#non-union shop

[tomorrowusa]

Fake union members and fake signs at Trump's astroturf event in Michigan on Wednesday.

The Detroit News reported: “One individual in the crowd who held a sign that said ‘union members for Trump’ acknowledged that she wasn’t a union member when approached by a reporter after the event. “Another person with a sign that read ‘auto workers for Trump’ said he wasn’t an auto worker when asked for an interview. Both people didn’t provide their names.” The paper said between 400 and 500 people attended the event, at a non-unionised automotive parts supplier in Clinton Township.

It's a good guess that those Trump signs weren't union made.

[mood2you]

"the union is so useless it costs $100" if you came here without knowing CA labor laws you should have leant them in Orientation

[itsjustpoopeh]

happy Thank A Union For Your Rights weekend! enjoy the holiday labor rights activists literally fought and bled and died to win for you! if you have ever wasted your breath denigrating unions bitch you better be in that office on Monday!

[reasonsforhope]

"For the first time in almost 60 years, a state has formally overturned a so-called “right to work” law, clearing the way for workers to organize new union locals, collectively bargain, and make their voices heard at election time.

This week, Michigan finalized the process of eliminating a decade-old “right to work” law, which began with the shift in control of the state legislature from anti-union Republicans to pro-union Democrats following the 2022 election. “This moment has been decades in the making,” declared Michigan AFL-CIO President Ron Bieber. “By standing up and taking their power back, at the ballot box and in the workplace, workers have made it clear Michigan is and always will be the beating heart of the modern American labor movement.”

[Note: The article doesn't actually explain it, so anyway, "right to work" laws are powerful and deceptively named pieces of anti-union legislation. What right to work laws do is ban "union shops," or companies where every worker that benefits from a union is required to pay dues to the union. Right-to-work laws really undermine the leverage and especially the funding of unions, by letting non-union members receive most of the benefits of a union without helping sustain them. Sources: x, x, x, x]

In addition to formally scrapping the anti-labor law on Tuesday [February 13, 2024], Michigan also restored prevailing-wage protections for construction workers, expanded collective bargaining rights for public school employees, and restored organizing rights for graduate student research assistants at the state’s public colleges and universities. But even amid all of these wins for labor, it was the overturning of the “right to work” law that caught the attention of unions nationwide...

Now, the tide has begun to turn—beginning in a state with a rich labor history. And that’s got the attention of union activists and working-class people nationwide...

At a time when the labor movement is showing renewed vigor—and notching a string of high-profile victories, including last year’s successful strike by the United Auto Workers union against the Big Three carmakers, the historic UPS contract victory by the Teamsters, the SAG-AFTRA strike win in a struggle over abuses of AI technology in particular and the future of work in general, and the explosion of grassroots union organizing at workplaces across the country—the overturning of Michigan’s “right to work” law and the implementation of a sweeping pro-union agenda provides tangible evidence of how much has changed in recent years for workers and their unions...

By the mid-2010s, 27 states had “right to work” laws on the books.

But then, as a new generation of workers embraced “Fight for 15” organizing to raise wages, and campaigns to sign up workers at Starbucks and Amazon began to take off, the corporate-sponsored crusade to enact “right to work” measures stalled. New Hampshire’s legislature blocked a proposed “right to work” law in 2017 (and again in 2021), despite the fact that the measure was promoted by Republican Governor Chris Sununu. And in 2018, Missouri voters rejected a “right to work” referendum by a 67-33 margin.

Preventing anti-union legislation from being enacted and implemented is one thing, however. Actually overturning an existing law is something else altogether.

But that’s what happened in Michigan after 2022 voting saw the reelection of Governor Gretchen Whitmer, a labor ally, and—thanks to the overturning of gerrymandered legislative district maps that had favored the GOP—the election of Democratic majorities in the state House and state Senate. For the first time in four decades, the Democrats controlled all the major levers of power in Michigan, and they used them to implement a sweeping pro-labor agenda. That was a significant shift for Michigan, to be sure. But it was also an indication of what could be done in other states across the Great Lakes region, and nationwide.

“Michigan Democrats took full control of the state government for the first time in 40 years. They used that power to repeal the state’s ‘right to work’ law,” explained a delighted former US secretary of labor Robert Reich, who added, “This is why we have to show up for our state and local elections.”"

-via The Nation, February 16, 2024

[greenwaterskeeter]

Speaking of unionizing!

Howard Brown Health, a Chicago nonprofit that runs several for-queer-ppl health clinics that treat regardless of ability to pay and have a policy of open access to gender-affirming care, has an administration buffoonery problem. This has been resulting in high staff turnover, which harms both staff and patients.

The staff formed a union this spring, and in October, won contracts for all staff nurses, with many more protections and scheduled wage increases. This was followed by an attempt to lay off many employees-- so many that, if successful, whole services (such as counseling and rape kits for victims of sexual assault) will have no one left to administer them. Queer folks in Chicago rely on HBH for these services; there are many who can’t simply go somewhere else.

The union is on strike for 1) no layoffs, 2) contracts for workers, and 3) transparency of finance records proving the claimed deficit justifying the layoffs exists (and if it does, is not a result of shady shit).

The CEO of HBH makes twice as much as the average nonprofit CEO; the union suggests any necessary cuts should start at the top. Administration cannot legally refuse to share financial records with the union, but are playing for time, trying to wait until striking employees can’t afford to strike anymore. 

If you can, please help the HBH union keep the pressure on! 

bit.ly/HBHStrikeFund

as of 12/7/22, the strike fund is at $10,318/20,000!

[kittyit]

"The suffragettes are instructive. Their tactic of choice was property destruction. Decades of patient pressure on the Parliament to give women the vote had yielded nothing, and so in 1903, under the slogan 'Deeds not words, the Women's Social and Political Union was founded. Five years later, two WSPU members undertook the first militant action: breaking windowpanes in the prime minister's residence. One of them told the police she would bring a bomb the next time. Fed up with their own fruitless deputations to Parliament, the suffragettes soon specialised in 'the argument of the broken pane', sending hundreds of well-dressed women down streets to smash every window they passed. In the most concentrated volley, in March 1912, Emmeline Pankhurst and her crews brought much of central London to a standstill by shattering the fronts of jewellers, silversmiths, Hamleys toy shop and dozens of other businesses. They also torched letterboxes around the capital. Shocked Londoners saw pillars filled with paperthrowing up flames, the work of some activist having thrown in a parcel soaked in kerosene and a lit match.

Militancy was at the core of suffragette identity: 'To be militant in some form, or other, is a moral obligation, Pankhurst lectured. 'It is a duty which every woman will owe her own conscience and self-respect, to women who are less fortunate than she is herself, and to all who are to come after her.' The latest full-body portrait of the movement, Diane Atkinson's Rise Up, Women!, gives an encyclopedic listing of militant actions: suffragettes forcing the prime minister out of his car and dousing him with pepper, hurling a stone at the fanlight above Winston Churchill's door, setting upon statues and paintings with hammers and axes, planting bombs on sites along the routes of royal visits, fighting policemen with staves, charging against hostile politicians with dogwhips, breaking the windows in prison cells. Such deeds went hand in hand with mass mobilisation. The suffragettes put up mammoth rallies, ran their own presses, went on hunger strikes: deploying the gamut of non-violent and militant action.

After the hope of attaining the vote by constitutional means was dashed once more in early 1913, the movement switched gears. In a systematic campaign of arson, the suffragettes set fire to or blew up villas, tea pavilions, boathouses, hotels, haystacks, churches, post offices, aque-ducts, theatres and a liberal range of other targets aroundthe country. Over the course of a year and a half, the WSPU claimed responsibility for 337 such attacks. Few culprits were apprehended. Not a single life was lost; only empty buildings were set ablaze. The suffragettes took great pains to avoid injuring people. But they considered the situation urgent enough to justify incendiarism - votes for women, Pankhurst explained, were of such pressing importance that we had to discredit the Government and Parliament in the eyes of the world; we had to spoil English sports, hurt businesses, destroy valuable property, demor-alise the world of society, shame the churches, upset the whole orderly conduct of life. Some attacks probably went unclaimed. One historian suspects that the suffragettes were behind one of the most spectacular blazes of the period: a fire in a Tyneside coal wharf, in which the facilities for loading coal were completely gutted. They did, however, claim responsibility for the burning of motor cars and a steam yacht."

- How to Blow Up a Pipeline, pg 40-42

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Boeing’s deliberately defective fleet of flying sky-wreckage

I'm touring my new, nationally bestselling novel The Bezzle! Catch me TOMORROW (May 2) in WINNIPEG, then Calgary (May 3), Vancouver (May 4), Tartu, Estonia, and beyond!

Boeing's 787 "Dreamliner" is manufactured far from the company's Seattle facility, in a non-union shop in Charleston, South Carolina. At that shop, there is a cage full of defective parts that have been pulled from production because they are not airworthy.

Hundreds of parts from that Material Review Segregation Area (MRSA) were secretly pulled from that cage and installed on aircraft that are currently plying the world's skies. Among them, sections 47/48 of a 787 – the last four rows of the plane, along with its galley and rear toilets. As Moe Tkacik writes in her excellent piece on Boeing's lethally corrupt culture of financialization and whistleblower intimidation, this is a big ass chunk of an airplane, and there's no way it could go missing from the MRSA cage without a lot of people knowing about it:

https://prospect.org/infrastructure/transportation/2024-04-30-whistleblower-laws-protect-lawbreakers/

More: MRSA parts are prominently emblazoned with red marks denoting them as defective and unsafe. For a plane to escape Boeing's production line and find its way to a civilian airport near you with these defective parts installed, many people will have to see and ignore this literal red flag.

The MRSA cage was a special concern of John "Swampy" Barnett, the Boeing whistleblower who is alleged to have killed himself in March. Tkacik's earlier profile of Swampy paints a picture of a fearless, stubborn engineer who refused to go along to get along, refused to allow himself to become inured to Boeing's growing culture of profits over safety:

https://prospect.org/infrastructure/transportation/2024-03-28-suicide-mission-boeing/

Boeing is America's last aviation company and its single largest exporter. After the company was allowed to merge with its rival McDonnell-Douglas in 1997, the combined company came under MDD's notoriously financially oriented management culture. MDD CEO Harry Stonecipher became Boeing's CEO in the early 2000s. Stonecipher was a protege of Jack Welch, the man who destroyed General Electric with cuts to quality and workforce and aggressive union-busting, a classic Mafia-style "bust-out" that devoured the company's seed corn and left it a barren wasteland:

https://qz.com/1776080/how-the-mcdonnell-douglas-boeing-merger-led-to-the-737-max-crisis

Post-merger, Boeing became increasingly infected with MDD's culture. The company chased cheap, less-skilled labor to other countries and to America's great onshore-offshore sacrifice zone, the "right-to-work" American south, where bosses can fire uppity workers who balked at criminal orders, without the hassle of a union grievance.

Stonecipher was succeeded by Jim "Prince Jim" McNerney, ex-3M CEO, another Jack Welch protege (Welch spawned a botnet of sociopath looters who seized control of the country's largest, most successful firms, and drove them into the ground). McNerney had a cute name for the company's senior engineers: "phenomenally talented assholes." He created a program to help his managers force these skilled workers – everyone a Boeing who knew how to build a plane – out of the company.

McNerney's big idea was to get rid of "phenomenally talented assholes" and outsource the Dreamliner's design to Boeing's suppliers, who were utterly dependent on the company and could easily be pushed around (McNerney didn't care that most of these companies lacked engineering departments). This resulted in a $80b cost overrun, and a last-minute scramble to save the 787 by shipping a "cleanup crew" from Seattle to South Carolina, in the hopes that those "phenomenally talented assholes" could save McNerney's ass.

