#i cannot express enough that i spent most of my life trying to be a people pleaser before realizing that wasnt healthy and

[cemeterything]

people on reddit hated your post about on being a bit annoying and maturity lol

hahaha lmao someone sent me a link and it's actually hilarious how much they're overreacting to me saying "it's good to be yourself even if some people don't like it because everything you do will inevitably annoy someone, but that's not always a bad thing, it's just people having different personalities, interests and opinions. and part of being mature is learning to recognize the difference.". like man i'm never gonna complain about my anons on here again reddit is over there taking "reading things in bad faith" to the fucking moon and saying i'm trying to justify being an abusive dickhead who walks all over people with my personality LMFAO.

[chimielie]

sun seeker

summary: you are a princess, a future queen. somehow, this is still not enough.

word count: 1.5k

cw: fighting, oikawa’s an asshole (sorry), arranged marriage/royalty au, fake history stuff, angst to fluff (i guess), i’m not telling you who the love interest is but like. Guess, misogyny, ambiguous ending

a/n: if i tell you that i imagined a whole other side for oikawa will you forgive me? also this was supposed to be a short drabble related to between lightning strikes but it very much was not. my bad

Your betrothed is unexpectedly quiet.

It had only been a few days since you met the crown prince, having been sequestered in your father’s court in the country for most of your life, learning to fill the seat of someday-Empress. The capital is huge, bustling with people, always noisy—or so you surmised from within your veiled carriage. You had thought, as you bowed before the Emperor and Imperial Heir, that your life was finally beginning, finally growing beyond the narrow confines of etiquette training and religious rituals.

Instead, you felt your dreams shrivel and die as your daily routine proceeded exactly as it had for close to two decades. The only difference was time mandatorily spent with Tooru, who seemed… less than enthused by your match.

You had dreamed of someone who chafed against authority as you had, who felt as bound by propriety despite the privilege of your positions. Alas, you found him to be both sullen and arrogant, eager to rule but in denial of his own dissatisfaction with a noblewoman such as yourself. It made you want to scream. You had not chosen the circumstances of your birth, the path which you had been led to walk. It was not your fault that fate had pushed you two so forcefully together without regard for your desires, ambitions, or personalities.

“I was told you visited the temple this morning,” you say, watching your fiancé pause a long sip of tea, his brown eyes temporarily widening. Your face slips momentarily into a frown; you cannot conceal your frustration with his clear disdain for such small talk but unwillingness to bring anything more engaging to your table.

“Yes,” he says finally, setting down his cup. Light brown liquid sloshes over the rim and onto his fingers; he wipes them on his robes without care for the expensive fabric. “There are many rituals that must be done to ensure the most auspicious wedding possible.” His voice catches noticeably on the word wedding. You take a sip of your own tea to hide your grimace.

It is lukewarm. How long have you been sitting here, trying to force civility?

“Did it go well?” You ask in turn, your pitch straining. Behind you, one of the imperial guards snorts. When you try to discern which of them broke character, they have all returned to a stoic, uniform position. You straighten your posture.

“It was satisfactory,” Tooru says. You hear the snort again, and the crown prince’s lips twitch, just barely.

You shut your eyes tightly for a moment, trying to take in a deep breath. Your chest feels tight, though, bound by heavy fabrics and scarlet ribbon. There doesn’t seem to be anywhere for the air to go.

“What did you do this morning?” He asks, and you throw the cup at him.

His Imperial Highness is athletic beneath his aristocracy, and he dodges it easily. It bounces off one of the silk screens behind him and lies, cracked in two, in a puddle of lukewarm tea on the floor. You bury your face in your hands and scream through your teeth, a short, guttural noise that carves a little more space in your chest to breathe.

When you look up again, he stands over you, his perfect brows pulled into an expression of concern. You know without looking that two of the Imperial Guard are standing behind you, hands on their weapons.

“You have asked me that,” you say slowly, fighting to push the words out through the red haze of rage, “twice now. And you asked what my plans were yesterday. And the answer is always the same: wait in my rooms for you to call, because I am a painting of a woman waiting for you to walk in and criticize my form and decide that I am satisfactory.”

“I didn’t—” he says, and for a moment you become a fairytale heroine instead of a scorned princess, sitting on the floor looking up at him with despondent eyes that betray your desire to be loved. “This is what we are,” he decides finally, expression no longer concerned. “I think perhaps you need some rest.”

“You cannot be serious,” you seethe, pushing yourself to your feet. One of the guards puts a hand on you, ready to restrain you.

Tooru turns, his back facing you. He glances back as he exits, tone bored, eyes cold.

“Do not worry yourself,” he tells you, “I still find you satisfactory.”

You lunge after him, but two strong hands clamp down on your arms, hauling you back. You writhe and kick, but when you look up at your guard, his face is impassive, his eyes distant.

“I hate you,” you snarl, and watch as his eyes flicker down to your face. Seeing you. “I hate you,” you say again, but it sounds much more like a sob.

You can’t sleep that night.

The moon is full, high and bright, and every time you close your eyes, you see visions of your future. A glorified concubine, living in an expensive sanitarium, surely to be driven to insanity before your husband can ascend the throne.

You sit up, wild-eyed, and throw your door open with more force than you realize.

“Princess,” says your guard, startled.

“I can’t sleep,” you say, your heart thrumming in your chest. “Hajime, please, I can’t sleep.”

“I can’t let you out of your quarters,” Iwaizumi Hajime, head of your security detail, says.

“I don’t want—” you start, and he gives you a knowing look. “I know. Please just come and—talk with me. A little.”

He sighs, deeply, a rush of wind through cypress trees, and follows you into your room.

“Sit,” you order him, and the moonlight affords you the ability to see his green eyes flash with panic. “I am your future queen. Sit.”

He sits, trying to maintain his stern, professional face, even as you peel his helmet off and run your hands through his flattened hair.

“You lied to me,” you hum, and he jerks under your touch, façade breaking. “You told me Tooru never shut up.”

“I knew him a long time ago,” says Hajime. One of the few who had come with you to Kyoto, he had been raised here and come to your father’s court as a youth to learn to fight. “He’s not—he’s stubborn. He’ll soften eventually.”

“I don’t care,” you say bitterly. “Why did you hold me back?”

“He’s the prince,” Hajime says, his voice rasping with exasperation.

“I am the princess,” you say, and his lips press together into a straight line.

“My princess,” he murmurs. Hajime has always run warm, much more suited for Kyoto’s climate than your hometown’s. When he wraps an arm around you and pulls you against his side, you can feel his body heat through his armor.

“You let him say horrible things to me,” you say. His hold on you tightens.

“He is my oldest friend.”

“I am your—” you sigh heavily, pushing away from him, looking out at the moon. “I am nothing to you. I will live, though I am ungrateful. Many would say I am the luckiest woman in all the land.” The air is very cold without his touch.

“You are not nothing to me,” Hajime says, and you smile wistfully at his selective hearing.

“At least I am satisfactory.” You don’t see what happens, but Hajime’s helmet clatters loudly on the floor a moment later. “What—”

“He is my oldest friend,” he repeats himself, but his voice is low, so deep in his chest you can barely hear him. It does not matter; you can feel his words. “I wanted to kill him.”

Your lips part on a silent gasp, and he leans in close, so close that you can nearly taste him. You’ve always loved the way he smells, something base that relaxes you instantly. You haven’t been this close to him since you left home.

“He’s the Emperor,” he continues, “I can’t hurt him. I held us back.”

“Us?” You ask, his fingers suddenly tightly intertwined with yours.

“Ask me to help you leave,” he says, and you shut your eyes against his gaze, frightening and familiar all at once. “Ask me to take you away from here. I had—I have plans, and you will not be happy with him, Princess. You will be more than satisfactory, satisfied—you will be loved.”

Something knotted tightly unspools in you, red threads laying themselves out in perfect lines. You duck your head and nod against his shoulder, face rubbing against the metal of his armor.

You aren’t likely to succeed, you know, no matter how thoroughly Hajime has planned. Your fiancé will look for you: a stubborn man, like he had said. You do not know if his disdain for you or his love for Hajime will protect you. You could both die.

“Take me away,” you say, voice ringing out like a queen’s.

The moon, at its fullest cycle, chases its estranged wife into the day. The crown prince wakes without his betrothed. The world only spins forward.

[sweet-as-an-angel]

Hello there! I've been a fan of your work for a while now and let me just say, your original works and characters have me absolutely captivated! (Your yandere outlaw is one of my top favorite fictional characters! And your yandere cult leader is rapidly rising in the ranks 👀) You put so much detail into all your writing and you really delve deep into the psychology and personality of every one of them so beautifully, not to mention how diverse they all are from one another. Each and every one has such dimension and they're so believable in their actions and reactions! (And can I just say I think it's very clever that your yandere!Milf/Dilf's names start with the acronym's initial)

And your MCs are also quite vibrant and while they remain easily relatable they still have distinct traits that the characters get attached to. Thank you for making and sharing these amazing stories and characters with us, it really makes my day whenever I see you've posted something new.

Now, I know this ask is getting pretty lengthy (sorry about that ^^" I tend to ramble) but I was going through your Yan!Dilf works again and I wanted to ask, how would Dominic react if his darling was someone who's maybe dealt with manipulative people in the past or is highly emotionally intelligent and observant who could tell he wasn't being entirely genuine? But instead of pulling away from him they try to understand what he wants from them and was open about it? Would he ever even become obsessed with someone like that or allow that kind of situation to happen or is he too cautious for it to be possible?

