2025 has been the year of a new ship, Kingdon! But I didn't completely abandoned my other ships, and Royai and JB have their place in this recap.
The presentation of this post will be like in 2022 and 2024: fic by fandoms, then the NSFW fics
Fullmetal Alchemist / Royai + others
I have written for Royai week this year, but published for (only) three days, since I still haven't finished writing day 4 while day 4 is complete. I also have a few Gen drabbles, and I dabbled in new ships! (but that's for the Explicit section 😉)
An unexpected gift awaits Gracia when she goes on Maes' grave
One more step - 830 words, Rating G, Gen | Roy Mustang
Roy visits Maes a few weeks after the Promised Day, and shares some news with his old friend
Train versus Cows, or Man versus Nature - Day 1 of Royai week, 2650 words, Rating G | Royai, Team Mustang
On the way to Ishval, the train carrying Team Mustang, more soldiers, and lots of equipment destined to the restoration of the lands encounters an obstacle that shouldn't be unexpected when running on the countryside of Amestris
A different kind of warmth - Day 2 of Royai week, 785 words, Rating T | Royai
Instead, her mind couldn’t stop returning to years ago, in the same heat of that same desert, to the blood that still covered her hands, to the bodies she had left in her wake, to the accusing red eyes that had followed her since then.
Riza tossed and turned on the uncomfortable cot, sleep evading her as nightmares invaded her. Outside, the temperature had dropped, but she could only feel the burn of her sins on her neck and shoulders, in the pit of her stomach, and in the dryness of her throat.
Cursed titles - Day 3 of Royai week, 1640 words, Rating T, Gen | Royai
Roy and Riza meet the Elders of Ishval for the first time, after a year of negotiations with them. Things don't go as expected at first
A Song of Ice and Fire / Jaime x Brienne
I've finally finished one of my long-standing fics, She's not a diamond!! And I've written a drabble, and a fic for the Jaime/Brienne Summer 2025 Fic Exchange (in the Explicit section)
The wind in his hair - 100 words, Rating G | Jaime x Brienne
"An east wind blew through his tangled hair, as soft and fragrant as Cersei's fingers."
"The wind riffled through his hair like a woman's fingers."
And Brienne?
The Pitt / Kingdon
The new-comer this year! And I've been inspired!
Find the familiarity again - 830 words, Rating G | Pre-Kingdon
Mel believes this shift will be a good one, despite being the 4th of July, and she realizes she's right when she reunites with Frank Langdon once again
One month of Mel and Frank (Summer edition) - 12k words, Not Rated | Kingdon
Collection of microfics (100-500 words) written for Kingdon Microfics August
a matter of rings - 2,2k words, Rating T | Kingdon
First, it's Dr Langdon who gets his wedding ring refitted.
Then, it's Dr King who comes to work suddenly married.
And finally, it's Dr Robby who comes back to work to a very confusing email in his inbox about both aforementioned doctors.
One month of Mel and Frank (Fall edition) - 10,5k words, Not Rated | Kingdon
A collection of microfics (100-500) written for November's Kingdon microfic on Tumblr.
I'd love to call you Dad - 6,8k words - Rating T | Kingdon
After Pittfest, Mel and Frank find some comfort in each other's arms.
Eight years later, young Helen King asks her mom about her father.
Explicit fics
This is where I explored new ships! I loved writing for Havoroyai and Rizbecca, I was fun to change some things!
Our dance, familiar and new - 2,9k words, Rating E | Royai
As soon as Roy gazes upon Riza in her new dress, he makes his desire for her known. Subtly at first, then openly, where it's safe for them to do so
Le soleil m'a donné rendez-vous - 1,3k words, Rating E | Rizbecca
Making love with her Sunshine is is a great way to begin a day, in Rebecca's opinion
We will find a way (and life too) - 4,2k words, Rating E | Jaime x Brienne
On a hot day on Tarth, Brienne, Jaime, and Rohanne spend the end of the day on the beach
In many different ways.
Two kisses each - 845 words, Rating E | Havoroyai
“I’m feeling very good,” she replied. She tugged on Roy’s hand, to make him settle next to her. He knelt beside her and kissed Havoc, whose legs had given up under him, so he was now slumped against Riza’s side.
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Mel has only one job at Frank's wedding: stand beside her best friend and watch him marry someone else. Unfortunately, weddings rarely go according to plan.
Or, haven't you people ever heard of closing the goddamn door?
4.8k words, Rated G, Infidelity - AO3
Mel & Frank’s Infinite Playlist masterlist
By the time Frank Langdon asked Melissa King to stand by his side at his wedding, Mel had become very good at loving him quietly. It had taken a lot of practice. Years of it, really.
They met at twenty-two in the basement of the University of Pittsburgh's biology building, where Frank had wandered fifteen minutes late into an optional review session carrying two Red Bulls, a half-eaten bagel, and absolutely nothing to write with.
"Is this seat taken?"
Mel looked at the empty chair beside her, then looked around at the empty room, then finally looked up at him. "I'm the only one here."
Frank blinked and smiled, waiting.
"No, it's not taken."
"Thanks!" He sat. "I'm Frank, by the way."
"Mel."
Three minutes later he leaned over and whispered, "do you have a pen?" She handed him one. Five minutes after that, "highlighter?" She handed him one without looking. Ten minutes later, "do you have-"
"No."