Swampy was part of the cleanup crew. He was terrified by what he saw there. Boeing had convinced the FAA to let them company perform its own inspections, replacing independent government inspectors with Boeing employees. The company would mark its own homework, and it swore that it wouldn't cheat.

Boeing cheated. Swampy dutifully reported the legion of safety violations he witnessed and was banished to babysit the MRSA, an assignment his managers viewed as a punishment that would isolate Swampy from the criminality he refused to stop reporting. Instead, Swampy audited the MRSA, and discovered that at least 420 defective aviation components had gone missing from the cage, presumably to be installed in planes that were behind schedule. Swampy then audited the keys to the MRSA and learned that hundreds of keys were "floating around" the Charleston facility. Virtually anyone could liberate a defective part and install it into an airplane without any paper trail.

Swampy's bosses had a plan for dealing with this. They ordered Swampy to "pencil whip" the investigations of 420 missing defective components and close the cases without actually figuring out what happened to them. Swampy refused.

Instead, Swampy took his concerns to a departmental meeting where 12 managers were present and announced that "if we can’t find them, any that we can’t find, we need to report it to the FAA." The only response came from a supervisor, who said, "We’re not going to report anything to the FAA."

The thing is, Swampy wasn't just protecting the lives of the passengers in those defective aircraft – he was also protecting Boeing employees. Under Sec 38 of the US Criminal Code, it's a 15-year felony to make any "materially false writing, entry, certification, document, record, data plate, label, or electronic communication concerning any aircraft or space vehicle part."

(When Swampy told a meeting that he took this seriously because "the paperwork is just as important as the aircraft" the room erupted in laughter.)

Swampy sent his own inspectors to the factory floor, and they discovered "dozens of red-painted defective parts installed on planes."

Swampy blew the whistle. How did the 787 – and the rest of Boeing's defective flying turkeys – escape the hangar and find their way into commercial airlines' fleets? Tkacik blames a 2000 whistleblower law called AIR21 that:

creates such byzantine procedures, locates adjudication power in such an outgunned federal agency, and gives whistleblowers such a narrow chance of success that it effectively immunizes airplane manufacturers, of which there is one in the United States, from suffering any legal repercussions from the testimony of their own workers.

By his own estimation, Swampy was ordered to commit two felonies per week for six years. Tkacik explains that this kind of operation relies on a culture of ignorance – managers must not document their orders, and workers must not be made aware of the law. Whistleblowers like Swampy, who spoke the unspeakable, were sidelined (an assessment by one of Swampy's managers called him "one of the best" and finished that "leadership would give hugs and high fives all around at his departure").

Multiple whistleblowers were singled out for retaliation and forced departure. William Hobek, a quality manager who refused to "pencil whip" the missing, massive 47-48 assembly that had wandered away from the MRSA cage, was given a "weak" performance review and fired despite an HR manager admitting that it was bogus.

Another quality manager, Cynthia Kitchens, filed an ethics complaint against manager Elton Wright who responded to her persistent reporting of defects on the line by shoving her against a wall and shouting that Boeing was "a good ol’ boys’ club and you need to get on board." Kitchens was fired in 2016. She had cancer at the time.

John Woods, yet another quality engineer, was fired after he refused to sign off on a corner-cutting process to repair a fuselage – the FAA later backed up his judgment.

Then there's Sam Salehpour, the 787 quality engineer whose tearful Congressional testimony described more corner-cutting on fuselage repairs:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PP0xhIe1LFE

Salehpour's boss followed the Boeing playbook to the letter: Salehpour was constantly harangued and bullied, and he was isolated from colleagues who might concur with his assessment. When Salehpour announced that he would give Congressional testimony, his car was sabotaged under mysterious circumstances.

It's a playbook. Salehpour's experience isn't unusual at Boeing. Two other engineers, working on the 787 Organization Designation Authorization, held up production by insisting that the company fix the planes' onboard navigation computers. Their boss gave them a terrible performance review, admitting that top management was furious at the delays and had ordered him to punish the engineers. The engineers' union grievance failed, with Boeing concluding that this conduct – which they admitted to – didn't rise to the level of retaliation.

As Tkacik points out, these engineers and managers that Boeing targeted for intimidation and retaliation are the very same staff who are supposed to be performing inspections of behalf of the FAA. In other words, Boeing has spent years attacking its own regulator, with total impunity.

But it's not just the FAA who've failed to take action – it's also the DOJ, who have consistently declined to bring prosecutions in most cases, and who settled the rare case they did bring with "deferred prosecution agreements." This pattern was true under Trump's DOJ and continued under Biden's tenure. Biden's prosecutors have been so lackluster that a federal judge "publicly rebuked the DOJ for failing to take seriously the reputational damage its conduct throughout the Boeing case was inflicting on the agency."

Meanwhile, there's the AIR21 rule, a "whistleblower" rule that actually protects Boeing from whistleblowers. Under AIR21, an aviation whistleblower who is retaliated against by their employer must first try to resolve their problem internally. If that fails, the whistleblower has only one course of action: file an OSHA complaint within 90 days (if HR takes more than 90 days to resolve your internal complaint, you can no have no further recourse). If you manage to raise a complaint with OSHA, it is heard by a secret tribunal that has no subpoena power and routinely takes five years to rule on cases, and rules against whistleblowers 97% of the time.

Boeing whistleblowers who missed the 90-day cutoff have filled the South Carolina courts with last-ditch attempts to hold the company to account. When they lose these cases – as is routine, given Boeing's enormous legal muscle and AIR21's legal handcuffs – they are often ordered to pay Boeing's legal costs.

Tkacik cites Swampy's lawyer, Rob Turkewitz, who says Swampy was the only one of Boeing's whistleblowers who was "savvy, meticulous, and fast-moving enough to bring an AIR 21 case capable of jumping through all the hoops" to file an AIR21 case, which then took seven years. Turkewitz calls Boeing South Carolina "a criminal enterprise."

That's a conclusion that's hard to argue with. Take Boeing's excuse for not producing the documentation of its slapdash reinstallation of the Alaska Air door plug that fell off its plane in flight: the company says it's not criminally liable for failing to provide the paperwork, because it never documented the repair. Not documenting the repair is also a crime.

You might have heard that there's some accountability coming to the Boeing boardroom, with the ouster of CEO David Calhoun. Calhoun's likely successor is Patrick Shanahan, whom Tkacik describes as "the architect of the ethos that governed the 787 program" and whom her source called "a classic schoolyard bully."

If Shanahan's name rings a bell, it might be because he was almost Trump's Secretary of Defense, but that was derailed by the news that he had "emphatically defended" his 17 year old son after the boy nearly beat his mother to death with a baseball bat. Shanahan is presently CEO of Spirit Aerospace, who made the door-plug that fell out of the Alaska Airlines 737 Max.

Boeing is a company where senior managers only fail up and where whistleblowers are terrorized in and out of the workplace. One of Tkacik's sources noticed his car shimmying. The source, an ex-787 worker who'd been fired after raising safety complaints, had tried to bring an AIR21 complaint, but withdrew it out of fear of being bankrupted if he was ordered to pay Boeing's legal costs. When the whistleblower pulled over, he discovered that two of the lug-nuts had been removed from one of his wheels.

The whistleblower texted Tkcacik to say (not for the first time): "If anything happens, I'm not suicidal."

Boeing is a primary aerospace contractor to the US government. It's clear that its management – and investors – consider it too big to jail. It's also clear that they know it's too big to fail – after all, the company did a $43b stock buyback, then got billions in a publicly funded buyback.

Boeing is, effectively, a government agency that is run for the benefit of its investors. It performs its own safety inspections. It investigates its own criminal violations of safety rules. It loots its own coffers and then refills them at public expense.

Meanwhile, the company has filled our skies with at least 420 airplanes with defective, red-painted parts that were locked up in the MRSA cage, then snuck out and fitted to an airplane that you or someone you love could fly on the next time you take your family on vacation or fly somewhere for work.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/05/01/boeing-boeing/#mrsa

Image: Tom Axford 1 (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Blue_sky_with_wisps_of_cloud_on_a_clear_summer_morning.jpg

CC BY-SA 4.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/deed.en

--

Clemens Vasters (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:N7379E_-_Boeing_737_MAX_9.jpg

CC BY 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/deed.en

[seongwars]

forget me not | i

Pairing: Jeong Yunho x witch!Reader AU: non-idol | supernatural Summary: Yunho should be happy--he's got everything going for him and he's set to marry the love of his life! So why is he standing outside of your shop on the night of his engagement party? Word Count: 7.4K Warnings: smoking, swearing, hurt/no comfort

Fic Masterlist

a/n: the long awaited first chapter of my Yunho mini series I've been struggling with is finally here (and yes I was inspired by xxxholic)

Jeong Yunho considered himself to be lucky. 

He had a successful career in investment banking at KQ Bank, where his strategic acumen and relentless work ethic had earned him respect and a solid reputation among his peers and leadership. 

His social life was equally fulfilling; he mingled with influential figures in his field, enjoyed lively gatherings, and maintained a close circle of friends who valued his thoughtfulness and charisma. 

And he was set to marry the love of his life–Haewon. Their engagement was the kind of story people loved to hear, a testament to their enduring love and shared journey from pulling all-nighters at the library to the challenges of real adulthood. 

To those around them, their union seemed like a fairytale—a perfect blend of romance and stability that they had carefully cultivated over the years. Friends and family often remarked on how well-suited they were for each other, their complementary personalities creating a harmonious balance. 

Yet, despite the joy and excitement that should have accompanied the impending nuptials, Yunho couldn’t shake the sensation in his gut that something was amiss. There was a persistent unease that clung to him, a whisper in the back of his mind that the world wasn’t as perfect as it seemed. 

The stark contrast between his inner turmoil and the outward celebration became even more apparent as he stepped into the vibrant atmosphere of his engagement party. The event was in full swing, alive with laughter and the clinking of glasses. Soft lights twinkled around the cozy restaurant, casting a warm glow over the guests who mingled and celebrated the joyous occasion.

Despite the festive atmosphere, Yunho found himself at odds with his fiancée. As he wove through the crowd, exchanging polite smiles and nods, he couldn’t shake the feeling of unease that had settled in his chest. He scanned the room, his eyes finally landing on Haewon. There she was, surrounded by her friends, her laughter ringing out above the din. She looked radiant, her face flushed with happiness, but Yunho couldn’t help but notice the almost empty glass of champagne in her hand. Again. 

He made his way over to her, his steps slow and deliberate. As he approached, Haewon turned and saw him, her smile widening. 

“Babe! Come join us!” she slurred, her voice bright and cheerful despite her flushed state. Her friends echoed her invitation, their faces glowing with the effects of the evening’s festivities.

Yunho forced a smile, trying to mask his concern. “Hey,” he greeted, slipping an arm around Haewon’s waist. “Having a good time?”

Haewon leaned into him, her balance slightly off. “The best time!” she exclaimed, her words blending together. She raised her nearly empty glass in a toast, her eyes sparkling with the effects of the alcohol. “To us!” she cheered, and her friends joined in, raising their glasses and laughing.

Yunho’s smile wavered as he felt the weight of Haewon against him. He could smell the sharp scent of champagne on her breath, and it only deepened his worry. “I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself,” he said, his voice gentle but tinged with concern. “Maybe it’s time for some water, yeah?”

Haewon pouted, her expression turning petulant. “Okay, fun police,” she chided, her tone playful but with an edge of irritation. “I’m fine. Just having fun with my friends.”

One of Haewon’s friends, Sungjae, sensing Yunho’s irritation, threw an arm around him and grinned. “Come on, Yunho, let her enjoy the night. It’s a celebration, after all!” he said, a hint of condescension in his tone.

