shirt with the letter Z, while another image portrays a cat in an ushanka hat against the backdrop of a red banner adorned with a hammer and sickle. Several other photos on the account showcase various adaptations of the Russian Empire’s coat of arms, including a collage featuring both imperial and Soviet emblems.)

After Shaman changes his attire to better suit the upcoming selection of love songs, the concert continues. The black leather jacket that replaces the singer’s silver one is distinctly reminiscent of the Soviet NKVD uniform. 

During one ballad, Shaman ventures into the audience and returns to the stage with a young lady, sharing a tender dance with her. As the song draws to a close, the young woman faints in Shaman's embrace. Security personnel quickly come to her aid and carry her backstage.

“It’s fine, everything’s fine,” Shaman reassures the audience. “There are times when love overwhelms the heart, and this sea of love just flows out from the shores. Everything is fine.”

“You can’t deny that he has his charms,” laughs one woman in the crowd. “That girl was planted,” says another woman.

‘If I died right now, I’d say my life was well-lived’

Shaman changes his costume once again, this time donning a silver hussar vest adorned with sequins. In this outfit, he sings about how he can’t forget the hands that have “caressed him to the point of pain and torment” and recalls the sensation of a “current running slowly over the skin.” 

After this, Shaman abandons the sparkling vest and begins singing another love song. A man in a gymnast's uniform then takes to the stage.

“That’s his ballet dancer. He’s a famous one, too,” an audience member tells her friends.

The “famous ballet dancer” turns out to be Sergey Polunin. Shaman introduces him as a “world-renowned ballet star,” and Polunin performs a dance while Shaman sings “Let’s rise,” a song dedicated to the “heroes of Russia” who “secured our victory.” 

“Glory to Russia!” someone from the audience shouts.

“I am Russian!” Shaman declares, announcing the next song.

With these words, Polunin exits the stage. The audience comes alive: nearly the entire crowd starts singing along and dancing. As the chorus plays, red, white, and blue confetti shower the crowd, and spectators try to catch the falling pieces.

At that moment, the musicians suddenly begin to smash their instruments on the floor, breaking the synthesizers and guitars into pieces. Replacements are brought in swiftly, and Shaman performs the Russian national anthem. People in the stands, as expected, rise to their feet, singing along while waving their small tricolor flags. The crowd continues to dance, albeit with more restraint. As the anthem reaches its final lines, a large tricolor flag is brought onto the stage and draped over Shaman’s shoulders by his assistants.

The performance comes to an end, and the stadium begins to chant, “Russia! Russia!” The musicians throw T-shirts out into the audience.

“It was an honor for me to stand on this stage and sing for you this evening,” Shaman tells the audience. “Even if I were to drop dead right here right now, I would say my life has been well lived.” 

“I’ve been Shaman, good night!” And with that, he leaves the stage.

The audience members begin to file out. Hundreds of abandoned tricolor flags are left littered over the floor of the Gazprom Arena.

[haechanniesunflowers]

Ateez reaction to you being hurt

notes: I'm feeling angsty today

Seonghwa

He had a hard day, practicing for hours on end for Ateez's 10th year anniversary concert. He wanted to get home and pour his heart out in front of you and just spend time with you. But he came home and you weren't there much to his dismay, but he waited for you. It was raining heavily. He called you again and again but you weren't answering making him anxious and adding to his frustration. Three hours later, the rain still hadn't stopped and he was scared and furious. The bell rang and Seonghwa opened the door. You stood there, completely drenched in the rain. He stepped aside to let you in. You walked inside and got to the living room when he pulled you by your arm to make you face him.

"where the hell were you? And why weren't you answering your damn phone?" he tone was harsh.

"Seonghwa please, not now I-"

"no we need to talk about this now! answer me! Do you know how worried I was? And I was already frustrated to begin with!"

You lowered your head and let the tears spill but it seemed like the rain water was dripping down your face.

He shook you arm to pull you, making you lift your face and roughly pull out of his grasp. That's when he saw the tears.

"I had a bad day too! Okay? My awful coworkers took credit for my project that I worked so hard on! And on top of that I locked the car with the keys, my wallet and phone inside! And I had to walk home because I didn't have any money for a bus or a cab! There! Got your answer!"

Seonghwa's eyes softened at your words and he tried hugging you but you pulled back.

"no I'm not in the mood and I'm drenched"

You went to your room and locked yourself in the bathroom to cry in the shower.

Hongjoong

The track he was working on was almost ready and he wanted you to be the first person to hear it so he called you to invite you over to his studio.

"hey babe what are you doing?"

"nothing much Joong. What's up"

"can you come over in the evening? I want you to listen to my song"

There was a pause from your end.

"hello? Baby can you hear me?"

"ye-ah Joongie. I'm busy these days, I'm so sorry. I'll try to come after the next week."

"no that's okay, you don't need to put your work aside. I'm free today since I finished the song, I'll come over. How does that sound?"

"I'll tell you in a few hours, okay?"

Hongjoong felt something was off so he quickly got done with his files and saved the track and packed up. He drove straight to your apartment and knocked on the door. You didn't expect to see Hongjoong at the door so you hid behind the door after opening it. He eyed you suspiciously.

"are you okay?" he asked, pushing the door slightly to get inside.

"yeah why do you ask?" you spoke nonchalantly, standing in the akimbo pose.

"you're acting... unusual"

"nonsense"

He slid it aside and took you towards your bedroom. He found it unusual how you were walking slowly and stopped.

"you're hurt." he stated and his suspicion was confirmed when you didn't answer.

"I slipped and sprained my ankle. I didn't want you to worry so I didn't tell you and I didn't agree to meet you"

He picked you up and laid you on the couch, snuggling next to you.

"I'm here to take care of you" he whispered and turned the TV on.

Yunho

Yunho is always in a good mood when he gets to see you. He wants to make the best use of the time he gets to spend with you. So during his break, you guys went to his home town to meet his parents but you stayed in a hotel even though he insisted that you stayed at his house. But you were a woman of principles and didn't think it was appropriate to stay at your boyfriend's house before marriage. He came to pick you up in his car and took you to an amusement park. You guys took roller-coaster rides and other scary looking rides too. He asked if you wanted to eat something and proposed the idea of going to a restaurant but you you told him that hotdogs from the vendors in the park would be nice and that you wanted to stay there longer and get on more rides. After eating you two took that discovery ride. While getting off you felt a little dizzy and tripped on something and fell. Yunho quickly helped you up and asked if you were okay and you told him yes, even though your ankle hurt a lot. After the fun time, he drove you back to your hotel. As you got off, you winced in pain and knelt to the ground, clutching your ankle. He worriedly got out the car and came to your side.

"your ankle is swollen" he spoke, concerned.

"it's fine, I can manage"

"are you kidding me? Why didn't you tell me you're hurt?"

"because I didn't want to ruin tee date"

"you can't stay here y/n, you're coming out with me"

"I said it's okay Yunho, I'll take painkillers and an ice pack, I'll be fine"

"I'm sorry you got hurt"

"you don't need to be sorry babe" you said and kissed him.

Yeosang

Yeosang wanted to go skateboarding with you but you didn't know how to ride a skate so he took it upon himself to teach you even though you gave the idea of him skating and you cycling next to him but he said no. He took you to a nearby park and helped you learn for over a month. When he deemed you ready, he encouraged you to ride it on your own with him holding your hands or your waist. You took a deep breath.

"you can do this" he smiled.

"I hope so" you replied and steadied yourself.

"I can already see us skateboarding down the road. I can't wait"

"okay here goes nothing"

You gained momentum with your foot pushing the board forward and continued with a steady pace.

"I'm doing it! Yeosang I'm doing it!" you cheered but made the mistake of looking back towards him which made you lose your balance since you were relatively new to this. You fell on your back but broke your fall with your arm.

Yeosang rushed towards you and helped you up. You yelped in paid when he grabbed your arm.

"it hurts so much" you shook.

He took you to a hospital where the doctor told you your wrist was dislocated.

He felt awful and blamed it on himself. He stayed by your side before and after your surgery and even helped you with your daily life stuff until you got better. You were happy to spend a lot of time with him and told him it wasn't his fault.

"you are never riding a skateboard again. Like ever."

San

You were visiting Namhae to meet San's family. He always talked about them and told you how important they were to him so you paid them a visit, knowing it would make San the happiest.

You were sat on the couch, chatting with his sister while the TV was on. It was a random drama which none of you were interested in, rather wanting to talk about girl stuff.

"Sannie is a sensitive one, though he doesn't show it" his sister let you know.

"I know, I have never seen him cry. I used to think he doesn't care but then I found out that he's just very good at controlling his emotions."

You two were indulged in the conversation and didn't see San entering the room with Byeol in his arms.

"Y/N I want you to meet our family's master"

You and his sister giggled.

"Byeol, this is Y/N. I hope you come to terms with the fact that your position as the girl I'd die for has been taken by her."

You were a blushing mess and had butterflies in your stomach. San was always kind and loving towards you. And as if Byeol had understood what San had said, she started acting up.

"can I pet her?" you asked, earning encouraging nods from the Choi siblings. You stretched your hand you gently pet her head but Byeol acted first and violently scratched your hand, drawing blood.

"Byeol no!" San whined as the cat hissed at you and ran to the other room.

You clutched your hand tightly, trying to soothe the pain but it came in waves and burned. San worriedly came closer to you and him and his sister examined your hand. There was definitely blood coming out of the claw marks. They had to take you to the hospital to get you tetanus shots.

"I'm so sorry Y/N, your hand is ruined and you're in pain because of me"

"not because of you Sannie, it was Byeol but you can't really blame her, she an animal after all"

Mingi

Mingi took you to the dance studio to show you the new dance he choreographed. He was happy with it and spent a lot of time perfecting it and wanted you to see it. You were supportive of his ambitions as a rapper and a dancer, aside from Ateez. He was grateful for you for being by his side and understanding the time and effort it required. You never complained when he was unable to make time for you sometimes, knowing that he was working hard. The bond you shared was strong and you two were inseparable.

"okay I'm gonna start, queue the music"

And with that he started dancing. You were in awe of the way his body moved and how effortlessly he executed the difficult moves. You clapped when he finished.

"wow Mingi... this is... wow... I'm so proud" you were at a loss of words.

"come on I'll teach you the floor move, it's the easiest"

It was the easiest, for a trained dancer that is. You both didn't realize how difficult it actually was. You, because you weren't a dancer and Mingi made it look like a piece of cake. Mingi, because it came naturally to him and he had insane body control so he thought it was actually easy.

He taught you how to slide using your core strength. You didn't have a strong core to begin with, so you landed on your knee and pain shot up in your leg. You clutched it and let out a whine. Mingi took a look at it saw it reddening.

"I'm sorry for making you do this" he shook his head.

"nah I shouldn't have said yes" you smiled, not wanting him to be upset.

"let's get you home"

Wooyoung

He kept his artist of the month news a secret from you. He wanted to surprise you with it. So when you saw it on twitter you called him and congratulated him.

"this is huge Woo, I'm so proud of you!"

"I know you're rooting for me. I want you to come at the practice session we're having, just so we can perform on stage too"

You agreed to come and dressed up for him. When he saw you enter the studio in your black jeans that hugged your curves and the loose green cardigan which you styled and tucked in from the front. You had your hair down and mere sight of you took Wooyoung's breath away. His dancer friend from bb trippin' knew about your relationship but some of the staff was different that day and didn't know who you were.

Your eyes gleaned, watching Wooyoung dance. He was in his element and looked ethereal. The practice session ended and before you could run to him and hug him, you saw another woman, a staff member get close to him, handing him a water bottle and wiping his sweat off with a cloth. You were stunned but didn't think muhh about it, since his job required him to be around other women too. You watched from a distance how she talked to him for some time and subtly placed a hand on his thigh, giggling and telling him he did well. You were hurt to say the least. He didn't spare you a glance and then talked to her as if you weren't in the room. You didn't ruin the mood for him at the moment but were screaming internally watching her flirt with your man in broad daylight and him going along with him.

After the session ended, his choreographer called him to discuss important matters with him and the staff started leaving. You noticed how the same woman was hanging around, until another senior staff member told her to pack up and leave. After the discussion, Wooyoung came running to you.

"did you like it?" he asked excitedly.

"the performance? yes. The little show with that staff woman? absolutely not"

His face fell at your words.

"baby listen, I had to let it slide. It's not like I could've swat her hands away and tell her to go away. Having good chemistry with the staff results in good performances. Please try to understand"

"I don't know Wooyoung. And this is just what I saw. I can't stop imagining what else goes on since I'm not around all the time"

"I want you to trust me. I'm all yours. No one can take me away from you. No one. You don't know the hold you have around my heart. You don't know what you do to me. It's you and only you. Never forget that."

Jongho

If there's one thing in this world that Jongho liked doing the most, it was comparing how strong he was compared to you. No, you didn't even compare. You didn't even come close. He loved lifting you like it was nothing, tightening jars on purpose so you would ask him to open them for you and lifting the furniture with one hand while you both cleaned. He also loved arm wrestling with you with just two of his fingers of his non dominant hand, while you struggled to win with your dominant hand.

You both sat in the middle of the living room. Jongho challenged you to arm wrestling and the loser would have to clean the dishes. He wasn't even trying while you were shaking by using the entire strength in your arm. He got a little cocky when his hand got tired and decided to end it with a bang. He used intense force and your hand landed on the table with a thud. You pulled it back and rubbed it. He didn't fully realize how hard he hurt you until he saw just how red the back of your hand was. He immediately apologized but you got up to give yourself first aid, not responding to him. He followed you to the kitchen and tried helping but you shoved him aside.

"leave me alone"

"I'm sorry I hurt you. Let me help"

"Jongho please just leave me alone right now"

He felt awful to have hurt you and after you went to your bedroom, he did the dishes. You had invited him to stay the night at your apartment so he was glad he could be around to make it up to you.

He came to you some time later and apologized again and took responsibility of his actions.

"you scared me Jongho"

"I'm so sorry, I'll be more careful I promise"

[bonniebelleklyde]

Mistletoe

Word Count: 2871

Pairing: Loceit (romantic)

Warnings: Mild cursing, kissing

Summary: Janus finds himself the victim of a cruel prank involving Logan and a  baffling amount of mistletoe. Janus is completely unbothered. No, really, he is.

When you’re done here, check out sequel Things Unsaid and Prequels A Storm to Weather and The Small Hours.

The first time it had happened had been an unfortunate accident. Logan had been leaning casually against the doorframe that opened the living room up into the hallway, engaged in a conversation with Roman that must have been exasperating judging by the long-suffering huff of his breath and the roll of his eyes. Upon closer inspection, however, it was clear that the exasperation was mostly feigned—the lopsided curve of the logical side’s lips betrayed his fond amusement at whatever asinine argument Roman must have been making. All of this was readily apparent to Janus at a mere glance in Logan’s direction. Janus was, after all, keenly observant and had his gaze landed on Roman instead of Logan, he would have gleaned just as much information about the prince. Obviously.

None of that, however, was what stopped Janus dead in his tracks as he made his way down the hallway. No, what ground his mind and body both to a full stop was the small sprig of green and red hanging from the top of the doorway, just to the left of Logan’s head. Later, Janus would wrack his brain for some good reason that the sight of mistletoe arrested him so thoroughly, but for now he did the only thing he seemed capable of doing—he just…stared. His eyes locked onto the tiny plant as if it were the most fascinating thing that Janus had ever seen…or maybe as if it were something horrific that he couldn’t peel his eyes from. His feet moved without direction of any kind from his mind, as if the damn mistletoe had some sort of magnetic pull on him. He took one step toward the doorway and then another, knowing full well he’d had no intention of going to into the living room when he’d started down this hallway. In fact, he’d never be able to recall where he wanted to go in the first place.

He had no idea how much time had elapsed before Roman noticed his presence or his staring, but Janus’s eyes were finally torn from the mistletoe at the sound of a low chuckle, and he looked in the creative side’s direction to see a slow grin spreading over the other’s face. Roman’s eyes flicked from Janus to the mistletoe hanging over Logan’s head—Janus didn’t dare let his gaze fall to Logan for fear of what expression he might have been sporting—and took a step closer to the doorway.

Oh god, Janus’s useless, horrified mind provided. Suddenly, the deceitful side was absolutely certain of two things: first, that he was about to watch Roman step into the offending doorway and kiss Logan under that godforsaken mistletoe, and second, that he would rather tear off a limb than bear witness to that for one second. Upon reflection after the incident had passed, Janus would become certain of a third fact—that he’d never in his life looked more ridiculous than he did then, sprinting down the hallway to avoid two idiots and a stupid plant.

The second time it happened was all Roman’s doing. In hindsight, Janus really should have known that Roman was up to something when the other had called him into his room from down the hall, asking him to assist with some vaguely mysterious “problem.” Janus was deceit for crying out loud. He should have known.

“Wait, don’t come in yet—just stand right there by the door,” Roman said in a rush, his voice all giddy excitement.

Janus stopped short, confused, and looked passed Roman to see an equally perplexed Logan sitting on the creative side’s bed. Since when were these two attached at the hip? If there was some sort of happy announcement forthcoming, Janus suspected he might literally be sick. Because Janus simply had neither time nor the patience to hear about the romantic exploits of the other sides. And for no other reason. Clearly.

“Roman, whatever this is, I really don’t—” Janus started to drawl, affecting a bored, disinterested tone, when he cut himself off in his own surprise and confusion as Logan was shoved unceremoniously to stand directly in front of him.

Janus blinked hard, attempting to discern exactly what was happening here and coming to no conclusions whatsoever because he was struck by the much more important realization that he’d never been close enough to Logan to get a good look at the logical side’s eyes behind his glasses. They were rich and dark and surprisingly soft, and Janus was vaguely aware that his own lips had parted slightly of their own accord, his mouth gone completely dry in a matter of seconds. He was…ill. There could be no other explanation for his dry mouth and his complete inability to think straight.

He was torn from his reverie by the sound of Roman clearing his throat. Janus glared daggers at the prince standing behind Logan. The prince who was now jerking his head upward in an obnoxiously exaggerated motion, his eyes moving pointedly from Janus’s face to a spot above his head. Reluctantly, Janus followed Roman’s gaze upward and cursed under his breath when the sight above him finally shed clarity on this ridiculous situation. Mistletoe. Of course.

Like a child, Janus closed his eyes to avoid reality. Logan was anything but stupid, and he must have noticed that thrice damned mistletoe by now. Janus was totally unwilling to look Logan in the (deep, liquid, lovely) eye and see any of the myriad unpleasant emotions that must be there. Discomfort. Disgust. Horror. Pity. No, Janus refused to see any of it, refused to acknowledge that this cruel joke was being played on him. For a second time, he turned tail and ran without a word. Roman was yelling something from behind him, but Janus was too busy wiping at his face to pay attention to what it was. His eyes were watering because he must have some sort of allergy to mistletoe—it was the only plausible explanation.

The third time, Patton had somehow become involved. The moral side had cajoled Janus into helping him in the kitchen, and as Janus focused on his attempt to avoid burning the contents of the pan he’d been placed in charge of, Patton waved at something—or as it turned out, someone—behind them.

“Oh hi, Logan! Lucky you’re here; we need a third man over here. Could you grab the salt for me? It’s in that cabinet next to Janus.”

“Luck was in no way involved in my presence here, Patton,” Logan replied as he approached the relevant cabinet. His tone was equal parts exasperated and confused, and Janus hadn’t the slightest clue why it made him smile to himself, why such a mundane statement from Logan seemed to cause something to constrict in his chest. “You did, after all, provide an exact time at which my help would be urgently required in the kitchen.”

“Oh, that’s right,” Patton said, his voice overly chipper even for him. “Well, now that you’re here, why don’t you just add that salt to Janus’s pan there?”

“I hardly see why you needed a third person for this,” Logan remarked, but he didn’t sound particularly bothered despite his words.

Janus watched out of the corner of his eye as Logan moved to do what he was told, reaching over Janus’s arm to sprinkle salt into the pan. And Janus was imagining things when it looked as if Logan paused for no reason when he’d finished, and imagining again when he felt the brush of an arm gently over his. He was certainly imagining things when he snuck a peek at Logan’s face and saw a slight flush in the other’s cheeks. Janus…simply had a vivid imagination.

As Logan’s arm finally moved away, Patton’s hand suddenly shot out, causing Janus to jump violently backward. And sure enough, there was that fucking mistletoe again, dangling over Logan’s head from Patton’s hand. Subtle.

At this point, the mere sight of mistletoe must have triggered Janus’s flight response, as he had sunk out before he could so much as blink. He spent the rest of the day locked in his room. Because he was tired. What did he have to avoid anyway? No, he’d just had a trying day of…sautéing vegetables.

The fourth time, Janus had woken far earlier than he normally did and decided to fix himself a proper breakfast. In the kitchen, he found Logan looking absolutely nothing like himself.

The logical side was, for lack of a better term, a mess. He was on his feet but slouched over the counter as if without its support he would sink to the floor. He dawned a royal blue pajama set that looked like silk and was certainly something Janus had never seen the other wear before. Several buttons of his top were undone, and his glasses were nowhere to be seen. He was looking down at what was likely his fourth cup of coffee, so Janus couldn’t quite see his eyes, but they must have been tired because Janus could make out the bags under Logan’s eyes that, today, rivaled even Virgil’s. When Logan finally registered that someone had entered the room and met Janus’s expression with tired and inexplicably sad eyes, Janus had to make a concerted effort to restrain himself from the sudden impulse to round the counter that stood between them and wrap this man in his arms. To stroke Logan’s bedraggled hair and hum soft melodies in his ear until the stubborn man could be coaxed back to bed.

The deceitful side cleared his throat violently to dispel that dangerous train of thought, a sound that caused Logan to wince as if Janus had shouted at him.

“Are you going to run away from me again?” Logan asked in a tone that sounded like loss, like tragic defeat.

Janus blanched. Was Logan’s current state somehow Janus’s fault?

“No,” he answered in a tentative voice, just above a whisper. “And I don’t…I haven’t been running away from you,” he added weakly.

Logan chucked at that, the sound carrying no humor in it.

“I am many things, Janus, but I think we can both agree that an idiot is not one of them,” he said, and Janus would pay any price if someone would tell him why in the world Logan sounded like he was on the verge of tears. “Roman and Patton have conspired to play a cruel trick on you, it seems. I did attempt to talk them out of it, once I realized what it was they were trying to do.”

Janus wanted very badly to lie. To pretend he didn’t know exactly what Logan was talking about. Like he was blissfully unaware of the goddamned mistletoe and just how unfair this prank was to both of them. Somehow, his normally silver tongue had turned to lead, and he struggled to find any words at all, let alone a lie.

“I’m sorry,” was all he managed to choke out, distressed as he was by the redness of Logan’s dark eyes.

“Don’t,” Logan returned, and it sounded like plea. “Apparently, it is I who should be making apologies.”

There was a bitterness to Logan’s last statement that Janus couldn’t understand.

“What do you have to apologize for?”

Logan blinked and a single tear escaped its duct to roll slowly down the logical side’s face. Janus watched it in horror. He opened his mouth to speak again, to say something, anything to fix this, but Logan cut him off.

“I don’t know,” he exclaimed. “I’ve recounted every moment of the past week in painstaking detail and I cannot come up with what it is I could have done.”

“You haven’t—” Janus rushed to interject, but Logan soldiered on.

“I understand that the nonsense with the mistletoe has distressed you. I understand that you find the act that Roman and Patton have attempted to set in motion with it is unpleasant to you. I understand that my feelings for you have always been unrequited—”

“Your feelings for—?”

“But what I cannot understand is what I have done to convince you so thoroughly that I would ever force you. That you had to physically run away from me to prevent…how exactly did you arrive at the conclusion that I would ever kiss you without your consent?”

In that moment, the slightest push would have knocked Janus to the ground. Since none came, he simply stared, frozen, mouth hanging open and he struggled to process all that Logan had just said. Logan stared right back at him with wet but determined eyes, evidently awaiting Janus’s answer. Regrettably, Janus’s bewildered mind had none to offer.

“Your feelings for me?” he tried again, a slight quiver in his voice betraying his fear.

Logan tucked his head downward at that, and Janus’s heart clenched painfully at the realization that he probably did so to conceal more tears. It was several moments before the logical side had composed himself enough to look up once more, his face confirming Janus’s suspicions.

“Must we talk about that part of it?”

Logan asked the question as if these feelings Logan apparently had were obvious, that there had been some sort of unspoken understanding between the two of them. But Janus continued to stare dumbly back at Logan. Perhaps it was cruel, to push further now. But Janus was selfish, and Janus was afraid—he was not going to subject himself to rejection. He couldn’t; it would defy the very fabric of who he was. He had to be sure.

“Yes,” came his answer on a disbelieving breath.