"You don't even know what I was going to ask."
She deadpanned. "You came to an exam review without a backpack."
"I have pockets."
That should have been the entirety of her involvement with Frank Langdon. Instead, he followed her out afterward. Then he found her the next morning in the library. Then the following week he appeared beside her in the dining hall with two trays and announced that he had bought her lunch because she had lent him the pen and he believed strongly in settling his debts. The pen had cost seventy-nine cents, lunch cost twelve dollars. He considered that an acceptable exchange rate.
Mel thought he was ridiculous. Frank thought she was funny. It took him nearly a month to realize nobody else did. Not because Mel wasn't funny. She was exceptionally funny, actually. She just delivered every joke with the same composed expression she used to discuss mitochondrial dysfunction, which meant half the room rarely realized she had made one. But Frank always did.
And so, that was the beginning of it. Not of falling in love, but of a deep recognition.
Frank discovered quickly that Mel disliked crowded bars but could be lured if they had outdoor seating so she could eat greasy bar food while everyone else shouted over music indoors. She hated being interrupted but didn't mind Frank talking while she studied, provided he didn't expect her to answer. She could forget meals for twelve hours and then become mysteriously furious at everyone around her until he placed food in front of her.
Mel found that Frank's brain moved faster than his mouth, which was impressive considering how quickly he spoke. He lost everything except important things. He forgot deadlines but remembered birthdays. He could sit through a three-hour lecture tapping his foot hard enough to shake an entire row and still absorb every word.
They fit together. Not elegantly, nothing about Frank was elegant. But naturally, like mismatched pieces from two different puzzles that, through some clerical error of the universe, happened to lock perfectly together.
By twenty-three they were inseparable. By twenty-four everyone assumed they were sleeping together. They weren't. Frank would have liked to. Though that wasn't quite the whole truth. Frank would have liked to take Mel to dinner and hold her hand underneath the table. He would have liked to kiss her outside her apartment building and spend twenty minutes afterward pretending neither of them wanted to go upstairs. He would have liked to wake up beside her and annoy her before she'd had breakfast and know that, despite the murderous look she would inevitably give him, he belonged there.
But twenty-four was also the year Mel's mother died. And then, seven months later, her father. Whatever part of Mel's life might once have had room for something frivolous disappeared overnight. Her twin sister needed somewhere to live. There were bills, lawyers, insurance companies, estate paperwork. Counselors and center pickups, and grocery lists. And medical school. Mel handled grief the way she handled everything else: by constructing an invisible scaffolding around it and continuing to function.
Frank watched her do it. He watched her fall asleep over textbooks because she'd spent the evening arguing with an insurance company. He picked her sister up from her center when Mel got trapped in anatomy lab. He learned which grocery store stocked the cereal her sister liked. He spent Christmas at their apartment because Mel insisted she didn't celebrate Christmas and then became irrationally angry when he suggested that meant she probably wouldn't mind being alone.
He stayed. And somewhere in all of that, Frank decided wanting anything from her would be selfish. She had enough. She needed a friend. So he became one. A very good one. A spectacular one, if he were being objective. He drove her car when she was too exhausted. He brought food, he checked her tires, he memorized the look she got approximately twenty minutes before sensory overload made her want to crawl out of her own skin. He learned when to talk and, more importantly, when not to.
Mel noticed all of it. Unfortunately, Mel also possessed enough self-doubt to reinterpret every romantic instinct she had as delusion. Frank touched everyone. Frank flirted with everyone. Frank remembered things about people. Frank was warm. Frank was affectionate. Frank Langdon could probably make eye contact with a parking meter and convince it they had shared something profound.
So whenever his fingers lingered around her wrist or his knee pressed against hers beneath a library table or he looked at her with something dangerously soft in his expression, Mel quietly informed herself that she was imagining it.
Frank, meanwhile, took her complete lack of response as confirmation she didn't feel anything at all.
Thus began several years of two academically gifted people demonstrating that intelligence had absolutely no correlation with common sense.
Then Frank met Abby. And Abby was magnetic, even Mel could admit that. She was studying theater, all dark curls and enormous brown eyes and the kind of easy confidence that made strangers turn toward her when she entered a room. Frank met her at a graduate student party Yolanda had dragged them to near the beginning of their final year. Mel had stayed home to study. Frank texted her at one in the morning.
Met someone. She's incredible.
Mel stared at those four words far longer than necessary. Something small and unpleasant lodged beneath her sternum. She ignored it.
Six months later, Abigail was pregnant. Three days after that, Frank proposed. It wasn't elaborate, there was no grand plan. No photographer crouched behind a hedge, no romantic declaration of love. He bought a ring, took Abby to dinner, and asked.
When he told Mel, she smiled so convincingly she briefly impressed herself. "You're getting married."
Frank watched her face carefully. "Looks like it."
She hugged him. There was one terrible second when his arms tightened around her and neither of them moved. Then Mel stepped away.
"Congratulations."
Something passed across Frank's expression. It vanished too quickly for her to identify.
"Thanks, Melly."
She went home that night and sat on the kitchen floor for almost an hour. Then she got up, because that was what Mel did. She got up.