I know you've had a lot of asks so please don't feel obligated to answer this! But in any case thank you again for sharing your works and I hope you have a wonderful wonderful day! 💖💫

My Lovely, you have positively touched my soul with your endearing sentiments ! Truly, you have made my day and I cannot thank you enough for being such a loyal enthusiast of my work, your time is valued more than I can ever hope to express <3.

Your question is an incredibly fascinating one, my Dear; thank you for sharing it with us ! I wish you the happiest and most prosperous of days, Sweetie ^^

TW: Manipulation, Dominic Being Dominic, Vulnerability, No Pronouns Used For Reader Except 'You'.

♡ Dominic is, as you suggested, initially extremely cautious around you. However, he knows he can't just drop you like a sack of potatoes; it would be far too obvious to the people around him, which would surely cause others to find him out as the serpent he is if they ever went digging around his character.

♡ But, when you show him, gradually, like a keeper feeding a feral animal, that your endeavour is not to oust him as an un-human but rather to understand what made him like this in the first place (and all the lace and frills that come with such a monumental task), he regards you...differently than he did before.

♡ Sure, he thought you were very attractive and that you could offer him something other than the resplendence his life is steeped in, but now...

♡ He feels exposed. Seen. Vulnerable.

♡ All things he tries to push back against. Things he tries to bury beneath a grandiose tale of a childhood spent in the most accommodating of educational establishments, lavish mansions and the lap of luxury.

♡ He tries to lead you a merry dance down a version of his life that he wants you to see, rebuttaling your attempts at making him crack.

♡ You tell him you can see past that. He, feeling his eye twitch, believes you.

♡ It will take a long, long time to get Dominic even close to admitting a scintilla of how his psyche works. Or, rather, doesn't work.

♡ And it's only if you manage to grind away at his need to hide his most precious secret - the parasite that wears his skin and controls his mind - that he'll open up.

♡ Fractionally. Piecemeal. But he opens up, nonetheless.

♡ He'll grow to love you in ways unfathomable even to him.

♡ If you thought he was bad without having a background in combatting the manipulation of others, he is insidious now.

♡ You become to him what he could never be for himself; a safe haven. The only person from which he does not hide.

♡ Sure, he keeps the more...dangerous aspects of his personality hidden for a lot longer than others, but you can topple these columns, can shake Dominic from his perch forged from the ivory of a devil's horns.

♡ You can tame him in ways unimaginable. You have only to see him for who - what - he truly is.

Reblog for more content like this! It helps creators like myself tremendously and it is greatly appreciated :-)

Masterlist Yandere AI Masterlist Masterpost

AO3 Wattpad Tumblr Backup Account

[lloydfrontera]

EXCUSE ME SIR WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT

this is literally not true what the hell is lee hyumnin doing

this whole conversation was completely out of character for both of them. in the novel og lloyd is way more crass and rude the entire time, he doesn't even ask about julian himself and he never expresses any regret or apologizes for anything he did out loud.

and he absolutely hates javier. i cannot emphasize this enough, it is never even hinted at that og lloyd ever cared the slightest about javier. nevermind that he wanted to be his friend or felt sorry about breaking his sword and harassing him as kids.

"Fine. Let's hurry. I never liked that jerk anyway. I don't want to bump into him"

"You don't like him?"

"No." Ghost Frontera nodded at Lloyd's question. And in the most obvious tone, Ghost Frontera retorted, "It's not fair for a human to look like that. I hate him. I feel like life is cheating me whenever I see him, and it pisses me off. I've been in a bad mood ever since my father put that bastard on my side to guard me."

does this sound like a man who just "wanted to become friends with him"??

this is history revisionism and i won't stand for it!!/j

and like. does this really look like a kid who just wants to be friends

like. does it.

again javier is six years old here. he saw his parents die in front of him a year ago and then spent an entire winter on the streets fending for himself and is just now finally settling into a new place that was supposed to be safe for him

he looked like this

look at him. he's a baby.

they're not even the same age!! og lloyd is five years older!! there was never a point in their relationship where og lloyd wasn't just a bigger and older kid harassing a child five years his junior!!

and he didn't feel sorry about it. at least not enough to make amends or even apologize.

and the problem with making og lloyd more sympathetic is that it undercuts just how much he'd fucked up. it makes it look like it was just a misunderstanding and that everyone should've just tried a little bit harder to understand him when no!!! they did try they did love him he just didn't care about it!!

and it's especially egregious when the webcomic seems hellbent in making lloyd look like a total dickhead at every moment possible!

making him kick og lloyd into the reincarnation gate??? telling him he sounded pathetic and didn't want to hear him for another second????why are you making your protagonist so fucking unlikable??? what's the fucking purpose of that???? how come the character that acts like a total asshole in the novel gets to be sympathetic in the adaptation but not your fucking main protagonist??????

that's the main issue actually! making og lloyd more sympathetic always seems to be at the cost of making everyone else look worse which fucking sucks!! because he's not meant to be like that!!! that's not the point of his character!!!

not to mention that they completely rewrote og lloyd's wish to not be born as a human in his next life??? like??? at this point you're just. making shit up. not even trying to follow the original source.

this episode was just. bad. nothing i can really rescue about it it's straight up just a bad adaptation

i hate it here lmao

[heartfullofleeches]

ok so since it's winter (at least where i live) that means it's soup weather so which one of your ocs would make the best soup and who would make the worst inedible slop known to man (praying this actually goes throught this time bc this is extremely important information and i need to know)

Top Five for both or we'd be here all day-

Best

Liu - I will take any excuse to ramble about my king. Food is one of Liu's go to ways to express their love for their darling as they spent a lot of time in the kitchen with their father as a child and that's how they bonded. Their father also loved making stews and soups, and while their mother got rid of most of his belongings when he died - Liu made sure to hide his cookbooks.

Would be delighted to whip out of them out and create a variety of soups for you using fresh meat from their deli. The cold weather makes Liu sluggish so they'd love to enjoy a bowl with you before short terms of hibernation. Prepares soup in advance and leaves in the fridge/freeze for you to heat up later on.

Cherry - Really, I could put all of my maid bots here, but if I had to pick one - it's Cherry. Has dozens of recipes already installed and just gives you a list to choose from. Always excited to cook for you and likes to keep you updated through the process like letting you try the broth. Cuts the veggies into little hearts like the cutie he is. Hope you don't mind being spoon fed by a robot maid cause they will be extremely sad if you don't let him.

Miller - As a former culinary student and person who loves to cook for the people they love, Miller has got you covered. Whips up a pot for you both to enjoy while you cuddle up from the weather. Prolly starts a chill stream so their chat see the two of you enjoying domestic bliss and rubs it in their faces like the dork they are.

Worst

V - On top of there being a high chance of him putting certain. ...fluids into the soup, V had not touched a stove a day in his life. Cannot cook to save his own life or impress his darling which is why he'll probably just order some from a local restaurant and pass it off as something he made.

C.C - As much as I love my girl, he cannot cook. Too busy looking cute in his frilly aprons to focus on the food itself. On the plus side, like V he'll get it from another source and eventually grow jealous enough of his darling enjoying someone else's cooking that he hires a chef to teach him a few things in the kitchen.

Titus - He's the emperor for a reason. Cooking is what his servants are for. Probably wouldn't even know how to turn a stove on. His soup and cooking as a whole could considered a form of punishment - execution even. Traitors would accept death by firing squad than take a single bite of anything he's made.

[writing-for-life]

Writing Is The Loneliest Art...

A couple of days ago, this piece of art with a Neil Gaiman quote flickered across my desktop, and it made me think, so longish post about writing, mental health and human connection ahead..

The actual quote says:

The hardest part of being a writer is that you get lonely. It's just you and the stuff in your head and nobody else can do it for you.

I used to be a performer. I spent a good 10 years of my life in theatres and on stage. That can be lonely, too, but in very different ways. You find a "family" for a short while, and then the show is over, and you all disperse to heaven-knows-where again. Some of these friendships last, others don't, but even the ones that do are hard to maintain because of the nature of the job (if you a very lucky, your paths may cross again for another show).

But the difference, to me, was that I had a physical outlet. That's also stressful in many ways, and being a performer is hard and emotionally taxing (plus, the industry sometimes makes you want to vomit). But it is a very different feeling to channel creative energy into something that is physical.

When I write, I only have the words in my head and the blank page; if I am lucky, the words will come out in a way that stops the page from being blank. And although I wrote "Writing Is The Loneliest Art" as a headline, I imagine this must be quite similar for visual/graphic artists.

I was a writer before I was a performer. I came back to my first love, and I wouldn't want it any other way. Writing always was, and still is, the most truthful form of creative expression for me. I am also lucky enough not to have to earn an income with it (although I do) because I have a job that takes care of that (and thankfully one that comes in handy for character development and world building). But it is very easy to become trapped in your head and thoughts, to stop engaging with the life that is out there. And that life is important--for inspiration, for self-care, for human connection. To break these connections, knowingly or unknowingly, is a real issue for many writers. If I am not careful, it happens to me, too. I have a family, and I am constantly teetering on the edge of spending time in my head or with the blank page when I should be present with them. I can snap myself out of it, but it is not always easy to do, and most writers can probably relate. Because thoughts are thoughts and ideas are ideas. They don't care when they pop into your head, and they will try to claim space, whether the moment is "right" or not.