Yunho forced a tight smile, feeling the weight of Sungjae’s arm on his shoulders. “I know,” he replied, trying to keep his voice steady. “I just want to make sure she’s okay.”

Sungjae chuckled, giving Yunho a light squeeze. “She’s fine, man. It’s just one night. Let loose a little,” he said, his words slurring slightly. “You’re always so serious.”

“Yeah babe,” Haewon added, “Loosen up a little. Why do you care so much about what these people think?”

Yunho’s jaw tightened, but he nodded, not wanting to cause a scene. He could feel the eyes of their friends and family on them, the weight of their expectations pressing down on him. He took a deep breath, trying to steady his emotions.

“It’s not about what they think,” he said quietly, his voice strained. “It’s about us. I want to celebrate with you, not just stand on the sidelines while you’re with your friends.”

Haewon rolled her eyes, clearly exasperated. “So now I’m not allowed to have fun with my friends? Is that it? I thought we were having a party, not a private event just for the two of us.” She set down her champagne flute with a sharp clink, her irritation evident.

Yunho’s face fell at her sharp words, the frustration in her tone piercing through him. He took another deep breath, trying to keep his voice steady. “That’s not what I’m saying. Look, we should take this outside. I don’t want us fighting in front of everyone.”

Haewon, visibly drunk, glared at Yunho with frustration. “You know what? Maybe you should’ve been more clear about what you wanted from this party,” she snapped, her voice rising. “I’m here, I’m celebrating with everyone. Now you’re just making me feel like I’m doing something wrong.”

Yunho’s shoulders sagged, frustration clouding his features as partygoers began turning their attention towards the couple. “It’s not about doing something wrong. I just wanted us to share this moment together, not have me feel like a spectator at my own engagement party.”

“This is ridiculous. I’m not going to change how I enjoy myself just because you’re having a problem with it,” she retorted, turning on her heel. Sungjae followed her out as she stormed towards the exit.

“You’re always trying to play the role of the perfect fiancé, but it’s never about what I want or how I feel,” Haewon continued, her voice echoing through the hall. “Maybe if you stopped worrying so much about everyone else and focused on what really matters, you’d see that I’m trying to enjoy myself.”

Yunho’s heart sank at her words, the warmth and joy of the engagement party now feeling hollow. The lively chatter and music of the party seemed to blur into background noise as Yunho stood alone, grappling with the weight of her accusations and the growing distance between them.

Yunho Age 20

It was the spring semester of his first year of university. You had invited him over to your dorm to study together, and he was eager to catch up with you. As he approached your room, he could hear the faint sound of music and laughter from inside.

He knocked on the door, and it swung open to reveal a lively scene. You were sitting on the floor, surrounded by books and notes, while a girl with a bright smile and sparkling eyes was dancing around the room, her energy infectious.

You looked up from your study materials, your expression shifting from concentration to playful mischief. With a grin, you held up a hand and called out, “What’s the password?”

The question was delivered with a familiar teasing tone, and Yunho’s eyes twinkled with recognition. He didn’t miss a beat. “Spidey Swings,” he answered, his voice filled with the kind of nostalgia that came from years of shared jokes and childhood memories.

“Fine, I guess you can come in.” 

Yunho stepped inside, the warmth of the room and the familiarity of the password bringing a comforting sense of home. The girl, still smiling, gave him a friendly wave before resuming her lively routine. You patted the space next to you, inviting him to sit down amidst the scattered notes and textbooks.

“This is my roommate, Haewon,” you added. Haewon turned to face him, her smile widening. 

“Hi, Yunho! Nice to meet you,” she greeted with a small bow. “Sorry for the mess, we were just taking a break from studying.”

Yunho shook her hand, feeling a bit overwhelmed by her vibrant presence. “Nice to meet you too,” he replied, stepping inside and setting his bag down. “I brought some snacks. Thought we might need them.”

“Perfect timing!” Haewon exclaimed, clapping her hands together. “We were just about to take a snack break!”

The three of you spent the evening studying, chatting, and laughing. Haewon’s lively personality added a new dynamic to the group, and Yunho found himself enjoying her company. She had a way of making everyone feel included and at ease, and it wasn’t long before Yunho felt like he had known her for years.

Yunho watched as Haewon discussed her passions—her enthusiasm for art, her love for literature, and her drive to make a difference in the world. There was a fire in her eyes, a passion that lit up the room and captivated Yunho. She spoke with an earnestness that was both refreshing and inspiring, weaving her dreams into the conversation with effortless grace.

As the evening progressed, Yunho found himself increasingly drawn to Haewon. Her warmth and generosity were undeniable, and he felt a growing respect and admiration for her. They exchanged stories and laughed together, and Yunho began to see Haewon not just as a friend but as someone who brought a unique and positive energy into his life.

As the night drew to a close and the room fell silent, Yunho realized the depth of his growing connection with Haewon. In the following weeks, they spent more time together, their relationship blossoming into a cornerstone of support and happiness that Yunho hadn’t known he needed.

A few weeks later, you found yourself sitting in Yunho’s dorm, watching him pace frantically. The light from his desk lamp cast long shadows, highlighting the stacks of textbooks and notes scattered around. You had come over, expecting a routine study session, but Yunho’s demeanor was different tonight—he was a nervous wreck.

Sitting at the edge of his bed, you felt a knot tighten in your stomach, sensing the gravity of the conversation ahead. You had always been there for Yunho, studying together and planning your futures, but tonight was different. Tonight, you were about to hear something that would cut deeper than you had expected.

“I’ve been thinking a lot lately. About Haewon.” Yunho finally blurted out, his voice tinged with a mix of excitement and nervousness.

“Yeah? What about her?” you asked.

Yunho took a deep breath, as if gathering the courage to say what he had been holding back. “I’m planning to confess to her. I’ve realized I really care about her—a lot.” 

Your heart sank. You had noticed Yunho and Haewon getting closer, but hearing him say it out loud felt like a punch to the gut. You forced a smile, hoping it didn’t look as strained as it felt. 

“Oh, really? That’s great! Have you thought about how you’re going to do it?”

“Yeah, probably at the coffee shop she likes. Every time I’m with her, it just feels right. But I don’t want to ruin our friendship if she doesn’t feel the same.”

You nodded, trying to keep your emotions in check. “That sounds like a good plan. The coffee shop is a nice, relaxed place. I’m sure she’ll appreciate the thought you’ve put into it.”

You sat there for a moment, the weight of your emotions pressing down on you. You had loved Yunho for as long as you could remember. His laugh, his kindness, the way he always knew how to make you smile—everything about him had captured your heart. But you had never had the courage to tell him, fearing it would ruin the friendship you cherished so much.

“Just be yourself and be honest,” you encouraged him with a reassuring smile, though the lump in your throat betrayed the flood of emotions you were trying to contain.

As Yunho continued to talk about his plans, you listened, offering support and encouragement. But deep down, you couldn’t shake the feeling of loss, knowing that things were about to change in ways you hadn’t anticipated.

Yunho wandered aimlessly, his gaze fixed on the stars above, each one a silent witness to his regrets. His earlier confrontation with Haewon replayed in his mind—her dismissive words, the hurtful accusations and the way she had turned away with that sharp, unyielding look in her eye. 

The more he thought about their argument, the more his frustration bubbled to the surface. He stopped by a bench near the waterfront of the venue, sinking onto it with a heavy sigh. The cool breeze brushed against his face, but it did little to calm the storm swirling within. Yunho stared into the darkness, struggling to make sense of the fractured emotions and the shifting dynamics in his relationship. The night seemed to stretch endlessly, a reflection of the uncertain and painful path he now faced.

He closed his eyes and for a moment wished things could be different. 

First, he wished he hadn’t proposed to Haewon out of desperation, trying to salvage their deteriorating relationship. The memory of her storming out of the engagement party with Sungjae right behind her replayed in his mind, a constant reminder of his misguided attempt to hold onto something that was already slipping away.

Yunho stood nervously in the center of the beautifully decorated garden, the soft glow of fairy lights casting a magical ambiance. The scent of blooming flowers filled the air, mingling with the faint sound of a nearby fountain. Every detail had been meticulously planned—from the arrangement of the candles to the delicate petals scattered along the path. Yunho wanted this moment to be nothing short of perfect.

Is this really the right thing to do? The question echoed in the back of Yunho’s mind, a persistent whisper that refused to be silenced. The small velvet box felt like it was burning a hole in his pocket, its weight far heavier than it should be, laden with all his doubts and fears.

As Haewon approached, her eyes widened in surprise, taking in the romantic setting. Her heart raced as she realized what was about to happen. Yunho’s hands trembled slightly as he reached into his pocket, pulling out a small velvet box. With a deep breath, he got down on one knee, holding out the ring that symbolized his commitment to her.

Tears of joy welled up in her eyes as she looked at Yunho, her emotions overwhelming her. Her lips parted, and through her tears, she managed to say, her voice trembling with raw emotion, “Yes! Yes, Yunho,” she finally managed to say, between sobs.

The crowd of friends and family, who had been watching from a distance, erupted in cheers and applause. For Yunho and Haewon, it felt like they were the only two people in the world.

Please let this be enough, he silently pleaded.

But the months following the proposal were fraught with doubts, especially regarding Sungjae, Haewon’s long-time friend. Yunho couldn’t ignore the ease with which Haewon and Sungjae interacted—their shared jokes, the effortless understanding between them. It made him question if Haewon confided in Sungjae more than she did in him, and whether Sungjae had been filling emotional gaps that he hadn’t been able to for years.

Second, he regretted passing up an opportunity with the KIA Tigers for an investment baking position. The memory of that pivotal moment was etched in his mind—an offer from the Tigers, a chance to work closely with the team he had idolized for as long as he could remember, slipping through his fingers because he had chosen to pursue a more secure, yet uninspiring, career in finance.

He remembered the excitement in his voice as he spoke about the possibility of becoming a scout, the chance to blend his passion for baseball with a professional role. It had felt like the ultimate dream, a convergence of his personal passion and career ambitions. But when the time came to make a choice, he recalled the pressure he felt from his family to choose a path with financial stability, their voices echoing in his mind with phrases like "responsible choice" and "practical future." 

Their expectations, though well-intentioned, had overshadowed his own aspirations. The investment banking opportunity, with its promise of stability, was seen as a safer bet, a way to meet his family's expectations and ensure a secure future.

Now, as he sat alone by the waterfront, he could almost hear the cheers from the ballpark, feel the crack of the bat and the thrill of the game that he had sacrificed for the illusion of financial security. It was a safe choice, a pragmatic one, but it lacked the excitement and fulfillment he had once envisioned. Each day at the desk felt like a reminder of a dream deferred, a passion left unpursued.

And lastly, he wished you were still here. Yunho missed your presence more than he could convey. You had a way of making him feel grounded, no matter how chaotic life became. He often thought about the times you spent together, laughing over silly jokes or sharing deep conversations late into the night. You were his best friend, the one person he could always lean on, telling him that everything would be fine.

That night, Yunho didn’t return to his apartment—he couldn't, especially not after his fight with Haewon. Instead, he found himself on the highway, the city lights fading in his rearview mirror as he made the long drive back to his parents' house. The place where he grew up. The place that, no matter how much time had passed, still held a part of him.

The house was quiet when he arrived, his parents long asleep after leaving the party earlier in the evening. It felt strange to be back here, like stepping into a time capsule where everything had remained the same even as he had changed.

He climbed the stairs slowly, each step bringing back memories of late-night chats with you on the phone, trying to keep his voice down so his parents wouldn’t hear. When he reached his old bedroom, he hesitated, his hand on the doorknob. It had been so long since he'd been in this room, yet the moment he opened the door, it was like he had never left.