Logan nodded as though in defeat. He took a long, shaking breath before delivering his answer.

“Though I have been aware of the…unusual affect you have on me for quite some time now, it was only recently that Roman assisted me in coming to terms with the fact that the feelings I have for you have a name. That name being, as I am sure has been obvious to the rest of you, love.”

Love. Janus’s brain halted on the word and he was sure that Logan was still speaking, but the deceitful side’s mind had short circuited. His feet moved of their own accord, and before Janus could register what was happening, he had rounded the edge of the counter and was now standing directly in front of Logan, his hand resting on Logan’s hip.

Logan stopped speaking abruptly—may have even stopped breathing from the sound of it—and blinked heavily, eyes fixed on the spot where Janus’s hand had fallen. He opened his mouth several times and closed it again without speaking. He furrowed his brows as if recalculating a difficult equation to see where he’d gone wrong with it the first time. His brows were still furrowed when he met Janus’s eyes once more.

“Roman…told me it was obvious, that I loved you. You…you knew how I felt.” Logan’s last statement came out like a question.

Janus shook his head in slow motion, still struggling to believe the turn this conversation had taken. Logan’s eyes widened.

“You didn’t…you didn’t know…”

“It would appear,” Janus said softly, bringing a reverent hand to rest against Logan’s cheek and reveling in how easily the logical side leaned into his touch, “that you vastly overestimated my intelligence, dearheart.”

Logan’s breath hitched at the term of endearment, and the logical side moved closer to Janus as if pulled by magnetism, his shaking hand rising to rest against Janus’s chest.

“Why did you run away?” Logan asked as Janus’s thumb moved to brush a stray tear from the other’s face.

“Because I was afraid,” Janus answered, for once completely honest.

“You’re…afraid of me?”

Janus chuckled, the sound soft and fond and full of affection.

“Dearheart, you are terrifying. Now kiss me.”

Logan needed no further prompting. In an instant the logical side had closed the short distance between them, placing his free hand at the back of Janus’s head, and suddenly nothing registered in Janus’s mind apart from the feeling of Logan’s lips on his. They tasted like black coffee, and Janus had always hated coffee but all at once nothing had ever tasted so sweet. Janus moved the hand he’d placed on Logan’s hip to wrap it tightly around the logical side’s waist and pull him closer. The kiss was sweet and soft and gentle, and Janus couldn’t help but smile against Logan’s lips. There was a breathy sound of contentment that could have come from either of them—Janus hadn’t the slightest clue. Janus kissed Logan a second, third, fourth time, unwilling to come up for air as if the moment they parted, Logan would vanish.

The sound of Logan’s quiet laughter gave him pause. He pulled back just far enough to look the other in the eye, and saw that, at some point, Logan’s eyes must have turned skyward, as he was now chuckling at the ceiling. Janus followed Logan’s gaze upward and nearly doubled over in laughter at the small sprig of green and red taped to the ceiling above them.

“Goddamned mistletoe,” he muttered before leaning in for yet another kiss.

The stupid plant had its merits after all.

[ilovejevsjeans]

WHAT MAKES ‘PECULIAR’ McLAREN SO HARD FOR RICCIARDO TO MASTER

The esoteric driving-style demands of the McLaren MCL35M have been laid bare during the 2021 Formula 1 season by Lando Norris consistently producing superb performances while new team-mate Daniel Ricciardo has faced a long, hard and often fruitless slog to adapt.

Norris and former McLaren team-mate Carlos Sainz also found the car tricky to drive, but ultimately adapted well. But over his first 11 races as a McLaren driver, Ricciardo has been frustrated by attempting to implement a counter-intuitive driving style required by what he’s described as a “peculiar” car.

“I knew straight away it was a different beast,” said Ricciardo of the McLaren-Mercedes MCL35M.

“I’d be lying if I said the Renault wasn’t a different beast to the Red Bull, so they are all different. But there’s certainly some things where this car is slightly more peculiar. That’s the puzzle that I’m still trying to solve.

“But every car will respond and react differently, and this one’s got a couple of other things, I guess.”

Usually, you would expect a driver of Ricciardo’s high calibre to get on top of a new car after half-a-dozen races. Certainly, he thought that was how long the process would take before reluctantly admitting more recently that his struggles are “a reality” rather than a temporary problem.

McLaren’s executive director of racing, Andrea Stella, suggests the problem is Ricciardo is from the “opposite end” in terms of driving style. But what exactly is it about the McLaren that is so specific and has caused so many struggles, and why can’t these characteristics be dialled out easily?

“What we kept is some characteristics of our car that make it very special to drive, which we see with the experience Daniel is going through because he came from the opposite end in terms of how you would like to drive a Formula 1 car,” said Stella of the transition from 2020 to ’21.

“Our car requires some special adaptation, while we work to improve this aspect. It’s no secret that our car is good in high-speed corners and may not be the best car when you have to roll speed in mid-corner.

“We are trying to adjust some of the characteristics to make it a little bit more manageable to drive. At the same time, the important thing to deliver is aerodynamic efficiency, even if we couldn’t necessarily improve in terms of balance and [driver] exploitation of the car.

“We are relatively happy with the rate of improvement of aerodynamic efficiency that we have been able to achieve in early races and hopefully a little bit more will be coming in the next races.”

So let’s delve a little more into the characteristics of the McLaren that have stymied Ricciardo. In keeping with what Stella says about high-speed performance, Silverstone in July was a strong qualifying performance relative to Norris, even though he struggled for race pace.

But Silverstone is a high-speed circuit without so many medium and slow speed corners that remand more rotation of the car. It’s here, with the kinds of corners that dominate at the Red Bull Ring and Hungaroring, which hosted the races either side of Silverstone, that have proved difficult.

Ricciardo’s problem is that he likes to carry speed into the corner by braking a little earlier (except when making one of his trademark overtaking moves) and rolling the speed into the corner. The McLaren has a front-end weakness that is mitigated by braking later, but then appears to still require a relatively progressive application of steering lock.

Ricciardo has struggled to do this, often braking earlier than Norris and ending up with the car under-rotated, meaning he is still traction limited for longer in the exit phase than Norris simply because he’s effectively extending the corner.

“He’s a driver who likes to roll the speed in the corner and not necessarily attack the braking as much as our car requires,” said Stella. “We understood very quickly what the issue was. We could model this aspect, which means Daniel knows what to do in terms of working on the simulator, in terms of coaching the driver. But the progress that we do see race after race is not necessarily a switch.

“Sometimes I use the example of a musician. You can tell him how to play the guitar, you can use a lot of theory but at some stage he will have to spend quite a lot of time with the guitar and make quite a lot of exercises. You don’t necessarily take a step in concerts. Most of the progress you make will be when you work in background at home and you spend hours and hours exercising.”

Just as Ricciardo has done, Stella points out the lack of testing opportunities has made this problem harder to get on top of. Ricciardo had just a day-and-a-half in the car pre-season and since then has done his learning on race weekends. At times, he’s been intensively coached by race engineer Tom Stallard as he battles to tune into a driving style he’s at odds with.

But this has to fit in with the usual work of the race weekend and can’t waste time doing needless experimentation. It’s an extra distraction, but Stella says he’s “optimistic” Ricciardo will eventually get on top of it – and has been impressed with how his racecraft has at least made it possible to put together a solid run of results, albeit only scoring 50 points compared to Norris’s 113.

The obvious question is why McLaren can’t simply change the characteristics of its car. After all, we have seen other drivers who had to adapt to the machinery be met in the middle by teams, notably Fernando Alonso who benefitted from a power steering change that gave him the sensitivity he needed to optimise his driving style.

But in the case of the McLaren, it is more about the aerodynamic characteristics than the mechanical ones. And even if the trait could be eliminated, it would likely make the car less competitive. The need to brake late and the fact the car can have a weak front end perhaps indicates the necessity to be more aggressive in shifting the aero centre of pressure forwards at corner entry in lower and mid-speed corners.

If you brake earlier and roll the car into the corner as Ricciardo wants to, the aero centre of pressure will not be as far forward as if the car is on the nose. But in attempting to make this style work, there is also a more aggressive shift in the aero centre of pressure rearward as the driver comes off the brakes, which also appears to be creating a limitation for Ricciardo in the corner entry phase.

It’s also a style that is close to Norris’s default approach, although it’s important to note that he’s put a huge amount of effort into evolving his driving style in recent years.

At the end of 2019, he spoke about experimenting with his style in the Abu Dhabi test and given he and Sainz struggled in different ways, the pair were able to learn from each other. The result of that was a tricky car but that both could make work – but creates a driving challenge that surprised Ricciardo.

Stella is uncertain how long this characteristic has been in the DNA of the McLaren, although it appears to have been for some time. After all, progressing along development paths often augments such characteristics over time.

“We have been scratching our heads on how long this characteristic goes back in time,” said Stella.

“The aerodynamics is where the forces come from and I think it goes back to some seasons before the current season. It’s a set of characteristics in terms of how the car delivers the aerodynamic forces, which is not new to this year’s car.

“This year’s car is a close sister of last year’s and there’s certainly a close relationship to the previous years’ cars. So it has to do with the methodology that can produce quick cars, but with some [specific] characteristics.”

It’s also important to remember that the aerodynamic characteristics are not independent of the mechanical ones.

What’s crucial is the interaction of the mechanical platform and the aero – as well as the all-important aero performance of the floor.

This is not just about how the car is loaded up front to rear, but also in other directions. It’s a hugely complex equation to capture these interactions through all phases of a corner and this is where understanding of the characteristics will lie. This is why McLaren is largely stuck with the characteristics for the rest of the season.

“F1 cars are entirely dominated by aerodynamic delivery,” said Stella. “Then you work with suspension and the other mechanical aspects, but those aspects are often compensation and integration, not the leading parameter which is the aerodynamic delivery of the car at the various attitudes, the attitudes being the front ride height, the rear ride height, the yaw angle, the roll angle.

“This is what causes the car to be strong in a straight line and to be less strong as soon as you generate some yaw angle or rotation of the car. At the same time, when I talk about aerodynamics, this is definitely what leads to this characteristic, but it is also quite difficult to fine tune because to generate the aerodynamic forces you need to establish floor structure.

“It takes months or years of development to consolidate these floor structures so that you can achieve the aerodynamic efficiency of the car is absolutely astonishing and never matched in the past by any Formula 1 car.

“So when you embed these characteristics so deeply, it is difficult to change them. So it’s easier to work with mechanical aspects, but even those aspects are relatively limited because of homologation in 2021.

“You find yourself relatively stuck and that’s why a lot of the requirement and a lot of the demand shifts to the driver’s side. This is the tool, it’s quick, but it needs to be driven in a certain way.

“There’s not much we can do at the moment. So while we can improve the aerodynamic efficiency, it is a lot more difficult to improve some of the characteristics with a mind to the driving style.”

You might assume that these characteristics will be eliminated next year given the comprehensive change in regulations, but Stella suggests it is possible that it could be a consequence of the methodology used by McLaren.

If it’s a product of the underlying science, then it’s possible the characteristics could carry over. This is why Ricciardo can’t simply ride out the season then start anew in 2022. What’s more, given it has produced a competitive car, it would be wrong to say that McLaren has got things wrong.

All F1 cars have what is called ‘limit behaviour’, particularly when it comes to corner entry. Some aspects will always ‘give up’ first and it’s simply that McLaren is a more extreme example of the tradeoffs present in most cars.

“I find this quite typical,” said Stella when asked if this was something he had encountered before. “Even going back to my days at Ferrari there were various seasons in which the cars were pretty much experiencing similar characteristics.

“It’s always a bit difficult to find the right blend between having the car which is strong in mid-corner and maintains good characteristics in straightline speed. Conversely, if you focus your car on straightline and high-speed, then it comes a bit difficult to maintain good aerodynamics in the middle of a corner

“It’s not McLaren specific. What is McLaren specific is that our car is clearly on one side of this typical split of characteristics that you can achieve.” (X)

[canyouhearthelight]

The Miys, Ch. 108

And we are somewhat caught up!  My queue has run out at least, and I’m astoundingly glad it has, because now I get to thank a bunch of people who have just detonated my inbox with love, and kept me going.

Before I get into the gratitude: If, at any point, a comment a character makes does not make sense, please let me know. Send an ask, even on anon, because I am well aware that everything in my brain does not get a chance to make it in the story (example: Charly’s triangle comment here, and the fact that Noah’s dialogue in the beginning has an actual translation…)

First, shoutouts to @charlylimph-blog​, @baelpenrose​, and @quantumizedinsanity​ for the characters in this chapter and for being very, VERY dear friends to me.  A global pandemic and nationwide protests, along with a job change and a major move, have done nothing to hurt friendships that are already cross-country from each other.

Annnnd to everyone who has been blowing up my notes with likes and reblogs: @dierotenixe(hang in there! i PROMISE!), @iamverypotato​,@itscryptifssil, @steadynightninja​, @thepalemarcher, @feral-possums-in-the-bog​, @26fancyraptors​(MISSED YOU!), @werewolf2578​ (we don’t talk enough, how are you!?), @experimentalspades​, @odd-dream-worlds​, @duchess-katala03​, @pineapplewitchboi​, @dark-choclat-cupcake, @littleshydragon​, and all the others. 

I held my breath, bracing for what I knew was coming. Nothing came after several minutes, to my surprise.  I slowly lifted my head and opened my eyes, focusing on drawing deep, even breaths. Maybe he got bored and wandered off.  Maybe he had mercy on me….

Yeah. And maybe Grey is making genetically modified fish that fly.

Slowly, carefully, I grabbed my fork and lifted a bite of pie to my mouth.  A glance at Charly showed a serious expression, nothing given away. Damnit. I knew she could see Arthur behind me, I was hoping for a telltale giggle, or a warning glance, something.  Right when a traitorous voice of reason spoke up belatedly to point out that Charly was never serious…

“You really will adopt anyone, won’t you?” Arthur asked as he came around to take the chair Jokul had just vacated.

Fuuuuuck…. Busted. “I didn’t adopt him!” I tried to argue. “I actually made a very concerted effort to avoid that!”

Unceremoniously, he snagged Charly’s pot pie, only to have his hand held at fork-point until he let go.  Without even acknowledging the lunch-standoff, he leaned back in the chair and crossed his arms. “You tried to ‘avoid’ it by foisting him off on Zach Khan, your… nephew, thing, and his girlfriend. Still adoption-adjacent.”

“Doesn’t mean I have to interact with him.”

“Uh huh. And how will you explain to poor Hannah that dear Ivan’s partner isn’t invited to Insert Winter Holiday dinner, hmmm?”

“I hate you.”

“Lies and deceit,” he rebutted calmly. “You adopted me first. Before anyyyyone on this ship. I daresay you’re quite fond of me.”

I scowled at him, shoving my remaining lunch in his direction. “Here, before you start poaching this direction.”

An eyebrow arched in the general direction of my fish pie. “That looks suspiciously like dairy.  You wound me.” Grabbing my fork, he poked at the lumps of meat. “I would have thought you would be at least a little subtle in any assassination attempts. Have I taught you nothing?”

“Of course you taught me something,” I cooed, jokingly, while I patted his arm. “The fastest way to a man’s heart is six inches of steel through the ribs, slight upward angle.  Cyanide smells like bitter almonds, so always use shortbread cookies to administer it. Three pounds of pressure will tear off a human ear, and even a three year old can bite through fingers,” I recited. “Also, the pie is dairy-free, surprisingly. The ‘cream’ is silken tofu and aquafaba, turns out.”

Charly was choking with laughter, while Arthur finally smiled at me. “See, I told you that you love me,” he gloated before scooping up a scallop and some crust. As soon as he started chewing, his expression changed from one of amusement to something strikingly similar to Mac when I flick water in his face.

“Scallops,” I explained. “I had the same reaction.”

“Heathens,” he managed around the mouthful.  After he swallowed it, he gave the dish a considering look. “Not bad per se, but… There is no fish in this fish pie. What is aquafaba?”

“Chicpea juice.  Usually it’s used as an egg substitute.  I guess they used it for consistency here.”

Charly leaned forward, narrowly avoiding landing an elbow in her lunch. “And how can you tell that’s what’s in there?”

Glancing over at his student, Arthur shrugged. “She has a point. This,” he poked at the sauce, “looks like heavy cream.”

“Tastes kind of nutty, though,” I explained. “Anyway, enough about food. What brings you down here?”

“Galactic Core Curriculum,” he explained. “That’s the excuse anyway. Alistair - Cthulu damn his soul - told me you were eating lunch here after fifteen minutes of questioning. Tyche told me Charly was with you, so I figured lunch with you, lunch with one of my favorite students, plus I can kill two errands with one meal.” Charly stared at him like he had lost his mind, but he ignored her. “When I arrived - lo! What to my wondering eyes should appear, than a certain former cult leader harassing said friend and student! What person could resist such a temptation.” Deflating dramatically, he scowled at me. “Imagine my delight to hear you giving him relationship advice,” he intoned flatly.

“I got him to go away,” I pointed out.

“Before I managed even one strike in a highly one-sided battle of wits.“

“Mr. Farro,” Charly cut off, glaring for all she was worth. “Jokull came in peace, he leaves in peace.”

“Oh, he would have left in pieces. His ego anyway.”

“Fucking triangles, I swear,” Charly muttered, attacking her lunch with renewed violence.

“Anyway,” I forged ahead. “Jokul was here for fifteen, twenty minutes. You had your chance.”

He glanced away with a cough. “I… may have been resisting the urge to vomit.”

“Arthur.”

“Relationship advice is… not in my skillset,” he admitted. “Tell you your partner is abusive? Can spot a mile a way.  Great for getting people out of bad relationships, with concierge crowbar service if necessary. Not great for saving them.”

“Crowbar? Really?”

“You know, for prying people out of bad situations?” He genuinely looked confused, so I left that one alone.

“For what it’s worth, Jokull wanted to talk to you about what he’s going through right now,” Charly added.

“Why in any galaxy…”

I had to laugh at that one. “Everyone treats him poorly,” I shrugged before giving Arthur a pointed look. “He’s having a rough time right now, feels like he has no one to talk to except Ivan, and thought you would have some insight into that kind of thing.”

“What part of this,” he gestured to himself with a fork, “implies anything remotely close to wanting people to like me and therefore actually knowing how to accomplish that.”

“I’m not even going to dignify that with an answer,” I muttered. 

Giving me a hard, thoughtful look, Arthur’s entire demeanor changed. “Ah… On a more serious note, though… yeah.  I don’t get why people not liking you is a problem, but you’ve told me before it’s something that bothers you, so it’s feasible it bothers other people.  I’ll make a point not to make it worse.”

Clearing my throat, I pushed the conversation on to the next topic. “You mentioned two errands earlier. One for me, one for Charly?”

“Right.” The relief to be changing topics was palpable. “For you, Councillor, Galactic Core is almost finished. Eino is already considering other ongoing-education programs, and you’re going to need to start scouting educators again.  That late-twentieth through contemporary Terran history course? Big support-base, turns out.”

“You wouldn’t tell me this without a reason,” I pointed out. “And you’re a History teacher. Volunteering?”

“I want it done right,” he admitted. “The idea being bounced around isn’t for a requirement that everyone take the course. Not at the same time, anyway.  History-focused educators only, approved curriculum.”

“Approved?” I asked. “By whom?”

“A committee,” he shrugged. “Eino, obviously. Xiomara, with her background - which, by the way, is ridiculous - “

“We know, we know,” Charly and I groaned.

After glancing between us for a moment, Arthur continued. “And me.”

“Why you?” I asked. “No offense, just trying to understand.”

“No offense taken, I’ll explain that part later, but I promise it’s for a legitimate reason. The point is, Eino and his committee approve the curriculum and number of slots. You and Tyche make the decisions for who is allotted where.”

“Fair point,” I conceded.

“Fine. The area of history I focused on for my Master’s degree has an important component that ties a lot together and makes revisionism harder - wait. What?” I could almost hear the gears squealing as they ground to a halt. “Did you just say yes?”

“Basically, yeah.”

“That was… disturbingly easy,” he gave me a skeptical look.  When all I did was grin, he slowly turned to Charly. “As for you, I wanted to talk to you about the assignment that’s due next Friday.”

“I already turned it in,” she pointed out.

“Which is what I wanted to talk to you about. It’s a week and a half early.”

“Right….” she nodded slowly. “And I made sure it met all the criteria on the syllabus.  Plus I had three different people proofread it.”

“All of which is admirable, and it would be considered a very well-done assignment,” he admitted. “If you didn’t have an extra week and a half left to make it even better.”

“Mr. Farro….”

“You aren’t in trouble, in any way shape or form,” he reassured her. “But I know you are capable of doing better than the assignment you already gave me.  I wanted to offer you a deal.”

“What kind of deal?” Charly asked suspiciously. “This isn’t illegal, is it?”

“What? No…” he sputtered. “Illegal!?”

“Gotta be sure,” she nodded sincerely.  I was reasonably certain she was giving him a hard time, but it was still hilarious to watch.

Shaking his head, Arthur did his best to recover. “The deal is this: if you stick with the assignment you already sent me, I’ll grade it as it stands. But. If you re-do it and hand it in on the original due date, you’ll be eligible for extra credit for your extra effort.”

“But I still get the grade on the one you already have, either way?” she asked skeptically.

“I’ve already graded it, and you won’t get a worse grade if you re-do it,” he promised. 

“I’ll think about it,” she hedged carefully. “That paper was a lot of work.”

“That’s fair,” he nodded. “What if you sent me an audio recording, instead? No extra writing.”

“I can do that,” she agreed, sticking out her hand. After Arthur shook it, she glanced at the time. “Shit. I gotta go. Sophia, don’t be late back to work, okay? Tyche won’t care, but Alistair may stop letting me have extra marshmallows in my cocoa when I come by your office.”

After she left, I gave Arthur a very serious look.  He tried to ignore it, but after about five solid minutes of The Squint, he caved. “For the love of… She’s smart, okay? You know, I know it. The paper she handed in a week and a half early was much more insightful than anyone else in the class.  They were assigned a research paper on the underlying causes of the breakdown in relations between the Ekomari and Shalt-kri’i.  Everyone focused on political ideologies, trade resources, navigational route control.  Standard causes for war, from a Terran perspective. Do you know what Charly Harper wrote her paper about?”

“Food?” I asked, going out on a limb.

“So close! Cultural differences, plain and simple. Ekomari are vaguely mammalian, and their diet consists of native arthropods. Guess what Shalt-kri’i look like?”

“You’re kidding me…”

“Not even slightly.  And! To add insult to injury, in a very close to literal sense, Shalt-kri’i greet each other as friends by spreading their appendages, a lot like a hug.  Whereas Ekomari show aggression by… standing up on their hindmost appendages and spreading the rest to look bigger.”

“And no one caught this before?”

“Not on the Ark, no.” He spread his arms wide. “No one even considered it.  Sure, the rest are good points, and they did make everything worse, more than likely, but the start?  She nailed it.”

“Then why have her re-write the assignment?” I was honestly confused at this point.

“The way she wrote it, I could tell she wasn’t confident about the answer at all.” He looked about as frustrated as I had ever seen him. “You get her talking about engineering, or pranks, she knows she knows what she is talking about. I want her to know that she is just as right about this as she was about that.”

Hard to believe that this was the same man whose office I had marched into, out for a pound of flesh and the blood besides, because the same woman we were discussing left his class in tears and begged me not to make her go back.  However…

“Honestly?” I ventured. “I want to hear this recording when she hands it in. I’m really curious about this.”

“You think she’ll write it?”

“Pfft,” I scoffed. “I know she will. You gave her a challenge where she can’t lose, but stands a lot to gain. I just hope you’re ready for that sound file.”

“I honestly can’t wait,” he smirked.

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[realm-sweet-realm]

Lasting Melodies, chapter 1: You Were Always There

I thought I’d make a story for Jack Fain and Sammy Lawrence, showing their snippets of their lives together from their first performance to Jack’s untimely death.

The first chapter is mostly going to be fluff. In the second chapter, ink-related angst kicks in.

I hope you all enjoy this.

---

In the backstage of a little theatre, Jack Fain sat in anxious silence, waiting to be called out alongside Sammy for their Vaudesville routine. During their practices together, he’d been able to push down the idea of dozens or hundreds of people staring at him for their entertainment, but now it was all he could think about. He looked to Sammy, who seemed much calmer, and offered him a little smile and a nod. Sammy had done many performances before, beginning with concerts as a child and teenager showcasing his prodigal talent. Sammy was the reason Jack didn’t simply shed the flashy vaudevillian getup and make a run for it- Sammy had never, at least as far as Jack knew, had a humiliating performance, and Jack wasn’t about to waste all the effort they’d put in and make it his first.

The announcer finally called them out. “Just focus on the routine,” Sammy said, leading Jack onto the stage.