I have a self-care routine in place to prevent myself from getting trapped in my own head (that's maybe for another post), but it takes effort and constant reminders to get up from my desk, get out, get fresh air and move. Because I'd rather be in my head and write. I am an introvert, like many writers, but that's not a big blanket permission to stop connecting with life. Introversion and loneliness are not one and the same, and writers (everyone really) need to understand the difference. You need to pick up that phone, see people and surround yourself with humans from time to time for your own sake. Not just through your job. You need humans around you whom you truly connect with.

But back to different art forms: As a performer, I had the direct interaction with my fellow performers, and with my audience. I cannot stress enough how important the latter is, and I have said this on here many times: Art comes alive through interaction and communication. It connects us through shared humanity. And there are art forms out there that take care of that connection by default--I have felt the difference, and it is profound.

Yes, we can still write or create art as a form of processing emotions, and from a psychological viewpoint, this is healing and helpful.

But art needs to be both created and experienced. Every art ultimately becomes meaningless without the viewer/reader/audience. Art is never a one-way street.

Writers tell stories, but these stories don't exist in a vacuum. They exist because we can't help writing them, and we would always do it anyway, but they also exist because we want you to read them. And it means something to us to know they moved you, made you laugh, made you cry, made you find out something about yourself you didn't know yet, or they just helped you forget about the troubles you are going through for a little while.

So if you appreciate art forms that don't have direct audience interaction, let the artists know you did. It is not annoying us. We are happy about it. Most of us want that communication. And writers probably need it most...

[myfandomprompts]

𝐆𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐑𝐞𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐭 | 𝐓𝐨𝐦 𝐁𝐞𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐭𝐭 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 (𝟒)

Synopsis: You are a French girl that had the opportunity to teach in Manchester, and you had been lucky enough to be granted a bed at the Bennett’s place. As Europe is on the brink of war, you start to worry for your family back at home, and you are surprisingly consoled by the one man of the house you would never have thought capable of landing you an ear. It’s not that you like Tom, is it?

Previous Part - Masterlist

Tags: angst, fluff

A/N: Sorry for my long absence, but until July I am swamped. I should be working instead of writing but here I am. There is work in the do, another Aemond fic among others things, but I'll try to finish this one first. And I am not forgetting the other work I promised to some of you. Thank you to @enchantingcupcakecollectionfan & @babyblue711 for awesome beta reading. Enjoy.

French spoken -> italics

It was a terrifying thing to witness. 

Mass and queues of thousands of men waiting on the sand with the hope of being evacuated upon the Channel before the Germans broke the last lines of defence. And Tom had only one job: bring back as many as possible to the destroyer and manage to make it home.

“Come on lads!” he shouted against the wind. “Fritz is due to call again soon, and he won’t be selling ice creams!”

Then a bloke with a thick eastern accent tried to board the barge, a wild look in his eyes as he approached the boat. “You cannot stop me,” he spat as Tom pushed him away, telling him off. 

“Oh, yeah? I can with this, mate,” he replied, drawing his handgun and pointing it at him.

Tom didn’t want to be here. Every minute he spent away from home felt like part of himself was betraying him, his father’s look as he refused him fresh on his mind, as well as the discussion with you. He had a task to accomplish, and even though he understood why this guy wanted to flee, he could not let him. Who did he think he was? 

He tried to explain why he couldn’t board with them, but the wild look in the man’s eyes grew more determined. He was not giving up, Tom reckoned.

“I’m ready for death.” 

But neither was he. “We’re all fucking ready for death mate! We’re all ready for death.” 

Because life was apparently set to make him feel like he was in hell.

“Shoot me!” the man screamed and Tom had widened his eyes a little before finding his cocky expression again, refusing to let compassion take the better of him before the blond-haired man's desperation. Because every second he was spending on French soil infuriated him, wishing that the aching in his chest would disappear and be replaced by the usual soldier dread or determination his mates all seem to possess, like that eastern man obviously had. 

Instead Tom was doing everything he could to get you out of his head, one way or another, and being geographically close to you did not help, at all.

“Right, behave, lads! Any more hassle and I’ll be going home with a boat half-full!” he shouted at the beach, the feeling of his gun heavy in his hands as the blond boy was shoved away.

Then that sound. That shrilling howl, that recognisable whistling that meant death filled the beach and all looked up. Several Stukas, Luftwaffe’s most dreadful aircraft were diving on them, dropping bombs and shooting away.

Everybody around him started to shout and move, panic taking over the entire beach as he saw the bombers dive one by one. Tom felt his whole body fill with dread, the same feeling he had had on the Graf Spree as it got bombed kicking in and the next minute he was running, sprinting among the soldiers and the fire raining down on them. 

He had said he was ready for death, but as it came nearer and nearer his need to escape it only grew stronger. That would not be how he ends, not how he parted with his father. With you.

So Tom ran. And Tom fell.

The Nazi flag that hung below l’Arc de Triomphe was flapping against the warm wind of June like it belonged there, red, black and white flashing against the blue of the sky. Behind it marched hundreds of German officers who were parading on the Champs-Elysées with arrogance under the sour gaze of the Parisians that had enough courage to leave their home to witness their entrance.

But Paris felt empty, most of its inhabitants had fled when the capital had been declared an open city a few days prior, the government relocating to Bordeaux the next day as the threat of a German bombing loomed over it. What was left of the French forces was only a deformed mass, scattered across the North of France as soon as the German had pushed through the Meuse and Sedan, trapping them between them and the sea. Many died as they covered the evacuation of Dunkirk, some even lucky enough to reach English shores when the remaining troops were either taken prisoners or killed. Only a few had managed to come back, either wounded or forced to take the German’s advancement by speed as they tried to reach Paris.

But Paris was now occupied, left defenceless as the exodus carried on. And there you were, in the city since the start of May, learning day after day of news of defeated battles and death, heart falling in your chest as the enemy crept closer. 

It was upon your return from England that you had decided to go to Paris, after you had found your parents and after they told you that your brother had enrolled in the army back in January and hadn’t come back. An argument ensued in which you blamed your parents who had hidden this from you in order to have you stay in Manchester, feeling betrayed and left out by their omission. So you had packed and headed for the capital only a few days before the Germans had crossed the Maginot Line and put the whole country in disarray.

If your brother was to appear somewhere, you hoped it would be there. You would not sit back and wait for him to appear or not appear. You would not wait to learn of his imprisonment or death comfortably with your parents. You would not experience the same feeling you had had when Tom Bennet, whose blue eyes and wry smile haunted you every day, had been away at sea.

As he surely was now.

You sat down in your tiny flat and, feeling like it was for the millionth time, began writing the same words at the top of the paper again: Dear Tom, Then, after two minutes of agony you crunched up the paper into a ball and threw it in the bin atop of the rest.

It had been months, and you doubted that you would ever be able to put your thoughts into words, what you wanted to say to him. You felt that a letter was not enough, and it surely was.

You weren’t even sure it would reach him.

If he was still alive.

"They dismissed you? Just like that?"

"They didn't really have any choice. The Germans do not care about a shabby café, they prefer three stars restaurants."

It was several days after the German parade and you had just entered the American Hospital to find Henriette, catching her on her way to the office in order to enter new deaths to the registry. 

Just in time.

“If you aren’t able to work anymore, you should leave Paris. Maybe go to the zone libre,” she suggested to you as she washed her hands thoroughly in a tiny sink.

“No, if I want to have a better chance at finding my brother, it’s here in Paris. No matter how much I hate being here,” you said, looking around to witness some Nazi officers stroll the corridors. You lowered your voice. “You should be the one leaving. Go in the countryside, not… staying among them.”

Henriette looked at you terrified as she glanced at the Nazis disappearing beyond the halls, then she gave you a frantic shake of her head. Your friend was Jewish, and you were awfully worried for her since the Germans’ arrival, the anti-Semitic ideas they brought with them spreading at an alarming rate.

“My duties are here and I am helping people, the ones who fought for us,” she answered as she went to the desk to grab the log book. “Even when some are ungrateful, might I add. Always feels rewarding when they are getting better.”

You eyed the book in her hands before giving her a short smile. “Men giving you a hard time, then? Hope it’s not the doctor,” you winked, aware of your friend's crush on the American.

She gave you a scolding smile. “Non. Some British guy who was very unhappy to be in Paris. Just, straight rude, called Jacques a coward. He did not like it,” she scoffed.

“Right, I swear they aren’t all like that," you laughed, picturing in your head a man like Tom doing the exact opposite of what you were claiming British people didn’t do. You tried to ignore the pang of guilt and longing you felt thinking about him again, a daily struggle, “What’s an English man doing here anyway? Prisoner?” 

“Wounded at Dunkerque and brought back, shot in the shoulder. That boy was a sacré numéro.”

But you were not listening to your friend saying that the soldier had been a handful, because your anguish was considerably growing at the sight of the papers she had mulled out of the drawer, drawing all of your attention to it.

“Je peux voir ?” you said, voice slightly trembling. Can I see?

Every week it was the same routine. Ever since you had settled in Paris, you visited the hospital where you knew your friend received a daily list of the deceased soldiers that had passed away in the hospitals of the area, and every few days you came and consulted said list, hoping that your brother’s name would not appear. You dreaded the day you would learn that he had indeed made it to Paris, only to die there.

Henriette sighed. “Are you sure you want to keep doing this?” she asked, assessing your worried eyes staring at her.