Everything was still in place—his bed, neatly made with the same comforter he’d had since high school. His desk and walls were cluttered with the remnants of his teenage years: baseball memorabilia, trophies from tournaments, and framed photos of his high school baseball team. He noticed a few with you in them, your smile always bright and full of life.

His gaze landed on a polaroid nestled between a postcard and a team photo. It was of you and him, taken years ago when you were probably 8 or 9. The two of you were sitting on the steps leading up to Mt. Bukhansan, grinning with a mix of pride and exhaustion. You had insisted on taking the picture because it was the first big hike you’d done together.

The polaroid was worn, the edges slightly frayed from years of being handled. Yunho’s thumb brushed over your smiling face, a bittersweet ache settling in his chest. You were so young, so carefree—neither of you had any idea how much your lives would change, how much you would lose.

It was then that he noticed a small, battered box tucked under his desk, nearly hidden by an old baseball bat leaning against the chair. Curiosity piqued, Yunho knelt down to pull the box out into the open. He sifted through years of ticket stubs, notebooks, and magazines–each item bringing back a memory, a fleeting image of the life he once had.

And then he saw it.

At the bottom of the box, beneath the pile of knicknacks, was a leather-bound book. It was worn, the corners frayed and the spine slightly cracked. Yunho’s breath caught in his throat as he recognized it immediately. This was your journal—the one you had carried with you everywhere, always scribbling something inside, your thoughts, your dreams, your frustrations.

Yunho’s fingers traced the edges of the pages before he flipped it open, revealing the sketches you had created over the years. Your talent for art was undeniable, yet you had always hesitated to pursue it professionally, fearing that turning your passion into a livelihood might extinguish the joy it brought you.

He stopped to look at one of his portraits. You had captured him perfectly, every line and shadow carefully rendered with an artist’s precision. His eyes, his smile—everything about the sketch was so vivid, so full of life. But it wasn’t just the accuracy of the drawing that struck him; it was the way you had drawn him, the way you had seen him.

In the drawing, Yunho looked confident staring out into the outfield, his expression relaxed and warm. There was a softness in his eyes, a quiet strength that you had always admired but that he had never really seen in himself.

Your sudden disappearance at 22 had been both bewildering and devastating. 

It was your father who first noticed the gaps in your routine. You regularly checked in with your parents, recounting your day, the kind of photos you’d taken in your photography course, to the kind of food that was being served in the cafeteria. When a day passed without your usual call, he brushed it off as a busy day. But when two days went by, his concern grew.

“Have you heard from Y/N?” your father had asked Yunho, his voice laced with worry when he couldn’t get a hold of you. Yunho, who had been preoccupied with his own life, felt a pang of guilt. He hadn’t heard from you either, not since your last argument.

When Yunho confessed he hadn’t, his worry deepened. He tried calling you multiple times, but each call went straight to voicemail. Panic started to set in. He stopped by your apartment and checked your social media, but there were no new posts, no updates. It was as if you had vanished.

Your family coordinated with the police, attending briefings and following up on every lead. Their days were filled with frustration as false tips and unconfirmed sightings piled up, each one a fleeting hope that crumbled into disappointment. The news of your disappearance even made local headlines, capturing the concern and sympathy of the public.

“Tonight at 6:00, we bring you a developing story that has left authorities baffled. The sudden disappearance of 22-year-old Lee Y/N has sparked a widespread search effort. Y/N was last seen on the evening of November 11th, following a night with friends. Concerned family and friends reported her missing after she failed to return home and did not respond to calls or messages. Law enforcement officials are actively investigating and following up on all leads as the search continues. Stay tuned for more updates on this unfolding situation.”

As the months turned into years, the intensity of the search began to wane. The once-hopeful posters and media coverage faded into the background of daily life, leaving your parents in a painful limbo of uncertainty. Each passing day without news felt like an eternity, their hearts heavy with the ache of your absence.

He carefully placed the journal back into the box, closing the lid before crawling into bed.

After what felt like hours of tossing and turning, he finally gave up. The stillness of the room felt suffocating, the darkness pressing in on him from all sides. He needed air, needed to move, to do something—anything—to quiet the storm inside him.

The night was calm, the streets empty, and for a moment, Yunho felt a strange sense of peace. The world was asleep, and in the stillness, he could almost pretend that everything was okay. 

He started walking, his footsteps echoing softly in the quiet. The familiar sights of the neighborhood, usually bustling with activity during the day, now seemed serene, bathed in the gentle glow of the streetlights. As he wandered through the quiet streets, lost in thought, he found himself pausing at a familiar corner. His footsteps slowed as he glanced across the street, where your childhood home stood.

Yunho's heart ached as he looked at the house. He remembered how close you had been, how your home had been a second haven for him growing up. It was where you had shared countless memories, where you had talked for hours about everything and nothing.  The house seemed like a monument to the past, a place frozen in time while he struggled to move forward without you.

The night breeze carried the scent of jasmine and incense, luring him toward a small park—the one he had often visited with you and his brother Gunho during happier days. He inhaled deeply, letting the soothing aroma momentarily distract him from his worries. His eyes shot open, snapping out of his dreamlike haze as he looked around, feeling an inexplicable pull drawing him toward something unseen.

As he turned, a storefront appeared—as if by magic. The building was unlike any he had seen before, its traditional façade glowing softly in the dim light, surrounded by an overhang of flowers forming a vibrant canopy. 

He took a hesitant step forward, then another, drawn by an inexplicable force that seemed to tug at his very soul. Each step felt both heavy and light, as if he were walking through a dream. The soft glow from the storefront bathed him in a warm, inviting light, contrasting sharply with the cool night air.

Cautious and intrigued, Yunho’s heart pounded in his chest. He could feel the gentle hum of energy emanating from the shop, a subtle vibration that resonated deep within him. The same scent of jasmine and incense, wrapping around him like a comforting embrace, urging him to continue.

As he approached the door, he paused, his hand hovering just inches from the brass knocker. The wood felt warm, almost alive. Taking a deep breath, he touched the door, feeling a slight tingle run up his arm.

Yunho pushed the door open, revealing shelves filled with an array of curious objects—ancient books with gilded covers and delicate glass bottles filled with clouds of stardust. Above, the ceiling was a marvel: an expansive skylight with intricately patterned glass panels allowed a cascade of soft, dappled light to filter through an enchanting tapestry of hanging plants and flowers. 

He quickly realized he had crossed a threshold into a realm where the ordinary rules of reality no longer applied.

“Welcome to the Astral Emporium.”

He whipped around, trying to locate the source of the voice that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere all at once.

“Down here!” 

His gaze landed on a black cat with an elegant red ribbon fastened around its neck. The ribbon’s vibrant hue contrasted sharply with the cat’s inky fur, and his onyx eyes glowed with an otherworldly intelligence. The cat cleared its throat, a sound that was oddly formal and out of place coming from such a small creature. 

Yunho blinked in surprise, his confusion evident. “You can talk!?” he exclaimed, his eyes widening as he crouched down to get a closer look at the feline. The cat regarded him with an air of casual indifference, its tail flicking lightly.

“Didn’t you hear me when you walked in?” the cat replied, its tone almost bored, as if it were used to the astonished reactions of newcomers. 

“You’re talking. A cat... is talking. How is that even possible?” 

The cat stretched languidly, its body arching gracefully.“This is a realm of possibilities,” he yawned, revealing sharp, white teeth and a pink tongue. His voice was a deep, resonant purr that seemed to vibrate through the air. “The rules of reality are… somewhat relaxed. So, are you here to have a wish granted or what?”

“Wooyoung, stop giving the traveler a hard time,” came a soft, melodic voice from behind.

Yunho’s breath caught in his throat. He knew that voice, a voice he thought he’d never hear again. His eyes widened as emotions coursed through him—hope, disbelief, and a deep longing. 

“Y/N?” he whispered, the name trembling on his lips, as if saying it aloud would shatter the fragile moment.

The moment you stepped into the light, your elaborate dress captivated his attention. The silk skirt flowed gracefully to the floor, adorned with intricate patterns of iridescent clouds that shimmered softly in the ambient glow. The vibrant hues of the jacket draped over your shoulders contrasted beautifully with the delicate floral embroidery that wound its way across the fabric.

You chuckled softly, the sound as gentle as a breeze through the leaves. “I’m sorry, traveler, my familiar is quite the cheeky one.” 

As you moved, the tassels of your ornate hairpin clinked softly in your side-swept chignon, creating a gentle, melodic chime with each step. You circled Yunho with a curious gaze, your eyes sparkling with intrigue.

He blinked in surprise, momentarily taken aback. His gaze flickered from the elongated smoking pipe in your hand to the enigmatic expression on your face, trying to determine if it was all an illusion. His mind raced, grappling with the impossible reality before him. 

“Y/N,” Yunho began, reaching out slightly “is it really you?”

You were the same, yet different—there was a newfound confidence in your posture and a whimsical glint in your eyes that he hadn’t seen before. His heart pounded in his chest, torn between relief and confusion. 

“I have many names, unfortunately Y/N is not one of them.” You watched him with sympathy, recognizing the skepticism in his eyes. “It seems you’ve mistaken me for someone else.”

“No, you have to be Y/N.” Yunho’s eyes flickered with uncertainty, the question hanging heavily in the air. His breath hitched as he watched you, his mind struggling to reconcile the familiarity of your face with the strangeness of your words. “Wait! What’s your favorite baseball team?”

You tilted your head, a puzzled expression crossing your face. “Baseball?” 

Yunho’s shoulders slumped, the weight of your words pressing down on him. He felt a crushing sense of defeat, his hope slipping away like sand through his fingers. “I don’t understand,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

You took a deep breath, your expression softening with an empathy that was both comforting and sorrowful. “I’m simply a keeper of this place, bound to fulfill the wishes of travelers like yourself. This place, and my role within it, has existed for far longer than either of us can imagine.”

The thought that this could be another version of you—someone who looked and spoke like you, but wasn’t the same person he once knew—was unbearable. How could he accept that the best friend he believed he lost forever could exist in a form that wasn’t entirely the same?

“So why am I here?” he asked, his voice tinged with defeat.

“The shop responded to your call,” you sighed softly, as an intricate counter materialized before you, its surface adorned with dragons soaring through the clouds. Leaning against it, you rested your chin in one hand, while the other held the pipe, from which a wisp of smoke curled lazily into the air.

Yunho’s brows furrowed in confusion. “What do you mean it responded to my call?”

“The shop exists in a realm between the supernatural and the living, responding to the energy of your desires. It sensed that you possessed a strong desire for something and made its presence known.”

“A desire?” Yunho’s gaze drifted to the counter, the dragons seeming to move and shift as if alive.

You smiled gently, the smoke from your pipe forming delicate patterns in the air. “A wish. Not quite like the fairy tales, but wishes are the desires that reside deep within your heart. They can be as simple as wanting a moment of peace or as complex as seeking a purpose in life.”

“And as for who grants the wishes,” you continued, leaning in slightly, “that would be me. Travelers usually refer to me as a witch.”

Yunho swallowed hard, his voice barely above a whisper. “How do you grant wishes?”

“The process is simple,” you explained, your tone both gentle and firm. “For a wish to be granted, you must exchange something of equal value in return.”

“What kind of exchange?” Yunho asked, his voice tinged with apprehension.

You took a slow, deliberate puff from your pipe, the smoke curling around you like a protective veil. “It depends,” you replied, twirling your pipe between your bejeweled fingers. “Sometimes it’s a memento, a cherished item that holds personal significance. In ancient times, travelers might have offered a blood sacrifice, though we’ve moved beyond such extremes. The more powerful the wish, the more it exacts in return. The magic here is potent and unpredictable, and it demands balance.”