The routine was no different than practice- in fact, the adrenaline of doing it before an audience made it easier if anything. It would have been poor performance not to look at the crowd, so Jack did, but they didn’t terrify him like they expected. They weren’t bored, or annoyed, or vicious, they were having fun. And Jack was having fun with them.

When the routine was finished, the crowd cheered.

“They love us, Sammy,” Jack breathed. Of course, the crowd had cheered for every performer that night, and Jack knew that. But it felt so good. People loved him! All their skill and effort had made people cheer.

Jack felt a little tug at his sleeve and followed Sammy’s lead backstage, slightly embarrassed that he’d almost overstayed his welcome.

“That was amazing!”

“Good!” Sammy replied. He was smiling, too. “I was starting to think you weren’t cut out for this, but you’re actually a real stage personality. Would you do it again with me?”

“Next chance we have.”

“Great. I’ve been meaning to ask you something, actually- I want to do shows like this for a living someday, but I'd want a partner for it. So, will you be my partner?”

“Wow, that’s an awfully big choice. I wanna say yes right away, but give me a little time to think about it. Okay? And thank you. I would have never been able to do this without you.”

“Heh. No problem. No one I’d rather be on stage with than you.”

Jack blushed. It was a touch awkward to have his crush and best friend praise him like that. “Thanks,” was all that he could manage.

---

As soon as Sammy walked in to their apartment, Jack could tell that he was in a bad mood. Jack put down the book he was reading and went to him. “Something up, Sam?”

Sammy sighed deeply. “I think we need to have a little house meeting.”

“Sure.”

“Okay. Well, I was fired by the movie theatre for,” Sammy made air quotes with his fingers, “‘unhinged and unprofessional behaviour.’ And let’s be honest- we’ve been at the musical thing long enough, and our names aren’t taking off. Remember that Joey Drew guy who offered to hire us as a pair? I think we should do that. It’s a way for us to be working on music together.”

“Well, it’s too bad that you want to give up on the performances, but hey, writing music for a living sounds like an improvement on working at the record store. Sure, let’s do it.”

Sammy smiled and nodded, then looked away. “There’s something else I want to tell you as well. I... well, I found your love poem.”

Jack was stunned. “What?”

Sammy took the folded piece of paper from his pocket. “Uh, here... sorry. You told me it was a song you weren’t finished with, and I took a peek, even though you told me not to, and it was probably an accident you left it in the open.”

Jack's heart raced, afraid of what this would mean for Sammy’s perspective of him. “Okay,” he began, in a tone one might use to calm an animal, “Now that you know about this, I understand if you want to set some new boundaries with me-”

“No! No- I found it months ago. Sorry I didn’t give it back- I just don’t think I convince myself it existed, otherwise. And I didn’t think I wanted to pursue this, but I just thought, you know, if I couldn’t pursue musical performance the way I wanted to, maybe I could have the other thing I wanted.”

Not quite stunned by disbelief, Jack cupped Sammy’s face with one of his hands, forcing Sammy to meet his eyes. “I love you too.”

Sammy pulled him into their first kiss. It was just how Jack had always imagined it would be.

---

Jack sat in Henry’s old desk, waiting for his turn to be called into Joey’s office. Joey had, for no obvious reason, scheduled Sammy in for a fifteen-minute meeting at nine, with him having a similar meeting right after. Finally, Sammy came out, not looking any more upset than usual, thankfully.

“You’re not getting fired, don’t worry,” Sammy said. “We’re gonna have plenty to talk about over lunch, though.”

“Okay.” Jack’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Any idea what his reason is for calling us in like this?”

“Frankly? I think you’re sitting on it,” Sammy said, rolling his eyes. Then he left.

This just confused Jack. There had been no secret that Joey was sore over Henry’s departure a couple days ago, but what could that have to do with Joey wanting to see them?

As soon as Jack had entered Joey’s office, Joey had sat him down with a nice cup of coffee. “So, this is just going to be a casual meeting, Jack. Just you and me talking- one artist to another, alright?” There was an air of longing and desperation in Joey’s eyes.

“Alright.”

“Alright! Excellent! So, as an artistic man, I’m sure that you understand that an artist needs a partner, right?” Joey reached out and stroked Jack’s hand with his finger. Jack took his hand off the desk.

“I’m actually with someone else.”

Disappointment was evident in Joey’s eyes. “Oh, I meant nothing of that sort. I meant a person I could share my dreams and my ideas with. To be loyal and dependable to me.”

“Okay. Sure. I can do that.”

“Alright, great. First thing- you spend a lot of time with Sammy. Tell me about him- what he likes, what he dislikes, what he means when he says ‘please give me space,’ and so on.”

The fifteen minutes passed, and subjects such art, dreams, and ideas went unmentioned. Jack and Sammy truly did have a lot to talk about over lunch, which they took in Sammy’s office for privacy’s sake.

“Wow. He was really that direct with you?” Sammy couldn’t say he was surprised. Though he hadn’t been that obvious about it, Joey had clearly been chasing Sammy’s approval.

“Yep. But the second I told him I was with someone else, he went right on to talking about you. I could just see him taking notes on how to impress you.”

“Pathetic. Well, maybe I should tell him that I’m interested in complete control over my department, who works in it, and when he visits it. Who knows, I might get it. And then you’ll have eternal job security.”

“And maybe I could tell him that you like something goofy to see how far he’ll go.”

Sammy smiled. “Please do. This I must see.”

The next day, Jack told Joey that Sammy’s favourite flower was a white carnation. When Jack came in the next day, there was a vase containing three white carnations on Joey’s desk.

Now knowing his power, Jack resisted the temptation to use it for about a week before he decided to wax poetic to Joey about Sammy’s supposed lifelong love of reptiles. The day after that, Sammy walked into their morning meeting to see Joey with a medium-sized snake around his shoulders. “Her name is Vivaldi,” Joey explained. “She’s a Bullsnake. Wanna pet her?”

Sammy did not, in fact, want to pet her.

After the snake incident, Jack’s daily meetings with Joey became more professionally-focused before ending entirely, and within a few weeks, Vivaldi’s tank, along with the snake herself, had disappeared from Joey’s office.

---

“What? Why...?” Tears were forming in Jack’s eyes. He couldn’t believe this.

Sammy ground his teeth. This wasn’t easy for him, either. “Because you’re the anchor that’s keeping me at Joey Drew Studios. I’m turning thirty in a month, and I… I don’t know whether to accept that I’m going to be working here forever or if I should move on to other options. But “other options” probably wouldn’t let me keep working with you. I need to remind myself that I can live without you, and look at what other opportunities are out there. So, yeah. We can still live together, and we can still talk as the job or as being roommates requires, but I’m going to try not being your friend or your boyfriend for a while, okay? It probably won’t be for more than a month or two.”

Jack wanted to say something- something like, “but I need you, too!” but he didn’t. “Okay,” was all he said. “I hope you get what you want from this.”

Sammy cringed at how defeated Jack sounded. He wanted to hug him, but he didn’t want to break their “no being friends or lovers” agreement within the first five seconds, so instead he left for his room.

Jack and Sammy soon found out that they were very bad at staying away from each other. People still used Jack as a go-between to get messages through to Sammy, and that alone meant they interacted almost on a daily basis. The two of them still needed a discerning eye to look over their music, and while there were others, there was no one they trusted as much or enjoyed the company of quite the same. Sometimes Jack would forget (or “forget”) about their break period and try to bring Sammy coffee and snacks, or check to make sure Sammy was doing alright during the deadline crunch- and sometimes Sammy would send him away out of principle, but just as often he didn’t have the willpower. Jack found himself entertaining fantasies of them drifting back together within a matter of weeks.

Then one day, Jack caught sight of Susie Campbell kissing Sammy’s cheek in the music room. “Other opportunities” indeed. Jack wrestled with himself over whether to say anything, but ultimately chose to keep it to himself. If that was what Sammy wanted, there was nothing he could do about it.

[xhaotixaesthetica]

Stray Kids as Love Languages

Starlink Intergalactic Navigator 

Author's Note: I was just reading some of @chocolvte​ ‘s work and I was on their Jaehyun as a boyfriend headcanon and it mentioned his love language being acts of service so I got inspired to write this instead of doing my digital painting assignment like I should be. If you guys have never read that blog before, PLEASE do yourself a favor and check it out, it’s one of my favorites, they have THE softest and cutest content, reading it is like getting a warm hug and a kiss on the cheek. 

Genre: fluff 

Word-Count: 2.8K+ 

You are on: Gaia, a dwarf planet 

Bang Chan | Christopher Bang 

Giving: Physical Touch

Chan is one of the touchiest people I’ve ever seen in my entire life. I, honestly, don’t even think he realizes just how touchy he is with the members. It’s not even just in the form of traditional things like hugging and cheek kisses, it can be as simple as running his hands through your hair or putting his hand on your knee, Chris just has to have SOME type of physical contact with the people he cares about. I honestly don’t even have an explanation as to why he seems to have this pathological need to touch people, half of the time it just seems like something he does to keep his hands busy. But Channie has to feel relatively comfortable with not only the people but also the environment for him to do it. Like, I notice he keeps his hands to himself almost completely when they’re at interviews, award shows, etc. But if they’re on Vlive or at a concert where it’s just STAY and he feels comfortable then he turns into an octopus. So there’s probably some small type of intimacy behind it. If you’re with Chan, you will probably never sit on a seat again, just his lap. You’re gonna be his cuddle buddy, hold his hand when you go to the mall, get your forehead and cheeks kissed constantly. You’ll end up being quite used to the feeling of his hands SOMEWHERE on you and it will probably end up being really comforting to you, leaving you feeling almost naked when he isn’t there to be touching you.

Receiving: Quality Time

This is quite ironic because Chan’s the one with the busy schedule in the relationship, but maybe that reason makes it make even more sense for him to value spending time with you so much. Chan values both types of quality time, the time where you’re both doing your own thing in the same room, feeding off each other’s presence, and the type where you get rid of the phone, Netflix, and all other distractions to just focus on each other. If you REALLY want to make his heart flutter, move your schedule around to fit in time to see him. He won’t want you to blow off responsibilities for him or make your life revolve around him or anything like that. But it will warm his heart to see you racing into the JYP building on what is supposed to be your break, just to have fifteen minutes with him. He likes knowing that he’s important to you and that you like being with him so much that you’re willing to shift things around a little to find time in the day to see him. And don’t fret, despite how busy he is, he WILL do the same for you, his lil angel.

Woojin

Giving: Acts of Service

Woojin is almost as good as Minho when it comes to acts of service. They don’t come quite as naturally to him as Minho, but if anything, that makes it even more endearing. Woojin wants to make your life easier, make you as happy as you’ve made him. So even though he’s not used to it at first, he’s determined to do all the little acts of service until it becomes second nature. He wants you to associate him with happiness and stability, wants you to feel really warm whenever you see some small act that he’s performed that helps you throughout your busy day,

Receiving: Quality Time

Woojin will love any efforts made to spend quality time with him. And while he does appreciate the kind of quality time in which you both are doing separate things in each other’s presence, what really gets his uwus going is when it’s nothing but you two and some soft background music. He loves just talking to you, loves having the kind of connection where hours can go by with you two just carrying on a conversation and it not getting boring.

Lee Know | Lee Minho

Giving: Acts of Service

Minho is going to be the undisputed KING of the acts of service love language. You are ALWAYS on his mind, and since it’s in Minho’s nature to pay close attention to his loved ones, their schedules, their interests, their personalities and habits, it’s only second-nature for him to just start unconsciously doing things for you. When you wake up, even though Minho’s already left for practice, you’ll see that he’s already set out your favorite pair of fluffy socks for you to wear and put your breakfast on the nightstand beside you. He’ll pick up any prescriptions you might have and learns all your favorite recipes. He SOMEHOW always squeezes in time in his busy schedule to make you snacks, delicious cookies and sweets that are always warm when you eat them. He always fills up a water bottle and reminds you to stay hydrated, always stays abreast of your schedule so he can pick you up from appointments if they’re in shady areas. He finds a way to fit himself into every area of your life and you can’t even picture being without him anymore, because all those little things add up and even though he has such a stressful schedule, he makes your life SO much easier.

Receiving: Words of Affirmation

This might seem hard to believe for some of you, but I get the feeling that words of affirmation really do it for Minho. He won’t ever really let you know, but it really soothes his spirit whenever you give him even the smallest of compliments. If you ever want to repay him for all the things he does for you, just compliment him! He loves to hear how much you loved something he cooked, how handsome he looked today, how good his outfit was, how thoughtful he is for doing such and such, how good he performed, etc. You can compliment him on pretty much anything and he’ll love it. Minho has a nature where he does a lot for others without expecting much in return and that can wear you down over time, especially when it goes unnoticed. Let him know that you notice and adore everything he does and he’ll be a blushing mess, giggling as he sweeps you into his arms and presses little kisses all over your face.

Changbin

Giving: Gifts

I think I’ve mentioned it before somewhere on this blog, but this is an underrated love language. Changbin is, in no way, trying to buy your affections. On the contrary, most of the gifts he gives aren’t even that grand. Like Minho, Changbin finds his mind filled with you often. So, it’s a common occurrence for him to be on tour and see something that reminds him of you. Sometimes they’re snow globes, sometimes their little figurines, sometimes it’s a cheesy tourist t-shirt, sometimes it might even be a weirdly patterned towel. But everytime he gives ou something, he’ll have the same sheepish look and downcast eyes as he hands it to you and mumbles, “I was thinking about you and thought you would like it.” And even though your relationship has a healthy amount of teasing, you never tease him for the things he brings you, no matter how random they are, because you know that he’s really shy about them, but also really sincere. It will make his heart skip a beat whenever he goes into a room of your apartment/house and sees something he got ou being displayed or put to good use.

Receiving: Acts of Service

Binnie Binnie Changbinnieeeee. It was hard for me to pin this one down for him. Originally, I was going to say acts of service and physical touch, but I think I’ve got it, hear me out. The first and foremost act of service Changbin appreciates is you letting him cling to you or you holding him. All the other little bits of skinship are great for him but not necessarily a requirement. Changbin will really appreciate the fact that you let him feel safe and secure by holding him tight or letting him cling onto your arm. You make him feel safe and he loves knowing that you might put up with the irritation of having this brawny man attached to you all the time, if it makes him feel better.

Hyunjin

Giving: Physical Touch

A t o u c h y boi. Hyunjin really values physical contact, we see how he is with the members. He’s going to constantly be all up in your face and he won’t even really be aware that he’s doing it. It’s so natural for him to pull you into his lap or give you back hugs, and kiss your cheek every couple hours. It’s like he has an internal battery that’s charged by physical contact with you. He doesn’t really think to say sweet things or bring you things all the time, but he loves touching you to remind you that he’s here and he’s yours and he absolutely adores you.

Receiving: Physical Touch

A v E rY t o u c h y boi. Hyunjin would probably be most compatible with someone who also shows their love through physical affection. He never refuses physical contact from the members, not even jokingly, and gets pouty whenever it’s taken away. This reassures him that he’s not bothering you with his touchiness and that you want to be with him just as much as he likes being with you. His heart flutters every time you pull him close or peck him on the lips. It makes his chest well up with emotion at the thought that you feel so much love for him that you can’t hold back from expressing it physically.

Han | Han Jisung

Giving: Physical Touch

Another touchy boii, but I feel like it’s in a very different way for very different reasons than Hyunjin. Where Hyunjin shows you a lot of physical affection in the form of cute little kisses and attention gestures, Jisung LOVES holding you. Mostly all of his physical affection comes in the form of holding you. He loves hugging you or holding your hand. You’re like a security blanket for him. He feels a stressful amount of anxiety throughout the day, whether it be about social outings, schedules, music, his family, and when he holds you, it makes everything feel alright. If he’s really stressed, he’ll bury his face in your neck and just inhale your scent. He trusts you to see this as a sign of his love, because how could you not coo over how safe and happy you make him feel?

Receiving: Physical Touch

Jisung would like for you to return the physical touches. He’s fine with whatever you want to do, kissing him, hugging him, holding his hand, squishing his ADORABLE lil cheeks when he eats, he literally doesn’t care as long as you’re touching him. He craves not only the security of your touch, but also the internal knowledge that you like him enough to want to touch him. He loves the idea that he’s desired enough by you for you to see out physical affection.

Felix

Giving: Quality Time and Giving Gifts

Felix is a giver, that’s for sure. You’re never going to feel like he doesn’t care. Between him trying to spend time with you and him giving you things, you’re probably going to be convinced that you’ve found the perfect man. Unlike Changbin, whose gifts are random and, oftentimes, can't even be explained by him, Felix’s gives mostly revolve around flowers, food, and couple items. The flowers won’t always be expensive, you can expect roses on special occasions, but most of the time, they’ll probably just be a small clump of wildflowers he saw at the park or a few baby’s breaths that reminded him of you. Food will be a recurring gift, from ice cream to hamburgers to bibimbap, Felix will make sure you have ample snacks to brighten your day. The couple items won’t really be anything obnoxious. It will most likely be things like complimenting rings or matching beanies or charm bracelets. Felix, like Jeongin, will also love spending time with you. You two are partners in crime, going almost everywhere together. To Felix, you’re like an extra limb, a very necessary part of him that he would really rather not be without and whenever people see one of you somewhere without the other, they will immediately wonder what’s wrong.

Receiving: Words of Affirmation

Felix, like Minho, will probably thrive on words of affirmation. This stems from multiple things; his elimination, his struggle to pick up Korean, having to pick up and move to a foreign culture and learn the culture, his insecurities about himself as an artist, his fear that he isn’t a good boyfriend because of how busy he is, the list goes on and on. Felix doesn’t want you to compliment him quite as much as Minho does, then he might think you’re lying, but he does want it quite often. He wants to hear verbally, in no uncertain terms, that he’s doing a great job and that you love him just the way he is.

Seungmin

Giving: Acts of Service

Another servant over here. Nah, jk, jk. Seungmin will probably have really incognito acts of service. Like seriously, you probably won’t ever notice. It’ll be sly stuff like always moving your shoes in the doorway so you won’t trip, always check to make sure you have an umbrella and spare tire in your car, putting tape on sharp corners of your furniture so you won’t bump into them and get hurt, always making sure things in your kitchen are on the bottom shelf, making sure your fridge is always stocked with relatively healthy essentials. Seungmin doesn’t even really expect for you to notice the things he does, but if you ever do, he’s going to blush really intensely and try to quickly skate over the topic, only shutting up when you plant a big kiss on his cheek that renders him incapable of speech for the next two hours.

Receiving: Physical Touch and Receiving Gifts

Seungmin is a bit complicated. He’s going to pretend like your skinship really annoys him, but, in truth, he thrives on it. I notice that with the members, he doesn’t really actively cuddle them much but they always do so to him and he looks pretty happy about it, even if he sometimes pretends otherwise, and it’ll be the same in your relationship. He appreciates being desired and sought after, likes seeing you work for his affection and knowing you value you it enough to do so. As for the gifts part, he won’t really want anything extravagant. He wants small, thoughtful gifts, getting him his favorite food at the end of a long week, getting him a backup charger in case he loses his, a wallet to carry his passport in that has his favorite superhero on it, that kind of stuff. He likes knowing that he’s on your mind as much as you’re on his.

I.N. | Yang Jeongin

Giving: Quality Time

Relationships are probably very new to Jeongin. He’s spent so much of his life just being completely devoted to his job that he probably doesn’t have much time for them. So he’s the type who probably still thinks its too nerve-wracking or embarrassing for you to cuddle him or say sweet words to him. We’ve all seen how he acts with the members. You’ll know Jeongin loves you by the sheer amount of time he spends in your presence. Jeongin is going to want to spend damn near every second with you. He just finds it so comfortable and easy to be around you. You bring out the best in him and make him feel like he can really be himself. You two will spend as much time as possible together laughing at memes, watching funny youtube videos, talking about conspiracy theories, and getting into trouble together. He may not be as touchy or silver-tongued as some of the other members, but you can bet that he’ll always be right beside you through thick and thin.

Receiving: Acts of Service

If you want to make Jeongin MELT, the key will be in the little things. Big gestures or soliloquies about your love for him will make him severely uncomfortable, but he will absolutely adore you doing little things like bringing him food at practice, setting a pair of comfy sweatpants out for him to change into when he comes home from practice, getting an extra chocolate milk for him on your break and putting it in the fridge for him for when he comes home. He loves the idea that he’s on your mind throughout the day and that you care enough for him to do little things throughout the day to make his life easier and to let him know he’s loved and cared for.

Gaia, a dwarf planet 

Starlink Intergalactic Navigator 

[lemonietrinket]