She accompanied Frank when he went looking for suits because Yolanda threatened homicide after he suggested ordering something online. She coordinated clinical rotations around rehearsal dinner obligations. She listened to Frank talk about nursery furniture. She smiled when Abby rested one hand over her rapidly growing stomach and complained that the baby kicked whenever Frank spoke.
Mel did all of this with the grim professionalism of someone assisting with her own execution.
Then, two months before the wedding, Frank cornered her outside the hospital cafeteria.
"I need to ask you something." He looked nervous. That alone was enough to keep her on edge. Then he spoke so quickly she almost missed it. "I want you in the wedding."
She blinked. "You want me to what?"
"Stand with me. Be a groomsman. Er— groomswoman."
Mel shifted her weight to her other foot. "At your wedding."
"That's generally where it happens."
"Frank."
"I already asked Yolanda to be best woman."
"Yeah, well, Yolanda already owns a suit."
"So?"
"I don't."
"You can wear a dress. You can wear whatever you want. Just— please. I can't be up there without you, Melly."
There it was again. That thing she had spent years convincing herself wasn't real. Mel swallowed.
"Okay."
Frank exhaled as though he'd genuinely expected her to say no. "Okay?"
"Yes, okay."
He grinned and immediately pulled her into a hug. Her face disappeared against his shoulder. Mel closed her eyes. Just for a second, that's all she would allow herself. Then she stepped back.
And life continued on toward the wedding.
The wedding was held at a hotel whose lobby had marble columns, two chandeliers, and enough fresh flowers to pay off a meaningful percentage of Mel's remaining student loans. Frank's family had money. Not obnoxious money, or private-island money, but enough money that the Langdons could arrange an extravagant wedding on short notice without anyone developing heart palpitations over the invoice.
Abby's family could not. Frank quietly made sure everything was covered.
The ceremony was scheduled for six. At five-twelve, Mel discovered that the shirt beneath her tuxedo vest had acquired a microscopic makeup stain near the collar.
At five-fourteen, she decided this was unacceptable.
At five-sixteen, she entered the large private bathroom connected to the bridal suite because it contained actual stain-removal wipes instead of the decorative soaps the public women's restroom had.
The bridal suite appeared empty. Mel stood at the sink, bent toward the mirror, and carefully dabbed at the offending spot. Then the outer door opened and voices spilled inside.
Mel froze. She recognized one of Abby's bridesmaids immediately. Rachel, or was it Rebecca. Something with an R. Mel wasn't certain. There were seven bridesmaids and they seemed to travel exclusively in packs.
"Don't start," the woman said.
"I'm not starting anything."
"You've been making that face all day."
"What face?"
"The face."
There was the unmistakable sound of a zipper. Then another voice. "This is fucked up."
Mel stopped dabbing.
"Keep your voice down."
"I'm serious."
"Today?"
"When else am I supposed to say it?"
"Preferably never."
Mel slowly lowered the wipe. The bathroom had a small alcove separating the sinks from the dressing area. They hadn't seen her. She should announce herself. Obviously. Immediately. She opened her mouth to say something.
Then one of them said, "does Frank even know?"
Mel's mouth closed. The world became very still.
"Do you really think he would be going through with it if he knew?"
"Jesus Christ."
"Abby says it's his."
"Yeah, well, Abby says a lot of things."
Mel's fingers tightened around the edge of the sink.
The second bridesmaid lowered her voice. "The dates don't even make sense."
"They could."
"But they don't."
"You don't know that."
"I was there, Rachel."
Rachel. Mel had been right. A profoundly useless victory under the circumstances.
The other woman continued. "I was there when she hooked up with Evan after the showcase."
Mel stared at herself in the mirror. For one bizarre moment, her brain refused to interpret the sentence. Hooked up. Evan. After the showcase. Frank. Baby. Wedding.
"Oh my God," Rachel whispered.
"And again in December."
"She told me that was just once."
"It wasn't."
"Does Evan know?"
"Obviously."
"And?"
A bitter laugh. "And what? Evan has forty-three dollars and an IMDb page with one student film on it."
"That's horrible."
"I'm not saying it's okay."
"You basically are."
"I'm saying Abby made her choice."
There was a pause. Then Rachel muttered, "Some choice."
The other woman sighed. "Well, it's either a rich doctor-to-be or an actor wannabe."
Mel stopped breathing. There were moments in medicine when the brain separated itself from emotion. A body came through the door bleeding and suddenly everything became sequence. Airway. Breathing. Circulation. Do the next thing. Then the next. Then the next. Mel's mind did that now.
Frank met Abby in September. They started dating in October. Pregnancy discovered March. Abby said she was approximately six weeks. Due date October. Seven months pregnant now. Showcase. December. Evan. Again.
Mel's stomach turned. The bathroom door opened and closed. Silence returned. Mel remained at the sink. She gripped the counter. This wasn't happening. Not now, not here, not thirty-four minutes before Frank's wedding.
There were rules about these things, surely. Some cosmic statute prohibiting catastrophic revelations after the flowers had been delivered.
Mel walked out of the bathroom. Someone tried to hand her champagne, but she ignored them. She found Yolanda in the groom's suite adjusting her cufflinks.
"I need you."
Yolanda looked up. Mel's face must have communicated something alarming because Yolanda immediately stopped smiling.
"What happened?"
Mel shook her head. "Not here."
They stepped into the hallway. Yolanda folded her arms. "Mel."