As an answer you just extended your hand so she would give you the list, and she reluctantly did. As your eyes travelled the papers, you heard Doctor O’Connor enter the room and greet you. You absent-mindedly greeted back, eyes not leaving the list of  names. 

“Are they gone?” Henriette asked Webster in English.

“Yes, the one that vomited was pretty eager to leave. I doubt they will ask to go downstairs again after that.”

You gathered they were talking about German officers that had visited earlier. They were everywhere, even in the last place you wanted them to be. You try not to let it get to you.

“Good,” your friend answered with a firm nod. “Because I don’t think I could pull another miracle like that next time.”

You were about to put the paper back down on the desk, relieved not to see your brother’s name written on it, when your eyes noticed something and your heart stopped.

No.

“Henriette?” you said in a voice you did not recognise, your eyes refusing to leave the piece of paper. “What did you say that English guy’s name was?”

Both the Doctor and your friend exchanged a look before answering. “Uh… Bennett, I think,” she said.

“Tom Bennett, Royal Navy,” finished Webster matter-of-factly while watching you with curious eyes. “Why, you know him?”

You looked up from the paper, feeling the world spinning. No, there was no way. 

“What did he look like?” you heard yourself ask, your voice barely audible as you felt your throat burn.

“British?” Webster answered with a scoff. “Blue eyes, blond hair, a pain in the ass. Big mouthed.” 

You felt your vision blur for the briefest moment before it cleared again, and you let out a trembling breath you didn’t know you were holding.

This wasn't happening.

You had to sit down, and when you reached the chair next to the desk you felt Henriette rush to your sides in order to ease you down.

“Y/N, qu’est-ce qu’il se passe? Do you know him?” she repeated in French, concern in her eyes as Doctor O’Connor was looking at you dumbfounded, a brow arched high on his forehead.

You struggled to speak, your eyes fixated on the ground. No…You needed more time.

“How…” you began, swallowing hard to control your tears from flowing, hand over your mouth. “…when did he die?” you asked, your voice escaping your throat with difficulty. It took everything you had not to close your eyes and not fall apart on the spot.

“Oh no, no he is not dead, Y/N,” said your friend as she took your hand gently. 

You glanced up at her. “What? But…” you stammered, looking at the paper you had put back on the desk with the names and back at her.

Doctor O’Connor seemed to catch up, closed the door and came to crouch next to you, lowering his voice as he spoke. “He is not, we only declared him dead so he would not be taken prisoner of war. We found a way for him to make it back home.”

You widen your eyes, not realising that they were wet from your own tears, heart beating hard in your chest. Tom Bennett was in the same building as you were.

Alive.

“What the fuck do you call this outfit? This your revenge?”

Tom had just grabbed the brown vest that looked like it had been lifted from a dead body from the male nurse. Jacques, he thought his name was, from what he had gathered when he had woken up five days earlier. 

When he was met with silence, Tom sneered. “I know you speak English, you understood full well when I was calling you a coward.”

Tom smirked at the man looking out of the window to see if the way was clear, but when the nurse stopped him from exiting the room and uncovered the stretcher near the shelves, Tom’s smirk fell as he understood the plan. 

“You’re fucking kidding me?”

Being rolled around in a stretcher was humiliating, but his desire to get away from this place and the stinkers that crowded it was worth this humbling experience, the prospect of even making it home in one piece, seeing his dad, Lois, and little Lois and Harry warming his heart a bit. 

He laid still, even when he felt the stretcher come to a stop and a German officer ask questions to his “saviour”. Minutes later, the ambient sounds of the hospital died and he felt the linen over him being lifted off.

“Fucking finally. Did you take the long road or something?” he asked, straightening his clothes as he got up and took in the small room he was in, dimly lit with only one window and chairs put up against the walls. “What now?”

He was satisfied to see the frustrated scowl on the man’s face but he soon noticed the way his eyes glanced over his shoulder. When he followed his gaze, Tom felt his heart stop altogether. "...Y/N?”

You were standing at a corner of the room, unmoving, your eyes roaming over him and Tom felt crushed under it for a moment before you suddenly moved. He barely had time to register it was really you before you crashed on to him with force, enveloping him in your arms. 

“Oi, careful there,” he winced with a scoff when he felt the pain that shot through his fresh wound at his shoulder. But he didn’t make any move to push you away as he felt your breath on his neck and your scent fill his nostrils, so familiar, so sweet. He had no choice but to assess that it was really you. 

You were finally in his arms. 

Well, almost. “Sorry! I didn’t think…” concerned, you pulled away from him, giving him space and making him instantly regret his words. “I know you’ve been shot, I was just so happy to see you…” 

“It’s ok. You can’t be as bad as a bullet,” he chuckled, taking in the way your cheeks reddened at his joke and eliciting a small smile on your lips.

He managed to stay still for only two whole seconds before pulling you back against him, willing to take everything you would give him, everything you were. Your warmth, your embrace, your presence. You were the first familiar face he had seen in weeks, and he was still processing that you were really here.

He felt your hands coming to rest on his back again shyly, taking care not to press against his shoulder and he exhaled in blissfulness. He held you close until a clearing of throat came from somewhere behind him. You both pulled apart to look at Jacques, hand on the doorknob and absolutely not ashamed to have ruined this moment.

“Hey, Y/N. Tell him that he must be in the hall at nightfall, the contact will wait for him there. Meanwhile, he must not move from here, it's too much risk, d'accord?"

Tom saw you frown. “Oui, understood. But I thought you spoke English, why don't you tell that yourself?"

"I don't have time to lose with that merdeux. He can already count himself damn lucky that O'Connor accepts to help him, and you seem to have things well in hand... So, all the better for me."

You chuckled dryly, your eyes lightening a bit as you did so, and Tom arched a brow on his forehead at that. What was so funny?

“Very well,” you replied as the man opened the door and made him stop when you thanked him with all of your heart. Jacques gave you a nod before barely granting a glance at Tom and left the room.

“What did he say?” inquired Tom as soon as the man had disappeared. 

“He said that you must meet the contact in the hall in about…” you eyed the clock that was hanging above the door, narrowing your eyes. “Two hours, when the sun will be down. It’ll be easier not to get spotted. The Germans are tense today, it is said that Hitler himself was in Paris this morning.”

Jacques’ interruption had you take a step back away from him and as Tom mourned your closeness, he was able to notice the way you shivered at the mention of the Fuhrer. His instinct instantly went to soothe you, but he stopped himself. The distant memory of the last time he saw you and the struggle he endured during this last month slowly came back, and he suddenly didn’t know how to act anymore.

All he knew was that he had been mad at you at some point.

“So it’s not you, huh? The contact,” he said, putting his hands in his pocket bitterly. “Seemed too good to be true.” 

You must have seen his mood change on his face because you brought your arms to cross them over your chest protectively in reaction.  “No… I know my way around, but I don’t have the means to go to Spain,” you tried to joke with a smile, but it didn’t stick.

Instead, Tom felt everything he had on his heart slowly takes over. “I came for you, you know,” he said, not leaving your gaze. “Back in Manchester. I came back to your flat, but you were already gone. No goodbyes, no letters, nothing. You said three days.”

He watched as your eyes filled with guilt instantly, making him want to take back what he had just said, make you understand that it was all because he had been miserable. 

But it was too late. “I thought it would be better that way, for everybody. I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry…” he nodded, tongue pressing against his inner cheek in animosity. “You didn’t even send a letter to us afterwards. To Dad and Lois. To me.”

“I… I thought you wouldn't have wanted me to. I thought you would be mad at me,” you tried to explain.

“Yeah, that’s an understatement,” he scoffed. “Did what we had mean so little to you, Y/N?”

“Tom…”

“No, really. I know you’re the bravest out of the two of us and all, but when you take so much place in my head, I would have expected you to at least try and end things properly,” he blurted out, nostrils flaring a bit in repressed rancour. “That would have been more like you.”

Tom was spiteful, but otherwise he found himself rather calm considering what he had experienced the last two months after he had discovered you gone. And now you were staring back at him, tears in your eyes, and he felt awful.

"It was a mistake," you suddenly said, shaking your head and hiding your face from him. "Coming here. I should have left you alone, I'm sorry."

You made for the door, passing by him in a blink of an eye and he barely had time to react. He tried to stop you as he made to grab you with his wrong arm, making him groan in the process and he was left with no choice but to rush to the door as well. He slammed it shut as you opened it, trapping you against it.

"No wait-" he called out before lowering his voice to a whisper, your hair brushing against the side of his face. "Wait… I'm sorry, I didn't mean that." 

You turned around, leaning your back against the door as you tried to not let a single tear fall over your cheek.

"I'm sorry," he repeated, coming to press his forehead over yours as you closed your eyes in reaction, his own refusing to leave your face. "Don't leave again."

You let out a trembling breath that fanned over his skin. “You’re the one leaving…” you said sadly, smiling weakly as you opened your eyes, glimmering. Then he felt one of your hands flatten against his chest between the two of you, resting there.

“It would be so much easier if you hated me…” you continued, looking somewhere between the hand on his chest and his lips, and he felt compelled to bring his own finger over the side of your jaw.

“Yeah…” he scoffed, grazing your skin. “Well I don’t think it’s that simple.”

Only your breaths could be heard in the room as he savoured your closeness, slightly pulling back from your face so he could see you better.

“Come with me,” he said in a low murmur, making you look back at him with wide eyes. “I don’t know where I’m going, but at least it will be away from here. Away from them.”