I’ll Admit ||| Wonpil x Reader

Summary: "I’ll admit, I didn’t think I would ever do all of this under a bed with a cold pretzel, and yet here we are.” Genre: Fluff, humour? Warning(s): 1x Hell (mild cursing), otherwise none Word Count: 4856 Theme Song: Mixtape #1 - Stray Kids; Best Part - Day6; Stay - Ateez AN: a pushed request from @idontknowapil I have no have no short-fic ideas lately ok. I’m here to fill the apparent void of day6 stuffs :((

~~~

To be absolutely honest with yourself, you were beginning to wonder if you’d offended some ancient deity, whose only remaining power was to cause minor inconveniences for a target chosen upon whim, and that you were said victim. 

Because, truth be told, what had you done to deserve being thrown onto the sofa like a sack of potatoes?

You hadn’t intended to get in their way—you weren’t even aware they were chasing each other round the tiny halls of the flat, and you hadn’t the slightest clue as to why either. 

You’d been helping Sungjin cook dinner in the cramped kitchen, effortlessly working around one another in peace as you jammed to the music over the speaker you’d set up.  Neither of you said much, opening your mouths to merely sing the lyrics together, or ask for the flavouring to be passed from the first kitchen counter to its only companion. 

Listening to the man sing in his gritty and soulful voice never failed to settle you into tranquil, even if the words he was singing weren’t exactly what most would define as deep and meaningful.

“I see that I’m icy~”

You choked back a laugh. You would never have noted him as the type to bop to Itzy—and neither did he, usually—but every now and again he seemed to like a rousing pop song, and since it was only you there he didn’t mind letting down his reserved guard and sing along.  It didn’t stop the contrast between his vocals and the tone of the song from being stark, though, and there was something amusing about hearing a mighty voice that was designed for heart-aching alternative songs chant sunnily to a summer pop hit. Still, it allowed you to join in without feeling so out of league like you would have naturally done. 

The heavy thunk however shook the entire block no doubt, and it also stopped your little concert in the kitchen abruptly short. The two of you flicked your heads to where it had somewhat resonated from: the living room.

“What the hell...?” you murmured, your knife frozen against the chopping board.

“Those damn kids,” Sungjin tutted, quickly going back to his work at the pan, “if I get another complaint from that poor elderly lady from downstairs again I swear I’ll...”

You were going to join him in cooking again as you had done before, when a high-toned shriek emanated from the furthest hall. At the sound of it, the leader hissed grumpily into the steam of the half-prepared meal, but you couldn’t help but let your thoughts wander.

There was no plausible owner of the cry other than Wonpil, and that made you worry.  You couldn’t help it. The others may not play often, but when they did it sometimes was a little rough—and this didn’t count the occasionally relentless teasing that Jae and Younghyun could indulge in on a surprisingly regular basis. And Wonpil, bless his heart, was just as regularly the target. He was just so sweet and kind and gentle, and when he wasn’t, he was surprisingly, underhandedly sassy. These were the reasons why you’d fallen worryingly swiftly for the man and his cute habits and neediness, and it was also the reason why he was chosen as the one who got teased; his reactions were normally pretty funny.

But it also had to be said that though Wonpil could handle himself better than many would expect, there were a couple of scenarios where he couldn’t, perhaps. And going by the sudden flurry of footsteps that charged into someone’s bedroom and forced Sungjin to lean against the counter and pull the wide-eyed expression he always made whenever he was considering whipping someone into shape, you deduced this may have been one of those circumstances.

And so, you finished chopping the mushroom before you, dished it out onto the plate for the main chef to use, before throwing, “I’m just going to check everyone’s ok,” over your shoulder and heading out into the hallway. 

Peering both ways you couldn’t see a single culprit or victim, which was unnerving to say the least.

Heading towards where the original thud had originated from, you barely got to the other side of the living room when there was a flash of white and suddenly you were scooped into the air with a yelp.

A victorious laugh that was clearly Younghyun’s tapered off within seconds as you were immediately put back on your feet. “Oh, Y/N, I’m so sorry I thought you were—”

“What the hell are you doing?” you exclaimed, still in shock from your sudden, albeit temporary, flight. 

The handsome smile before you became even more sheepish. “Nothing bad I promise! Have you—”

“Nothing bad?!” you echoed incredulously. “You’ve been lumping around causing an absolute ruckus! If you’ve caused any offence to the other residents up or downstairs I swear I will—”

“—seen Wonpil?”

The sound of his name sucked any threats of spite out of you. He was the reason why you’d risked life and limb by exiting the kitchen. “N-no, but why do you want him?”

Younghyun chuckled at your defensive scowl. “He stole my pretzel and I want it back.”

“I can’t believe you guys—over a pretzel?” You rolled your eyes. “Even if I had seen him I wouldn’t hand over any information, and you know that.”

The man looked mildly panicked as you began to head back towards the kitchen. “Wait, Y/N! It’s a cinnamon pretzel! You know they’re like, really damn good...!” 

You stopped in mere steps as a plan gradually began to spin in your head. You span on your heel, sending Younghyun a sweet smile. “A cinnamon pretzel you say?” 

He nodded earnestly as you slowly drew to the archway where he stood, coming to lean against the arm of the sofa nearest it. “Interesting...”

“Will you help us find him? I’ll let you have a quarter of it!” Younghyun pleaded, pulling the best puppy eyes he could.

“A whole quarter? Wow I am lucky.”

You had to bite back another laugh as you watched him panic again. 

“Because I’ve already made an offer to Dowoon and Jae to help me catch him, ok?” he explained poutily.

You pretended to think for a bit, though your mind was already made up. It was time to put your plan into action. “Fine.”

Relief washed over him as he flashed you that charming grin that made everyone’s hearts flutter. Well, perhaps everyone except you as you’d swiftly rationalsied. Your butterflies only seemed to make an appearance whenever he was around, and as if to make up for their rather useful vacancy in normal situations, they made a habit of appearing at all times when you were with him—which wasn’t as lucky, but what were you to do? Ask him out? Don’t be daft. 

“Ok, good, that’s great!” Younghun sighed, jumping straight in with an outline of his oddly detailed plan on how to smoke out Wonpil from his hiding spot and reclaim his pretzel in an elaborate trap. You weren’t listening, though, and it was rather fortunate really that he didn’t get to continue for long enough to ask you questions that you then wouldn’t be able to answer.

He was interrupted halfway through explaining he was going to head towards Wonpil and Sungjin’s room by another thunder of footsteps wracking through the apartment. A shape that you would soon identify as Jae barrelled right through, in and out of the living room like a lightning bolt, calling, “I see him!”

And unfortunately for you, the image of a sweet, pristine cinnamon pretzel had overcome his senses, and since Younghyun was in the way, he took the fastest option of bumping him out of the way. But this created a domino effect, as in an effort to recapture his balance, the younger had stumbled forward and sent you over the arm, onto the plush cushions with a startled cry.

As you lay squashed on your shoulder and your elbow slotted between the leather you couldn’t help but think about your predicament, yet also your future rewards. 

The plan you had concocted was of the same level as a secret agent’s master plan, you were sure, and you couldn’t help a devilish smirk rise to your lips as you thought it over.

It involved stealth, deceit, smarts, and a good dose of luck.

A double-cross. The ultimate spy-movie-move. And you were going to pull it off to-the-T.

Truth was, if you found Wonpil and hid with him, you were guaranteed to get half a pretzel. Maybe even more, since the man who had stolen your heart so cleanly without even realising most likely, was kind like that.

Ignoring the ebbs and flows of your heart that dictated that you would always take his side over the others’ any day anyway, it made much more sense to bluff.

Not only this, you also had a great advantage over Jae and Younghyun, and that was you knew Wonpil very well. Yes, they’d known him for longer, but you knew him on a deeper level, from all the time you’d spent with him late in the evening and in cafes in the morning and everywhere you went with him. Because you listened to what he had to say, because you cared with your whole heart.  And so it meant that this time round you were going to beat them, and win that pretzel too.

And so, you pushed yourself up—with frankly a ridiculous amount of energy required, because the sofa seemed very keen to grip your hand and pin you down—and slipped in the direction the two had come from, into your room.

As your eyes settled on your bed, there was no chance of you wiping the pride off your face.

Though Wonpil was softer than the others, that didn’t mean he didn’t still have a few tricks up his sleeve; after all, he wasn’t as ditzy as everyone always figured he was.

Your room was in fact the safest option—it was your private space, so the others rarely came in, thus they didn’t know it well at all. The wouldn’t know where to begin. Add this to their discomfort to even being in your room without your permission, let alone scouring their eyes in every nook and cranny, that had origins in your rare but mighty wrath, it all amounted to the best choice. 

On top of this, Wonpil actually did know it well. He was the only one that frequented your room, because the two of you were so close. And though you weren’t as close as you wished to be, he always came to you in the evenings, wrapping up in your blankets at your side and sprawling over your lap, your shoulders, your stomach. 

This in itself made you repeatedly rethink your wishes to finally work up the courage and ask—as what if it ruined everything? And you didn’t like to think down those lines for long, as it made your stomach churn enough emotionally to make you feel physically nauseous. 

But this was why he had an advantage by hiding in your room (as well as why you’d held your tongue for months on end). 

Banking on the fact that you two had a lot in common too, you could certainly have a good guess at where he was, since you knew where you would choose to go.

Lifting the covers that hung like curtains from the edge of your bed to the floor, you found everything in order—the drawer you kept under there still in its place. A good sign.

You made your way round to the other side of your bed.

The drawer did not fill the expanse of it, after all, and left quite a lot of space under there. And since the frame was reasonably high off the ground, this would be the prime spot to hide if you needed to.

Crouching down, you glanced up to the door left ajar as to not arouse suspicion but also maintain some privacy if your deductions were correct. No one there, and no sound of anyone approaching.  Success.

“Wonpil,” you whispered to the carpet, fingers fiddling with the embroidered lace upon the cover, “it’s Y/N. I’m coming under, yeah?”

A series of shuffles was heard while the tiniest ‘hi’ graced your ears. You slipped under the bed on your stomach, hurriedly repositioning the covers to hide your position once again.

Your arm ended up nudging into something soft that then emitted a small hum as a greeting of sorts. “Oh, Pillie, I’m sorry.”

“It’s ok,” he responded meekly, shifting his weight to further accommodate for you, “you’re not searching with them are you?”

You shook your head, coming to settle resting on your elbows. “Nope. I told Hyun that I was though.”

“Y/N L/N, world’s best double agent,” he giggled, and you couldn’t help but smile at him merely being happy. 

You couldn’t see much under the bed since a lot of the light was blocked by the drawer and overhanging bedsheets, but you could just make out the lines of his face and the corners of his beautiful smile. His dark eyes also caught the slivered beams of light that crept beneath the furthest end of the bed, appearing like distant constellations in them. He was a masterpiece, never appreciated fully as he deserved—but for those that did, they would find all his quirks as food for the soul, and as such he rendered you feeling at true peace in his company. You longed to speak out again.

You were brought out of your thoughts by the one who had caught your heart so accidentally holding a soft pretzel towards you. “Do you want it?”

You prayed he hadn’t seen your stare in the dim light. “Hm? Oh, I’ll have any part you don’t want, it’s ok.”

“Well...” he offered the packet to you more insistently by brushing your arm with the back of his hand, until you accepted it. He then rolled over onto his side, settling into the carpet. “I don’t want it, so you can have it.”

You analysed the knot of the pretzel, before frowning at him suspiciously. “You haven’t eaten any of it...? You didn’t drop it on the floor did you?”

“No!” he cried in a whisper that verged on just-a-bit-too-loud. Much as you feared, footsteps came at a slower pace down from the living room, sending the two of you into a bout of silence, hoping that they wouldn’t turn into your bedroom.

To your luck, they continued on into the studio.

You exhaled in relief as you continued with your interrogation over the lukewarm, but still very delicious cinnamon pretzel. “But, Pillie, my Wonpil loves pretzels, especially cinnamon ones! My Wonpil dared to throw a pillow at Sungjin over a cinnamon pretzel! And yet here he supposedly is, handing one over completely untouched? I say, sir, you have been outwitted—now tell me, who are you and where is the real Wonpil?”

Your tone had been humorous, perhaps overly so. You couldn’t help it though; the rush of calling him yours, even with it being uninterpretable to mean in that manner, sent electricity through to your heart and left it thumping against your ribcage. 

Wonpil meanwhile only laughed under his breath softly, his brilliant smile tapering off into a gentler, sleepier one. “I am the real Wonpil, I promise! I just want you to have it.”

“Why?” The word came out of you too fast and before you could even attempt to stop it. You cursed your neediness in your head, shying your head away as you leaned into the scent of cinnamon as a feeble attempt of a cover. 

He shrugged, though it was awkward to see at his angle. “Because you really like them and I’d rather you have it over Jae or Younghyun.”

You snorted. “What did they do this time?”

“They hid my phone!” he whined, a pout clearly on his face in the dark even if you couldn’t see it clearly, “I looked all over the place desperately for like, ten minutes, and then they laughed at me when they gave it back!”

“That’s so mean,” you agreed, “do you want e to kick their asses?”

He laughed sweetly, rolling closer. “Nah, I got the pretzel. That’ll teach them not to mess with Kim Wonpil!”

“The Almighty and All-Seeing,” you finished with a grin, taking a bite into the dough at last. Even though it was a bit cool, it still tasted phenomenal, and you hummed out of reflex and in satisfaction.

“Is it good?” Wonpil chirped, shuffling even closer. He was still merged with the shadows, but you could feel his warmth by your arm. He couldn’t stay away for long, after all.

You nodded assertively, torn between chewing quickly so you could reply and taking it slow to savour the taste. Considering the size of how much was left, you opted for the former and eventually asked, “Where did you get this from?”

“I don’t know actually. I just saw it in Younghyunnie’s bag and took it.”

You couldn’t stifle the chuckle at the image of the man’s devious behaviour, and ended up choking.

“Are you ok?” Wonpil’s voice was concerned, his hand already on your arm, gently rubbing and squeezing the skin there as he waited for you to gather your breath together.

As soon as you erupted into giggles that you attempted to smother as much as you could, he sighed.

“I’m sorry, I just imagined you in full, stereotypical robber costume with the mask and everything, running away with a pretzel and, I don’t know, it just...?” 

Wonpil seemed to not really be listening—not an entirely uncommon occurrence—and instead took the opportunity to wrap his arms around your free one and lean his head against your side.  “I’m so glad you’re ok!” he whispered.

Hearing a clang from the studio nearby you tensed up, but after a few more seconds of hearing nothing, you allowed yourself to pay full attention to Wonpil again. 

“Of course I’m ok,” you said, “why wouldn’t I be?”

“I was worried you were going to die on me, and that just wouldn’t be ideal.” Hearing you scoff a laugh at his terminology, he avidly continued, “Look, we’d have to write on your obituary that you died from choking on a cinnamon pretzel, and then you’d become a cautionary tale for kids, and that’s just not a fate anyone deserves!”  It was then as if his mouth continued without him really being aware of it.

“And if you died, Y/N, then what am I supposed to do? I would be so alone, I don’t think I would—” 

These moments happened to everyone, it was fair to say, though his reaction to his own words as he cut himself short was an enigma to say the least. It was as if he’d said to much of something he’d promised he would never say. 

And then he was quiet. In fact he was dead silent.  Not a Wonpil-thing to do to say the least.

It was good timing however. There was a creak, as another person entered the room.  You hadn’t heard the footfalls, so you weren’t able to work out who it was, until he spoke.

“Y/N?” Sungjin called.

You didn’t respond.  This wasn’t exactly good news.

The chances were the leader would try and catch one of the others and ask them of your whereabouts, if he was searching for specifically you of his own accord. Or worse, he had joined the search—unlikely, but a possibility nevertheless.

After what seemed like hours of waiting, the door creaked once more and you were able to release the air you’d been subconsciously holding. 

Glancing down, you realised you’d better get on with your pretzel. You spoke to clear the silence and anxious energy emanating from the man who was clinging to you. 

“I wouldn’t know what I’d do without you either, Pillie.” Deciding to take smaller bites but often, you began to eat and savour the taste of the stolen delicacy as best you could, while finishing what Wonpil had insinuated in his accidental words. “I don’t think I would cope at all with you gone, too.”

“Really?” 

You imagined his bright eyes wide and gleaming at you in surprise, as you wouldn’t be able to see even if you looked back. “Yeah, my life would be so empty, I think,” you bit down the nerves that began to rise as you spoke, “like a huge part of me and my life would be missing, and I never want that to happen.”

“Do you really mean that?” Wonpil’s voice was so small you could barely hear it, “You... want me here with you... forever?” 

You froze on the spot.

Was this the time?

Evidently, yes.

You let the the pretzel fall to the floor, shifting yourself so you were on your back and able to hold Wonpil’s cheeks delicately in your hands above you, as you had longed to do for months.  “Yes. Without a single doubt, Pillie. I’ve liked you for so long I haven’t been able to say it, but now I’ve... finally kicked myself up the ass and said it,” you chuckled to yourself, watching his glorious smile rise in the dark, “so, Pillie, do you want to be my boyfriend?”

He nodded desperately, coming to rest his forehead against yours.

And it was as if your heart had burst in two out of sheer joy. You could have very much burst into tears right there and then, but Wonpil was not finished. 

“Kiss me?” he requested, in a voice so delicate and sweet that it instantly mended your broken resolve.  

You closed the distance carefully, not wanting to mess up and make a fool of yourself, even though the circumstances really did prompt it. Fortune was on your side though, as your lips found his without an issue.

Threading your hands through his hair, you revelled in the tenderness of his kiss. It felt so right as your heart throbbed, his chest lowering onto yours as he sank into your touch. It was so chaste and impossibly sweet, and yet it carried the weight of the world within it—you hadn’t been the only one waiting. 

As much as you longed to remain there, your beating hearts dictated that you needed to take in air.

He moved away first, his breath tickling your skin as he giggled. “You taste like cinnamon.”

“And now so do you!” You ran your thumb across his temple, unable to contain your smile. 

Overcome with shyness, Wonpil bit his lip as he ducked his head into your neck, mumbling phrases of disbelief into your shirt. 

Stroking the soft tress of his hair you attempted to ease him into more calm. “I’ll admit,” you began, “I didn’t think I would ever do all of this under a bed with a cold pretzel, and yet here we are.”

“How did you picture it?” he enquired, voice still muffled by your neck.

“I don’t actually know...” you answered, pausing to consider what you had originally intended, if anything at all. “Maybe after the cinema? That’s the classic way, right? Wait, no... Probably one time when you come to hang out with me like you always do?”

He lifted himself up, cocking his head to one side. “Why then?”

It was your turn to get a little bashful, “Because you’d be right there in my arms, and it would be much easier than under a bed hiding from the others...”

“Well,” Wonpil reasoned, his voice nothing but a whisper, “I’m here in your arms now...”

You sighed, “I know, it took me long enough right?”

“I could have done something about it too,” he pouted, “so don’t worry about it... and instead, maybe do it again?”

There was no way you could have stifled the chuckle that bubbled from your chest, but it tapered off when your new partner leant in to kiss you again.

Nonetheless, luck is a finite resource, and so it had to run out at some point—and for you, it was at an admittedly unfortunate moment, as it was right there and then.

Light was released from its coil outside as the bedsheets were drawn back and a face appeared in its wake.

“Boom! Found y—Y/N?!” Jae’s voice was way too loud in comparison to the peace, and then it was absolutely ecstatic, “Y/N?! Are you making out with our keyboardist?!”

You were stunned by his sudden appearance as you hadn’t heard a single bit of noise to offer the idea that anyone was nearby. Then again, you were enraptured with the beautiful man before you—there was little chance of you noticing the low creak of a door.

As you floundered however, Wonpil handled the situation instead, unusually disgruntled.

“I asked her to, Jae,” he countered, sending him his best mean look which only really involved a nose scrunch, “now go away and let her continue.”

“Oop—” The eldest disappeared from sight, and darkness returned.

“Now, where were we?” Wonpil hummed, but you were reluctant.

Your inhibitions turned out to be well-calculated too, as you heard Jae, not three seconds later, yell, “Brian! Y/N and Wonpil are making out under the bed, come see!”

You rolled your eyes. “We’d better get out of here.” Confronted with Wonpil’s pout however and your grumpy tone melted. “It’s ok, we’ll continue later, I promise! Just, I have to go kick Jae’s ass real quick too, you know?”

You felt his weight shift from you as he admitted defeat. “Ok, but get him good, baby.”

You choked on air at the sudden pet-name. So many things sounded like pure perfection coming from his lips. Even so, it seemed the term ‘baby’ in reference to you did not share the same effect.

“Eh?”

“What?” he said, confused by your outburst. 

“I think you need to find another pet-name for me,” you explained as you crawled out from beneath the bed. 

“What’s wrong with baby?”

Once you were out, you extended your hand for him. Handing you the pretzel which you then discarded on your bed, he began to shimmy himself out until he could accept your offer, while you searched for a reason other than ‘slightly cringey’. “I mean... I can’t be baby, because you are baby.”

As he got to his feet, he dusted the both of you off shyly. “Am I?”

“Hell yeah you are, baby,” you finished, making your point with added flair as you raised his chin to face you.

His eyes went wide at the touch. “Y-yeah, you’re right.”

“Oh, ew.”

Your eyes rose to the voice to find Jae still standing there, though this time with Younghyun in the doorway who suddenly looked panicked. “Don’t look at me, I’m fully supportive of young love.”

Your gaze focused on Jae, then, who was smiling brightly, though it was turning more and more worried by the second.  “Thank you for reminding me about the other problem at hand,” you chirped, “You get a ten second head-start, Jae, as I’m feeling kind today.”

“It’s because of all that love in your system,” he retorted with a cackle, though he didn’t then waste much time in making a mad dash for the door, shunting Younghyun out of the way once more.

“Kick his ass, sugarplum!” Wonpil encouraged by your side, and you just about hid your wince. Younghyun merely ducked his head out of the doorway to snicker.

“Yeah, maybe not that one either, baby,” you suggested, resting your palms on his shoulders and pressing a kiss quickly to his cheek. “But I’ll make it count, don’t worry.”

He sent you that glimmering smile, this time in the light where you could see, and you stood transfixed for well over the designated head-start. 

“Come on, go!” Wonpil ushered, thriving on the drama. “Avenge me!”

And with his blessing you grabbed your pillow and tore off out of the door.

To see you so smitten was endearing, Younghyun thought. He’d been wondering how long it would take you to finally ask, and was starting to worry a bit. Clearly he shouldn’t have lost faith in you quite that easily.

He managed to avoid getting trampled by you too as you ran out of you room, leaving Wonpil to take in everything that had happened. He’d expected him to gush about it, or have a fit of giggles, but the man just sat on your bed and sighed, looking at a pretzel happily—

Wait, that was his pretzel—

“Hey, that’s—!”

“I know,” Wonpil interjected, scooping it up and offering it to him, “you want it?”

Younghyun eyed him suspiciously. “Who are you and where is Wonpil?”

The younger tutted, rolling his eyes. “I am Wonpil, and I don’t want it, so you can have it.”

Younghyun, after a few moments, stepped forward to claim his prize. Until he had an epiphany.

“Wait, it’s been on the floor, hasn’t it.”

~~~

AN: I feel like I’m gonna hate this tomorrow but oh well. here it is!

and it wasn’t supposed to be this long but oops

(also itzy’s music and lyrics are also obviously not mine—I’m not taking any chances though so, I repeat: I have no ownership of the song, lyrics, etc they all belong to JYPE ok)

Masterlist

[dagwolf]

The 1st of May

Six or seven years ago, the approach of this date used to arouse great hopes and great fears. The bourgeois quaked, the police made ready for a crackdown, the revolutionaries stood in readiness for the struggle, and huge masses of proletarians looked forward eagerly to that date like some mystical day fated to signal the end of their suffering.

Since then, the movement has, little by little, been dwindling in importance until it has been forgotten by some, and looked upon by others as one more innocuous anniversary on the calendar of the revolutionary merry-makers.

What should have been the tangible sign of the solidarity pact between the oppressed of every country, what should have been a review of the proletarian forces, what should have helped prepare the people for today’s great revolutionary means—the general strike—has turned into the feast of labor—and a feast day little observed!

Why such a stark and swift decline?

Who is to blame?

Pretty much everybody. The democratic socialist who, in Europe anyway, had come up with the idea and taken the initiative with the movement, were almost scared by the enthusiasm it inspired and by the revolutionary tenor it went assuming in a few months in all countries, and they immediately strove to play down its significance and drain it of the pugnaciousness it had acquired. In the bigger towns, where their party could marshal impressive numbers, they turned the First of May strike into a feast held on the first Sunday of the month, thereby sapping it of its character and raison d'être; or they sought to whittle down the demonstration to a procession of delegates walking into parliament to hand in a petition, thereby creating the belief, congruent with their tactics, that everything could be obtained trough the law and that there was no point in street agitation.

The anarchist were divided, prey as they were of those germs of dissolution that, after dissipating so many energies, eventually led to sharp separation and to the present new direction. One faction remained indifferent, or opposed the movement either because it was hostile to any movement of the organized masses or because this one did not have the outward appearance of an anarchist movement. The other faction enthusiastically embraced the idea, tried to imbue it with a pronounced revolutionary character, but having no broad base with the workers’ movement, could only produce unavailing efforts attested by personal sacrifices of varying gravity.

Only in Spain, precisely because there they were the soul of the workers’ movement, were anarchist able to set off and sustain really noteworthy agitation that first year. But then in Spain too the movement faded and perished: partly because there too the germs of disintegration afflicting anarchist bodies in other countries were making headway, and partly because of another factor that was everywhere the primary reason for the decline of the 1st of May.

And that factor was immoderate, untimely enthusiasm. The notion had taken root in the people that revolution would take place on the First of May in a year or two. One year went by and then the next and another and still no revolution came. Disillusionment set in and the subject of the First of May was dropped.

The movement is in need of of an overhaul: overhauling it with serious intent, without unwarranted short -term expectations, but with the firm intention of never halting again.

We are not going to make the revolution in 20 days: the police need not panic. We shall abstain from working, try to get as many people as possible to abstain too, and seize the opportunity to carry out as much propaganda as possible.

This is all our forces allow us to do now. We shall think about the rest in due time.

L’Agitazione (Ancona) 1, no.5 (Apri 12,1897).

The 1st of May

At the time of writing, we do not yet know how important the 1st of May demonstration will be this year. Unfortunately, we do not have high Hopes. The democratic socialist, who could ensure a solemn demonstration if only they committed to this agitation—in which class struggle could really be affirmed and organized—a tenth of the effort they put into the election campaign, stage the event indolently, merely because, at this point, staging it is a habit. Right from the outset they strove to turn the workers’ strike into a labor holiday, mounted, if possible, with the assent of the masters, and they so far as to want governments to declare it an official and mandatory holiday—and they are now carrying on in the same vein. They are afraid of playing with fire, afraid that the people might start to become conscious of their own strengths and start doing things for themselves. In their eyes, there is nothing but Parliament, and any other approach is a hurdle that they hearty abhor, even when they are required by convenience to consider it.

And what about us? Right now we are powerless to embark on anything of note, especially in the conditions presently being enforced on us by the government. This is to our shame, for the fault is largely our own, but the shame and blame would be beyond repair, if we did not have courage to own up to it and if we stayed on the wrong road.

We have moved away from the people and that has been our downfall. Going back among the people is the only way of salvaging our movement and our idea. It is through our efforts that the great Workers’ International must be reborn, corrected, and bolstered by the experience and study of the last 25 years, so that every 1st of May it will be able to review its forces and, once strong enough, achieve the yearned-for emancipation.

We need to get it into our heads— since the facts furnish us with daily proof of it—that thing cannot be improvised. Making preparations a fortnight in advance for some one-off publication, issuing an eleventh-hour appeal to the people who do not know us, who may never have heard of us or of our ideas, is of little or no use.

In order to succeed, it takes long-term, constant, day-to-day work; it takes practical work, done in conjunction with resistance societies, cooperatives, and educational circles, of gradually marshaling, organizing, and educating all the fighting forces of the proletariat. That much we promise to our comrades. That much we ask of them.

And if we all buckle down on this, the next 1st of May will find us in quite different conditions.

Agitiamoci per Socialismo Anarchico (May 1, 1897), single issue, replacement for no.8 of L’Agitazone

Echoes of the 1st of May

As we had forecast, the 1st of May this year was a very poor show. And, most hurtful of all, the process of decadence tending to turn the demonstration, thestrike on that day into mereholiday has become even more pronounced. Drinking, marquees, balls: these are the key features of the day in those places where anything at all took place.