His eyes widened, the weight of your words sinking in. “So, I have to give up something important to me?”

“Not necessarily,” you confirmed, your gaze steady. “The shop only takes what you are willing to offer. The choice is always yours, though I caution that you cannot take back a wish once it’s been granted.”

Yunho didn’t know why his thoughts drift back to that fateful night. Maybe it was because it was the last memory he had of you before everything changed. The words you exchanged, the hurt in your eyes, replayed in his mind like a haunting echo. He wondered if things could have been different, if he had just made a different choice, said something else. 

You were at Yunho’s apartment, enjoying a rare evening of relaxation. The soft hum of conversation and laughter filled the room as Yunho's friends mingled. You were perched on the couch, absorbed in your sketchbook, the quiet joy of drawing grounding you amidst the cheerful chaos.

The tranquility was shattered when Sungjae, ever a thorn in Yunho’s side, staggered over. His inebriated state was evident; he moved with a lack of coordination that drew your attention only when he was almost upon you. Without warning, Sungjae lurched forward, his hand grabbing the edge of your journal with a clumsy urgency.

“What’s this?” he slurred, his voice a mix of drunken curiosity and derision. He dangled the open pages in front of you, the sketch of Yunho exposed and vulnerable.

“What the fuck are you doing? Give it back!” you demanded, trying to reach for the journal, but Sungjae was too quick, his movements fueled by liquid courage.

“You’re always scribbling in this book,” Sungjae sneered, flipping through the pages with exaggerated, careless motions. “What’s the big deal?”

Your frustration surged. “Seriously, Sungjae, just give it back!” you urged, your voice rising. The journal was more than just sketches to you; it was a reflection of your thoughts, your feelings—an intimate part of yourself you’d chosen to share with no one but yourself.

He brought the journal closer to his face, a cruel smirk spreading across his lips as he turned the pages. “Yunho! Hey Yunho! Check this out!” Sungjae’s voice cut through the room, mocking and loud.

Yunho looked up from his conversation with Mingi, confusion and concern crossing his face as he saw Sungjae holding your journal. He began to walk over, but the unease in his eyes was clear as he approached.

Sungjae flipped through the pages with exaggerated movements, revealing sketch after sketch of Yunho. “Look at this!” he laughed, his voice dripping with mockery as he showed Yunho your illustrations. “You’ve got a whole gallery dedicated to him!” He turned to face you, your cheeks burning with fury. “What are you, obsessed with him or something?”

“It’s not like that,” you protested, reaching for the journal again. Your fingers brushed the edge of the book, but Sungjae yanked it out of your grasp, his laughter growing louder.

“Oh, come on. You’re totally in love with him, aren’t you? That’s why you’re always drawing like some kind of freak!” His voice dripped with contempt, and his words felt like a dagger to your heart. He tossed your journal aside carelessly, the soft thud echoing in the now silent room.

You immediately snatched the journal and held it securely against your chest before storming towards the door. The once warm and inviting apartment now felt like a stark reminder of the awkwardness and discomfort that had unfolded. The laughter and easy conversations from earlier seemed like a distant memory, eclipsed by the confrontation with Sungjae.

As you moved toward the door, Yunho approached you, his expression a mix of concern and hesitance. “Hey, let me walk you out,” he said, his voice softer than before.

You nodded, appreciating the gesture despite the uneasy atmosphere. The two of you left in silence out into the night, the noise of the party grew fainter, replaced by the subtle thrum of the city.

“I’m sorry about what happened,” Yunho said quietly, his eyes locked on the ground as he stuck his hands into his pockets. He kicked a stray pebble, watching it roll away. 

“You’re sorry?” you snapped, your voice shaking with hurt as you spun around to face him. “If you were really sorry, you’d have done something about that asshole.”

The tension in his shoulders was palpable as he shot back, “What do you expect me to do, Y/N? I can’t come to your rescue every single time!” Yunho’s tone was edged with frustration, and the defensiveness in his voice was unmistakable. 

“I’m not asking you to rescue me!” you shouted. The anger in your voice grew sharper, your hands clenched into fists. “I’m asking you to stand up for me, to not let some asshole humiliate me in front of everyone in your own apartment!”

“Oh, so now it’s my fault because I didn’t want to start a scene? I’m trying to keep the peace here!”

“Keep the peace?” you shouted, your voice breaking as your tears spilled over. “Is that what you call it? Keeping the peace by standing there like a coward and letting someone walk all over me?”

“He’s Haewon’s friend. What was I supposed to do?” Yunho’s tone was clipped, each word laced with his own frustration.

Your eyes filled with tears as you looked at him, feeling the weight of his indifference. “Are you seriously telling me that your girlfriend’s shitty friend matters more than me? You don’t even like him, Yunho!”

Yunho looked away, his jaw set in a hard line. “Haewon’s friends are important to her, and I didn’t want to make things awkward.”

A bitter laugh escaped you, but it quickly turned into a choked sob. “So fuck my feelings, right?” you said, your voice trembling as tears streamed down your face. “You’d rather protect that asshole than stand up for me?”

Yunho’s eyes finally met yours, but they were empty, cold, devoid of the warmth you once knew. “She’s my girlfriend, Y/N. I have to prioritize her!” He spat, his voice growing harsher. “And maybe if you weren’t such a loser, always clinging to that stupid journal, you wouldn’t be in this mess! You’re so embarrassing, it’s pathetic.”

You felt as if the ground had been pulled out from under you. The words cut deep, each one a dagger to your heart. You took a shaky breath, the pain piercing through you. 

“The truth finally comes out,” you whispered, barely able to speak through the agony gripping your heart.

For a fleeting moment, Yunho’s expression softened, as if he realized just how cruel his words had been. But the apology you desperately needed never came. He just stood there, silent and distant, his eyes refusing to meet yours, the coldness in his gaze now replaced by a hollow emptiness that only deepened your pain.

Feeling utterly betrayed, you turned away, your vision blurred by tears. Each step you took felt heavier than the last, the weight of his words pressing down on you like a physical burden. The person you thought would always have your back had just torn you apart.

In a moment of despair, you tossed your journal into the nearest trash bin. The hollow thud it made echoed in your ears, a haunting reminder of how irrevocably your trust had been shattered. It didn’t matter if the world saw your deepest thoughts; the one you trusted the most had already broken your heart.  

Yunho watched in stunned silence as you turned away, your shoulders trembling with the weight of your emotions. He had never seen you like this—so broken, so hurt. The realization hit him like a punch to the gut, leaving him breathless, but still, he remained frozen, helpless to do anything as you retreated further into the night.

Then he heard it. The hollow thud of the journal hitting the bottom of the bin echoed in the night air. It was a sound that would haunt him for years to come—a sound that marked the moment everything between you changed. Yunho stood there, staring at the trash bin long after you had disappeared from his view.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he forced himself to take a step forward. His hands shook as he approached the bin, and he felt a lump form in his throat as he looked down at your journal, lying there among the discarded remnants of the day. Without thinking, he reached in and retrieved it, tucking it protectively into his side.

He sank onto a nearby bench, the cold metal seeping through his clothes, but he barely noticed. The night was quiet, save for the distant hum of the city, and the stars above seemed indifferent to his suffering.

Yunho cradled the journal to his chest, feeling the weight of its significance. This wasn’t just a collection of pages; it was a piece of your heart that he had let Sungjae, with his sharp words and cruelty, tear it apart.

Now, all that was left were the remnants of what once was, and the haunting realization that he had played a part in its destruction.

ii >>

taglist: @babymbbatinygirl

[iww-gnv]

A federal labor judge ruled Thursday that Starbucks broke the law by providing raises and additional benefits for non-union workers last year without offering those same increases to unionized staff. The ruling, first reported by Bloomberg, is a decision on the latest in a trend of allegations that Starbucks went through with a vast union-busting campaign in 2021 and 2022 as its shops increasingly considered joining an upstart barista union. Specifically, the judge ruled that the company violated the National Labor Relations Act last August by giving non-union workers a raise to at least $15 an hour, but did not extend the raises to unionized staff.

[neragranic]

COMMISSIONS - KO-FI - CARRD - WEBSITE - REDBUBBLE SHOP - TWITTER - INSTAGRAM - YOUTUBE

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Dandelion Union Leaders stylization project is finally done!

Took longer than expected and it has been a ride, but I can’t say I didn’t have fun.

This piece was one of my early ventures into stylization and also one that showed me, even better, that stylizing can be freeing.

My favorites are probably Elrena and Strelitzia! Ones I’d like to re-draw most are Brain and Ventus!

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Art process pictures are posted on my Art Process Tumblr

For the art process video tune in to my Youtube Channel!

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Obnoxious watermarks have become a necessity due to AI theft, so you’re stuck with them - however, there is a Ko-Fi membership available with non-watermarked art by me (still signed though)

[tomorrowusa]

Don't be fooled by phony support for labor from billionaires like Donald Trump.

Contrary to what a few media outlets reported, Trump did NOT speak to striking UAW workers. The owner of a non-union shop invited him to hold what amounted to a campaign rally at his building.

The Media Falls for Trump’s Labor Lies

[O]nce you strip away Trump’s bluster, you see a recognizably Republican creature. His labor lies are proof. The former president wanted people to believe he was speaking to striking auto workers, but the UAW had not invited him and its president, Shawn Fain, had sharply criticized Trump. The press fell for Trump’s lies anyway. [ ... ] Here’s what else we know about Trump and labor. His Labor Secretary, Eugene Scalia, was resolutely anti-union and anti-worker. Scalia rewrote “dozens of rules that were put in place to protect workers” The New Yorker reported, and during his tenure, OSHA “explicitly told employers that none of its COVID-19 recommendations impose new legal obligations.” Under Trump, the National Labor Relations Board reversed some Obama-era regulations that made it easier for workers to organize. Politico itself reported in 2018 that the Trump administration was “rolling back worker safety protections affecting underground mine safety inspections, offshore oil rigs and line speeds in meat processing plants, among others.” On labor, Trump is an orthodox conservative. We know that Trump’s “mixed legacy” with labor is, in fact, clear. He likes to sound like a populist, but he is a proven conman. Yet those facts are relatively absent from mainstream coverage right now. Why are political reporters still making such basic mistakes? Why are they even furnishing his lies? Trump’s claims deserve skepticism, at minimum, like any politician. As long as Republican voters prefer Trump in spite of his anti-worker record, and Republican lawmakers are still anti-union, we can hardly speak of “a long coming convergence between his own party and union members,” as Politico does. [ ... ] As my colleague Eric Levitz recently argued, a paper or news channel can find it difficult to cover Trump “without sounding like a shrill, dull, Democratic propaganda outlet.” Therefore the media “comports itself as an amnesiac, or an abusive household committed to keeping up appearances, losing itself in the old routines, in an effortful approximation of normality until it almost forgets what it doesn’t want to know.” In such circumstances, the press should ask itself if objectivity is even possible, let alone desirable. The truth will not long withstand business as usual.

While pretending to be pro-US labor, Trump merchandise was being made in China during his administration.

Trump flags: Made in China

Trump treats his own workers like shit, he considers them disposable and screws them out of their rightful benefits.

How Trump's Casino Bankruptcies Screwed His Workers out of Millions in Retirement Savings Trump made out like a bandit, but his employees paid the price.

[yourfavoritewitchbitch]

Chapter 3 - To Have and To Hold

A Mafia!Steve Harrington AU (featuring Mafia!Eddie Munson)

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Masterlist

Chapter Summary: Weddings should be joyous occasions but the union of two families only brings about distant memories and yearning for a life that could have been. Stolen glances and longing stares across the room, and finally finding yourself face to face with the one person who can change the future.