You bit your lip, almost like you had waited for those very words, a pained expression instantly appearing on your features. “I can’t Tom, I-” you started as he felt the pressure over his chest grow. “I have to stay here, in case he returns, I can’t…”

“Who?” he asked, his fingers falling at the hem of your dress over your shoulder in incomprehension.

“My brother,” you answered in a light shake of your head. “He was in the north, fighting. We have had no news for months, and I hoped… I hoped that he would come here, after everything that happened. After they were pushed back. Just maybe.”

Tom felt a rush of empathy take over him as he watched your eyes turn mournful, feeling the need to take the anguish away, to erase the pain on your face that he had pictured you with so many times when he was at sea himself. He wanted to be even closer.

But you have never felt so far away but at that moment. 

“Y/N…” he started, seeing you escape his gaze once more. “If your brother is still… If your brother is still out there, Paris is the last place he’ll come.”

“But you made it,” you said, eyes fluttering, hopeful. “You’re here.”

“I was lucky,” he admitted grudgingly. “I was wounded, they told me they passed me through the lines before the Germans got here. Otherwise I’d be taken as a prisoner of war. Otherwise I’d be…”

He stopped, choosing not to think about the horrible things that would have happened but rather of what was.

“Otherwise I wouldn't be here, with you,” he pressed, applying a light pressure on your shoulder that made you shiver. “Trust me, if I had a choice I wouldn’t have come here, and your brother won’t either, Y/N.”

You let out a defeated sigh. You already knew all of that, you just didn’t want to admit it.

You ducked under his arm, leaving him cold and longing next to the door while you brought a hand to your throat in anguish, not quite looking at him. “I know. I know I just… I can’t just wait, not knowing while they kill and terrorise and take over. It’s just… horrifying Tom.” 

“Come with me,” he repeated, coming to stand right behind you. “There is nothing left for you here, right?”

You turned to him, the tears in your eyes gone as you looked at him with renewed determination. “I can’t, you have to go home, and they have a plan to get you there, a sound one. You are the first of many, this is important, and I won’t be the one to jeopardise that,” you argued, taking his hand at his side with purpose.

“You’re just being stubborn again.”

You sighed, a sorry look on your face. “I can’t go with you because two people have less chance to be spotted than three. I’ll be fine if I stay, you won’t,” you pointed out, eyes intense. “I have ways to leave the city, legal ways. I… I heard you, I know I should leave, go back to the countryside. I’ll do it I promise.”

Tom remained silent, the sour taste in his mouth descending into his throat and he found nothing to say, no arguments, not even a witty response to give you. All of that because he knew you were right. 

All he wanted was for all of this to be over and to be back to the time where you read your books in his living room, drinking tea while he enjoyed a smoke and the way you laughed. But that was impossible now. He was meant to probably die somewhere at sea, or in France if he didn’t make it back, and you were meant to be with your family, two armies separating you.

“There is a curfew,” you stated after a long pause, finding your words again and speaking in a low voice. “I have to get back…” 

He wanted to argue, to find something, anything, but his mind was blank. Instead he watched the way your eyelashes fluttered and how you looked at the clock like it was the fouless thing you’ve even seen.

“Oh, I have something for you,” you remembered, and he saw you reach into your purse to put out two packets of cigarettes. “I figured you would want it. It’s not mild like back in Manchester but, maybe you’ll like those anyway.”

Tom stared at it, unable to take it at first. That was it, the sign that your time together was coming to an end, that you would disappear again and although neither of you wanted to, he knew that you had to.

You put the packets in his hands yourself instead, letting your fingers rest on his hands for a while, pensive.

“Come home safely, Tom, and desert,” you stated, a smile at the corner of your lips. “Properly this time.”

He smiled back. “Well, I’ll have to come back eventually. Who would be left to save your sorry frog’s arses if not us Brits, eh?”

He had talked in a joking manner but he absolutely didn’t feel like laughing, rather focusing on not letting his frustration that was growing by the minute get the better of him and on your fingers on his hands.

You had smiled a bit but your stare was intense, meaningful. He felt like time had stopped before you suddenly came to hold him, wrapping your arms around his shoulder again softly and staying there, silence stretching. 

“Take care of yourself, Tom,” you breathed in his neck, your voice trembling. “Please.”

He held you back, wishing the moment would never be over and he could feel the beating of your heart somehow, beating along with his own. But after a while you slightly pulled back, letting go of you and he felt your lips press a single kiss on his cheek, unsure if the wetness there were your tears or his own.

“Goodbye, Tom.”

Then you were out of the room, barely letting him take a last look at your face as you closed the door behind you, and he just stood there, waiting for the steps to fade away in the corridor like some sort of dream. Then he brought his hand to his face, brushing it as to wake up.

He looked around, alone in a room he was doomed to wait in in order to get back where you weren’t, and when he kicked the bin that was beside the door with his foot, sending it to the other side of the room, it didn’t soothe him at all.

That was the longest two hours of his life.

You had no appetite on this yet another Franco-German morning in your flat. Pigeons were cooing by your window where your bag laid open, half packed, clothes spread other the bed and left abandoned there. Maybe what had pushed you to start packing last night when you came home, dry tears over your cheeks was the will to finally make the sound decision and leave Paris, the conversation with Tom ringing in your ears telling you that your brother wouldn’t make it back here. You’d be better back at your parent’s, you gathered. Or maybe what had pushed you to pack was something else, but you didn’t want to dwell on it, deciding to chase the ache in your chest for now.

You decided to visit the hospital in the afternoon, unable to rest until you knew if it had worked. You knew it was too early, but you didn’t care. If something had happened, they would know of it. Webster would know.

When you entered the lobby, you almost turned back when you saw the abnormally high number of German officers, coming in and out of the heavy doors as you tried to make your way to the first floor. When you reached your friend, she immediately dragged you into an empty room, panic in her eyes.

“Ils l’ont arrêté, Y/N,” she said, taking your hands.

“Arrested? Arrested who, Henriette?” you asked, feeling your throat tighten at her expression, desperately looking into her eyes.

“Léon, from the psychiatric unit. They came this morning and arrested him.”

“What?” you exclaimed, half relieved and half scared. “Why? On what ground?”

Henriette gave you a pained look. “Because I think that he is… Because he is Jewish.”

You recoiled, dread filling you as you thought about your bag on the bed back in your flat and your friend in front of you, all alone.

Like you were.

“That’s it. You’re not staying here. You’re leaving, and I’m coming with you.”

“But I can’t! I have work here, I’m useful, I save lives… I need the money.”

“You won’t have money when they’ll put you away in those labour camps. Henriette, we can't wait around until they take you away.”

Your friend only stared at you, defeated. She didn’t want to leave Paris, what she had always known. She didn’t want to leave her job or Webster.

But you were right.

“Très bien. I just don’t know what to do.”

“I do. Pack, we leave in the morning.”

A/N: By the time the Germans entered Paris the 13 of June, the Parisians that remained stayed inside their homes in fear, as there was a strict curfew. I made reader witness the parade for image purposes.

Here's an accurate representation of myself in my father's attic searching for testimonies of my grand-father and objects from WWII.

I frigging' love that attic.

Part 5

(bold means I couldn't tag you) @chainsawsangel@mischiefmanaged71@depressedperson88@enchantingcupcakecollectionfan @yentroucnagol@crlttpstrn @tssf-imagines @omgkatherine01 (I allowed myself to tag you) @nightdiamond8663 @r0segard3n

[imagines-for-the-fangirls-soul]

Return to Me - Chapter Twenty-Nine and A Half

Chapter Twenty-Nine and a Half: For the Better

A/N: Hello, friends! As always, Return to Me is never far from my thoughts, and I often find myself rereading chapters when I need them. And as always, I want to rewrite everything I've ever written. But, since I've put so much work into the current rewrite, I've decided to fill in some of the gaps that seem to haunt me the most. So voila, I present to you my first add-on chapter.

This chapter will follow both the reader and Poe, in the aftermath of their breakup. As I have reread this story, I feel like the absolute depression that each of them went through wasn't expressed enough, so this needed to be done. This is aggressively inspired by the TikTok edit of Waiting Room x All I Wanted.

Pairing: Poe Dameron x Reader Word Count: 3.6k Synopsis: Somehow, life goes on after the painful breakup, and Poe and the reader struggle to find their footing in this new world.

Tags: @xeniarocks, @too-many-baes, @idocarealot, @treblebeth, @treestarrrrrrrr, @thescarletknight2014, @cspr-2, @ibikus, @mellow-f1, @mrsdaamneron, @trustme3-13, @ella-solei, @minelskede, @gleigh42, @givemethatgold, @and-claudia, @constantdisgrace, @wordsinwinters, @readingvogueonprivetdrive, @trshbb, @kaitlynw011, @ihave2muchtimeonmyhands, @fairytalesforever, @thanos-jeep, @mixedfandxms,

@pastelbunny1501, @emotionalcal, @danicalifxrnia, @getyourselfaunicorn, @spider-starry, @roserrys, @blushingwueen, @sam-wilsonnn , @commondazy, @throughparisallthroughrome, @ms-dont-care , @bubblegumcat229 , @barnesdameron , @i-hope-the-roof-flies-off , @deliriousgeek , @elisearts, @abzidabzy @lxntsxv

Previous Chapter - Next Chapter

You cannot remember the last time you ate. You know you've been drinking water, but only because every hour or so, Nové is there to force it down your throat.