"I overheard Abby's bridesmaids." Yolanda's expression sharpened. "They didn't know I was in the bathroom."
"Okay."
"Abby slept with someone." Yolanda's eyes widened. "While she was with Frank." Mel continued quickly because if she stopped she might lose all her nerve. "Possibly around the time she got pregnant. They said his name is Evan. He's an actor. Apparently Abby slept with him more than once. One of them said the dates don't make sense and asked whether Frank knows."
"Son of a bitch."
Yolanda turned toward the groom's suite. Mel grabbed her arm. "What are you doing?"
"Telling Frank."
Mel tightened her grip. "No."
Yolanda stared at her. "No?"
"We don't know for sure."
"But we know Abby cheated."
"I overheard gossip."
"From her best friends."
She looked at Yolanda with pleading eyes. "They could be wrong."
Yolanda turned to fully face her. "And if they're not?"
Mel looked toward the closed door. Frank was behind it. Probably laughing, probably pacing, probably asking where he'd put his cufflinks after Yolanda had already placed them on his wrists.
He had been happy all morning. Nervous, yes, but happy. Mel felt sick.
"Frank loves her."
Yolanda's expression changed. An almost pitying look. "Mel."
She shook her head. "It'll crush him."
"Mel."
"He thinks he's having a baby."
"Melissa."
"And maybe he is. We don't know."
Yolanda stepped closer. "He needs to know before he marries her."
Mel looked down. Yolanda studied her for another second. Then she said quietly, "It needs to come from you."
Mel's head snapped up. "What?"
"You tell him."
"Absolutely not."
"He's going to want you."
"He'll want his best woman."
"I'm his best woman because he knew you would refuse to give a speech."
"Well that's because public speaking is barbaric."
"You're telling him." Yolanda grabbed her hand and started pulling her towards the door.
"No, no, no." Mel dug her heels in and leaned her body back to get away from Yolanda. Futile, in the end. Yolanda had always been stronger than her.
"Mel."
"I can't."
Yolanda's face softened just slightly. Mel hated her for it. "He trusts you more than anyone."
"Exactly."
"Exactly."
Mel shook her head. "He loves Abby."
Yolanda stared at her. Then, slowly, "No."
Mel frowned. "Excuse me?"
"He doesn't. Not really."
"He's marrying her."
"He's marrying her because she's pregnant."
"He proposed," Mel countered.
Yolanda scoffed. "Because she's pregnant."
"He loves her."
"He cares about her, sure."
"That's the same thing."
Yolanda looked at her likes she was crazy. "No, it's really fucking not."
Mel stepped back. "This isn't relevant."
"It's actually extremely relevant."
"Yo—"
"Do you seriously not know?" She sounded exasperated.
The hallway suddenly felt too warm. Mel frowned. "Know what?"
Yolanda looked genuinely astonished. Then horrified. Then, apparently, deeply amused by the sheer stupidity of everyone involved. "Oh my God."
"What?"
"You're both idiots."
"That's— what— okay?"
"Frank is in love with you."
Mel stared at her. Somewhere nearby a waiter pushed a cart over uneven carpet. Glasses rattled. Someone laughed behind a door. Mel heard all of it with extraordinary clarity. "What?"
Yolanda rubbed both hands over her face. "Jesus Christ."
"What did you just say?"
"You heard me." Mel shook her head. "You absolutely did."
"Frank isn't in love with me."
Yolanda dropped her hands. "He has been in love with you since second-year anatomy."
"That's not true."
"He skipped his cousin's wedding because your sister had pneumonia."
"He said he forgot to RSVP."
"He slept on your couch for a week after your mom died."
"He said he was having plumbing issues..."
"He changed his residency ranking because you were considering Pittsburgh."
Mel stopped. Yolanda's eyebrows rose.
"He told me Pittsburgh was his first choice."
"It wasn't."
Mel could hear her own pulse. "Yolanda."
"He had Penn above it."
"Frank hates Philadelphia."
"Frank hates being away from you more."
The hallway tipped slightly. Mel leaned against the wall. "No."
Yolanda looked at her. "Mel."
"No, because if that's true—" She stopped. Yolanda waited. Mel's throat tightened. "If that's true, then what the hell have we been doing?"
Years wasted. Every almost moment, every lingering look, every night he had fallen asleep on her couch. Every time Mel had convinced herself she'd imagined the way he looked at her. Every time Frank had stepped closer and then stopped.
Mel laughed incredulously. It sounded close to a sob. "This is a terrible time to tell me this."
"I didn't think I'd have to."
"He's getting married in twenty-eight minutes."
"Which is why you need to go talk to him."
Mel looked toward the groom's suite. "I can't destroy his life."
Yolanda's voice softened. "You're not." Mel looked at her. "Abby did that."
Frank was alone when Mel entered. He stood near the window adjusting his tie for perhaps the twentieth time. He saw her reflection in the glass. "Melly." He smiled and turned around. Mel nearly lost every coherent thought in her head. He looked handsome. Of course he did. His suit fit perfectly, and his hair was combed back. "Where've you been?"
"Bathroom." She knew she looked nervous, and he was always so good at reading her.
"Everything okay?"
"No."
His smile vanished immediately. "What happened?" Frank watched her as she closed the door.