18+ Only! Minors DNI! (Future smut and mature themes!)

CW: Minimal use of Y/N. Reader is referred to as "Dove." Pet names. Slow burn. Exes to lovers. Mutual pining. Angst. Lots of tension. Spousal abuse - reader is assaulted and choked.

WC: 5.9K

Days at the gallery quickly turned into long nights. Sometimes not going home until the wee hours of the morning. After the last few interactions with Nik you decided it was best to avoid him altogether.

He'd never set foot in here, for which you were grateful. It was your own oasis from a life that was suddenly so stifling, drowning you without a life preserver in sight.

It was easy enough, the two of you had been sleeping in separate bedrooms for a couple of years now.

You would rather take an acid bath than let him touch you. Sex became completely non-existent when he'd started coming home with lipstick stained collars and trying to push himself onto you knowing he'd just fucked God knows who else, any illusion of a loving, dedicated husband completely dissolved.

You hadn't seen or heard from Steve since the day he'd bought that painting. You found yourself wondering where he might have hung it. It was one of your favorites and knowing it went to a good home warmed your heart.

Abigail knocked you from your current train of thought when she walked over to you with a massive bouquet of white roses.

“Mrs. Petrov, these were just delivered for you, though the card says Ms. Alexander. An old client perhaps?” You shifted the flowers from her arms as she spoke, their delicate scent faintly surrounding you.

“Thank you.” You called out, already heading to your office.

You gently laid them down on the desk, plucking the card from between the soft petals.

You couldn't help the smile that crept across your face as you opened it to read the contents, already suspecting who they were from. No one else in this town would dare use your surname anymore.

Passed the flower shop and thought of you. Hope they brighten your day.

S.H.

You immediately looked for an empty vase in the storage closet to display them on your desk, hiding the card away in the bottom drawer.

It wasn't unusual for clients to send you flowers from time to time, so it didn't seem out of the ordinary.

Much to your delight, it didn't stop there. A fresh bouquet was delivered every few days from that point forward. Not just roses, something unique each time all accompanied with a personalized note signed S.H.

His small way of showing you he was still here while reluctantly maintaining his distance.

For two weeks the flowers and notes never ceased but you still hadn't seen Steve.

There was a wedding slated for the weekend between two prominent families that you had to attend.

Finding yourself in need of a new dress, you were browsing the brightly lit showroom, admiring a very beautiful lilac colored floor length gown in the corner when he spoke.

“That's not your color. Much too pale. What about that one?” You rolled your eyes as he pointed to a deep red, lacey, eye-catching number across the store.

“It's for a wedding, Steven. The attention shouldn't be on me.” You quipped. “And that shows far too much skin.” Turning away, as you began to rummage through a few dresses on the rack.

“If you say so, but you're the only one I'll be looking at.” You stopped, hands stilling on the silk in front of you as you processed his words.

“You're going Saturday?” Managing to squeak out, despite the sudden lump in your throat.

It shouldn't really come as a surprise. All of the big named families had been invited. Maybe you were expecting Steve to be more like Richard in that regard. Send his well wishes but decline the invitation.

“Of course, Dove. Can't miss the wedding of the century. A Gambino marrying a Stratori? It's unheard-of.” He made a mock gasping sound that made you snort a small laugh.

“You should have seen the looks at my…” trailing off when you realized what you were about to say. It wasn't so long ago an Alexander marrying a Petrov was big news.

“Anyway, doesn't matter. I won't be going if I don't find something to wear.” Quickly changing the subject back to the matter at hand.

“Trust me, you'll look good in anything. Wear a potato sack and you’ll still be the most beautiful woman there.” His doting words and simple praises never let up when he was around you.

Your soft blushing and sweet smiles only encouraged him further, reminding him of the younger versions of you both. These moments he would hang onto for forever if need be.

You stared at him a moment, the way the sun filtering through the window cast a glow around him, appearing almost ethereal. His skin tanned by an Italian sun, making his freckles and moles only more prominent. Those same ones you would trace across his back, finding the constellations hidden within.

Your lips twitched at the thought of kissing those same marks, as a deeper blush crept your cheeks that had you quickly looking back to the dresses laid out before you, clearing your throat.

“Steve, I…” Mouth snapping closed when you weren't sure what you were attempting to say.

“What is it, tesoro?” Looking back at you expectantly, eyes soft, giving you his full attention.

“Thank you for the flowers. They're lovely, all of them, but you don't have to do that.” Your gaze drops momentarily as he regards you for a moment.

“Let me ask you something. Do they make you smile?”

“Well, of course.” A grin lifting the edges of your mouth you couldn't contain.

“Then yes, Dove. I have to send them. At least I know for one fleeting moment of the day I've had the pleasure of making you smile.”

You both stilled for a moment, silently gazing at one another.

“Excuse me? Can I help either of you?” One of the associates had walked over, interrupting the small moment.

You smiled at her, asking for a couple of dresses to try on in your size.

“Right away, Mrs. Petrov. And for you sir?” Looking back toward Steve, eyeing him up and down as she spoke. A small scowl of contempt passed over her momentarily, oblivious to who she was speaking to.

“Nothing for me today, thank you. I'll see myself out, momentarily.”

She nodded and walked toward the back to gather the dresses you had asked for.

“I suppose I'll see you tomorrow then.” Finally looking back to him, reluctantly getting ready to take your leave and follow her into the dressing room.

“Of course, Dove.” He says, leaning in close. “I still think the red would be a better choice.” Voice dropping an octave lower, winking as a shameless grin spread across his face.

His persistence had you fondly rolling your eyes, but a grin matching his own spread across your features.

“I think I'll find something a little less salacious but thank you for the suggestion.” Laughing as you walked away, a sound that was like music to his ears as he took his leave.

You glanced back once more, as you reached the back, but he was already gone.

The associate had gotten a large, very well-lit room ready for you. The dresses you had asked for were already on display, hung up across the back wall as you entered.

“This should be all of them. Will there be anything else Mrs. Petrov? Shall I stay and help you try any of them on?” She asked kindly.

“That won’t be necessary but thank you.”

The door clicked shut behind her, leaving you alone with some of the fanciest garments that money could buy yet you stood there feeling hollow, sighing deeply to yourself.

You slid the first dress from its silk hanger. A lilac gown with beautifully beaded detail on the bodice. Once you had managed to get it on, you stood in front of the mirror with a grimace. Steve was right, it was much too pale. You hated that he was right. A man who barely knows you anymore and still knows too much.

It was much the same as you tried on each one of the expensive gowns. None of them seemed quite right. Either the color was off, or it didn’t fit quite right leaving you empty handed on the way out.

Later that afternoon, the sun was setting low, as you worked through a few things before you would reluctantly head home for the evening.

Abigail enthusiastically walked toward you with a large black box, wrapped with a red, silk ribbon and a large matching bow on top.

“Mrs. Petrov, this was just delivered for you. It's from Figueroa.”

The dress shop you had visited earlier in the day. Confusion spread across your face, as you took it from her opting to open it in your office and dismissing her for the day.

You gently lifted the edges, immediately met with matching red tissue paper and a small, white card that simply read: This was ALWAYS your color. See you tomorrow.

You pushed aside the wrapping to reveal a deep, burgundy colored gown held within. The material was a beautiful velvet, soft to the touch, letting your fingers melt into the fabric as you pulled it from the box. It was stunning. A mermaid cut, with long sleeves dropped for the sweetheart neckline that would show some cleavage. It was sexy yet stayed somewhat moderate.

You didn't remember seeing this one in the store because it would have surely caught your eye.

Steve always had good taste. It came as no surprise he chose something that you would have picked out for yourself.

You hid the card in the desk, amongst the ones that have accompanied the flowers, hiding away any evidence of where the dress had come from. Your insides twisted at the thought of hiding him away forever. It was never meant to be this way with Steve.

You gripped the edges of the box on the ride home with a permanent smile etched across your face at the thought of seeing him tomorrow, if only for a brief moment, you would be the one to make him smile.

You sat in silence, staring out the window, ignoring the grunts and protests from Nik.

“I shouldn't even be going to this stupid wedding. I've got shit to do at the club tonight.” Huffing out like a petulant child, pushing his back further into the seat.

You simply rolled your eyes and tried to picture yourself literally anywhere else. The thought of spending the entire evening by his side turned your stomach. All dolled up to be HIS arm candy, but it would be your secret who you were dressed FOR.

“Hey, are you going to talk to me? You've got to play the part sometime tonight.” He grabbed for your hand, but you swiftly moved away from his touch at the faintest brush.

“I'll play along in public, but do not fucking touch me when we are alone. I don't know where your filthy hands have been. Or who they've been in, for that matter.” You spat, already over his behavior.

He let out a deep, hearty laugh, throwing his head back.

“Someone is feisty. I like it.” Grabbing your knee, laughing once again when you pushed him away. “Oh, come on baby. Give us a kiss.”

“Fuck off, Nik.” You hissed.

“Don't worry, sweetheart. The feeling is mutual.” He straightened back up in his seat, promptly lighting a cigarette, blowing the smoke your way.

“Do you mind? I don't want to smell like smoke before we get there.” Waving it away from you and your face, letting out a small cough.

“Aw, don't want your new dress to smell like smoke?” He chuckled, pinching the fabric at your side. “Poor baby.”

Your hand tightened around the clutch you held in your lap, as you closed your eyes holding back your anger as best you could, seething just below the surface. You just had to get through a couple of hours, saying pleasantries and having lighthearted conversation while rubbing a few elbows with certain people.

Calming your nerves as best you could, taking a few deep breaths and slowly opening your eyes once more.

Nik was distracted on his phone, leaving you for a few moments of peace before you pulled up to the venue.

The driver came around to open his door first, but Nik made no attempt to come around to your side to let you out, making the driver go around to open your door as well. A real gentleman.

“Let's get this over with. I've got shit to do.” Finally coming to stand beside you, extending his elbow for you to take.

“You've already said that.” You hissed, reluctantly taking his arm as you headed toward the entrance. “Just fucking behave Nik, you can't act like an ass in front people tonight.”

As much as you hated your husband, he still had a portion of business to uphold with many of the attendees tonight. Your father's reputation was at stake just being associated with the prick.

“I'll do as I damn well please.” He hissed back through gritted teeth, glaring down at you as you entered the large room. Ignoring him, you will yourself to throw on the best fake smile that you could muster.

The wedding was being held downtown, at one of the oldest buildings. Its gothic architecture and high ceilings were a beautiful backdrop for a wedding.

Nik made a beeline for some of his associates, immediately grabbing some champagne from one of the waitresses as he pulled you along. It didn’t go unnoticed the way he so blatantly eyed her up and down as he passed.

You busied yourself looking around at the decor, sipping your own champagne trying to ignore the conversation he was having around you. Some things you couldn’t understand at all as he spoke in his native tongue. When you had first gotten married you took an interest in learning Russian but that quickly subsided as your marriage started falling apart.

The room quieted down to a dull murmur when he entered. His very presence commanded the attention of everyone present. Heads began to turn his way, all clambering to catch a glimpse of the so-called prodigal son of Richard Harrington as he made his entrance, his first public outing since the funeral.

He ignored the hushed whispers around him, walking in with Eddie falling right in behind him, the crowd parting as he made his way to pay respect to the happy couple.

He looked as handsome as ever sporting a black suit, with his hair slicked back and quaffed perfectly but his burgundy shirt and tie beneath his buttoned suit jacket is what really caught your eye. It was the exact color of your dress. A detail that brought a small smile to your face.

“Who the hell does he think he is?” Nik scoffed, as some of the other men chuckled, pulling your attention back to the small group.