Not that we despise amusements; in fact we should like to see the workers get used to them and demand time and wherewithal to indulge in them. Neither would we have have preferred riots and upheavals, which would have gifted the government with an outlet for its lust for persecution, since it is our conviction that persecution is not welcome, unless one is in position to resist it successfully. But the 1st of May was the day on which workers of the world over should have signalled their determination by striking, despite the masters, in the name of the cause of labor, and affirmed their wishes and reviewed the forces available to them in demanding the satisfaction of those wishes. This is the character that should have been been preserved, and this is the character that needs to be put back into it, lest we completely spoil that idea, which, as it appeared like a brilliant invention in the history of the workers’ movement, immediately elicited so much enthusiasm and so many hopes.

A worker who squares up to his master and runs the risk of losing his job, out of labor solidarity, and in order to abide by the watchword passed around his comrades, is a moral example for the present and a fighting force for the future. The same cannot be said of one who goes and gets plastered one more time with the master’s blessing.

We appreciate just how hard a sacrifice it is for a family man to place his bread in jeopardy and that not everybody has the strength to do that–for, if everyone had that strength, victory would already be ours and sacrifice would be uncalled for.

But, alas! The proletariat can only emancipate at cost of tough sacrifices. The democratic socialist have a tendency that society can be transformed without the proletarians’ facing suffering and danger. That too is a by-product of the electoral tactic, of the yearning to pick up votes at any price. In fact we remember seeing socialist newspaper that were unabashed about telling voters: “They want to buy your vote? Fine, go ahead and grab the money… and cast your vote for the socialist candidate. The master is making you vote for the would-be minister? Tell him yes and cast your vote for the socialist.” Is it by schooling people in this way, that they expect to have conscious and dignified men, capable, in great historical events, of standing up to have their rights respected and knocking down the bourgeois world?!

No. The proletariat’s fight is a harsh one, demanding plenty of sacrifices, and the 1st of May ought to be primarily a school in sacrifice, solidarity, and concerted action.

A master who willingly concedes a day off and encourages the workers to avail of it, a government that declares the 1st May a public holiday would be fallowing a shrewd conservative policy; they would be depriving the workers of a weapon. But for that very reason, it is unfathomable how socialist would want to celebrate the 1st of May along with the masters and, if possible, with the official sanction of the established authorities.

The vital point, again, is that workers get used to asserting their will and to doing it all together, so as to add strength to their determination.

It is a matter of secondary importance what more or less effective or delusive reform the workers demand. Once the workers know how to demand, once the are determined to live well and have seen, I practice, that by standing together they can get what they want, it becomes much easier to get them to comprehend what they should demand.

In the early years of the 1st of May demonstrations, the demand most in vague was for the eight-hour work day. A poor reform, indeed, which in certain circumstances would bring a small benefit to the workers, in others would prove delusive, and in very many circumstances would be completely unworkable in the absence of radical overhaul of the existing order.

Never mind! If only workers had really wanted it and set out to obtain it directly, without any hope to receive it from the hands of the governments and deputies! Many anarchist took no interest in the movement, because the workers’ demands fell short of our program. And they were wrong, because it is not by abandoning workers to the influence of politicians that we can steer them on to the road to full emancipation.

True, it is childish and silly for anodyne reforms when it has been shown that it takes as much energy and sacrifice to wrest from the ruling class a petty concession or a major one, and that in any case small reforms, for what they are worth, are extracted only when more substantial demands are made. But in order to get this across to the workers, we need to be in their midst, fighting alongside them, expediting as much as possible those practical experiments that are worth more than any theory.

Anyway, people won’t accept our ideas in one fell swoop, and society won’t switch abruptly and without transition from today’s hell to the paradise which we yearn.

Every step taken is a real advantage, provided it is a step in the right direction, which is to say, as long as it is a step in the direction of the abolition of authority and private property and as long it nurtures the spirit and practice of free and voluntary cooperation in the workers.

Agitatevi per il Socialismo Anarchico (May 8, 1897), single issue, replacement for no.9 of L’Agitazone

All articles where translated by Paul Sharkey and appeared in The complete Works of Malatesta vol.3: A Long and Patient Work

[ttopswordvomit]

anger

march 25th, 2021. @ sonic.

This isn’t going to be super well written because I could edit it and edit it until I die, but I have decided not to care. I’m sitting here cross legged in my car at Sonic. It’s 9:42 on a Thursday and I’m just sitting here eating a Reese’s blast. I needed to leave my apt or else I was going to go to bed at 10 pm and this would all carry to tomorrow. No matter how bad I didn’t want to deal with it. 

I’ve had that feeling all day. Where the day isn’t really bad, I’m doing things that are good for me, but there’s that thing sitting in the corner. Festering so slowly and quietly that I don’t even fully know it’s there. 

It’s been hard to focus on work today. Maybe that was my sign that something needed my attention. Even now, I still haven’t cracked. Crying and shit. I think it’s because I don’t feel sorry for myself? I’m not just. Desperately sad. Maybe that means I’m numbed out. Which happens a lot so probably. 

I didn’t know what to do with this feeling. So what else is there to do but to push on and make the best of it? I wish I could describe the tangle of feelings that happens. I look at it and I only barely know it’s there. Much less what the hell is going on inside of it. 

I’m afraid of explaining all of this to Michelle. How do I summarize this feeling when I don’t even really know what it is? And I’m afraid that once we figure it out it won’t feel as big as it does. Like it’ll be chalked up to the things I can’t change. To the things I’ve been working on, that I should know by now. I’m afraid it’ll be dismissed. Maybe I’ve felt dismissed before. 

I feel like this hurts a lot. Like I’m not ready to have conversations or look it in its ugly face. I’m not ready to do the hard things it’ll require.

It scares me. 

It scares me because I know it’s going to hurt. And peace feels so far away. And especially now that I have a deadline to talk to my mother by... I feel so scared. Like it’ll never happen. Like I can’t possibly do it no matter how much I’ve told myself I can do it. No matter how much work I’ve done towards it. 

And this shit I’m avoiding.. it hits hard because it is so painful to know how absent my mother is. Realizing that the other day felt agonizing. The weight of it is heavy. And it makes me realize just how abandoned and alone I feel by my parents in general. It makes me so angry.

I see how far removed, detached, gone my mom is. She glazes over. She does it all the time. And I’m mad at her for it. I’m mad at myself for being mad at her for it, because I know it’s just her coping mechanism. That’s how she deals with things. I understand that. But it hurts me, and I can’t seem to ignore that yet. Because her coping skill leaves me standing by myself. 

It leaves me alone. Alone to deal with my feelings that I don’t even understand myself. 

I’m angry that she gets to just check out. Especially when I lived at home, I felt such a burden to deal with everything she chose not to. She used me to numb out. To pretend things were good. She used me emotionally to escape the pain of her divorce. And when that happened, I feel like I dealt with that pain alone. I couldn’t go to my mom. Not when I was carrying her weight. My sisters were all on different pages so that felt unsafe. I didn’t know how to talk to my dad yet. I suppose there wasn’t really a choice but to deal and move on. I kept going to school, I tried to pick up help around the house and with Stephen. My mom had never done the independent mom thing. She suddenly had a house to take care of all by herself. And me and Stephen. So I picked up the slack the best I could I guess. But that sort of backfired when I offered myself up as an emotional punching bag. My bad. 

I’m angry at my dad too. Because his physical abandonment hurts too. I’m glad he’s happy, I really am, but god. He’s so far away. He’s so far removed from the situation with my brother. He lives a totally different life. I don’t even know if he’ll be at my graduation and I’m assuming not frankly, because how weird would that be. Plus he hasn’t flown down here in over a year. That’s another thing. He’s good with me flying down there any time but he won’t come down here? I get it with Covid but. Damn. Why can’t he come see my sisters when he’s seen me way more this past year? They’re mad at him for it and I’d say they’re right for that. It’s shitty to not come see your other kids when you’ve seen me so much. I have the luxury of coming to California, they don’t. They have families and jobs. God I hate being in the middle of shit. And I always am. Curse the 9 in me. To see both sides and peacemake, and to be left alone in the middle with nothing. A curse and a blessing.

I think I’ll always be hurt by my dad’s distance. We miss out on the time we used to spend together. And it was a lot. Seeing movies, going out to eat, hanging out in general. He couldn’t come to my band concerts anymore. I don’t know what I wish for here. Maybe that he’d stayed a little longer? But I know he’s happy. So I don’t know. I guess it’s just always a little sad. Perhaps the way he left too was hurtful. One day I came home and he didn’t live there anymore. And from there he got farther and farther away. 

My parents are gone in their own ways. So far removed from the realities that neither of them can stand to look in the face. And I’m mad at them for it. Because look at my brother. He needs help more than ever and what do they do? My mom pretends it’s not as literally life threatening as it is. Her dissociation from reality puts all of us in danger, even though I believe she’s a good mom at heart. She approaches no situation with the gravity it deserves because she pretends it doesn’t possess that gravity. It’s dangerous. And my dad? Bottom line, he’s not here to do anything. He can say all he wants over the phone to my mom but she won’t listen. However it seems that as of recent his best advice is to “keep trying” and encouraging her. Which I guess is good in a way if she won’t take his suggestions. Idk. I won’t ever really know the truth of their private conversations. My brother won’t answer his phone for anyone, especially not my dad. So what’s he to do if he’s so many miles away? Which I still can’t excuse to a degree. Stephen is still his son. I get how hard it is to have any impact from that far away with a mom that won’t really listen, but damn, that’s your son. 

I’m just angry. Angry and hurt. There are so many repercussions from their far removed ways, and I feel so frustrated that my efforts to change that don’t even hold weight. I feel like I’m sitting on an island watching a fire burn in the distance. I feel abandoned and disregarded. Powerless. Pained. I can’t imagine how Stephen feels. And I’m so worried for him. I’m worried for my mom too. I genuinely want her to be happy. But the chaos she allows could get her hurt. And hell, I’m mad at her for allowing that. I want to scream at her to wake up, to care about herself and about her family. But she’s so wrapped up in her own misery that she dissociates and walks through life that way. Just getting by.

And for no reason at all, I can’t help but to think back to all the times I needed help emotionally. Especially in high school when I was so stressed and taking on too much. I would have a breakdown and if, god forbid, one of my parents saw it, they’d hug me and comfort me. But god. I wish they’d told me to drop an AP class or something. Told me to not overwork myself so hard. Instead it felt like... they just sat with me maybe like a friend would? But more removed than that. More distant. My dad would try to make light of it too fast. My mom would be so confused by my crying and try to offer solutions but. Something was missing. And I think it’s the fact that I needed some sort of... parent intervention? Some sort of reassurance that the number of AP classes I took didn’t define me. Or that my mental well-being was more important. I wish for those sort of lessons back then.

Writing has been relieving. Something about it untangles that web of feelings for me. It puts names to them and allows me to explore where they come from and what they look like for me. Maybe will try to emotionally release later, lol. Still sort of numb in that department, but thanks for listening. 

[prorevenge]

Don't screw with the crew!

Back in the early 90s, I got a gig working as a front-of-house sound engineer on a major 10-day music and arts festival in London’s Docklands with some fifteen stages dotted all around the waterfront. All of the crew working the stages were either experienced theatre techs, and/or had loads of experience working major outside events, which is the reason we were hired. As an aside, this festival was to celebrate the culmination of a massive investment in the redevelopment of this area of East London, itself the former site of one of the largest dock complexes in the world.

I was tasked with running FOH sound on one of the largest stages. Normally, events like this are loads of fun to work but within two days it became apparent that the organisers had 1), no idea of how to run major outside events and 2), had not the faintest idea of how to book acts and schedule same. In particular, we also had to contend with some woman from Docklands' middle management team who had been given the job of "overseeing" our particular stage, a person who not only had rapidly proved to be totally ignorant of any aspect of managing outside events, but also someone for whom the word "entitled" had been invented.

Our stage was licensed to run events from midday until 10:00pm but we rarely had a full day’s-worth of events for punters to enjoy, due to the aforementioned incompetence with booking. Still, not our problem—we'll just work with what’s given us.

On the Thursday, we had scheduled an evening of old-time Victorian music hall which featured, as a special guest, a very famous film and TV actress. Her performance rider required a grand piano. For some unfathomable reason (and again due to the incompetence of the organisers), the piano—a full-size Yamaha concert grand—arrived from the hire company on the Tuesday. This was a remarkably stupid idea for any number of reasons: due to operational considerations, we had to store the piano in the backstage area where it spent two days suffering in the heat of the day despite our best efforts to shield it.

As any piano technician/tuner will tell you, this is An Extremely Bad Idea, especially with an instrument worth close to £100,000. Almost as bad was the fact that our area was little more than a roughly-graded building site: the ground was covered in hard-core rubble fragments around the size of hen’s eggs (very uncomfortable to walk around on, even with proper work boots), which also kicked up loads of dust and other detritus—not the sort of crap you want floating about gumming up the works of a very expensive concert grand!

Now let me properly set the scene: it’s mid-summer, very hot, and our venue is a large circus-style tent with around 800-seat capacity. The cast of the show, along with our august star, were due to turn up at around 1:00pm to conduct a production rehearsal so we could sort out sound and lighting cues for the show.

The main cast duly turn up on time, and we start sorting out their technical requirements (pretty simple and nothing that we’re not used to). At about 1:30pm, our star turns up sporting dark glasses and an immaculate couture. As anyone who’s worked in this industry knows, the initial interaction with a major A-list star vis-à-vis their technical requirements can go one of two ways: full-monty diva, or let’s go with what we have.

Her first demand was that the piano be dropped off the front of the stage so that she could maintain an eye-line whilst standing right downstage, both with her pianist and with the audience. The stage was about 4.5 feet above ground level and would have required at least eight burly lads to safely shift a full-size concert grand off the deck. Also not a good idea since it had been tuned that morning and moving it would have almost certainly caused the tuning to go out of whack.

I delicately pointed out that doing so would be in direct violation of both health and safety, and fire regulations—as per our written policy—as it would have put the piano in both the fire lane and close to one of the primary emergency exits from the venue. Thinking rapidly, I then suggested that we place the piano as far downstage as physically possible, and that she page herself three or four feet upstage so that she could still glance over and take cues from her MD whilst still “taking in” the audience.

The tension was palpable: after a few seconds consideration she replied, “No problem, I can work with that.” Phew!! No sooner than this crisis had been averted than the Docklands rep rocked up. I remind you, gentle reader, that this person had absolutely zero knowledge about how to run an outside event.

She had also been a major thorn in our side for the previous week, trying to micro-manage proceedings in the venue in order to big herself up in front of her bosses: we, of course, completely ignored her “suggestions” but in such a way as made her think she was in charge—trust me, she wasn’t! She had also been inexcusably rude to virtually every single member of the crew from Day One, and had over the days previous reduced several of them to tears. Production crews don’t take kindly to our own being treated in such a cavalier fashion, and while we’re generally fairly thick-skinned, there comes point where we want to get our own back. Believe me, after a week of constant abuse, we were coming up with creative ways of disposing of the body.

Although we didn’t realise I at the time, our saviour was at hand…but I digress…

Obviously star-struck, she announced in gushing tones that she would be taking personal charge of our star’s every need and that we were not to concern ourselves with that aspect: indeed, we were to “keep our place” as we were only the hired help. Our stage manager, who was at that time sweeping the stage, bridled at the suggestion and made as if to use his broom to beat the brains out of this woman. I had to step in front of him as unobtrusively as possible and stop him from burying the woman right there and then—“she ain’t worth it, mate.”

She then swanned off, leaving our star slack-jawed in amazement. She then turned to me and said, “Is that fucking woman for real?” I replied: “Darling, you have NO idea!”, at which point she laughed uproariously. I gave our star a brief summary of the previous few days' farrago and instantly, she became one of us and from then on we were all on first-name terms.

We then ran a full tech rehearsal from 3:00pm to 5:00pm, sorted out all our cues and then repaired to the beer tent with the cast for a spot of late lunch and a drink or two.

The show was scheduled to kick off at 7:30pm. At around 6:00pm, The Harridan reappeared to overlook the situation. She noticed that we had all the sides of the tent raised in order to get some air flowing through—remember it’s mid-summer and it’s currently low to mid 80s. She then demanded that all of the tent flaps be lowered because she wanted a more “theatre” atmosphere and the light spilling through the side walls would spoil the effect. Despite pointing out that dropping the tent sides would significantly raise the temperature in the venue, she demanded the sides be dropped, so despite our earnest advice to the contrary, we reluctantly complied.

At around 7:00pm, we saw eight 50-seat coaches arrive. To our amazement, out from the coaches came an entire flotilla of old-age pensioners, many on Zimmer frames, who proceeded to shuffle their way into the tent across the hard-core rubble underfoot. We discovered later that the organisers had forgotten to advertise the event anywhere (seriously??) and in desperation, had gone around to all the local Darby & Joan clubs a couple of days before handing out free tickets and laying on transport in order to have an audience.

So now we have 400-odd OAPs frantically fanning themselves with anything to hand as the temperature climbs ever higher. We start the show: everything’s going fine but the mercury in the thermometer I have strapped to the FOH rack is slowly going up and up: it’s so hot up at the sound desk that I’m down to my shorts!

By the end of Act 1, the temperature has gotten up to around 94°F and one could clearly see the old dears are in a bit of distress. Naturally, the organisers had neglected to provide water for the public, and judging by the horrified expressions of the two St John’s Ambulance first-aiders stationed either side of the stage, things were about to get a lot worse. I climbed off the tower, found the rigging crew and ordered the sides of the tent raised. No sooner had I done so than “our friend” standing nearby demanded that the sides stay down because "she was in charge" and "...her instructions were to be followed absolutely, no questions!"

It was at this juncture that diplomacy went completely out of the window. I informed her in no uncertain terms (and employing a fair amount of Anglo-Saxon vernacular) that it was in fact the crew who had the responsibility of ensuring the health and safety of all the people in the venue, not her, and that we have the legal authority to enact ANY procedure that we see fit at ANY time to ensure the safety and well-being of everyone present. I then informed her that I was now exercising my authority under The Health & Safety at Work Act 1974 to remediate the situation, and that if she made one single attempt to circumvent that authority, I would have her ejected from the venue without hesitation. She then got in my face and screamed, “I’M IN CHARGE!”. No strike one, no strike two, instant strike three!

I glanced over at two of our security crew who had been hovering in the background with huge shit-eating grins on their faces, who then stepped up either side of her. Defeated, but complaining like a banshee with a terminal case of haemorrhoids, she was escorted off the premises in short order.

By the time Act 2 kicked off, we’d gotten the temperature down to a more manageable low 70ºF, much to the appreciation of our audience, and the rest of the show went off without a hitch.

After the show, cast and crew—including our august star—repaired to the bar for a well-earned drink. Moments later, you-know-who appeared and in imperious tones informed us that our star was to be the guest of honour at a VIP reception for the various Docklands' bigwigs. With a tinge of regret for having our fun curtailed prematurely, we said our goodbyes to our star.

Now it gets interesting!

Not ten minutes later, she storms back into the beer tent with a face like absolute thunder. Taken somewhat aback by her reappearance, we enquired as to why she had returned.

“That fucking woman! She drags me off to this so-called ‘VIP party’: I get there and all that’s there are two fucking plates of curled-up ham sandwiches and two fucking boxes of cheap wine from Sainsburys! How the holy fuck did she get this job?

“I gave her a right bloody earful and came back here because I’d much rather drink with you guys!”

At which point she calls the barman over and orders a round for the entire crew. We spend the rest of the evening chatting away like old friends: she regaled us with stories of her life, and she was gracious enough to listen to some of ours. Despite us trying to buy her a drink, she refused point-blank and picked up the entire bar tab for the rest of the evening on the basis that “…you’ve had to put up with that fucking evil bitch all week: the least I can do get you folks a drink!”

All good things must come to an end and at the end of the evening, her chauffeur turns up to take her home. She embraces all of us as old friends: she hugs me, plants a big kiss on my lips and thanks me, whereupon I comment, “you have just fulfilled a boyhood dream!” Again, that uproarious laugh! She looks at me and says, “Don’t let that fucking bitch get you down! Leave it to me…”

I later discovered through the back-channels some weeks later that our bête-noir had been fired from her five-figure job for her monstrous screw-up, primarily because our star’s agent had ripped the organisers a new one in very short order; you do NOT fuck with someone of our star’s track record without there being consequences. So, although we were not directly responsible for The Harridan’s demise, we were gratified to have someone of our star’s calibre standing up for us.

Revenge is a dish best served cold!

Edit: corrected °C for °F.

(source) story by (/u/GhostOfSorabji)

[nonsensicalobsessions]

A Symphony without Strings, Coda

Author’s Note:

In music, a coda is a passage that brings a piece (or a movement) to an end.

Charles Burkhart suggests that the reason codas are common, even necessary, is that, in the climax of the main body of a piece, a "particularly effortful passage", often an expanded phrase, is often created by "working an idea through to its structural conclusions" and that, after all this momentum is created, a coda is required to "look back" on the main body, allow listeners to "take it all in", and "create a sense of balance."

(Charles Burkhart is an American musicologist, theorist, composer, and pianist. He holds the title of Professor Emeritus in the Aaron Copland School of Music, Queens College, and the Graduate Center, City University of New York.)

The above has been lifted shamelessly, word for word, from Wikipedia. It explains succinctly and gives authenticity to my decision to not give this last* view into Merry and Tom’s life as an epilogue.

I thank every one of you for reading, commenting, reblogging, and privately reaching out to me, letting me know how this idea of mine connected with you. Saying “thank you” is so inadequate, but it is all that I have...

Thank you-- NonsensicalObsessions.

You know the musical drill by now.

Trigger warning: Leukemia

Selection the First: https://youtu.be/6n5YH1Y0rHE OR https://open.spotify.com/track/4iFjfJGjqh6ixgy6vFCjAk?si=3p7hx-6jTeq7vKiA4PHZaQ

Merry celebrated the first official anniversary of her remission by finally giving in to Tom’s quiet but persistent pleas to marry him:

“Tom, you know I love you, and that’s never going to change. I’ve added your name to Liam’s birth certificate, you are legally his father. He is now William Thomas Skye Hiddleston. Why does this mean so much to you?”

“Why do you keep refusing me?” Tom countered, as they walked hand in hand, following Liam who still wanted to feed the ducks, although he had grown so much he was no longer as concerned if they were greedy.

“Because I don’t understand! You have me. You have Liam. What difference does it make?”

“Because I want to make you mine, in every possible way I can. Because I want to tie you to me with another string, my darling. Yes, Liam now carries my name...and I want the world to know Meredith Yvette Skye, renowned musician, conductor, aspiring composer, and leukemia—”

“Stop,” Merry interrupted him sharply, and placed her hand over his mouth. “I’ve told you, Thomas! You simply cannot say things like that! I know what you were going to say, and you just...can’t.”

“Is that what this is all about? You’re afraid to marry me because you’re afraid of a relapse? Merry.” His face was reproachful. 

“I don’t want to make you a widower, Tom.”

“Merry. Whatever the future holds, we can’t change a thing...but we can be happy now. In this moment. Darling, please...will you agree to be my bride? Say you’ll be my wife.”

When she didn’t immediately refuse, as she had done countless times before, Tom stopped in front of her, and saw her torn expression. Slowly, he got down on one knee, and pulled out of his pocket the box he kept on his person at all times, in readiness for the moment when he finally wore her down.

“My sweetest Mozart...will you marry me? Please say you’ll honor me, and be my wife.”

The sun caught her hair, short, but still a riot of curls, a much darker red than before, but still created a halo around her head. “Yes, Tom,” she answered with a smile at last. “Yes, I will marry you.”

“Papa? What are you doing?”

Liam watched his father slide a ring onto his mother’s finger, oblivious to the crowd of onlookers that had gathered and were taking photos, cheering and shouting out congratulations.

“Something I should have done a long time ago, son. Are you ready to go home?”

“Uh huh. I ran out of bread. Greedy ducks.” 

The three of them walked home, Papa Bear, Liam, and Mama, animatedly discussing what would be for supper.

“We need to text Luke,” Merry sighed.

“Why bother? I’m sure he already knows,” Tom replied cheerfully.

Merry sighed, and reached for her phone, but before she could even reach it, Tom’s began to buzz like a hornet.

“See?”

Merry celebrated the second official anniversary of her remission by holding a small benefit concert in New York for Sloan Kettering, to benefit leukemia research. She hand selected the musicians, and was surprised by the interest generated. She had to find a larger venue twice.

Merry celebrated the third anniversary of her remission by being the soloist for Aiden’s wedding to Catherine Walsh. Aiden never expected to fall in love. In fact, he never had moved out of the small, unusual family home, even as Tom and Merry’s relationship became more solid, her health continued to improve, and she and Tom even wed in an very small, private ceremony. He was simply too bonded to Liam, and Liam to Aiden. Both Merry and Tom would never have countenanced trying to weaken or break their tender connection, and would have fought anyone who would have attempted to do so. 