She wrung her hands and shook them out, a poor attempt at releasing the tension. She couldn't do this. She could perform a cricothyrotomy. She could tell parents their child had died. She could manage a crashing patient while three people shouted conflicting information. She could not tell Frank Langdon that the woman he was supposed to marry in twenty-six minutes might be carrying another man's baby.
"I overheard something."
Frank's brow furrowed. "What?"
"Abby's bridesmaids were talking." He waited. Mel clasped her hands behind her back because they had started trembling. "They said Abby slept with someone else." Frank didn't move. "Evan." Nothing. "They said it happened after some showcase. And again in December." Frank stared at her. Mel forced herself to continue. "They were talking about the baby."
Something in his face changed, barely, but Mel knew him. She had spent years learning every version of Frank's silence. This one was new.
"What about the baby?"
Mel swallowed. "They don't think you're the father."
The room became completely silent. Frank looked away. He nodded once, then again. A strange, automatic motion. "Okay."
Mel's chest hurt. "Frank."
"Okay."
"I don't know if it's true." She attempted to reach out to him, but he walked toward the dresser. Picked up his phone. Put it down. Picked it up again. "Frank."
"December?"
"That's what they said."
He nodded. The color had drained from his face. "They're sure?"
"I don't know."
"Right."
"They didn't know I was there."
"Right."
He sat on the edge of the bed. Mel stood several feet away. Every instinct told her to cross the room. Every fear told her not to. Frank looked at his hands.
"I asked her."
Mel's heart sank. "What?"
"When she told me she was pregnant." He laughed softly, but there was no humor in it. "I asked if there was any chance."
Mel stared at him. "Why?"
Frank rubbed his palms together. "Because we'd broken up for, like, four days."
Mel hadn't known that. "December?"
"End of November." He looked up. "She said no."
Mel closed her eyes. "Frank."
"She said there was no one else." He stood abruptly. "Fuck." He pulled at his tie.
"Frank."
"Fuck." He crossed the room, turned, and crossed it again. Mel watched helplessly. Then Frank stopped. "Does Yolanda know?"
"Yes."
"You told her first?"
"I panicked."
He nodded, and there was the faintest flash of him beneath everything. Mel almost smiled. Almost. Frank stared at the floor, then he looked at her. "Do you think it's true?"
Mel's throat tightened. "I think you need to ask Abby."
"That's not what I asked." Mel hesitated and Frank knew immediately. He laughed once and looked away. "Okay."
"I'm sorry."
He nodded. "Okay." Mel hated that word now.
She crossed the room. "Frank." He looked at her. "I am so sorry."
For several seconds neither moved. Then Frank stepped forward and folded himself around her. Mel caught him automatically. His face pressed into her shoulder. She held him and his grip tightened. Suddenly Mel was twenty-four again, holding him outside the library after his grandfather died. Twenty-five, asleep against him on her couch. Twenty-six, watching him make pancakes for her sister. Twenty-seven, standing in a hotel room while the man she loved quietly came apart in her arms.
"I've got you," she whispered. Frank went still. Mel winced. Had she said the wrong thing? He pulled back to look at her, his hands still around her waist. Or maybe exactly the right thing. Mel's hands rested against his chest. They were too close. Catastrophically close. Frank looked at her. Then his eyes dropped briefly to her mouth. Mel's heart stopped. She had not imagined it this time. It was not ambiguous nor friendly. Nor was it Frank being Frank. This was want. Years of it.
Mel's breath caught and Frank noticed. His expression changed. "What?"
"Nothing."
"Mel."
"This is not the time."
"For what?"
She stepped back and his hands fell away. Frank stared at her. Mel looked toward the window. "Yolanda said something."
His face immediately tightened. "What did she say?"
Mel should have lied. Instead, it came out of her before her brain could catch up with her mouth. "She said you're in love with me."
Frank stopped breathing. Mel wanted the floor to open immediately. Ideally with enough depth to ensure death on impact. He stared at her. "She what?"
"I told her she was wrong." He said nothing. Mel's stomach dropped. "Frank."
He rubbed one hand over the back of his neck. "You told her she was wrong?"
"Obviously."
"Why obviously?"
Mel stared at him. "What?"
Frank let out a short, disbelieving laugh. "Oh my God."
"What?"
"You."
"What about me?"
He looked almost offended. "How did you not know?"
Mel's mouth opened and closed without so much as a sound. She blinked at him. Frank just stared. He laughed again. "Melly."
"You don't get to laugh."
"I am currently having perhaps the worst day of my life."
"And somehow you've found the time to mock me."
"I'm not mocking you, sweetheart." Sweetheart. He'd called her that before, but she didn't have the context she does now.
"You are."
"I'm amazed, is all."
"At what?"
Frank stepped closer. "That you didn't know."
Mel's heart started pounding. "Frank."
"I've been in love with you since college." The room went silent. Frank's expression sobered. "Probably longer than I should admit."
"You never said anything."
"You were dealing with your parents." He reached out to cup her cheek.
"That was years ago."
"Then your sister." He stepped even closer and tilted her head up towards him.
"Frank," she whispered.
"Then med school."
"Frank."
"And you never seemed interested."
Mel made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a choke, and shoved him back playfully. "You never seemed interested."
"I asked you to dinner six times, Mel."
"You said we were getting food."
He shrugged. "That's dinner."
"That's not asking someone on a date."
"I brought flowers that one time."