You have never felt this weak before. You have lived on Naboo for most of your life, but every breeze off the lakes chills you to your core. Sitting with your upcoming cabinet nearly knocks you to the ground.

You know eating will help, but you can't seem to muster up the appetite, even when your favorite foods are presented in front of you.

Your mind wanders. You try to stay in the present, listen to the information that you know will be beneficial to your reign, but you can't seem to focus on a single thought.

Well, aside from the memory of the pain on Poe's face. That never, ever leaves your mind.

The only other thought that grasps you is what your father said after you told him it was over. That you and Poe were over.

"Know it's for the better, Y/N."

Compared to the devastation in Poe's eyes, the look in your father's was warm, caring even. You know he truly believes that this is the better course. And that belief haunts your thoughts.

"Y/N?" One of the handmaidens ask. You aren't sure which one, since you just met them all, aside from Nové. You think it might be Loré, the one with the beautiful dark hair.

"Sorry?" you say, trying to shake yourself back to the present.

"Did you decide on what dress you want to wear?" she asks. By her placating tone, you know it's not the first she has asked this.

"The red will be fine for today," you say.

Today, your coronation day, the final brick that will complete the wall between the life you had known for five years, and the one you have to embrace now.

"Excellent choice," Loré says softly, and goes to collect the supplies to prepare your look.

Poe cannot remember the last time he hasn't woken up with a terrible hangover.

In reality, he knows the last time was the last morning he spent with you, when things still made sense. But since that awful day, the rest have become a blur of too many drinks in the quiet of your formerly shared quarters.

The beep of greeting that BB-8 gives him only strains his already growing headache. He mumbles a hello and staggers his way to the bathroom.

Poe splashes cold water on his face, raring himself for the day. Leia informed him last night that she has a mission for Black Squadron, and Poe couldn't have been more relieved.

When he was moving, when he was fighting, when he was doing anything other than sitting in this room, it was easier to ignore the thoughts that clawed at him in the night.

It was easy to forget the absolute gut-wrenching pain of your goodbye. To forget the memory of you walking back up the stairs, towards the life you were leaving him for.

It was easy to forget that he had hardly fought for you.

He dressed in his orange jumpsuit and together he and BB-8 left the room. The least amount of time he could stay in here, the better it was for his mind, heart, and liver.

The makeup is lighter than you had expected.

Looking at yourself in the mirror, the white face paint covers every inch of your skin, but it feels as if nothing is there at all. Loré paints two red dots on your cheeks, and finishes with the lip design, as Nové brings your selected gown in.

The dress takes a few minutes to put on. Sondé pins the the veil into the braided crown of your hair, and there is no more stalling to do.

You are motionless before the standing mirror. It is your reflection you see, but it's not someone you know. Queen Bhavisama looks back at you, her eyes welling with tears just like your own.

Before they can fall and ruin your makeup, you shove those feelings down. The numbing thought, "Know it's for the better," clings in your mind, and you let it wash over you.

Flight check is a reflex to Poe. Without even realizing he has started, he is already done. BB-8 wows something at it, but Poe only recognizes half of it. He hears the word 'general,' and he hops down from the X-Wing as Leia walks up.

"Commander," she says with a sad smile. The only type of smile Poe has received from any of his friends in the last few weeks.

"General."

"Are you ready for today?"

"Of course."

"Didn't have too much to drink last night?" she asks, but her demeanor makes it seem like she already knows the answer.

"I'm fine, Leia," he says softly.

"Are you?"

There is nothing but worry in Leia's face as she asks. She's not asking as his general, but as an old friend, the person who officiated his wedding, the person he's looked up to for years.

He can only bring himself to nod. Somehow, he thinks if he tried to speak the lie, he would falter.

"Be careful, Commander."

He nods to her once more and begins to climb back up the X-Wing, when Leia says, "And may the Force be with you." Not just on this mission, her eyes seem to say.

You have been shaking since Sarsa Broden gave you the responsibility of Naboo. You know there was a parade in your honor, you know that you walked through it, probably smiled and waved at your citizens, but it's all a blur.

Back at Theed Palace there is a party in your honor, yet you are incapable of finding a single reason to celebrate.

When you enter the room, you know there is commotion around you, but you don't hear any of it, until your father's hand is on your arm.

"We are so proud of you," he says, throwing his arms around you. You hardly feel them. His face holds no emotion other than delight, no matter how hard you search.

"Thank you," you mutter, shrugging out of his arms. You need to get out of this room, away from all these people.

You aren't sure you've cried before 9pm in any of the past weeks. Appointments have kept you too unfeeling to have time to. But the coronation ceremony has brought you to your knees, and you need to get out of here before you lose control.

"Ah, your highness," a voice says, and before you can register who it is, they have your arm in theirs. You look up into Sarsa Broden's smiling face. He's an old family friend, and typically the sight of him would have made you nothing but happy, but now, all you can see if him handing over Naboo to you.

"You did well today, my Queen," he says. The title chafes. Suddenly your dress feels much too tight.

"Thank you," you manage to say.

"Ah," he says, as a server walks by with a tray of food. "My favorites. Any for you--"

"No, no thank you," you say. Just the smell of whatever it is makes you nauseous. When was the last time you ate anything?

"I hope that you know you can call on me for anything you should need during your term."

"Of course I do," you say. The temperature in the ball room must have gone up at least ten degrees. It quickly feels hard to breath.

"I'm glad," he says with a smile. He studies your face for a moment and his smile drops. "Your Highness? Are you alright?"

"Perfectly fine, my lord," you pant.

"I know this can all be overwhelming, but I do hope it's all you ever wanted it to be."

You are going to be sick.

"Please excuse me," you say, not giving him enough time to respond before you bolt out the nearest exit.

Workers are a blur as you race past them, struggling not to knock them over.

Know it's for the better.

You hear footsteps behind you and know that it is your security, probably confused as hell about your sudden exit.

All you ever wanted.

At the end of the hall is a door out to the terrace.

Know it's for the better.

Naboo matches the mood of her queen. The temperature has dropped significantly, as heavy rain falls over Theed Palace.

All you ever wanted.

It is the final straw. Here in the downpour in the dark, with only a few streetlights and the glow of the opened door where your guards wait, you break down.

Falling to your knees, tears pour down your face faster than ever. You can feel the face paint slipping down your cheeks, but it doesn't matter. A scream like sob wrenches out of you as you hold onto yourself.

Both your father and Broden's words echo in your mind. Like scorpions they sting and sting, over and over again. You cannot find a way to be free of them.

Warm arms wrap around you, and for a moment you think it's one of your guards, but then you look up into Nove's face. It looks like she's crying, too. You open your mouth to say something but it just comes out in a sob. She clings to you tightly and rocks you gently as you cry.

"All I wanted was him," you weep, clinging to her just as tight.

"I know, I know."

"All I wanted," you say again, and you know you are shouting, but it has to come out. You say it over and over until your throat is scraped raw. Nové just rocks you in her arms and shushes you gently.

"I know."

The bottle of moonshine is empty before Poe realizes. Just like how the mission was over before he knew it.

The bottle was a gift from his dad. He came to visit Poe a few days after he heard the news. All attempts Kes made to get Poe to open up were futile. But when it finally all came out, over a couple glasses of the very same moonshine, Kes held him tightly, crying with him.

He left the bottle with Poe and told him to comm if he needed anything. Poe thought he could use another bottle right now, but knows that's not what his father had meant.

He holds the bottle in his hands, his grip tightening as he reads the label. It's the same brand, his father's brand, that Kes served to you when the two of you had gone to visit. Back when things were good, back when things made sense.

He doesn't realize he is holding the bottle too tight until it shatters in his hands.

"Fuck," Poe yells, trying to shake the shards of glass from his hands. The door to his quarters opens and Snap comes in, eyes wide.

"What the hell?" he asks, stepping over the shards of glass to look at Poe's hand. "What happened?"

"Bottle broke," Poe says through gritted teeth. "I'm fine."

"You're not," Snap says, pulling Poe after him. "You've got shards of glass in your hand."

"I said I'm fine, Snap!" Poe barks.

He has been like this for too long. Every little thing seems to set him on edge. He knows his friends are only trying to help, but each time they reach out, his anger only grows. No one can help him. It's a fate he has readily accepted. Why can't they?

"I know you are. But there's glass in your hand. I just want to get you cleaned up."

Poe keeps protesting as Snap leads him to Med Bay, but Snap ignores him. It isn't until they are sitting in the white, sterile room, his hand devoid of glass and bandaged, that Snap speaks again.

"What did the bottle do to piss you off?" he asks.

Poe's first instinct is to shake his head, but he finds himself saying, "Just brought up a memory."

"A bad one?"

"A Y/N one," he says quietly.

"Ah."

"You know," Poe say after a beat, "I drink to try and forget her, but everything ends up reminding me of her."

"General Organa told you she could find you another room."

"I don't want another room," he says. His voice cracks a little, but he fights to control it. "I don't want any of this, Snap."

"I know, Poe," he says gently.

"Why didn't I fight harder?" he asks, just above a whisper. He has kept these thoughts silent for too long. He wants them to come out, but knows it's pointless, given the state of things.

"What?"

"Why didn't I fight? Why didn't I confront her parents? Why didn't I take her off of Naboo, give her time to think it over? Why didn't I-"

"Poe, you--"

"Why wasn't I enough? Why wasn't our love strong enough?"