He downed the rest of his champagne, eyes never leaving Steve, following his movements across the crowded space.

“I need something a little more stiff, come on.” He grabbed your arm, pushing his way through the crowd to get to the bar, dragging you along beside him. The abruptness caught you off guard. For a moment, you wabbled on your heels.

“Nik, you need to take it easy tonight.” You whispered through gritted teeth.

“And you,” he hissed. “Should shut the fuck up.” He gripped your arm a little tighter as you reached the bar tucked away in the corner before ordering a bourbon, downing it in one gulp, slamming the glass back down. He would never outwardly push it out in the open like this, showing his true colors but it was surprising, nonetheless.

He finally relinquished his grip to grab his next one, turning to meet his associates as they began to huddle around him, picking up their conversations from before leaving him to ignore you once more.

Steve spotted you as soon as he walked through the door, smirking to himself. The dress he had picked out fit you spectacularly, showing off your curves while staying somewhat modest. You were breathtaking.

Reluctantly, his attention drew back to the matter at hand as he made his way through the crowd to greet the wedding party and their family, wishing them the best.

Steve quickly made his rounds, shaking hands and chatting with some familiar faces or some new introducing themselves, but he couldn't keep his eyes off of you.

He and Eddie grabbed some flutes of champagne, chatting amongst themselves in the corner where he temporarily lost you in the crowd, but quickly caught up with you again heading toward the bar with Nik.

His jaw ticked seeing the way he gripped you, pulling you alongside him.

Eddie noticed how he stiffened, following his line of vision over to you just in time for them both to witness his hold on you grow a little more harsh.

Steve took a step before Eddie moved abruptly in front of him, halting him with a palm to his chest.

“Steve. Not here.” Eddie warned, as he looked past him once more. You had already moved away from Nik, standing to the side of the bar.

Eddie was right. This was not the time or place to lose his head, but it didn't mean they couldn't have a little chat.

You heard him before you saw him, heart promptly leaping into your throat when you realized he was headed in your direction, but he only caught your gaze nodding slightly and greeted Nik instead.

Realizing you could do nothing but stand there and watch as the scene unfolds, you downed the rest of your champagne bracing for the worst.

“Nik, gentlemen. How are we all doing this evening?” Asking with that charming Harrington tone, as Eddie hung slightly behind them, hands in his pockets, looking relaxed but you could tell he was anything but.

Nik’s amusement seemed to fade, his smile dropping, moving the glass to his lips for another sip. He stood up a little straighter, squaring his shoulders to the other man.

“Harrington.” Nodding back, as the others stated their own greetings.

“Didn't expect you to show up here. Your father never came to shit like this.” He sneered.

“Well, little Niki, like I told you the other day, we aren't our fathers. And I, for one, am striving to be a better man than he was. We should all strive to be better men, right?” Leveling his gaze right at your husband as he spoke.

A flash of anger split Nik's face before regaining his composure, already a little too much to drink to effectively conceal his emotions. The nickname he gained in his youth that he had come to detest, trying to live up to the elder Nikolai, his father, always falling in his shadow. Something that he and Steve had in common however they chose very different avenues to deal with it.

“Right.” Scoffing, as he set his glass back to the bar, taking a small step toward Steve, once again squaring his shoulders. “Any suggestions on how I should go about that, since you're doling out the advice today? I'm all ears.”

“I don't know, Nik. Maybe the old ways of handling business are outdated? Kind of like, oh I don't know?” Pausing, pretending to think for a moment. “Raising a hand to your spouse to keep them in line? That shit just doesn't work and makes you look bad.”

Your cheeks suddenly heated at the bluntness of his insinuation, hoping no one looked over at you.

“And what the fuck would you know about business? Last time I checked, you were still riding daddy's coattails.” Leaning further into Steve’s space as he spoke trying to make himself more intimidating, but he stood his ground, not so easily dissuaded.

Eddie made to move forward, but Steve quickly held a hand out, halting him.

Nik's raised voice began garnering a little attention their way as you scanned the other guests standing close by.

“I'm just saying.” Taking a step toward Nik this time, both men practically nose to nose. “Sometimes it's better to get with the program, or you could lose everything.”

“Are you threatening me?” Nik spat.

Steve let out a small chuckle, shaking his head as he stepped back, reminding himself once more that he couldn’t lose it here.

“Trust me, you would know if it's a threat. Just some friendly advice.” He clapped him on the arm as if they were old chums, sharing a good laugh which only infuriated Nik further.

“You can take your friendly advice and shove it u…” One of Nik's associates got in between the two and tried to calm him down. Steve was trying to goad him to gauge his reaction and he had taken the bait flawlessly.

“Well, gentlemen if you'll excuse me, we are here for a wedding after all.” He nodded, as he and Eddie headed back across the room, leaving you a little speechless in the process.

“I don't know who the fuck he thinks he is.” Nik began to rant, so you decided to leave him and make your way to your chair for the ceremony. You also hoped he would cool off before coming to find you as other guests began to fill the empty seats around you.

You caught Steve out of the corner of your eye as he passed, taking a seat across the aisle, one row up on the end.

The ceremony was beautiful with a blushing young bride and a handsome groom. They seemed genuinely happy and for their sakes you hoped it were true.

You couldn't help but feel sadness now thinking back to your own wedding. The joy and hopefulness that day brought only to be a complete fabrication.

As the couple said their vows, your eyes found his across the aisle, as if he had already been looking toward you. There seemed to be a sadness etched within him as well, his eyes lacking their usual sparkle.

Images flashed and danced through your mind of a life that could have been. A fall wedding, surrounded by your closest friends and family. Honeymooning on the Italian coast and coming back to a home full of love and promise without any doubts.

Steve would have given you the world without any hesitation. He loved fiercely, willing to do whatever it took to make you happy. He made it so damn easy to see what a bright future lay ahead for both of you.

You hadn't noticed a tear escaping until it rolled down your cheek, and onto your hand situated in your lap, suddenly bringing you crashing back to reality.

He was still looking at you when you diverted your gaze away, because it was all too much. Your chest ached as the couple kissed, concluding their vows and made their way down the aisle, now united in holy matrimony with smiles gracing their happy faces. It was suddenly too suffocating.

“I have to go to the restroom.” Excusing yourself from Nik’s side, not waiting for his response, quickly dashing out the side door into the empty hallway.

You breathed a small sigh of relief, briefly pausing, your hand leaning against the wall to steady yourself and regain some composure.

You willed yourself to conceal your emotions as you began to make your way down the corridor but as you rounded the corner someone grabbed your forearm. Your back was suddenly met with a warm chest, taking you by surprise. Their large hand clasping over your mouth stifling any noise from escaping you, as they step further back with you in tow, closing the door.

Before you had time to react, his soothing voice washed over you.

“It's okay, Dove. It's just me.” His lips so close, ghosting the shell of your ear as he spoke. He waited a moment for it to register before he removed his hand from your face, finding the light switch.

“Steve! What the hell?” Saying as you swung around to face him, your pulse racing from the small scare. He had pulled you into a small, dimly lit utility closet, away from prying eyes and just big enough for the two of you.

“I'm sorry, honey it's the only place I could get you alone.” He shrugged, shifting toward you, with a small pout.

“I shouldn't be in here.” You reached for the handle, but he was quick to place his hand overtop yours, effectively halting your movement.

“I couldn't let you leave without telling you how beautiful you look.” He whispered, closing the small gap between you, his hand coming to rest on your hip, heat radiating from his palm. His touch was searing, even through the fabric of your gown.

“I saw this on the way out of the shop and had them match the shirt and tie perfectly.” He inches just a little more into your space, releasing the hold on your hand so he could plant it firmly to your lower back pushing you further into him.

Your hands find the expanse of his chest, holding yourself steady, feeling as though your knees could give out at any moment. He had unbuttoned his suit jacket, your palms finding the warmth beneath, flat against his silk shirt.

He didn't need to utter it aloud. The dress. The tie. It was his way of subtly staking claim to you. You were and always had been his.

“Steve, what are you doing? You can't exactly woo a married woman. Especially one married to someone as powerful as Nik. He…” You stopped, when you saw the look in his eyes, utterly and completely gone for you.

“I don't have to woo what's already mine.” His voice low and husky, dripping with desire.

“That’s very presumptuous of you, Mr. Harrington.” You breathed out, trying to maintain your cool but even you could hear the waiver in your voice.

No matter the distance or time, you couldn't forget this man no matter how hard you tried. He would simply not let you. It felt like torture to be this close to him now, yet so far away.

Your head kept telling you that you needed to run, but you couldn't find it in yourself to move. You were transfixed, gazing up into his golden, mossy framed orbs.

You let your eyes trail his features. A small scar above his left eyebrow that had been there for years, a memento of his childhood. The way his lips had the perfect cupid's bow and remembering just the way he tastes.

He leans down looking for any sign of trepidation, finding none; your face mirroring his own, full of unspoken adoration.

“You're not denying it, tesoro. Just tell me you want this, as much as I do.” His nose traces down the slope of yours as he speaks. Your heart hammering so hard in your chest, you were sure he could hear it beating.

“Amore mio.” You whisper, top lip grazing his, releasing a shuddering breath before the realization of what you'd just said fully hit.

You'd never spoken those simple words to anyone else, only ever reserved for Steve. He had taught you some phrases in Italian, mostly sweet talk. You were always his tesoro mio and he, your amore mio.

You lean back, clasping a hand over your mouth as he was fully leaning in, eyes closed, lips chasing yours.

“Oh my God!” You gasp out, pressing yourself backward, stumbling a bit in your heels but he catches your elbow as you regain your balance.

“Dove?” He asks, voice low, coming out a little timidly.

“I… We can't do this Steve!” He can see your internal conflict and what he can only infer as fear written all over your face. It dawns on him then. The way you had winced when he grabbed your arm at the gallery. The way Nik had pulled you through the room earlier.

“Dove, did he hurt you?” His hand on your elbow begins to draw you back in, laying his other to your jaw, coaxing your face toward him but you still refuse to look up, eyes cast downward.

“No, Steve. You just… you don't know what he's capable of.” Your eyes grow glossy, tears threatening to spill over your lashes and ruining your makeup.

“Hey, honey, I'm not worried about him.” He does his best to soothe you, speaking softly. “If anyone should be worried, it's him. You hear me? Look at me.” Gently, his thumb grazes your bottom lip.

“Dove, look at me.” Pleading one last time, his voice was raw and pained.

“Steve, I can't…” Your eyes finally meet his, tears spilling out and down your cheeks. He does his best to wipe them away when his hands come to cup your cheeks. “I…I’m sor…”

“Shhh… no need for that, tesoro mio.” He doesn't want to let you go, but he's afraid of pushing you further away.

He leans in, warm lips press into your forehead as your eyes close. A tender embrace, your hand coming to grip his wrist holding him in place for a moment longer before quietly slipping from his hold.

You wipe your tears, pausing with your hand on the handle, looking back over your shoulder at him.

“It's better if you stay away from me.” Whispering out without waiting for a reply, quickly opening the door and checking the hall before stepping out. Your footsteps are the only sound echoing down the corridor as you walk toward the restroom to clean yourself up.

The interaction only lasted a few minutes, but the feeling of his hands and lips still lingered on your skin.

“It's better if you stay away from me.”

He blows out a deep breath but doesn't say anything.

Better for who? He bitterly thinks. Certainly not better for him. You're all he's thought about since returning. It's driving him insane.

He can't bring himself to think about you with Nik. The asshole getting to have you all to himself. He can touch, kiss or bed you anytime he pleases. The thought makes him sick, but the brief interaction solidifies what he already knew to be true.