She looked at him incredulously. "They were condolence flowers."
"They were not."
"My mother had just died, Frank."
Frank paused. "Okay, so, retrospectively, poor timing."
Mel put both hands over her face. "This cannot be happening."
Frank's voice softened. "Mel."
She lowered her hands. "I thought I was imagining it."
His face changed. "What?"
"The way you acted around me."
"How did I act around you?"
She gestured aimlessly towards his general direction."Like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you loved me." Frank went completely still. Mel's eyes burned. "I thought that's just how you were."
"Mel."
"I thought you were a very committed friend." Frank stared at her. Then he started laughing. Actually laughing. Mel shoved his shoulder. "I hate you."
"You love me." Mel's entire body went rigid. Frank's smile disappeared. He studied her face. "You do." Mel looked away. "Melly."
"Don't," she warned. There was no sense in admitting her feelings when nothing could happen between them.
"How long?"
"Frank."
"Mel, please. How long?"
She closed her eyes. "Also college."
He rubbed at his eyes. "Which year?"
"Does it matter?"
"It's the only thing that does right now."
"Second."
Frank stared at her. "Second year?" Mel nodded miserably. He turned away, putting both hands on his hips. Looked at the ceiling. Then laughed once. "You have got to be kidding me. You could've said something."
She looked at him for a moment. "It doesn't matter. You're getting married." That stopped him. The laughter vanished. The reality of the room returned. Music beginning faintly somewhere downstairs made Frank look towards the door. Mel's stomach dropped. "I'm sorry."
"No."
"I shouldn't have—"
"No, Mel." He looked at her, then glanced down at himself. At the suit, the boutonniere. He thought of the guests waiting downstairs. "I'm not getting married."
Mel froze. "Frank."
"I'm not."
"You need to talk to Abby."
"I will."
"You don't know about the baby."
"I know she cheated. And I know I was about to marry someone because I thought that was the right thing to do." He looked at her. "And apparently everybody but you knew I was in love with somebody else."
A knock sounded at the door, and Yolanda's voice came out muffled. "Five minutes!"
Frank and Mel looked at each other. Then, despite everything, Frank smiled. Small and crooked. "What?" she whispered.
"Five minutes to figure out how to tell my parents they just wasted forty grand."
"Oh, Frank, that isn't funny."
"It's a little funny."
"You could do with a sense of poise and rationality right now."
"That's what I have you for." He smiled. "My fiancée may be carrying another man's child, I think I'm allowed to be a little bit of a mess." He reaches out for her hand. "Besides, I just confessed that I've been in love with you for years. And though that part's actually going pretty well, it has thrown me a little off-kilter to learn it was never unrequited." Frank's smile widened.
"You are incorrigible."
Another knock. "Frank?" Yolanda again. He opened the door. Yolanda looked between them. Her eyes narrowed. "Abby's asking for you."
Frank's expression changed. He nodded. "I need to talk to her."
Mel stepped back and he looked at her. There were a thousand things left unfinished between them. A thousand questions. He walked back over to Mel, and reached for her hand. His fingers brushed hers, deliberate and brief.
"I'll find you."
Mel looked up. For once, she didn't convince herself she'd misunderstood. "I'll be here."
Frank nodded, then he walked out.
Yolanda started after him, but Mel caught her arm. "Yolanda." She turned. Mel hesitated. "Thank you."
Yolanda stared at her for a second, then smiled. "Don't thank me yet."
From somewhere down the hall came Abby's voice, then Frank's, then silence.
Yolanda winced. "That's going to be ugly."
Mel looked at the closed door. Downstairs, the string quartet continued playing for guests who had absolutely no idea the wedding had ended before it began. A hundred people staring expectantly toward an aisle no bride would ever walk down.
Mel leaned against the wall. Yolanda joined her. After a moment, Mel said, "they're going to lose the deposit."
Yolanda turned slowly. "That's what you're thinking about?"
"It's a very expensive hotel."
Yolanda laughed, and reached over to the bar cart for two glasses of Pittsburgh's finest prosecco. "Well, this calls for a toast." It felt inappropriate, but twenty minutes ago Mel had believed Frank Langdon would belong to someone else for the rest of his life.
Now, yelling could be heard from down the hall. Abby screeching and what sounded like multiple bridesmaids trying to calm her. And Mel, stain still on her collar, felt hope for the first time in years.
Emergency cleaning: Unfuck your whole house in the shortest time possible
So, your landlord/parents/home inspector/favorite movie star is dropping by, and your place is a disaster. You don’t have much time to clean it up. You’re in emergency mode. Let’s get started.
Don’t panic. Panic leads to fear, fear leads to procrastination, procrastination leads to the dark side. You can do this, but you have to stay calm.
Unlike maintenance cleaning, we’re not looking to completely unfuck one space at a time. Instead, we want to decrease the overall mess in stages, spread evenly across the whole area that we’re concerned about. If you think your home is at Level 10 filth, we want to bring the whole thing down to a Level 9, and then down from there. One really clean spot in an otherwise messy home is not going to be helpful here.
Get prepared. You’ll want to shut the computer down (or turn the modem off if you need your computer to play music). Trust me. Get your music going. Gather up trash bags, your vacuum and mop, some rags or paper towel, sponges, and other cleaning supplies. Use what you have on hand. Don’t get distracted running to the store and spending an hour browsing cleaning supplies. A multi-purpose cleaning concentrate or a jug of vinegar will be just fine.