"Hey, don't start thinking like that," Snap says, bracing a hand on his shoulder. "You know why she did what she did. And you know it hurts her, too."

"I don't know what I know anymore," he says, dropping his head into his hands. He wrings his fingers through his mess of curls. They've been knotted for weeks, but he can't seem to find the desire to fix them.

"Maybe laying off the moonshine will bring some clarity," Snap says carefully. Poe lets out a tut of laughter and nods noncommittally.

"Thanks for the first aid, Snap," Poe says, and hops off the exam table.

As midnight overtakes Naboo, Nové and the other handmaidens have tucked you into bed. After spending stars know how long holding onto you on the terrace, Nové was eventually able to coax you back inside. Together, Loré, Sondé, and she got you out of the ruined coronation gown and into a warm bath. They brushed out your knotted hair as you sat in silence, and then crawled into bed next to you.

Loré, on your left, distracts you by reading inane articles from gossip nets, ones that sometimes get you to crack a smile. Sondé, on your right, has made a cup of warm tea, that she hands to you now.

Seeing that you are taken care of for the moment, Nové slips out of the room. The halls of Theed Palace are nearly empty as she finds her way into an unoccupied communications room.

She only has to wait a beat before the holographic image of Jess appears. Nové can't help her smile at seeing her, but there is pain there, too. A longing of her own.

"Hi, Supernova," Jess says.

"It's so good to hear your voice," Nové says gently.

"Yours, too."

"How are things?"

"They're alright," Jess says carefully. "Business as usual, but there is a tension that hangs in the air."

"Here too."

"How did the coronation go?" Jess asks.

"The ceremony itself went off without a hitch, but a few minutes into the party, Y/N broke down. She cried in the pouring rain for probably an hour, and all I could do was hold her," she says, feeling again, how helpless she felt then.

"It's good that you were there for her."

"Yeah," Nové says, "I'm just glad to see it finally come out. She's been a ghost these past few weeks. She only cries in the night when everyone else has left, but in the morning there are still red circles under her eyes. And then it's back to a living corpse. She hardly eats." Nové sighs. "I don't know what I can do to help her."

"I don't know that there is anything we can do," Jess says. "We've been trying to figure out how to help Poe over here, but he doesn't want to talk either."

"He's gone silent, too?"

"No, he just brushes us off when we try to. And he's taken to drinking. When it's time for a mission, debrief, he's there and in normal Poe spirit. But the second any of that is over, the tortured look comes back over him, and he disappears to his quarters to drink. He broke a glass bottle in his hands earlier today."

"How are they ever going to . . ." Nové trails off, unable to say it.

"How are they ever going to find each other again?" Jess asks.

"No. How will they ever get past this," Nové says.

"I don't know. Do you think there's a chance, after all of this is done?"

"I don't know," Nové says with a sigh. And she truly doesn't. She can't even imagine how tomorrow will shake out, let alone years from now. "Are you going to tell Poe we spoke?"

"I'm not sure. I'm going to go check in on him afterwards. I think today was particularly worse, because he knew that the coronation was taking place. I'll see if it's something he needs to hear, if it's something he can handle.

"What about Y/N?"

"Not tonight I won't," Nové replies. "We just got her into bed, I won't give her another thought to torture herself with."

"Don't forget to take care of yourself, too, Nové."

"I won't."

"I miss you like crazy."

"I miss you more," Nové says with a sad smile.

"Talk soon?"

"Absolutely. Jess?" Nové asks, before she can end the call. "We both miss you all. If he can handle it, tell him, won't you?"

"Of course. Goodnight, Supernova."

"Goodnight, Jessika."

A knock at his door awakens Poe. He lifts off the bed and notices the chair in the corner is in pieces, a bottle of whiskey lying next to him. He can't remember how it got there, or how the chair broke, but that has been happening more and more.

He has pushed his feelings down for so long, they seem to manifest in bursts of anger. He knows the drinking isn't helping these mood swings, but he can't bring himself to care to stop.

He knows he is drunk when he goes to open the door for Jess and nearly falls as he trips on more scattered junk. Jess walks into the room, and takes in the mess as she does. A bottle rolls away from her foot, rattling as she kicks it.

"Poe," she pleads, "Tell me this isn't all yours."

"What do you want, Jess?" he asks, flopping down at the end of his bed.

"At least say they aren't all from today."

"They aren't all from today."

"We're all worried about you--"

"I don't need your worry," he says, looking at her. "I'm fine."

"I never ever saw you drink this much when Y/N was around."

"Well she's not anymore, is she?" He can feel the fire blazing in his eyes as he says this, the anger forming inside of him.

"I never saw you drink this much before her, either," Jess says quietly.

"I'm fine," he says again, knowing it's a lie. "I'll quit soon, I'm just--"

"Trying to drink your way through the galaxy?"

"Why are you here, Jess?" he asks tiredly. "Come to dig the knife in further? I know you were calling Nové today."

"I did."

"So, how is she?" he asks. Jess knows he's not talking about Nové.

"The same as this," she says.

"Y/N is drinking herself to a stupor?" Poe asks with a pained smile.

"From the way Nové tells it, she can't bring herself to do much of anything. Says she's like a ghost."

A ghost. Poe can hardly imagine you as such. Can hardly imagine the woman he loves, the woman so full of life and laughter, suddenly empty and silent. The only time you were remotely like that, was around your parents, but even then you had venomous words to wield against them.

"She's not fighting anymore," Poe says, understanding, "She's accepted this fate her parents have decided for us."

"Not sure she had much of a choice."

"Yeah, but I did," he says. "I could have fought for her. I should have fucking been there today."

"What could you have done?"

"I could have tried," he says weakly. He stands, turning away from her as the tears he tries so hard to keep at bay threaten to fall. Jess ignores his desire to be alone and wraps him in her arms. It isn't until he's fully embraced that he realizes how much he needs this. He holds her tightly.

"I'm sorry," Jess says, the only thing she can think to say.

"I know," he says, breaking away from her. "I am, too." And that's really all he's been since it happened. Sorry for himself, sorry for you, sorry for the life you would have had, and the one you have now.

"So," he says after a beat, "What's her name?"

"Queen Bhavisama," Jess says quietly.

"Thank you for telling me," Poe says, a gentle dismissal. Jess nods.

Once she is gone, Poe sits back down and reaches for the closest bottle. He brings it to his lips but stops before drinking. His thoughts are on you, same as every day, but he cannot get the haunted image of you out of his mind.

He hates himself just a little bit for sitting here, knowing you are in pain. And he hates himself more because he knows that if he did run to you, it wouldn't change anything.

The bottle in his hand is mostly empty, and before he can take the final swig, he holds it up in toast and says, "To Queen Bhavisama." The liquor burns as it goes down and the bottle crashes onto the floor as Poe sobs into his hands.

[mygloviesme]

cool about it, eleven years later. || myg

no. 1 of 3: not strong enough to be your man

predebut/debut!yoongi x female idol

summary: eleven years later, kanako lives in nyc with her childhood best friend keiko. bts have become a household name that floods her every day life, and she's learned to ignore it. after years of moving on from those months she spent with the seven boys, she finds herself in a good place. what happens after one fateful night she finally runs into faces she's tried so hard to run away from?

(definitely inspired by boygenius)

word count: 4.5k

genre: ANGST, fluff, melodrama,

chapter warnings: mentions of mental health, drinking, smoking

inspo song: cool about it by boygenius

JULY 9TH, 2023, 12:12PM

ELEVEN YEARS LATER

Bright. Everything is way too bright. I groan and flip over my side, unable to ignore the throbbing in my head. I feel Keiko shove my side, “Koko, wake up. It’s noon.” She says. I lift my head to peak above the white comforter, squinting as I see her sitting on the edge of the bed. 

“I got way too fucked up last night.” I muffle under the sheets. 

“Yeah I think you’re getting too old for that.”

“Tellmeaboutit.” 

I definitely cannot handle my liquor the same way I could in my twenties. Ages twenty to twenty four was filled with sprite vodkas. And as I got older, just smelling alcohol made me hunch over and gag. But last night was different. I had been taking advantage of the connections I still have from being an idol so many years ago, getting invited to various up-scale parties and soirees. Some are fancy, some are trashy. Most of them being held by washed up celebrities that wanted everybody and anybody to come rager with them. 

But lately K-pop has been on the rise so my name get’s brought up every once in a while. They ignore the controversy that’s stapled to my name, instead calling me an ‘icon’ and ‘so ahead of your time.’ It would be more flattering if my past hadn’t been so chaotic. 

“I brought you a breakfast sandwich.” She says and tosses me the paper-wrapped food item. The smell of egg radiates off of it though, which in turn makes me jump from the bed and to the bathroom. I collapse onto the floor and grip the toilet, gross I know but I’m too old to be embarrassed anymore, my throat pushing out chunky acid. 

“Oh honey.” Keiko comforts me as she holds my hair up. I spit up the remaining vomit that sat in my mouth and lean myself on the bathroom wall, holding my knees. “Jesus.” I breathe. 

“Didn’t mean to trigger that.” She apologizes. 

“It’s okay, I’m actually starving but I don’t think I can consume anything.”

She brings over a glass of water from the counter, “Maybe you should try this.” She says sarcastically. I roll my eyes as I take the cup, downing the whole thing. My throat is scratchy and painful but I use that as another reason to finish it. 

She sighs and flushes the toilet for me, plopping the lid down and taking a seat on it. She messes with her fingers, obviously holding something back. She’s usually a very chatty person no matter the circumstances. So the fact that she hasn’t made a joke or a comment about this current situation makes me sure she has something to say. 