As Liam was now in school, Aiden was free to do as he liked during the school hours, and decided he wanted to pursue teaching at the same school Liam was attending, as there was an opening. Once there, he fell head over heels—literally—when he was knocked over by a choir director who was overloaded with stacks of music. 

Liam was too old to be a ring bearer, but just perfect for standing alongside his beloved mentor and handing him the rings at the appointed time. The best man, Tom Hiddleston, thought this was completely appropriate.

Merry celebrated the fourth anniversary of her remission by forcing her beloved husband into taking a much needed vacation. He had been working a crushing schedule for the past year, and she had had enough of being apart from him. While she was very understanding and patient, and wanted to see him take the roles he desired, the projects that meant the most to him, and was fiercely proud of the honors and awards he achieved, she was also very frustrated with seeing how depressed Liam was with his Papa’s continual absences, Tom’s persistent weary appearance on their frequent video calls, and her trying to juggle Tom’s schedule with Liam’s schooling and her occasional guest appearances with different musical groups and working on her own compositions. Tom was aghast when he realized how badly his son was missing him, how thin Merry had become trying to keep everyone happy as well as worrying about everyone but herself, and even how he wasn’t taking the best care of himself in the absence of his doting wife. When he saw how wan Merry was, he actually became frightened and insisted on her scheduling an appointment with Kelly as soon as they left their island retreat. Kelly saw through Merry’s new tan immediately, and ran every test twice.

To Tom’s immeasurable relief, Merry still showed no sign of the leukemia having returned...but he felt Kelly’s eyes on him, mutely judging him for allowing her to become so worn down. A few casual statements about “the price of success” and “the value of family” and he could scarcely lift his head from the shame.

When the appointment was over, Merry teased Tom, “I told you I was fine, worry wart. I was just tired, that’s all.”

“That flu you battled didn’t help. You dropped weight you could ill afford to lose,” Kelly mildly reminded her, and Tom winced imperceptibly, even as he turned to face his wife. 

He smiled, and kissed Merry. “You are worth everything to me,” he answered honestly. “It was worth the peace of mind, to have Kelly take a look at you.”

“Merry, why don’t you stop by the music room, and I’ll let everyone who is ambulatory know you’re around for a quick few pieces, if you’re amenable,” smiled Kelly.

“Of course,” agreed Merry. “I’ll go freshen up and meet you there.”

Once she was gone, Kelly dropped the affable expression and simply...looked at Tom.

“Music room? That’s new,” Tom said, hoping to stall the inevitable.

“No, it’s been around for about a year now. You didn’t know about it?”

“Should I have?” 

“Considering it was your wife’s idea, she spearheaded the fundraising, organized the purchasing, and wrote the philosophy and goals behind it, I would think so, yes.” Kelly stood and looked at him, her face blank. “I’m disappointed in you, Tom.”

He reared back as if he had been slapped.

“Do you have any idea how lucky you are? How phenomenally blessed? That woman is a walking scientific breakthrough. They are citing her case and will be for years to come. Do you know what the average survival rate was for adults with ALL? Only 25% to 35% of adults were able to live five years or longer. And when she came to you, Tom, she was already at year four...on experimental trial, conceivably her last chance. Do you even remember what poor condition she was in, or have you blocked that out already?”

“I remember,” he answered tonelessly.

“I would almost rather you had forgotten. It would make the condition that she is in now easier to understand.” Kelly sighed. “I know, I know you have amazing opportunities. I know too that she makes it easy for you to forget. But I didn’t think you’d be this complacent. I truly didn’t.”

Tom remained silent, just ran his fingers along the underside of her desk.

“Just stop and think about what success really means, Tom. And what you really need to be happy.” Kelly stopped. “But I’m up on my soapbox again. Come see what your wife has been up to while you’ve been away. I am not denigrating your work. I know you make millions of people happy. That is important. Please don’t think I am unaware of it.”

She guided Tom to an area he had never had a reason to visit, and as he approached, he heard laughter, music, and squealing of children.

“You know Merry, she’s never happy if she can’t be making music,” Tom remembered Aiden saying once.

He walked into an area that looked like a scene from...well, a movie.

The walls were a combination of windows to let in natural light, and whimsical murals of sheet music, with happy, smiling quarter notes, half notes, rests and treble clefs and sharps... there was a piano, and stringed instruments hanging carefully from the walls, with sign up sheets for lessons...headphones with beanbag chairs and recliners, for anyone to just lie back and enjoy listening...Merry was seated in the center, with a cello, and a group of children running the gamut of ages, with a handful of adults, some clearly patients, some visiting family members.

Merry was being hit with a deluge of questions, but as Tom looked about, he saw a plaque on the wall that simply read, “The Music Room” and underneath in a smaller font “Where words fail, music speaks: Hans Christian Andersen”. 

Tom deliberately remained in the back of the room. He did not want to be noticed. This was a place where people, young and old alike, came to find some healing in music. His beloved wife had arranged for this temple to be erected, and now, she graced it like the goddess she was. Far be it from him to distract the devout.

He smiled as he heard the clamor for her to play, and she laughed and agreed to play for awhile. He leaned against the glass, angling himself so he could watch her in the reflection as she tuned the cello quickly and began.

Not surprisingly, her first piece was a rollicking jig that set the youngest set dancing if they were strong enough, and those that felt they were either too tired or else too grown up just laughed and clapped along. Tom smiled as he looked at his shoes, wishing for his spoons. Such was the joy she inspired.

Her second was a waltz. He actually turned and caught her eye, surprised. His heart and conscience tugged at him, as he wondered when was the last time he had danced with his wife. He’d forgotten. Listening to her lilting notes, he was drawn with the strong urge to whisk her up and begin dancing with her himself, remembering how he would do so as Liam would laugh and laugh as he did so.

The third was soft, and gentle, but not melancholy. He saw where she deliberately chose selections that would not leave anyone’s spirits feeling lonely, or anxious. A wave of love crashed over his heart. She knew grief, abandonment, and weariness, and was making sure that in this place, she would not add these burdens to her small audience.

“All right, last one,” she said. There was a small outcry of “awww”s and she rested on her cello for a moment as she confided, “I don’t know if you are aware of it, but I was treated here too...just down the hall there. Yes, it’s true,” she added when there were a few that expressed their surprise. Merry was not in the best of shape, maybe, as Tom looked at her with his eyes newly opened with guilt and a strong resolve to make sure she became stronger and sleeker under his loving, watchful gaze...but she was here.

“Like all of you, there were days I felt sick to my soul...so tired, and just over it all...but then I would hear this song, and I would find enough encouragement to pick my head up, and keep on keeping on. I’m going to share it with you, and I hope it helps you when you’re feeling like you need a pick me up. If you know the lyrics, sing along, all right?”

Tom was intrigued. Merry had never mentioned any of this to him...

Before she started, she dragged over a wooden box that held a collection of musical toys, and winking at one of the kids, quickly rigged it into an impromptu...foot powered drum?

Merry, what are you up to?

Once again, he caught her eye, his eyebrow lifted in blatant curiosity. She simply gave him a small grin, and began.

He fell in love, all over again:

Selection the Second: Reader’s Choice: Instrumental--https://youtu.be/rYQLXeDZ3lw OR https://open.spotify.com/track/3eAYt2sZZSyqBM2LllwPJg?si=Px-xv-uPTHyAq7LbiucFwQ  

OR Vocals https://youtu.be/xo1VInw-SKc OR https://open.spotify.com/track/37f4ITSlgPX81ad2EvmVQr?si=shhYva9cQUmuIjMWJn_igQ

Like a small boat

On the ocean

Sending big waves

Into motion

Like how a single word

Can make a heart open

I might only have one match

But I can make an explosion

And all those things I didn't say

Wrecking balls inside my brain

I will scream them loud tonight

Can you hear my voice this time?

This is my fight song

Take back my life song

Prove I'm alright song

My power's turned on

Starting right now I'll be strong

I'll play my fight song

And I don't really care if nobody else believes

'Cause I've still got a lot of fight left in me

Her voice started off alone, quiet but sure, but then another voice picked up, and then another. Her foot was keeping time fiercely with her makeshift drum. Children were jumping and dancing. Adults were standing and swaying, some with their hands over their heads. Some had tears on their faces, others were laughing, still others were singing with triumph written all over their faces. By the end, Tom saw everyone was singing, including Kelly, who was taking turns dancing with different patients and family members. The music was more than just notes, it was a manifestation of the spirit of everyone present, refusing to bow to the odds, defying weakness and pain and suffering. 

She turned to Tom once when she sang, 

And all those things I didn't say

Wrecking balls inside my brain

I will scream them loud tonight

Can you hear my voice this time?

He saw the memory of the pain in her eyes, all the nights she couldn’t sleep, and her mind must have gone round for round, all the words she wanted to say, but never had, second guessing herself, playing the “what-if” game...he mouthed, “I love you,” to her, and saw a smile fill those same eyes, and promised himself he was going to make sure tonight her eyes held nothing but joy.

When the singing stopped, Merry looked at everyone present and repeated, “Cause I know I’ve still got a lot of fight left in me...and so do you.”

Oh yes, my Mozart. You do. And I’m not going to be complacent anymore.

Selection the Third: https://youtu.be/8L-Bk28Ra6Q OR https://open.spotify.com/track/1iyMfyCRzkcW3x7CGEckgY?si=rIf8VY5BQiislFRKsJ3Z8g

Merry celebrated the fifth anniversary of her remission by participating in the third annual benefit concert for Sloan Kettering. What she had begun to celebrate her second anniversary had grown so huge she was unable to continue it on her own, and gratefully turned the entire thing over to the New York Symphony’s auspices. 

It was an extremely emotional experience for her. Not only was it what many saw as a coveted milestone, (although there was a lot of debate as to whether five years was the milestone or ten, to be considered as “cured”), but Merry, absolutely quaking and gripped with stage fright for the first time in her entire life, stepped in front of the New York Symphony Orchestra to conduct her own composition, A Symphony with Strings, in C.

She was repeatedly asked about the quirky title, “Don’t all symphonies have strings?” which led her patiently answering, repeatedly, how “strings” referred to a metaphor about connections, and how certain themes began in the opening, then changed, grew and matured throughout the composition, just as in a relationship.

The fact her main “string” had a name—William Thomas—she kept to herself.

Tom was the only person that asked what she considered the real question:

“Why C major?”

It was after the performance, and the after parties. Merry was lying down on a massive hotel bed, hair (glorious once more) spread across a sinfully decadent pillowcase, a cool cloth across her eyes. Tom had all the lights off, and the drapes open, so the lights of the city skyline were visible. Aiden had Liam with him and Catherine two floors down, so they could enjoy being blissfully, unapologetically nude after enjoying their own after-after party.

“Because I wrote it.”

Merry’s voice was lazy and content.

“That is...as clear as mud.”

“Well, darling husband, I guess if you had written it, it would have been in the key of E...? Or maybe G...” she yawned. Her head was aching as she was coming off all of the champagne she had consumed. “Drink more water,” Tom ordered her as he refreshed the cloth, “and try explaining that one again, please?”

Merry rolled over to her side, arm extended, as she gratefully accepted the facecloth.

“C for Chai, Tom...rather than Earl Grey.”

Merry celebrated the sixth and seventh anniversary of her remission quietly. She and Tom had settled down in a lovely neighborhood in London. Tom had decided he was going to do more theater, and if and when a project came along he simply could not turn down, he did his level best to either take his family along, or else manage his time away so there were plenty of opportunity for visits. Gone were the months and months of time spent apart. No one was happy, and Tom recognized no role, no award, was worth losing so much time with his family. He would never forgive himself if a movie, or a play, caused his family so much grief. Nothing was worth it.

Liam, like his mother, was an extremely talented musician. Merry never pushed Liam beyond his capabilities, nor beyond his passion. She also did not try to teach her son, rather acted as his confidante, advisor, and above all, his doting and loving mother...who still would take no excuses for rudeness or poor behavior.

Aiden and Catherine remained in the States, and it was a painful wrench when the odd little family separated themselves by an ocean. However, between daily video calls, incessant texting, and frequent visits, the pain was eased. Aiden knew he and his family was always welcome at the Hiddleston home, which was really by extension his home. He remained close to Liam, and his role segued into that of a loving older brother, rather than father figure. Liam kept in daily contact, as did Merry. Tom also blew up his phone on a daily basis. Aiden never felt as though he had been cut off or evicted...and when his own family began expanding, Liam was thrilled to finally have little “cousins” to love and boss as often as he could.

Merry never again went back to conducting. She knew in order for her to regain her edge, she would have to put in massive amounts of time and practice. Even six and seven years after her battle with leukemia, she still revisited Sloan Kettering on a regular basis. Every time she bruised, Tom’s face paled, and any illness, weight loss or fatigue meant an immediate trip to the doctor. Merry’s love for music was still keen, and she played the cello, the piano, and the violin more often than she did anything else. After her symphonic debut, she was approached to compose for a variety of reasons, but she refused most of the commissions, choosing to write only when she felt moved to do so. She was just as focused on her music, and as unfocused on anything else that wasn’t her family. She still needed to set multiple alarms at times, and while she didn’t need as many sticky notes around the house as she did as when Tom first met her, both Liam and Tom knew frequent reminders were often a good idea.

Merry celebrated her eighth anniversary by making the conscious decision not to celebrate her remission anniversaries anymore. Rather, she would celebrate every single day as exactly for what they were: gifts she would enjoy and cherish, for the rest of her life, however long it may be. Counting days was restrictive. Who did that?

Encore:

Tom had just won his first Academy Award for Best Actor.

He was frozen in his seat. Cameras around the world saw his stunned expression, how his PR agent and longtime friend, Luke Windsor, physically grabbed and pushed him towards the stage.

He accepted the coveted trophy and hugs from the two presenters, and stood by the microphone.

He licked his lips, the ran his hand through his hair repeatedly.

“Um, wow,” he managed, to applause and laughter.

Finally, he opened his glasses as he took a folded piece of paper form his sharply tailored tuxedo jacket and began:

“In light of my history of speaking of the cuff for long periods of time, you will be happy to know that my long suffering agent, Luke Windsor, stood over me and made me write this out in advance, even as I whined it was unnecessary, because there was no hope of my winning. He timed me and everything...and my son, Liam Hiddleston, is currently tracking me with a stopwatch. Keep me honest, Liam.”

Cameras panned to a handsome young man, who smiled, rolled his eyes as only a preteen can, and made a, “get on with it,” hand motion as he kept his eyes trained on his watch. More laughter erupted throughout the famed theater.

Tom was perfect. He thanked everyone, in his precise and eloquent fashion: the cast, the crew, the writers...he then thanked his mother, and his sisters.

“Doing all right, Liam?” Liam gave him a “thumbs up.”

At this point, Tom tore his notes up, and Luke audibly gasped. “No, Tom. No. Nononono...”

“Liam...I’ve done a lot of things before I saw you for the first time...and while I am proud of them, they don’t hold a candle in my heart compared to that one moment. The best thing I can hope to do with my life is make you proud of your old man, because the best and most important role I’ve ever gotten is being your Papa.” Tom’s voice was becoming markedly thicker, but he was still able to continue speaking. “I am going to stop embarrassing you now...No I’m not. I love you, son.”

Cameras flashed back to Liam, who was blushing, and grinning, even as he kept making his, “keep going,” hand signals, faster now.

“And now...to my beloved Merry. My wife.” Tom took a deep breath. “Darling...words cannot begin to say how much I love you, so I am not even going to try...” Tom’s voice failed him for a moment. “You are always in my heart...I knew this project was going to be challenging, filming half a world away, but I had no idea, I couldn’t know, Mozart, I didn’t...” Tom’s voice failed him again. The silence in the theatre was so complete, the microphone picked up his intake of breath as he tried again. “You made me into a better man, just by being in my life. You showed me what success truly is. You set the standard for grace, courage, and strength...I could go on and on, but our son is letting me know I’ve run out of time, and that’s the crux of it, isn’t it? So, all I can do for now, is this.” He pressed his lips together into a thin line as he looked upwards from the podium, then blew a kiss out into the sea of lights and faces, because the one face he wanted to see was not there. His voice cracked as he concluded, “You have my heart tonight, tomorrow, and for all time. My God, how I love you, Merry. Thank you.”

The theme music for his film that accompanied his exit off the stage seemed less brassy than usual. After the world, let alone the entire auditorium, witnessed Tom Hiddleston break down so profoundly as he professed his love for his wife, it would have seemed somewhat in questionable taste, even for Hollywood.

Luke was pulling his hair as he was waiting for Tom behind the curtain. “Why, Tom? Why did you do it? You had a perfectly good speech...why did you tear it up?”

Tom was wiping his face with a damp cloth someone had handed him. “Because it didn’t begin to say what was in my heart, Luke! It felt wrong! It was wrong!” As he spoke, his eyes kept darting around wildly. “What’s wrong with speaking what was on my heart?”

“Because, my dearest, you kinda made me sound like I was dead,” Merry answered apologetically. She wrapped her arms around her husband, resting her head against his chest as he firmly gathered her into his embrace. “Between Luke grabbing you and pushing you onstage before I could even give you a kiss, and then another person taking my hand and rushing me backstage...I feel as though I missed the overture and the finale!”

“Darling, I had no idea this film was going to stress our family as badly as it did. You never even told me how ill you were with the flu...Kelly just looked at me, and I realized how far I strayed from my promises, to you and Liam both...Christ, Merry, if I’d lost you? No award would ever make up for that. It would all be ashes in my mouth...”

“But you didn’t lose me. You finished an important work, Tom, with an amazing cast, that is all waiting to celebrate with you...now go on, you silly puppy. You worked so hard. Go play. Meet with everyone who is waiting on you.” Merry stood on her tiptoes and kissed her husband on the lips, her eyes shining with love as she patted his chest.

She was unaware their photo was being taken as she did so, his arm around her waist, her hand over his heart, and the captions all were a variation on the theme:

“A tender moment shared by Academy Award Winner Tom Hiddleston and his wife, classically-trained musician Meredith Skye-Hiddleston. Hiddleston sang praises to his wife, affectionately nicknamed ‘Mozart’ in tribute to her many musical talents, in his acceptance speech. Later in the evening, Skye-Hiddleston wryly commented, “There is a reason Tom needs to stick to the notes as they are written. He’s not ready for cadenzas just yet.”

So Merry, Liam, and Papa Bear?

They lived happily ever after.

TAGGING: Lifetime Memberships @hopelessromanticspoonie​ @yespolkadotkitty​ @just-the-hiddles​ @vodka-and-some-sass​ @winterisakiller​ @theheartofpenelope​

Symphony Season Ticket Holders: @jessiejunebug​ @alexakeyloveloki​ @scorpionchild81​ @tinchentitri​ @theoneanna​ @o-sacra-virgo-laudes-tibi​ @blacksuitofdoom​ @mishaandthebrits​ @wegingerangelica​n @rjohnson1280​ @ms-cellanies​ @noplacelikehome77​ @villainousshakespeare​

* simply because Aiden has quite politely asked his side of Chapter 7 be told. We shall see.

Dedicated in loving memory of Christine. Your fight song will never be            silenced in my heart...but my God, I miss you so much.

[somekindofseizure]

When the Ink Dries Part X

<Conclusion. Rated for adults. Thank you @icedteainthebag, @gazeatscully and all of you for your help and support over the years (wtf?!!) it took to finish this. Hope you enjoy.>

*

Chapter 26

Stella had been bracing herself to enter a courthouse with the two of them for three years, ever since Scully had delivered news of their engagement. Self-preparation for this had involved two phases. One: fuck all of London for about six weeks and two: settle into the rationalization that nothing would really change. Mulder and Scully were a couple before any sort of documentation, and they would be after. Stella had made peace with it, anticipating that they might spring the actual event on her any time, that every time she came to America, it might be the one. But that had not happened.Scully didn’t have a dress. No one spoke of dates and no one had given her the address to a courthouse...until today.

“Why don’t you sleep over,” Mulder stage-whispered, leaning in beside her. He smelled of whatever he’d been chewing on the car ride over - almonds? - no, seeds, those fucking confounded seeds. “You haven’t been to our new place. It has a guest bedroom.”

“Hotel is fine.”

He hesitated, hovered over her shoulder in a particular way that men generally did not have the temerity to do. Luckily she liked him more than other men, still liked him, even if he was poised to marry the only person for whom she’d ever considered unravelling the tightly wound spool of her existence.  Thankfully, circumstances had not allowed her to make such a mistake. She reminded herself to be thankful often. Forcefully.

“Why?” he pressed.  He was eager to keep her close, Stella knew.  On her better days she believed it was because he cared for her, was her friend. It was also possible he only wanted to be forgiven for winning.  Most days, when she was feeling her cheerfully doubtful self, it struck her as strategic. One distances one’s wife’s female friends at one’s own peril, particularly if said wife has had sex with said female friend.

“I’m not sleeping in your guest bedroom,” she declared in the hushed voice required of their environment.

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not your great aunt,” Stella said, her eyes firmly rooted on the hulking shoulders of the man in front of her in the light grey prison uniform. Mulder righted himself beside her, took a sharp inhale. The air was stiff and stale in the room, tasted of chalk. This must be as frustrating for him as it was for her - watching Scully testify on Jerse’s behalf twenty some-odd years after she’d helped put him in jail. Only fair that Mulder was distracting himself with matters of guest bedrooms. 

Ed was taller than Stella remembered.  Also, less nimble, the kind of man who might lose his balance trying to kill a mosquito rather than someone who had  escaped notice as he escorted human beings to their unwanted cremations.  His tattoos had multiplied over the years behind bars - all the faces of girls, and each one turned out to be meaner than the last. Stella and Mulder had both taken turns judging Scully as she made phone calls over the years to keep him out of or remove him from solitary confinement. But even her (arguably inappropriate) kindness had not spared him. Time had passed for all of them, but it had passed hardest for Ed. A courtroom was a very good argument for the health benefits of freedom.

Funny that Stella had always assumed they’d get married in a court and not a church. Scully was Catholic, after all, but somehow she’d always pictured herself in a skirt-suit set and a plasticky smile watching an uncomfortable hour-plus of Mulder pawing gently at Scully as she stood steel-eyed and stiff-jawed before a government clerk, her favorite skeptic allowing an indulgence of incalculable faith. It was enough of a stretch without bringing God into it, maybe.

She had kept her negativity about marriage to herself, had made a concerted effort not to spoil things. It would be unseemly considering. But she had tried to talk Scully out of this, and Mulder had tried too. But Scully was adamant right up until last night’s spaghetti carbonara; there was an uncommon amount of swearing, flame-freckled seething, tossed crumpled napkins and waiters trying not to look. 

They’d relented - what else could they do?   He was her potential murderer, after all, not theirs, and one supposed she was entitled to a certain amount of possessiveness on that account. Many was the sleepless night that Stella had spent cursing the people who had interfered with her plans for Paul Spector. 

The worst part of hearing about the engagement had not been the news itself but the manner in which it was delivered. Scully’s lowered volume, the gentle lovers’ cadence, lips pressed against the mouthpiece, two hands surely cupping the phone.  The worry, the consideration, the sizzling quiet on the other end of the line as Stella rustled up a response she thought she might be able to live with forever.  The grand poetry of it all, the drama and Scully’s quietly feverish attempts to mitigate it. 

Scully, neatly trimmed in burgundy, hair just so, shifted at the small cafeteria-style table where she sat with the other testifiers.  As someone else stood to speak, Stella saw Scully clasp her hands in loose prayer, gaze resting on her fingernails.  She had not turned to look at them since it had begun. Perhaps she was thinking of the first time she met him, trying to reincarnate the moment when she knew him only as an innocent entity. A memory that had been discounted by such drastic measures lived on uncomfortably, vividly, a spider pinned alive and preserved under glass.  

And what about the day Stella had met him? He’d impressed himself upon her almost by accident. It had been a lark, something to get her out of England and keep her busy, but had turned into something she would never forget, scenes in a movie that only later seemed significant. The heavy stench of fear-twinged anger, the impressive composure of the beautiful ginger-faced detective, the nearly imperceptible twitching of her fingers at the table, the lanky male counterpart’s eventual leap at the killer’s throat.  Stella had felt safe and separate from them all, even the killer; she’d ridden the experience like a seasoned surfer, keeping an eye on the two young kids desperately paddling in the frothy tension beside her. That is how she used to do things before Paul Spector had gotten under her skin. Or maybe it was how she used to do things before Dana Scully had. Sometimes, Stella was unsure which had been the bigger danger.

Stella glanced down at the skin of her bare knees and thought maybe she had unravelled a bit over the years after all.