When he heard “amore mio” glide past your lips so easily, he knew he still had you. His heart ached to hear you say that just once more, something he hadn't heard uttered in so long, nearly taking his breath away. You're still his.

He waits a few more moments, letting you get ahead of him before he makes sure the coast is clear and exits the closet.

Heading in the opposite direction and rounding the corner, he spots Eddie leaning against the wall smirking at him.

“Everything okay, boss?” His grin drops, shoving himself off the wall seeing the annoyed look plastered to Steve's face. Not what he had expected.

“No, but it will be. We're leaving.” Grunting out as he continues to walk, leaving Eddie to catch up to his stride.

You stared at your reflection in the mirror, wiping the makeup that had run. It took a few minutes, but you made yourself presentable.

Nik was waiting for you right outside the bathroom, crossing his arms giving you a death glare when you spotted him.

“What the hell have you been doing?” He hissed.

“I had to pee, and the wedding made me emotional, so I cleaned myself up. I can't go to the reception looking like a mess.” Responding, as you headed past him, but he grabbed your arm. The one he's so fond to take here lately when you get out of line.

“We're going home.” He spat, getting in your face for a moment before a cruel smile stretched across his face as his whole demeanor changed.

“Kitten, I know you're tired, it's been a long hard day.” Ushering you out into the reception area, pulling you through the crowd toward the exit, holding tightly to your wrist as if you would try to flee at any moment.

The car was already waiting outside, as he ushered you inside and slammed the door. You held your breath when he sat down beside you and began to loosen his tie, unbuttoning the restricting collar.

Silence for a few moments as you head back home to your prison.

“Do you think I'm fucking stupid?” He finally asks, turning his head slowly toward you.

“Wh– What?” You asked meekly, shrinking into yourself.

“I asked if you think I'm fucking stupid?” Enunciating each word a little slower and more clipped.

You furrowed your brow, trying to decipher where he was going. Had he seen you and Steve exit the closet?

“Where'd the dress come from?”

“My dress?” You tried to stay calm, looking down at the velvet fabric. He'd put those small crumbs together.

“The dress Y/N. That fucker bought it for you, didn't he? Didn't think I'd notice his goddamn matching shirt and tie? You two think you're really cute.” He clenched his fists on his lap, as his jaw ticked. He was anything but calm right now and the dam was about to burst.

“Nik… I…” He suddenly lunged at you, hand around your throat pushing you back into the seat. You gasped out in surprise, as he pressed in just a little harder, fingers flexing and cutting off your air supply. Your hand flew up to clutch at his, grasping and desperately trying to pry him away.

He leaned in close, gritting his teeth as he spoke.

“Its like you want me the fucking hurt you, leaving me no choice. Pull a stunt like that again, and not even your father will be able to protect you.”

He eases back, placing a chaste kiss to your temple before releasing his hold on you. Your airway opened, leaving you gasping in a heavy breath while letting out a small, choked sob.

“I warned you.” His last words for the evening, before lighting a cigarette and thoroughly ignoring you, taking a phone call leaving you to sulk in the corner.

He dropped you off at home, no doubt heading to his club, but you were grateful to be left alone for the night hoping for some miracle that he wouldn’t come back home at all.

You drew yourself a hot bath, letting the magnitude of everything that had transpired wash over you.

The wedding brought up so many morose thoughts and feelings. Steve blatantly threatening Nik, Nik threatening you, it was all too much.

Your fingertips graze your cheek where his hand had been not long ago. If you closed your eyes, you could feel him still, imaging he was here with you. His touch had electrified you. Something you had never felt with anyone else. A feeling of being totally alive. The gray, dreary past melting and giving way to a future full of bright color.

“Steve.” You whispered out, pulling your knees into your chest, as you cried.

Lying to yourself would be useless. Steve was everything that Nik never was or would be. Years apart and he still holds your heart. You were still in love with him, just knowing he felt the same was all you needed.

You had to think of a plan, while still trying to maintain your distance until Nik was out of the picture.

This was a very dangerous game, but you couldn't bear the thought of letting him go a second time.

No, you wouldn't let that happen this time.

Taglist: @micheledawn1975 @girlwiththerubyslippers @thecreelhouse @teen--marvel @taccobelle

Let me know if you would like to be tagged!

[workingclasshistory]

On this day, 12 July 1979, Olive Morris, feminist, squatter and activist in the Brixton Black Panthers, died aged just 27. Born in Jamaica, Morris moved to the UK aged 9 to be with her forklift operator father and factory shop steward mother. One of her earliest political actions was at 17 when she intervened when police in Brixton, south London, were arresting a Black man for an alleged parking offence. She was racially abused and physically attacked by officers, then arrested, fined and given a three month suspended sentence for two years. In her short life Morris played a leading role in radical movements in Britain, getting involved with and helping found numerous groups and projects like the Black Women's Mutual Aid Group. She also was critical of the white left and union movement, which spouted rhetoric about "unity". But in reality, at employers like Standard Telephones and Cables, they defended practices like lower pay for Black workers, and scabbed on Black workers' strikes. About single issue anti-fascist groups, Morris said: “Not a single problem associated with racialism, unemployment, police violence and homelessness can be settled by ‘rocking’ against the fascists, the police or the army… The fight against racism and fascism is completely bound up with the fight to overthrow capitalism, the system that breeds both.” In 1978, she became unwell, and was then diagnosed with non-Hodgkin's lymphoma. She succumbed the following year. You can learn more about racism in the British workers' movement, and how it was fought against and radically altered by the Grunwick strike in our podcast episodes 67-68: https://workingclasshistory.com/podcast/grunwick-strike-1976/ https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=660349202804965&set=a.602588028581083&type=3

[sirnotappearinginthistumbl]

Dear Trader Joe’s: You’re Fired

You know, I was really fond of your Trader Joe’s stores when I first shopped there. Lots of great stuff! Usually reasonable prices! Cool shirts! Generally happy workers!

But now the shine is off the rose. Some of your stuff is still great, sure, but most of it I can find elsewhere. Many of your prices are above what I’d pay elsewhere. The shirts are still decent, but nothing like the sea of Hawaiian-themed prints of the aughts.

That’s not enough to make me stop shopping at your stores.

Your employees are not so happy any more and are trying to unionize. They’ve encouraged shoppers like me to keep coming to your stores because they are invested in keeping the business going. That could keep me coming to the store.

In response, you have tried telling your employees that you’re still a great place to work. Their reply? “Nah, if you were we wouldn’t need to unionize.”

That’s not enough to make me stop working at your stores either, because your workers asked. Support the workers!

But now, in your attempts to stop your labor force from unionizing, you’re trying to undermine the National Labor Relations Act and the National Labor Relations Board in court, trying to get them declared unconstitutional.

Unions help raise all workers wages. The more unions and union employees are out there, the more the wages go up for both union and non-union employees.

You are actively trying to undermine the wages of not just your employees, but also many of your customers, myself included — just so you can sock another seven to eight figures in your bank account every year.

So, in short: it’s not me, it’s you. You’re trying to hurt me, my family and my community. That is more than enough to make me stop shopping at your stores, and plenty enough to make me want you to leave my community.

You’re fired, Trader Joe’s. Good luck finding another sucker to shop in your stores.

Oh, and Amazon and Muskrat? I haven’t forgotten you. Your walking papers are in process.

[the-cimmerians]

A federal judge in Texas recently blocked a new Federal Trade Commission rule that would have prohibited new employee non-compete agreements starting September 4. Judge Ada Brown of the Northern District of Texas ruled on August 20 that the FTC lacked the power to prevent employers from requiring even entry-level fast food workers to enter into really stupid contracts that prohibit them from getting better jobs at competing businesses. And maybe, given recent Supreme Court rulings, the FTC has no power to regulate anything at all, you never know.

Noncompete agreements were supposedly needed to keep executives and industrial secret-havers from stealing important “trade secrets” — like “Arby’s Arby-Q barbecue sandwiches contain no more than 30 percent roadkill” — and giving them to competing businesses. But for workers below the management level, the agreements all too frequently suppressed wages and kept people from changing jobs or starting their own businesses. That’s why Joe Biden started calling for an end to the damn things since his 2023 State of the Union address.

Backers of the FTC rule argued that existing intellectual property laws do a fine job of protecting genuine trade secrets, and that for the vast majority of folks, noncompete agreements amounted to cartel-style barriers to competition. The agency estimated the rule could potentially increase wages by as much as $488 billion over the next decade, amounting to a $524 annual wage increase for the average worker.

But businesses of all sorts, mostly Big, and the US Chamber of Commerce objected, arguing that stifling competition is the American way, and that the FTC has no business interfering with how they break their workers’ spirits and keep wages down. Judge Brown held that the FTC “exceeded its statutory authority,” that the rule was “arbitrary and capricious,” an attitude that is reserved solely for petty dictator jackwad bosses, and that the rule would “cause irreparable harm” to said jackwad plaintiffs.

When the rule was introduced in April, FTC Chair Lina M. Khan argued that the “freedom to change jobs is core to economic liberty and to a competitive, thriving economy,” and that noncompete agreements unfairly limited workers’ freedom to seek higher wages and better work conditions, and that noncompetes were bad for business too, “depriving businesses of a talent pool that they need to build and expand.”

The ruling is pretty much guaranteed to go to the US Supreme Court, because in July, a different federal judge in Pennsylvania upheld the FTC rule, noting in that case that “The FTC's substantive rulemaking authority has been confirmed by circuit courts interpreting the FTC Act, as well as by Congress when it enacted its 1975 and 1980 Amendments to the Act,” which sounds convincing enough until you remember that was a long time ago and the Supreme Court now believes businesses can do almost anything they want.

If we’re lucky, the case may eventually be resolved without the Supremes deciding that indentured servitude is also legal again.

[inlovewithhisblueeyes]

So SAG-AFTRA is on strike, here’s what it means for you as a viewer

1) For Americans, it means the fall cable tv slots are going to be either re-runs or previously recorded content that was already scheduled to come out.

2) For non Americans, it means you will in the same boat and not be getting any new American episodes or shows until the strike is over and even then it will be at least 3-4 months before they have stuff filmed.

3) Any production that is still ongoing even though the writers walked out first, will most likely be shut down which includes House of the Dragon. The studios are trying to push the agenda in the news that they won’t be because most non-American actors are a part of Equity. Most Equity members are also SAG-AFTRA members or the productions are based in the US making them partially in SAG-AFTRA territory.

The productions will either shut down fully or they will film what they can with people who are not SAG-AFTRA members which will not allow them to stay open for long. Especially considering productions like HOTD have been violating the rules of the writers strike by having non-writers take over that job.

You may be asking hey Madi what can I do as a viewer to help?

1) Donate to strike funds. Especially as the heat as ramped up here in LA and the strikers will need ice and water.

Strike Fund for Picketers - covers water, ice, snacks, and financial needs of the Protestors

Entertainment Community Fund - helps out all those who work in the entertainment business that are affected by the shutdowns

2) Buy WGA or SAG-AFTRA merch directly from their shops. Its’s a great way to help the cause and represent their cause even if you might not live in NYC or LA. Plus their items are union made!

WGA Shop

SAG-AFTRA Shop

3) Join the Picket Lines.

WGA Picket Locations - Lists both NYC and LA picket spots.

SAG-AFTRA Locations - TBA abut most likely the same as WGA.

4) Spread the word on your socials. Maybe you don’t live close but spreading the word online is helpful. Make it so the executives cannot escape what they’ve done.

5) Do not engage with the social media that’s coming from the studios/entertainment companies accounts. No liking, watching, saving, etc. Make their metrics hurt and maybe even unfollow. But don’t go spamming their accounts with comments supporting the strike. The people behind the social media accounts aren’t the ones to blame.