Breaks are very important. Depending on your time constraints, work in 20/10s (20 minutes working, 10-minute break) or 45/15s. But take breaks because otherwise you’re marathoning, and marathon cleaning is no one’s friend. Keep hydrated, don’t forget to eat, and check in with yourself frequently to make sure you’re physically doing OK.
Make your bed. This will be your home base if you get overwhelmed or need somewhere clear to take a break.
Start with the garbage. Going from room to room, throw out anything that is obvious trash. Once you fill a bag, take it out. Repeat as many times as necessary.
Move on to dishes. Gather the dishes from all over your house and bring them to the kitchen. If you can, start them soaking in a sink of hot, soapy water or start loading the dishwasher. After the dishes are all in one place, spend one 20/10 getting started getting them under control.
Now it’s time for your flat surfaces. Countertops, tables, dresser tops, etc. Clear them off and wipe them down. Don’t get distracted in too much sorting and organizing. We’re in crisis mode here. There will be time to get in-depth once this is all done. The same applies to cabinets and closets. Unless you have reason to believe people will be opening closed doors, leave these alone for now.
Attack the floordrobe and shoe pile. Get your clothes either put away or in the hamper. Start a load of laundry if you need to, but keep in mind that laundry and dishes have three steps: wash, dry, and put it away, goddammit!
Get random stuff up off the floors. If something is trash-worthy, throw it away now rather than just move it around a bunch of times. Otherwise, put stuff where it belongs.
Take another 20/10 or 45/15 to catch up on more dishes, if needed.
Head into the bathroom. Pour some cleaner in the toilet bowl, fill the sink with hot water and cleaner, and either spray the tub and shower with cleaner, or fill the tub up with some hot water and add cleaner and let it soak. Put everything away that’s out and shouldn’t be, clean the mirror, counters, and toilet seat. Sweep or dry mop the floor. Wipe down the sink and tub/shower, and give the toilet bowl a scrub. Mop the floor.
Sweep and mop the kitchen floor.
Vacuum everything you can, and sweep everything you can’t.
Walk outside of your house (don’t lock yourself out, please). Walk back in and see what catches your eye first. Go and deal with that.
If you’re being inspected or your landlord is coming in for repairs, spend time on whatever area they’ll be focusing on.
Give the whole place one more once-over and pay attention to anything you’ve missed so far.
It’s an old trick, but if your place is a little funky-smelling, put a pan of water on the stove on low heat and add some citrus or cinnamon or vanilla. Don’t leave it unattended or forget about it.
Take a shower, put on something clean, and eat something.
You can do this. It’s overwhelming, yes, but it is not impossible. You just need to do it. You have a list. You have directions. You have a whole bunch of Internet strangers who have been there before and who are cheering you on. You can do this, but you need to get started.
the number of times in my past that I desperately wanted/needed someone to sit me down and tell me this stuff. I will never get back the hours and hours lost to headless-chicken mode, but it’s nice to know that in the last year I’ve learned so many coping mechanisms :D
Your wife changes her hair color every season and her personality adjusts slightly. You’re secretly only in love with Autumn wife. She just came home sporting her Winter color.
it’s my fault. it’s just that when we met it was autumn; her red-orange hair and crackling laughter. there’s a little spooky in her, a lot of play. and what a better time for falling?
i didn’t realize it for the first few years - something shifting, something so subtle. the winter makes us all cold, the summer makes us all a little out of our minds. i just loved her, because she was incredible, and i was the luckiest person alive.
it’s just that i realized that spring came with sudden bursts of cold. it’s just that summer frequently raged in with fire sprouting from her lips. it’s just that winter was the worst of all, her eyes dead. it’s just that autumn loves me different; throws herself into it without the clingy sweat of summer. i used to love that summer girl, you know? i loved how wild she was, the way in summer she took every risk she could. but i carried her home drunk one too many times, cleaned up one too many of the messes she made for no reason than to enjoy the sensation of burning. and winter was worse; the shutdown, the isolation. how she became distant, a blizzard, caught up in her own head, unable to tell me what was wrong and unable to think i actually wanted to listen.
she comes home, her hair bleached white. a dark smile on her lips. the shadowy parts of her are back. they loom like icicles overhead. she kisses me with her body held at a distance, a peck on my cheek that feels like an iceberg. she makes polite conversation and we go to bed early, our bodies untouching.
it is a lonely season, i think on the ninth day of this. winter is cold. winter is known for the death of things. when i look at her, i see the girl i fell for, inhabited by an alien. she was the first women i loved so much i felt it would kill me. i can’t leave. when i wake her up with my crying, she tells me to shush and go back to sleep. she’s different like this, quiet, doesn’t eat.
three days later i stare at myself in the mirror. i wonder if it’s me. if the fat on my body or something in my face or the wrinkles and she doesn’t love me. i try prettier lingerie, lean cuisine, i try different hair, more makeup, try harder. it doesn’t work. she looks at me the same; that empty gaze that neither loves nor condemns my actions.
somewhere in februrary i lose it. we’re fighting again, from car to restaurant to car to home again. we fight about stupid things, small things; i tell her i feel she doesn’t love me, she says i’m not listening. the circle goes around and around, old pain peeling back, new pain unhealing. i sleep on the couch.