Jerse appeared to be watching the speaker, but with a slight tilt of the head, Stella could see that he was focused on Scully. The others were guards, cafeteria workers, psychologists - but Scully was something else, someone he’d had feelings for, someone who had known him as good before evil. Mulder must have caught the look in his eye as well, for beside Stella, he gave an angry swallow, widened his legs in macho (and pointless) provocation. Stella knew that Mulder’s concern about today was the physical threat of Ed - what he might do if he were out, how his fixation with Scully might manifest into an act of violence or possessiveness. But Scully could handle her own safety well enough. Stella worried instead about the subtler effects - the nightmares, the guilt she might experience wondering who he was luring in the dusty pick-up joints of Philadelphia. Things you could not fix with a lock and key or a sidearm.

But when Scully stood and spoke, it seemed she was not worried about any of these things. Her voice was steadfast and clinical, though it carried a heartfelt quality that unsettled Stella to her core. Stella had heard the rundown of events before - years ago, when she’d asked as a matter of professionally curiosity and Scully had answered as a matter of courtesy. But now Scully spoke of the invitation to dinner and the subsequent date with a matter-of-fact tenderness. The way he seemed before “the voices” had interfered, her belief in an underlying true nature beneath his mental illness. She had been sparing Mulder the nuances back then. Stella had been just an acquaintance. But inadvertently, she’d spared Stella too. For all these years, Stella had not had to look at the inky snake on Scully’s back and think: she liked him. She’d been spared the pain of identifying with how that must have felt. To have been so wrong about someone.

Scully finished without flourish, smoothed the wool skirt at the hips with two hands and sat - still not looking back at them, seemingly alone in her moment, and perhaps rightly so, for this was her unsupported decision. Stella felt vaguely hypocritical for even attending, but then not attending had seemed wronger. 

Snippets of Ed’s report cards were read aloud, brief and modestly generous endorsements he’d received over the course of the years. Mistakes here and there, but a generally cooperative nature, etcetera - no compliment as persuasive as Scully’s sincerity. They were going to let him go - Stella could feel it the way she could sense a confession coming or intuited a multiple murderer’s next attack before he actually crept up someone’s back flight of steps. 

Mulder’s hand startled her as it descended heavily atop her own and quieted her wriggling thumbs. The weight of him in the lap of her skirt made the mucous in her throat thicken - was he holding her hand or asking for his to be held? He tightened his sweaty fingers around hers. There was no reason to cry. This was not her moment. Not her murderer and not her fiancé. She was in the role she’d always found most comfortable - observer. Someone to put in the guest room.

When it was over, Scully stood, looked at the floor and moved toward them like a funeral attendant in the aftermath of an Irish wake - sad, but relieved - attending to the memory of something she’d long past buried.

*

“That tattoo hurt at all?” he asks with a dipped clefted chin and a gleam in his eye that reminds her of her little performance in the shop.  Scully is not even sure why it happened – the booze or the slow burn of the needle or the way he looked at her. It makes her look away for a second now in shyness - the fact that he’s already seen that face she makes.  But she did not call him up earlier to be shy.  She did not sit in a dirty dive all night with a handsome stranger all night to be shy.  She did not break skin, make permanent marks she might later regret to be shy.   She is too quickly running out of time to be shy.

She steals glances at him standing there across the room with his flop of dark sailor’s hair and suggestive sailor’s tattoo and she stammers through something about feeling different. This is true but she doesn’t mean the heavy handed flashart on her lower back.  She supposes she might feel strange the next time she’s at the beach with her mother.  Supposes, the next time, really, anyone looks there, she’ll probably have to laugh.  But nobody ever looks there.  And that’s why she’s here.  She’s responsible.  She’s a woman of faith.  But she’s human, she’s mortal, she knows that more now than ever, even before the doctor’s appointment, and tonight she wants to act like it.  That is what feels different.

He looms over her as he lifts the back of her shirt to peek and she actually believes he just wants a peek.  He’s enormous by comparison, a monument to masculine threat.  He could crush her.  He will try to crush her.  But she doesn’t know that now.  Has no way of knowing that now as he traces the outline of the snake with his finger and tells her it looks all right.  It actually seems like too much of a cliché to fear someone who looks like him, like flinching when you walk down the street past a Doberman. Every cop knows the scrawny ones can be meaner.

She likes him, has liked him from the moment he spoke to her.  She considers herself a good judge of character and she feels in her soul that he is good, but she’s not looking for a soul mate. She’s in the mood for someone who’ll look at her like she’s a problem, not their problem-solver.  Someone who’s not just handing her instructions and checking in. He is not a slap in the face to Mulder. He’s just not Mulder.

He doesn’t leer and he doesn’t suggest.  He offers to take couches and asks her if things hurt.  He’s aware of his own strength even as he displays it.  It may be that none of this counts at St. Peter’s gate, but it will count for something when she’s letting a man a full foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier fuck her standing up.  It will count when he tries to kill her too, but she has no way of knowing that’s what fate – God?  No, not God, that’s not the God she believes in – has in store.

If she were going to stop him, she would’ve stopped him by now.  But instead, she’s telling him she’s a doctor and nothing turns her on like telling people she’s a doctor.  Instead, he’s holding her wrist firmly in the dance partner position, looking down at her like he doesn’t care about his bleeding infected arm as long as he’s got her.  She has wanted to be needed in this way, has been wanting someone who will trade in their other obsessions for five feet two inches and a few hours of her, and she’s been ashamed of that desire.  Then such a person appeared, offered himself up and she’s accepting.  She feels compelled on behalf of her mortality.  Funny - it’s the very thing he’ll turn out to be after.

It’s a quick rundown of events, some of which she’ll be forced to mention later to law enforcement or doctors or both.  She’ll glare and ask them what that has to do with anything as they jot down her perfunctory details.  There are some she doesn’t give. That she reaches for the hem of her shirt two seconds into the kiss, feels his tongue touch her nose when she sloppily backs away to get it over her head.  That he unbuttons her pants as she runs her hands over his chest and his stomach, makes shapes across it with her mouth.  They look for cause and effect, these medical doctors and detectives - she knows because it’s how she normally thinks too.  But the system is working in reverse. The moment his hands graze her ass over her underwear – simple briefs, work underwear, investigate-the-Russian-mobster-underwear – is when she realizes she’s wet.  The moment she drops his pants and puts her hand over his erection is the moment she hopes she’s wet enough.  Effect is what she notices first.

It’s been a very long time.  This might hurt a bit, she tells herself, and gets wetter.

He takes out the condom of his own will but she insists on being the one to put it on him, stares, buying time, as she rolls it down his shaft. It could stop here, she thinks. She could still wake up tomorrow not feeling a bit of regret or the urge to confess, still go into work and not duck from Mulder’s gaze, but it doesn’t occur to her that she could still avoid waking up concussed in a hospital, and that ought to be a fair oversight.

She brushes the infected pinupped bicep by accident, but when she does so, an evil little smile appears on his lips. Blood as permanent as ink itself smears beneath her hand and there is something beautiful about it or something perverse, something she doesn’t take the time to put her finger on because he’s a very good kisser and he can span the entire width and length of her torso with two spread hands, and now he is lifting her with those hands, tossing her up like a lost princess, starting to carry her toward the bedroom.  Just think - Dana Scully, a princess.

“No, here,” she says and so he backs her into the wall as she squeezes her thighs around his thick body.  He shows her with various little touches that he’s willing to take this step by step, but if he does, she’ll lose the nerve, and if she loses the nerve, she knows how she’ll wake up feeling nothing tomorrow morning, because that is how she has woken up many mornings, and she doesn’t think at the time that it might even be worse than waking up in the hospital.  “Fuck me here.”

And then he gets a look in his eye that makes her not care whether there is a tomorrow, not that she has reason to wonder (no cancer moves that fast, has that glib a sense of timing).  It’s a look that says he’s going to ravish her, take her and at the same time sacrifice himself.  It is the look that will haunt her when she’s bandaged and stitched, when she hears of him going to prison, when Mulder makes his stupid, insensitive quips about ass tattoos.

He fucks her with her bra clasp digging into the wall, her underwear pushed to the side, his upper body curled over her like a cobra as he tries to kiss her neck and stay inside her at once.  She lodges her fingernails in the plates of his back lest he drop her, listens to the sound he makes as they penetrate his skin, feels his dick go so high inside her that she’s sure despite all knowledge of anatomy that he’s occluding the base of her throat.

For the moment, with his cock stiff and wholly inside her, she is the threat, the overpowerer. He’s awed by it, grateful for it, and - she’s sure - fearful of it.

“You can do whatever you want,” she orders, “I want you to.”  She hears but barely feels her shoulder blades bruise the wall, any remaining sense she has left sliding out her ears onto the paint job.   He holds her waist very still to the wall as he thrusts upward into her and she tilts her head toward the heavens to moan.  Her eyes burn and her hips ache and she will laugh in a few minutes when he holds her sweetly and still offers to sleep on the couch after giving her a pounding like none she has experienced.

“Come for me, Dana,” he begs and she clutches at his hair, presses her open mouth to his jaw, uses her tongue to try to reach him when she’s not using it to swear, digs her heels into his backside for leverage, consistently pressing the full weight of his hips into her body and she lets herself slide into the deepest, slickest, hardest home plate she’s ever come across.  Or at least that she can remember coming across.   It has been a very long time. As of tomorrow morning, that won’t be true, but then a lot of things won’t be true anymore.

He’s looking at her like she’s the only thing that can save him but the reason she is doing it is to save herself.

*

The decor was sleek and dripped in silver grey, an unslept-in bed at hip height.  There was a photograph of a naked woman in a carnival mask on the wall opposite, the figure’s seductive pout leering over the edge of a dressing-room-style vanity mirror.  The room looked like it belonged in another home - a distinct departure from the oaky, slightly inexplicably Asian-influenced-Americana couple-who-hikes aesthetic of the rest of the townhouse. Sleek and sexy and cool. Nobody’s great aunt would have slept there.

“Hope this is all right,” Scully said behind her, leaning against the doorjamb with pantyhosed feet piled one on top of the other.

“Fine, more than fine.”

“Thank you for staying.”

Mulder’s sports announcers prattled on in the master bedroom down the hall.  The bedroom Scully should be in, would be in by the end of the night.

“I wanted you to be close tonight,” Scully said, punctuating the statement with the kind of breathy chuckle that stood for self-criticism. The days of their holing up in hotels with platonic devotion for a weekend were long gone. Now, Stella stayed in those places alone and Scully visited for dinner or shopping - a pair of regular friends. Scully no longer came to London - Stella’s request - and she did not generally make admissions, however innocently voiced, of wanting her close.

Stella spotted a bronze-brown silk robe hanging on a hook on the back of the door. 

“Pour moi?”

Scully smiled, nodded and Stella grabbed it, turned her back to Scully as she exchanged her clothes for the robe with as much modesty as she could. There was a brass-edged glass bar cart in the corner, fully stocked with red wine and whiskey - the place was a veritable theme park in her honor.  Stella resisted the urge to tease and instead took advantage, tweaked two glasses in one hand, opened a bottle of Macallan’s and poured. Anyway, there was no way to know if the room had been decorated for her because it was meant to court her visit or because there was no one else’s visit to court. They were solitary people, all three of them. It was part of the reason they had held onto each other the way they had.

Scully stepped fully into the room for the first time, rolling from heels to toes like a soft-footed doll in stockinged feet.

“Sentiment get to you?” Stella inquired as her drink pooled, syrupy, in the bottom of the lightly dust-coated glasses. She lightened her tone to a mild taunt in order to refract any impression of flirtation. “Whenever we visit Ed Jerse together we sleep under the same roof?”

“Something like that,” Scully murmured, untouched by the sarcasm. She had known Stella too long, had developed an immunity to it. Sometimes people could say they meant nothing by their sarcasm; with Stella, something was always meant and yet one had to be able to take it in stride. It was not one of her best tendencies but she had never been able to control it.

She handed Scully a glass sympathetically, gestured for her to sit on the bed. Stella sipped and Scully gulped...

“You all right?” 

Scully’s eyes began to water.  She looked at the ceiling, preemptively tightened the skin near her eyes with her fingers. Stella came and sat beside her.

“Do you think it’s wrong, what I did today?” Scully asked.

“You know I don’t see the world that way.”

“But do you feel like…”

“You’ve a good heart, that’s all.”

“I remember when you first told me I was good, do you?”

“Not really.”

She’d always thought it. It was rare for her. Usually she suspected people of things, even when she liked them. Scully stared at her, chewed her lip until it was practically blue.

It would pass. It would pass. It would pass. They had more practice letting it pass than anything else. But this time, it didn’t. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” Stella said finally and she meant it.

“You don’t really want me to marry him.”

“It doesn’t matter to me if you marry him.”

“You don’t care if it means you’ll lose me forever.”

“What do you want from me, Dana.”

She’d said it quickly, not meaning to, was immediately angry with herself for doing so.  But Scully’s shoulders softened, some long-suffering secret released.

“You sent me back here for my own good, didn’t you? Because you knew about William. Not because you wanted me to go. I need to know.”

That was three years ago and in that time Stella had gotten the hang of her being gone. This was no time to undo that, not with an engagement pending.

“I sent you back because I couldn’t do it anymore,” she said methodically.

“You couldn’t do it every minute of every day-”

“No - not with anyone-”

“But you could do it sometimes.”

“What does that matter?” Stella said, her voice rising into the tight part of her throat like a trapped scream. Fighting with Scully was like fighting with a teenager sometimes - ridiculous and yet impossible to come out on top. Stella always had the urge to tell her not now, you’re tired, you’re emotional, and yet, there was always a devastating honesty to Scully’s behavior when she was being influenced by such feelings. “You want something constant, that is nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I’m not ashamed. But it doesn’t mean I need everything to be constant.”

Stella’s head ached - she shook it, rubbing her temples, sipped her whiskey.

“I don’t even know what we’re talking about,” she said, sorry that she’d come here.

“I’ll stop,” Scully said. “It’s been a long day.”

Stella drank. Yes, a long day. Scully was tired, emotional, deserved a pass.

“Can I lie down?” Scully asked.

“It’s your house.”

“It’s your room,” Scully said and Stella couldn’t help but smile a little.

She let the Scotch burn the back of her throat a bit as Scully scooted back on the bed, dropped herself into the center of a stack of white linen pillows, put her buttoned-up wrists by her ears.

Stella lay on her back until the remainder of her anger dissipated into the plume of Scully’s perfume. Stella pictured Scully dressing, powdering this morning, pretending to herself it was like any other day. She turned onto her side, placed her hand carefully in the center of Scully’s sternum, carefully avoiding the structured brassiere swell on either side. A warm heartbeat patted at her palm.

“Aren’t you uncomfortable in these clothes?” she asked. 

“Deeply.”

“Want to go change?”

Scully shook her head no.

“May I?” Stella asked as her hand drifted button by button down the front of Scully’s shirt. “I won’t touch you, don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried,” Scully said. 

Stella half-smiled, flicked the front clasp of the bra, dragged the side zipper down Scully’s hip and finally rested her hand dutifully on the comforter next to Scully’s still wool-crepe skirted, nyloned thigh.

“I’m still deeply uncomfortable,” Scully said, face turning toward her, the malted, woodsy scent of alcohol drifting on the air between them.  A forest, an orchestra pit full of string instruments, hollow and waxed and just removed from velvet cases. “I am actually more deeply uncomfortable than before.”

“Sorry.”

Stella held her breath, her nipples hardening against the silk of the borrowed robe as Scully licked her lips at her, breathed with her whole body so that her open blouse slipped from her chest to her sides. 

“Want to kiss me?” Scully asked.

Goddamit.

“He’s down the hall.”

But she was salivating, tasting Scully, the memory of her.  It had been years. Scully slithered out of her clothes, shedding them like snakeskin, looking new as she lay back down on the pillow.

“I dare you,” Scully whispered.

Stella brusquely threw a knee over Scully’s opposite hip, straddling her as the golden robe slipped its knot.  She shook it down off her shoulders, let it fall to her thighs. Her chest rose, naked and weighted by her heart as she dipped forward toward Scully’s face.

Scully caged her ribs with two hands, traced the black and white tattoo on Stella’s body, draping a finger this way and that in the shape of the rose.

The door was open.  He would hear them.  It would be a betrayal greater than any Stella had ever committed. But she could feel her entire body sinking toward Scully, melting at the heat of her. Muscles trembled, spine withered like an end of summer plant, hips rolled, changes Stella assumed would be imperceptible but Scully’s body moved in response to each one.

She reached down, took Scully’s chin in her hand -

And in a flash of Scully’s eye contact, it all made sense.

“He knew you were going to do this,” Stella said, measuring her surprise.

Scully gulped. Nervous.

“You can live in London, come and go as you please...”

Stella tensed, probably would have moved away but in a burst of effort, Scully reached for Stella’s neck, pulled her close so that she could speak directly into her ear.

“I need you.”

Stella closed her eyes, trying to process the enormity of what was being asked of her but paralyzed by the scent of Scully’s skin and hair and mouth so close.

“I don’t know,” Stella said, her pores sucking up Scully’s skin like the air. She was drowning in her.

Scully’s heart beat faster, she’d begun to sweat, and rightly so. She was gambling with her future - all their futures. Stella wanted to be angry with her but it was impossible. Impossible not to lift her mouth to Scully’s, just briefly enough to leave some of her shimmery gloss on Scully’s lower lip. She paused long enough to settle, to let herself enjoy the certainty of a decision having been made. Sometimes she thought this was the best thing about sex - the rare moment of knowledge, of conviction, of committment. She could not agree to whatever Scully was asking of her, some sort of future promise, but she could agree to right now. The moment would come and go, and in a few minutes, when they were having sex, she would have other ideas about what the best thing about sex with Scully was. With other people, this was often not the case.

“I’m going to fuck you now,” she said. “I’m going to make you pant and swear and moan and we’ll see if your fiance will come down the hall.”

“Do you want him to?”

“I don’t know,” Stella said. “But either of you cries, I swear to God, I’ll never speak to you again.”

She covered Scully’s body from the palms of their hands to the tips of their feet, slipped her tongue into Scully’s mouth before either of them could ruin it by saying anything further.

Chapter 27

He wasn’t sure how he’d feel about it until he saw it. He had agreed to it without reservation. It was even possible to interpret it as having been his suggestion. But still, he could not be absolutely sure how it would feel.  And if he was going to live with it, he needed to see it with his own two eyes at least once. It had always been him or Stella, not both. He’d only shared her once - the first time - and the second time they’d tried had ended in disaster. They’d all kept things separate, Scully in her actions - he doubted she had ever been unfaithful to him when they’d been a couple - and he in his mind. He’d approached his memories of that night with the chastity of a priest, resisted even thinking about it until Scully had made this recent proposition. It was not an unpleasant memory to relive but still, it was a memory.

And now he had arrived at the reality. Stella’s mouth suckling Scully’s nipple in a room wreaking of Scotch and women, her arm’s well-hewn muscles spasming as they worked on Scully beneath the weight of her body, four rounded thighs swathed in a pond of flaxen silk. Scully’s skirt and nylons had been discarded near her ankles, and one of her hands was cupping Stella’s jaw, the other raking up her back. He had waited until he could hear Scully from down the hall, which meant that he had waited until things were very near the end, too near to undo - he could not have stopped them now if he begged. It was a scientific experiment, a matter of proving to himself he could handle what he’d feel.

What he felt when he stood in the doorway to the guest room was hard. Superman fucking hard.

He watched for as long as he could stand it, cleared his throat when he couldn’t stand it any longer. Stella pulled back and sat on her haunches with a well-well-well sort of expression on her face, hair whipping like a blonde gauntlet over her shoulder as she held Scully deep-breathing beneath her palm.

“Come here,” Stella said. He stepped up to the side of the bed, resisting the urge to look anywhere but her eyes. They turned bluer when she made love. Of course - he’d only seen her with Scully. He wondered if they did the same when she was just having sex. “I’m very impressed.”

“With my middle-aged hard-on or my open-mindedness?”

“Both. Have a drink, you might need it.”

She gestured at the friendly half empty glasses left gawking and scandalized on the nightstand. Scully took his hand, squeezed Stella’s thigh with the other. She was in no mood for banter.

“Finish me.”

“You talking to me, honey?” he asked with a slow smile. “Or your girlfriend?”

“Both of you.”

Mulder picked up the glass and sipped - just a bit because he was old enough to be negatively impacted by substances at such critical moments - and then he tipped the glass at Scully’s chest, poured it over her body from navel to neck. She gasped, body rolling like pavement over a growing root. He sat on the bed and leaned to kiss the tip of her drunken shoulder.

They settled in on either side of her,  Stella’s breasts nestled beneath her armpit, his dick wedged against her opposite hip. His arm slid under Scully’s back, his hand pinned by Stella’s trembling belly as she arched it into the hollow of Scully’s waistline. Stella playfully hooked her foot over his leg in the space between Scully’s spread calves. 

“So wet,” Scully murmured and he wasn’t sure if she was talking about herself or the stamp of Stella’s body on her hipbone, but either way it made him desperately want to fuck her.  He settled for a kiss, first on the mouth and then the side of her neck the way she liked as she turned her mouth to Stella.

“Shall we make her come now?” Stella asked without looking at him. Scully’s little ovular  fingertips dug into his skull.

“You want to come, honey?” he teased in her ear, and Stella said something similar in the other, each talking to her as if they had her to themselves, but revelling in the knowledge that they didn’t.

Scully gave a feverish nod yes to all the questions she was being asked, hot tears of simultaneous need and something else - relief? - dripping from her tightly shut eyes. This would not just be the conclusion of a steadily built orgasm, but the proof that her love could carry them all, that she could have the life she wanted but feared was too much to ask.

Their arms draped Scully’s body in the shape of a V, two pageant queen sashes - one ivory, one olive - as they reached inside her together. Stella’s finger was slender and deft against his, leading him sportingly as they found a rhythm they could both live with. Scully hooked her elbow around Stella’s neck, put her hand on Mulder’s cock.

“Dana,” Stella whispered. 

The sound of her so-rarely-uttered first name made him ache like a dirty word. He writhed naked against her thigh, and across from him, Stella’s head hung loose toward Scully’s shoulder as though it might unhinge from her neck. Scully held the center with ease, the flexible crux of an unwieldy machine.

“You’re both so incredibly beautiful,” he said.

Stella thanked him in that a spare, sweet tone she sometimes used but which every time sounded like someone else, and Scully told him to shut up in a voice that sounded exactly like her. Everything slid, slithered - the hand he had wrapped around Scully’s waist bathed in their combined sweat, the whiskey sheen tanning Scully’s chest as she curled it this way and that between them, dipped her tailbone to grind against their hands.

“Good girl,” Stella purred, composed enough even as she gripped Scully’s hip tight between her thighs,. “Good -- girl.”

He lowered the hand up between Stella’s belly and Scully’s waist, bent his knuckles to be of use. Stella found them as she rolled her clitoris from Scully’s hip over his knuckles and back down, delivered a soft fuck from her lips. 

Scully liked it too.

“We’re going to -- take such good -- care of you, Mulder,” she said.

It happened soon after that, the two of them in swift syncopation, Scully moaning and swearing liberally as Stella held her breath, her lips frozen open in the shape of an O. There was a rush of tension and release, sore, slick fingers, wet hair sticking to skin like a sacrament, baptizing a long night to come, and maybe, a new reality.

Chapter 29

The sequence of events was not identical but it was close. A questionable interaction with Ed Jerse that she stubbornly stood behind, come hell or highwater. Stella’s seduction (she had, admittedly, played more of a role in that this time), the precise feminine touch combined with the loving enthusiasm of Mulder’s involvement. And finally, waking up in a bed with him, snoring like a Golden Retriever beside on one side, while Stella’s side was a cool evening desert, bereft of the musky morning jasmine scent that should have been wafting over her shoulder.

Twenty years and somehow she had still not got it right. In some ways she felt they had all been through everything, moved the pieces around in every configuration that existed and she’d landed on a new one, one she knew she wanted best, one in which she knew she could make them both happy. But in other ways, she felt as though she’d been standing still ever since that night, learned nothing, come nowhere.

And more than anything, she was angry at Stella for letting her feel that way. The least she could have done was stayed, told her she hated the idea, rubbed her temples grouchily over a cup of inferior tea while Mulder flipped pancakes. Was that really too much to ask from someone she had known and loved so long?

And in place of that tiny bit of consideration, she’d left a little gift box.

“Sorry...xo” said Stella’s haughty half-script on a prismed, torn-off piece of paper she’d turned into a card.

A hasty unwrapping revealed a shiny little ivory-colored porcelain replica of Big Ben. A delicate and expensive version of something you’d get an an airport. Its base stood in the center of a small dish.

“What’s that?” Mulder grumbled, squinting one eye open. He’d lost some of his voice, left it in one or both of their bodies.

“Stella left us a wedding gift.”

“She left it? You mean she’s not here?”

Scully didn’t answer, so he took the object from her and looked closer.

“It’s a ring holder,” he said. “What does that mean?”

Scully slammed it on the nightstand hard enough to get some satisfaction but not hard enough to crack it. She knew that at a later date, she would cherish this object as the only connection to their union that Stella condoned. She had Mulder had not exchanged any rings - she was no more a jewelry person than she’d been when Mulder had first bought her that Elvis thing and then second-guessed himself. But maybe they should, maybe they would. Maybe she had clung to all the wrong ideas she could have about herself, let all the wrong things slip away into the unlived version of her life. She flexed her fingers over her forehead with a groan.

“She’ll come around,” Mulder said gently. “Let me get you some coffee.”

He was only gone a minute when she heard him calling her name from the kitchen. She joined him, expecting to be shown the spectacle of an ant problem or a pretty bird sitting outside the window or a strange neighbor out to get the mail in a funny outfit - he looked hard when he was aiming to cheer her up.  Instead, the presentation involved a brown paper bag on the table, the oven-y smell of bagels hovering, and Stella... leaning against the counter in the rare odd wrinkled t-shirt, lips pursed, arms folded under her breasts. Scully clung to Mulder’s bare back for protection.

“She came around,” Mulder said.

“Isn’t that getting old?” Scully demanded of Stella, stepping forward, and Mulder sat down, pulled the bag of goodies over. He hesitated to open it in a sudden bout of manners, waited for Stella to answer her.

Stella dipped her head for a deep look at the ground, as though checking to see if she’d stepped on something. Her arms did not uncross.

“Yes,” she said finally with the bluntness Scully imagined she applied to a cold case re-opened and placed unwelcomed on her desk. 

“It’s childish, Stella. I asked you a question, all you had to do was answer it,” Scully pressed. 

“You asked me a question while I was taking your clothes off -”

“Because I thought if I combined it with sex, you’d be more likely to unders -”

“You thought I’d be more likely to say yes. Is there any behavior more childish than that?” 

Scully opened her mouth, made a couple of sounds that didn’t turn into words.

“You’re right, Stell...” Mulder chimed, “Is what Scully is trying to say. She has trouble with that sometimes.”

Scully swallowed her pride, realizing only then that she could let go of both her disappointment and her anger. Stella was still there. They were both there.

“Sorry,” she said softly.

Stella nodded matter-of-factly, uncrossed her arms.

“Eat a bagel and re-ask the question clearly and while I have my wits about me.”

Chapter 30

The neighborhood was full of cobblestone and good bones, svelte-faced buildings painted in aristocrat white, noses in the air as people swept past with briefcases, the damp winter wind whipping chilled hair in their faces.  Scully hugged herself tighter in her long black coat and little white dress, swayed from side to side as she picked a wave of red from across her forehead.  She looked too perfect for this stuffy old courthouse. She also looked nervous.

“She’ll be here,” Mulder said. 

Scully smiled close-lipped, dusted the chest of his jacket, tightened his tie and lied to his face.

“I’m not worried.”

*

When she looked at him here on the courthouse steps, she saw him as he once was, young and bitter, eyes that looked perpetually impressed and a smooth-lipped mouth that looked forever disappointed. She saw their son, the short exchange Stella’s cleverness had allowed her to have with him that day in the park. She saw all the close-calls, the times they should have been parted from one another forever and yet somehow found their way back. They were, as a couple, simultaneously inevitable and a miracle. They were each other’s something old and time itself, their something borrowed.

And Stella - though she’d met her just a few years after Mulder - was still her something new - and that’s how Stella liked it. It was part of the allure of her and the problem of Stella Gibson. She liked to maintain the shiny, silvery lacquer of mystery, and Scully knew Stella worried today would tarnish it. She had considered Scully and Mulder’s offer very carefully, very sensibly, then delivered her answer as she tore bread from the inside of a bagel, a calm voice but a tear in her eye, an embarrassed smile, a mellow-limbed embrace - joy. But there had also been signs of anxiety that day and ever since. It didn’t upset Scully, it only worried her that it might upset Stella. Along the way, Stella had become something else besides the shiny new toy, she had been for some time.

She moved in closer to Mulder as they waited, let her nose rest against his Adam’s apple, a small concession to the  robust unflappability she was determined to show off today. She did not want him to feel his presence meant less to her - it was just that, in this current incarnation of her life, she worried less about losing it. He was sturdier these days, took his medicine and jogged and read novels rather than nonfiction and conspiracy theory websites. He less apt to disappear on her or on himself.

“Maybe we should have stayed at her place last night,” she said.  “Reviewed things.”

“All she has to do is show up, what’s to review?” he remarked casually but through it Scully could see he was more concerned than she was. “You tried her phone?”

“Three times.”

Him too.

“I could go to her place, make sure everything’s okay?” he offered.

“No,” Scully said, her face stoic but her fingers slipping up and down his tie.  The gesture brought him back to the moment and he smiled. His eyes were greener than usual here in the English afternoon.

“Are you sure this is what you want, Mulder? There’s no part of you that would be relieved if we didn’t pull this off today?

He took her chin in hand.

“I’m sure, baby. We’ll do it another day if she can’t make it. Something must have come up.”  

*

What he didn’t say was: we could do it without her.  Because he wasn’t sure that he could.  It was almost perfect, him and Scully alone.  Almost, except that at the same time, always teetering on not-at-all.  Stella’s involvement made it possible somehow, even when she was physically apart from them, all the way across the Atlantic Ocean.  They seemed to need her to survive each other. And as stubborn as he was about not needing people, he was also too old, too experienced not to admit when he did.

Suddenly, Scully smiled and he saw Stella getting out of a black cab in a wooly grey dress and the highest heels he’d ever seen. She turned to pay the driver through the window, at first glance betraying nothing but her usual charmed confidence, although upon closer inspection, he could see the way she was gripping her leather clutch with nerve-wrecked white fingertips.

“See? She’s here,” Mulder said and twirled a length of Scully’s hair between her shoulder blades.

She kissed him briefly on the lips and in a moment Stella approached, tapped their cheeks with her own, careful not to smudge her lipstick.

*

“Sorry I’m late.  You look lovely.  What are we doing afterward?”

“We’ll go get you a stiff drink,” Scully said dryly with a tweak to the neckline of Stella’s sweater dress, playing as she’d done moments ago with Mulder’s tie. An excuse for contact, a doctor’s emotional temperature-telling. 

“Drink, yes, maybe several,” Stella said a little more gently, as though she too had merely been awaiting the doctor’s call to feel better. A malady that eased by benign diagnosis. You will not regret this, I will not let you regret it, Scully tried to communicate telepathically as she looked Stella over, but couldn’t quite rein in the eye contact necessary.

“I’m surprised she doesn’t have a flask on her,” Mulder said.

“Who says I haven’t,” and she handed Mulder her little bag.  “Here, just a second.”

She smoothed her dress, checked the backs of her earrings.  Perfume stabbed the air and committed Stella to memory with every flick of her wrist, every twist of the neck. 

“I hate weddings,” she said. “You know that right?”

But Scully was not fooled by the mask of Stella’s comfortable complaints. She busy staring at Stella’s body, trying to place the odd feeling of deja vu and then - 

“I remember this dress.”

And for the first time that day, Stella steadied, really looked at her, let her eyes rest there in the cradle of Scully’s gaze. Her cheeks colored pink a little and her eyes deepened, the greyness of them taking on the hue of brushed denim, the deep hint of indigo. 

There it was, the something else Stella had become, her something blue.

*

It was one of Stella’s great weaknesses that being told she was loved made her want to cry and not in the so happy tears are falling sort of way, but rather in the way of someone falling to pieces. There was only one way she could handle it - in the passive elocution. There were people, mainly men, she’d known over the course of her life who’d somehow learned and observed the rule. One of them had probably taught it to her in the first place.

“You are loved,” her father used to say, or her favorite uncle, or her late-mentor at the academy. “You are missed,” Mulder would sometimes tell her on the phone. But Scully either couldn’t or wouldn’t get used to it. She was restrained in the frequency of her expressions of affection but not in the manner or delivery of them. She gave her love actively, when given.

So of course she remembered the dress, the thing Stella had been wearing that first time.

“Yes, I thought you might,” Stella said, allowing Scully to believe that she’d done it on purpose. She had not consciously thought of that day this morning when she reached for it. But admittedly, there could be no coincidence in such an action. She had dozens of outfits that would have been suitable, in fact two others she’d bought expressly with this day in mind.

“My, you do look lovely, darling,” she added, tingling with warmth as she looked Scully over. More ethereal and yet more solid all at once. “What is it about white that makes a woman look like a new person?”

Actually, all of it was new to Stella except Scully - she was the only thing familiar about this willingness she felt, the generosity of spirit. She was not pretending to be pissed off for having been asked to do this. But really she was self-conscious about not being pissed off. It would have been more comfortable to resent being here, would have felt more herself.

Inside, there would  be waiting to do, the collective and similar but varied anxieties of twenty other strangers pledged to do this same thing this same day. She and Mulder would bicker amiably, tease about who was going to be fucking whose wife later. Scully would hold her head high, pretending to be above it all, threaten them with moving entire affair to a church, but secretly be glad she’d done it here, in the shadow of all the petty tragicomedies of bureaucracy.  They all three were creatures of the system, and they were also its rebels. That included Scully. Sweet, silently subversive Dana Scully, who was sneaking her hand into Stella’s palm, the other already tucked deftly and permanently into Mulder’s elbow.

It had been Mulder’s idea to configure it this way. He’d said it made sense because then she and Scully would be able to visit one another longer. And it would make it easier for her to move to America if she ever wanted to join them there. She had marveled at the breadth of his spirit, his confidence and his love, had been glad she’d fucked him the previous night. But she’d also panicked. She had only just returned from possible escape minutes before.

Scully had hedged when she heard it and fidgeted, twiddled her fingers and smiled shyly as she admitted to approving of the plan. They each took turns making sure Mulder was in his right mind. And ultimately Stella agreed to it because she wasn’t sure any other way would feel binding enough, would serve to remind her that somewhere, someone expected something of her. And if she didn’t feel that, well then what was the point of being involved at all?

Courthouses could be jarring settings for ordinary people but they were familiar to her, and this one in particular. She’d come out of them over the course of her career in all manner of states - furious, indignant, satisfied, vengeful, victorious - all three of them had. When she came out of this one on this day, she would be no more and no less than... married. No one was changing their name. But hers would be a little different because it would be signed on a piece of paper beside Scully’s, with Mulder’s below as the “witness.” 

He would get Scully with his morning coffee every morning. She would get her on vacations, on special weekends, and, somewhere she had never in a million years expected to either get or look forward to getting - on paper.

The law would be involved, black ink and clerks, a mess to undo if needing undone. And the fact of all this did, at moments, make her want to run. But what did Scully deserve if not that?  Her momentary fancies of flight, her panic. That was worth more than her love, it was more than she had ever been willing to entrust to anyone else.

Overhead, a couple of birds scattered noisily from the ancient stony doorway. Mulder and Scully watched them in tandem, eyes arching from here to there with expressions of matching surprise and gratitude. 

“Are those pigeons or--?” Mulder asked, and Scully tightened the lobster clasp of her fingers. “Doves,” she said. “Mourning doves.”

Stella squinted and smiled alongside them in the breeze. For once, for the moment, there was nothing for any of them to mourn.  

The end

[moon-ruled-rising]

as the rain hides the stars

read the full story on ao3...

VIII: wearing a warning sign

Bite my tongue, bide my time,

wearing a warning sign.

Wait ‘til the world is mine

-Billie Eilish, “you should see me in a crown”

The palace’s watergarden was built at the request of Maron Martell, husband to the first Princess Daenerys and the one from which Dany got her name, for his visiting family. The greenhouse was humid with plants native to Dorne and several different water fixtures mimicking the ones in the real Watergardens. It was the most peaceful place in the whole complex and where Dany escaped to when everyone else was occupied.

Floating in the gardens was a tradition for her, born from the days when she and Elia would sneak snacks from the kitchens and have a picnic. And sometimes, Rhaegar would join them but those were the days before Aerys’ health took a turn for the worse. Rheagar never picnicked with them again.

Her little tradition was the same every time. After she completed the necessary duties of the night, she would meet Jorah in the concert hall attached to the ballroom, change, and then slip into the gardens unnoticed. It was her sacred alone time and now it was sullied by a trespasser. 

The figure was obscured by the shadows of the palms and backlit by the dim gallery. They made no effort to move from the side of the room.  

“I’ll ask one more time, who are you?”

“I’m sorry. I was just looking for an empty room.”

He ventured another step into the garden, the moonlight settling over his angular features, highlighting the unmistakable arrogant youth in his face. It was him. 

Fuck, she cursed and turned her eyes up to the Gods, you won’t let me catch one break. 

“What are you doing in here?”

Despite the warm air, a shiver passed through her. Her hair clung to her arms and the slip to her thighs. She crossed her arms over her chest.

He shrugged off his suit jacket, “Just looking for a quiet place.”

He held it out to her. She looked from the jacket in this hand to his face. 

“Nothing no one hasn’t seen before.”

Even in her intimate state, she needed to keep her sense of authority. She knew her appearance made him uneasy and she planned to exploit that. She wrung her hair as she stepped out of the pool, water dripping from the hem of her slip onto the Dornish marble tile. 

“Please?” He offered her the jacket again.

His expression was soft. He wasn’t commanding her or trying to even the odds. It was a simple offer. A chill gently shook her and she snatched the suit jacket from him. It was warm and smelled of orange blossoms and hearty herbs, a cologne she didn’t recognize.

“These are the queen’s private gardens, no one should be here.”

“No offense, Your Highness, but you’re in here.”

She looked him up and down, then straightened her posture, “I’m a member of the Royal House Targaryen, I’m allowed to go wherever I please.”

“Princess, what would like me to do?” Jorah questioned from behind her.

Dany jumped at the sound of his voice. She’d been so focused on Jon she forgot Jorah was still in the room. She could have him take the prince away and go back to her floating but she was too wound up from the intrusion to find peace again. And she wasn’t ready to retire.

“You can go, Sir Jorah, I’ve got this under control.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

He was only going to wait outside the proper entrance so he could escort her back to her rooms. 

“Alright, Your Highness.”

As soon as he was gone, Dany took up the bottle of whiskey and settled at the edge of the pool.

“So, you’re the poor fool they’re trying to chain me to.” 

“Aye, I’m Prince Jon of the-.”

“I know.”

She took a pull from the bottle before offering it to him. He took it.

“You spent the whole night avoiding me,” he pointed out.

“And I was doing very well until you got adventurous.” She surveyed him out of the corner of her eye. “Elia and Missy gave you glowing reviews, if you care to know.”

“Why send them to talk to me when you could’ve done it yourself?”

“Because I didn’t want to.”

She remembered her promise to Elia, about giving Jon a chance. A thought struck her. Was this prince going to give her the same chance?

“What have you heard about me?”

“That you’re calculated. You’re fast and loose and you burn through men like wildfire.”

There it was. He already made up his mind based on fictitious information spread by petty old hags and jealous debutantes. If that was what he expected of Daenerys, she was more than happy to give it to him.

“And despite all of that you’re somehow convinced I would be a good match? That you would want me to stand at your side for the rest of your life?”

She swished her legs through the water, watching the way it slid off her legs. 

“Of course not but if it means my people live through winter…”

“What’s it like?”

“The North?”

“No, Dorne,” she simpered then rolled her eyes, “Yes, you’re home. What’s it like?”

“It’s cold and it snows a lot.”

“Doesn’t sound like the proper place for a Targaryen.”

“It’s not.”

She should’ve been offended, angry even, but his comment rolled off of her like the water on her legs. The alcohol of the night inhibited her ability to feel much else but deep contempt.

“Well you’ll have to find someone else to grant your aid.”

“You’re not going through with the arrangement?”

“Why would I want to?”

“You would be helping a whole country.”

“Ask yourself this, what does my country have to gain from this?”

He went silent and not in contemplation. She took the whiskey back.

“You see, this marriage is a way for Rhaegar to sell me off. He sees it as a way to settle me down and ship me away so I’ll stop ruining his day with revealing headlines. He doesn’t care about the North, he cares about his reputation.”

It was not Rhaegar’s fault that he was so protective of the Targaryen name. The dynasty stayed in power for 800 years by adapting and changing, making people like them and setting an example of the highest kind. As he’d told her earlier, the people were growing tired of the burden the monarchy represented and any step out of line, any crack in their perfectly moulded facade would be an invitation for the destruction of the Targaryen line.

The worst part was, Dany couldn’t imagine a life of not being a royal. She’d gone to university and experienced something like it there. But even then it was easy for her and money was never an issue. If the crown fell, everyday would be uncertain and her life would be in danger.

“I don’t care what your family gets out of it, as long as my people get what they need to survive.”

She stood, bottle still clutched in hand, “What do you know of marriage treaties?”

“Not much.”

Perfect. 

“They’re just like regular ones. They require that representatives of the two parties sit down and discuss terms and agreements. While I assume you’re already sold on the fact that your country needs me to secure supplies, there’s still the very tricky matter of my opinion.”

She approached a statue of two lovers, bare and frozen, their mouths inches away. She heard his dress shoes on the tile as he followed.

“That’s why my family came south. To convince you to say yes, to help us.”

“No.” she turned on him. “You were dragged here to be appraised like cattle.” 

Her features were placid despite her need to scream. To rage. To raise her voice and burn him with her words.

“You know what you have to do and you’ve made up your mind. But me? I get to decide whether or not this whole operation happens.”

“What do you mean?”

“Why would you need to convince me to help you if my word didn’t matter on this subject?” 

He was silent again. His eyes betrayed nothing but Dany got the feeling he knew what was coming next. In their stillness, Dany took in how the moonlight laid on his strong face. Something about the scene awoke an urge within her.

Dany was well aware of her affinity for pretty men. Hells, the whole world knew she couldn’t say no to an attractive face. Under normal circumstances, nothing would stop her from adding the Northern Prince to her collection but this conquest came with a significant amount of baggage. And there was an edge to him that reminded her of Daario.

Daario. She hadn’t told him where she was going before she left. He probably thought she was still mad at him and that was why she wasn’t home. When in truth, she’d hardly looked at her phone since her flight took off. And the few times she did, there were no missed calls or text messages.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a harsh laugh from the prince.

“What?” she demanded.

“All day I’ve been told to play nice and make a good impression on you and your family.”

“As you should,” she affirmed, the corner of her mouth tugged into a pleased grin.

“But you… you-”

“I what?”

“You’ve been a rude bitch the whole night.”

Dany supposed she deserved that but it didn’t lessen the sting. She fought hard to keep her composure, the same self-satisfied smirk standing vigilant. She knew the people of the court compared her to fire but Dany liked to think of herself as the personification of the element. Beautiful and warm from a distance, scalding and dangerous up close. 

If she was fire, he was cold, unyielding ice. 

“Did you expect anything less?”

“I don’t want this any more than you-”

“Then why make such an effort?”

“Have you seriously not heard a word out of my mouth? My people are in danger! Our economy isn’t strong enough to secure trade with anyone else. You’re their only help so get off your damn high horse and realize that there are people more important than you.

“I know what it’s like to have people whispering behind my back and calling me names that I don’t deserve. Our lives and positions come with baggage that not even we understand but unlike you, I haven’t decided to take it out on everyone around me and burn more bridges than I build.”

His brief rant brought him closer to her and she caught another whiff of his cologne. She tilted her chin up to meet his gaze but her smirk was gone. There was a fierceness in his eyes that reminded Dany of herself. He was ice but there was a fire burning in there, deep below his cool exterior. Dany would usually fight until she’d worn down her opponent but she’d been put in her place three times in one day. She was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to go to bed. 

“Here,” she whispered, taking a step back and holding up the bottle of liquor.

“What’s this for?” “If you want to marry me, you’re going to need that and a lot more,” she told him.

She looked upon his face one last time before she turned to leave.

“Does this mean you’ll go through with it?”

Dany paused and looked over her shoulder. Her hair and slip were nearly dry, but she kept Jon’s suit jacket wrapped around her. Her intention was to melt him, to reduce him to nothing more than water under another burning bridge. But he tempered her and shrank the uncontrollable blaze of her nature.

“The North sounds like a lovely country. I would like to see it some time.”

She slipped out the greenhouse door, making her way back to her apartments, Jorah trailing dutifully behind her. He didn’t ask questions, he heard it all. 

The back hall was quiet considering there was a party still blazing nearby. The distant sounds of music and numerous conversations muffled by the thick walls. The rooms flanking it shut up, waiting for their occupants to return. It reminded her of walking through their summer home on Dragonstone.

The ancient keep stood empty for most of the year, used only for exclusive diplomatic trips and the Targaryen’s summer vacations. The first few hours there were spent breezing through the lifeless corridors and reveling in the solitude.

Dragonstone was meant to be bestowed to Viserys, since he was second eldest, but after his death the lands and titles fell to Dany. She planned to make it her permanent residence when she eventually settled down but if things went according to Rhaegar’s plan, she wouldn’t need to worry about that. 

They arrived at her door and she thanked Jorah and went inside. Still wrapped in the prince’s suit jacket, she shook out her hair and lay across the settee. The exhaustion she forced to the side settled in, weighing her limbs down, but her mind still rattled with the words Jon said.

No one looking to gain her favor had ever spoken to her like that, no one ever dared. They were overly nice, bought her expensive things, and complimented her to no end. All in an effort to appease her scaley nature and get somewhere, and it always worked. When their relations inevitably bored her, they said nothing and found someone else to bide their time. There was never a time they called her out on her behavior.

Rhaegar tried but their confrontations focused on public habits, not so much her behavioral ones. And the words hurled around in those verbal scuffles never stuck. They didn’t dig their claws into her already abused brain and drag her down a long and winding path of second guessing. 

Luckily, a knock at her door pulled her away from a downward spiral of overthinking. Elia swept into the room with Missandei on her arm. They were blushing and bubbly, glowing from the social atmosphere. 

“It’s so dark in here,” Missy commented as Dany reached up to turn on the lamp. 

“Did you get to talk to Prince Jon?” Elia asked, her voice a mixture of business and giddy girlishness.

As if they were teenage girls at a sleepover about to discuss their crushes.

“Yes, we had quite the discussion,” Dany answered, allowing herself a stupid smirk.

The women looked her up and down. Missy pursed her lips as she sank into the seat at the vanity. 

“Oh, Dany, please tell me you didn’t-”

“Don’t worry Elia, nothing happened. Nothing fun anyway. This-” she tugged at the fabric around her- “was just a gentlemanly gesture.”

“Is that where you disappeared to?” Missy questioned.

“We just happened to run into each other.”

“And?”

“We talked.”

“What did you talk about?” pressured Elia, still standing.

She’d shifted her weight and placed her hands on her hips, employing her motherly nature. “I’d prefer not to say.”

“Daenerys…”

A warning.

“Elia, I’ve made up my mind. About the marriage.”

Missy sat up straighter.

“And what did you decide?”

“I decided that I need more time. A month at least before anything is official. I need to tie up some … loose ends.”

Elia swooped down to hug Dany, pulling her up from the bed. Dany wished she could share in the queen’s happiness but she felt devoid of anything but deep seeded dread. And she’d left out the very crucial detail of Rhaegar’s black mail.

“I’ll tell Rhaegar in the morning, he’ll be overjoyed. I’m so glad you’re considering this. You’re going to be an amazing queen.”

Missy cleared her throat, “I’m really sorry to rain on the parade, but Dany won’t be a queen. She’ll still be a princess. In order for Dany to become Queen of the North, she needs to be granted the crown matrimonial.”

“How do you know this?”

“Missandei studied world governments as part of her degree in Public Relations.” Dany informed Elia. 

“And a quick glance back at my notes on the North told me that traditionally the Crown Matrimonial is only granted once the consort in question proves themselves worthy through an act of honor and great courage.”

The princess frowned and looked toward Elia.

“When you attend the contract meeting tomorrow, bring it up. I’m sure Rhaegar will have it amended to the documents.”

Dany didn’t try to fight back the yawn that crawled its way out, hoping it would remind Elia that she was tired and wanted to sleep. The queen gave her another tight squeeze and hugged Missandei before saying her goodbyes and slipping from the room. Missy was staying with Dany because the guest apartments were for diplomatic guests only. 

Not long after, there was another knock on the door. Dany let out a groan of frustration and got up to answer it. She expected Rhaegar, but it was only the night maid stopping by to collect the dresses. She finally removed the suit jacket and gave it to the woman, requesting that it be express cleaned and returned to Prince Jon first thing in the morning.

“I can’t believe you’re getting married… in a month,” Missandei sighed as they lay on Dany’s bed.

Dany stared at the ceiling, trying to calm her racing mind, “Me neither.”

If she had her way, by the end of the month, there would be no wedding and the past twenty-four hours would only be a bad memory.