i wake up when i hear her crying, white hair around her all messed up. the kind of sobbing that only comes at two in the morning, heavy and thick and hurting. my winter girl. my heart is breaking. she looks up at me like i’m her anchor. “i’m sorry i’m like this,” she says. and i start saying, it’s okay i’m here we’re married, but she just shakes her head and says, “I know this isn’t the real me.”
i hold her cold hand. she stares at the blankets. “i am different in winter,” she whispers, “i know i am and i’m sorry.” she looks at me. “why do you think i dye my hair? cut it off? get rid of the old me?”
i tell her it’s okay. we’re together and it’s okay, and then she whispers, “i’m sorry you married four of me.”
we lay there like that, her head on my chest. she falls asleep. i stare at the ceiling, thinking of the way she sounded when she was crying. how i helped put her in that pain. how i promised in sickness and in health and everything in between.
the next day i spend at the library. there aren’t enough books on how to love someone with seasonal affective disorder so i make my own, notes and pages and little ideas on post-its. and i take a deep breath and make myself a promise.
she comes home to her favorite dinner and we kiss and she’s uneasy but that’s okay. the next day i bring home flowers and the next day she finds little love notes in her pockets. i love her quiet, the way winter demands, understand her sex drive is faltering; spend more time just cuddling. we drink wine and we kiss and some part of her starts relaxing.
the truth is there is no loving someone out of their mental illness. the truth is that you can love someone in despite of it; love them loud enough to give them an excuse to believe they can make their way out of it.
and i learn. i remember the rebirth of spring, when she starts thawing. we kiss and have picnics in pretty dresses. i remember her joy at little birds and her rain dancing. i fall in love with the flowers in her cheeks and the little bursts of cleaning. i fall in love with summer’s slow walks and milkshakes and shouting to music playing too loud on the speakers. i fall in love with her dancing, with the sunfire energy. and when winter comes; i am ready. i remember that snow used to look pretty. i fall in love with the hearth of her, with the holiday, with the slow smile that spreads across her face so shyly. i fall in love with how she looks in boots and mittens and every day i find another reason to love her the way she deserves - they way i always should have.
she comes home with her white hair and dark smile and a package in her hands. i ask to see what it is and that small shy grin comes creeping out. it’s a sunlamp packed in with medication. she looks at me with those wide eyes and that beautiful winter blush. “i’m trying to get better,” she whispers, “i promise.”
recovery doesn’t look immediate. sometimes it isn’t neat. i can’t say we never fight or that we’re suddenly complete. but each day, that tiny girl’s strength gives me another reason. i love her. i love her while she tames the roller coaster of spring; i love her for reigning in the summer storms; i love her for taking her winter and trying to be warm. it is hard, because everything worth it is hard. she spreads out her autumn leaves; mixes the best parts of her into everything. learns to take winter’s silence for a moment before yelling in summer. learns to take autumn’s spice and give it to spring. we are both learning.
one day she comes home and her hair is different, but it’s a style i don’t know. i kiss it and tell her that she’s beautiful and the inside of me swells like a flood. i’m so glad that she’s mine. every part of her. the whole. i am the luckiest person on earth. and i always have been. but she’s hugging me and saying, “thank you for helping me,” and i can’t explain why i’m crying.
this is what love is; not always an emotion but rather your actions. the choices we make when we realize our lives would be empty if the other was absent. this is what love is: letting them grow, helping them find their way in out of the cold. this is what love is: sometimes it takes work to see how the thing you planted together actually grows.
this is what love looks like in an autumn girl: it is winter and she glows.
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just saw a pigeon doing the puffed up courtship dance thing to another pigeon, and as he was strutting around he suddenly stopped for a split second to do a very brief preen-peck at his own side, then returned to the strutting around. and i surprised myself by instantly losing respect for the male pigeon in that moment, like come on man i appreciate you had an itch or whatever but how is she supposed to feel special when you're getting distracted by bullshit like that? which on reflection i don't endorse, i mean those are pretty harsh dating norms i'm imposing on these pigeons, from a total outsider perspective, for no reason. probably not all girl pigeons are as uptight about that sort of thing as i would apparently be if i was a girl pigeon, maybe she even found it endearing who knows, i don't know her. it's none of my business really. sorry pigeons.
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is anyone else annoyed that "ai" encompasses both chatgpt and tools we train to do repetitive tedious work for us. and by the ripple effect of articles like "scientists develop ai to detect cancer early" that make people argue for the merit of chatgpt or become anti-medicine. and by the general state of the world and society
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sometimes u headcanon a character as a sexuality but then also ship things that contradict that. sometimes you ship things you would NEVER EVER want in canon. this is because these things are fun and silly and not legally binding.
HELP I HAVE CONCLUDED THAT THE GONDORIANS ARE THE VICTORIANS OF MIDDLE EARTH AND I HATE IT
Weird about gender roles
Would absolutely breed and ride unnecessarily large horses (seriously wtf were the Victorians thinking breeding thoroughbreds horses do not need to be that big and prone to disease and insanity)
Complicated ettiquete
Obsessed with idolizing history in weird and unhealthy ways
all this to say that given the whole “healing royal touch” thing Gondorians could absolutely fall into believing that eating parts of a mummified king would bring healing and I hate this