“What is it?” I mumble.

She perks her head up, pretending to be confused. I know her too well. “What do you mean?”

“Keiko. Spit it out. Or I’ll do it for you, on your feet.” I threaten playfully. I’m not very nervous to hear what she has to say, knowing it can’t be all that bad. It’s probably work, or maybe even “weird Charlie” the guy that texts her once in a while to hook up. I let out a soft ‘ugh’ and make a grossed-out expression, “Did you hook up with Charlie? Keiko, I told-”

“They released a book. Today. And they talk about you. Jungk- uh- he does.”

No fucking way. 

“You’re kidding.”

“No. I bought it. Sorry. It was a good thirty-something dollars though, and they actually go in depth about their trainee-”

I nudge her leg with my hand aggressively, “Show me! Now!” I shout. 

“Jeez, okay! Hold on.” She pulls out her phone and swipes through it for a couple minutes. She winces as she clicks on something, “Okay, just don’t freak out.” 

I shake my hand so she could hand me her phone, which she does.

 “I highlighted the-”

“Shh!”

I read it reluctantly. 

Jungkook: I met Kanako back in 2012. She was very sweet and a bit reserved, but we grew to be very close friends. We all hung out with her constantly during that hard time. She was there for us and we were there for her. It was a very beneficial dynamic with nothing in-between. I know she wanted to continue her education and we all respected that. I do miss her at times, and I hope she’s doing well. 

“Nothing in between…” I whisper as I bring my hand down to the floor. It would be a lie to say I never thought about them. Or Yoongi. That would be the biggest lie I’ve ever told. But it’s been so, so long. In a way, I’ve moved on. 

What made it all harder was their faces plastered on so many billboards and posters and Youtube ads and- 

You get it. Once that began in 2017, it was brought back to the surface. All the calls I ignored, all the times they did concerts here and I stayed in bed all day knowing I could buy a ticket the same day. Never reaching out. Mourning the life that never was, then feeling the shame that I couldn’t let go. In my darkest hours I still wish I was there. But I would never admit that, maybe not even to my therapist. It’s all so juvenile. 

And they’re different now. Much different than when I knew them. I saw Jungkook’s tattoos just a while ago and couldn’t recognize him. He’s not a boy anymore. Not the one I knew, not physically. And Yoongi…

“I know honey. It’s awful.” 

“I guess the NDA expired four years ago, but since they never said anything I just thought it wouldn’t come up. I hoped it wouldn’t. Did anyone else say anything?” I ask, knowing she knew who exactly I was talking about. 

She shakes her head, “He didn’t.”

I press my back into the wall and exhale, “This cannot be happening right now.”

Keiko stands and seats herself next to me, placing a hand on mine. She knows how I get, we’ve lived together for so long. I don’t think anyone has known me better than her besides my mom. And you know who. 

“I know, Koko. But think about it, they probably just wanted to say something once and for all. Nothing attached.”

I look at her with a guilty face, “Is it bad if I wish there was? Something attached, I mean.”

She hums, “Maybe not. But it doesn’t change anything. Let’s leave the past alone, yeah?”

I hang my head low and nod. She knows what I want but especially what I need. It was an ongoing thing for the first few years I lived with her. Constant panic attacks and days where I wouldn’t move from my bed. The day they released their first album and I replayed their performances over and over again. When I thought they took out ‘Just One Day’, just for it to be released later. That day was horrible. 

I don’t think I can admit how many times I played that song. If it were now, it would be my number one played song in my spotify wrapped. 

Don’t even get me started when they released ‘Butterfly.’ Let’s just say that song is forever banned in our house, along with the rest of them. Any mention of those three letters and I need to be dragged out and tranquilized. 

That’s why I like to mind my own. Go to work, ignore the billboards. Scroll on my phone, ignore their instagrams. Turn on the TV, ignore their performances. 

When I heard about Jin enlisting and Hoseok joining later on, I wanted to call them. To ask how they were. It’s been too long. I’ve never mustered the courage the past eleven years and now it just feels pointless. 

But I still have their number. I still have them all memorized in my head and written down on old sticky notes that collect dust in my closet. 

“We still have that thing to go to tonight.”

“Somi’s birthday party?”

“Yup.”

Fuck.

JULY 9TH, 2023, 8:00PM

I finish my makeup off with a shiny lip gloss, my staple for four years now. I don’t like change necessarily, and smelling the familiar fruity scent brings comfort. Or trauma, thinking of all the nights I would smear it on my lips after vomiting for ten minutes straight in a random club bathroom. 

Me and alcohol have a complicated relationship. Some would say it was teetering over alcoholism, I would call it a phase. It was my twenties, what can I say?

“You look amazing.” Keiko says as she walks through the bathroom door. She lifts up her skirt to take a quick pee, “No underwear again?” I laugh as I watch her roll her eyes. 

“This is the first night in a while I’m not being chained to the corporate desk. Let’s just say I hope I get lucky.” She says and finishes up. I shake my head playfully and scoot over the bathroom counter so she can wash her hands. I analyze my outfit once more, shimmying my top up so I can get a little more coverage. Everything about my body has changed since eighteen, obviously. 

I keep an anti-chafe stick in my purse if that tells you anything. That second-puberty in your twenties does exist, unfortunately. 

Keiko pouts as she turns around to look at her butt, “I thought this skirt would make me look perkier.” 

I tilt my head to her butt and back to the mirror, “I think it does.” I say in my humble opinion. Keiko is a sight for sore eyes, she always has been. She would be one of those people that you consider to age like fine wine. And she has been experimenting with lip filler, but hey. If you have the money, why not?

I pucker my lips and look down to my phone, flashing a notification indicating our Uber has arrived. “Our ride is here, let’s go.” I urge her. I grab my purse and toss my lip gloss inside, rushing to the door. She huffs, “You’re acting like I was the one spending an hour doing my makeup.” 

I glare at her as I open the door, “Not every twenty-nine year old still has that youthful glow you do. Ms. Just Some Concealer and Gel Brows.” I tease. We speed-walk down the hall and I can feel her irritated energy, “You were an idol in South Korea. I don’t wanna hear it!” She exclaims. 

I giggle to myself and we hurry down the stairs of our semi-nice apartment complex. It definitely beats the one we first lived in, but New York is an expensive place to live in. Even with Keiko’s old money background. She’s tried to let go of their help with monthly payments, as we’re nearly thirty and it’s a little embarrassing now. This place will drain your pockets like it’s no one’s business so…she still asks for money now and then. 

We take the elevator down to the parking garage, seeing the Uber we soon jump into. Tonight calls for a drink or two, especially with the news I got earlier. So no driving for the both of us. 

Maybe I’ll even meet someone new. Or two. You never know, right?

JULY 9TH, 2023, 9:02PM

With the busy NYC traffic, we make it an hour later than expected. The birthday party is being held in a private club in Soho, so I know me and Keiko are in for a treat. I have less anxiety being around other celebrities and social climbers, most of them not knowing who I am anyway. But lately I’ve been getting noticed a lot more lately, even some paparazzi stop to take my photo at times. 

Small articles pop up here and there with my name in it, and I can’t even imagine what they’ll look like tomorrow morning. The three-lettered boy group I used to know being a household name at this point. I have mixed feelings about it, but mostly happiness. Thinking of how stressed they were about their success, only to make it to Western audiences. Even getting a grammy nomination. I was tuned in, not going to lie. 

They should’ve gotten it, but anyway. 

I don’t think I wanna think about them tonight, so Keiko and I head to the bar as soon as we get in. The lights are pretty low, making it hard to see faces that clearly. I feel a hand on my arm, turning around to see the one and only Somi. 

“You guys made it!” She shouts over the loud music. She takes us both in a big hug, giggling and yelping. She’s definitely had a few drinks. 

“Yes, of course.” I smile at her. She gestures to the bartender, “Shots! Let’s get fucked up!” She screams. I see Keiko flinch slightly, giving me a nervous grin in response to the young girl's enthusiasm. I only laugh playfully as the bartender places three small cups in front of us, filled to the brim with what I assume to be vodka. 

Somi doesn’t wait a second to grab her glass, waiting for us to follow. Me and Keiko do so reluctantly but excited nonetheless. “One, two, now!” Somi giggles and we all drink down the burning liquid. 

Keiko slams her glass down and makes a sour face, Somi expressionless. It must be her age. I think it's barely legal for her to drink in the US. 

I put my glass on the table and Somi kisses both Keiko and I on the cheek, “Kay, I’m gonna go dance and stuff. Have fun, there’s loads of people here! And by the way, I think some special guests are gonna arrive. So keep an eye out!” She squeals and runs away before I can ask exactly who. 

Keiko chuckles, “I think she’s talking about Mark and stuff.”

“From NCT?” I furrow my brows. I can’t keep up.

Keiko nods, “I’ve been texting her and she tells me they’ve been talking.” 

I jolt my head back in shock, “That’s kind of risky.”

Keiko shrugs as she hands me my drink, this time a mixed cocktail. “Idols are crazy nowadays.”

It makes me think about him. I think idols have always taken risks. I did. 

I sigh and turn to the crowd of people chatting and dancing. There’s some familiar faces, but when are there not? This time it’s more relevant celebrities, ‘it’ girls as the tabloids call them. A part of me misses being that young, but I think I appreciate my age more now. I know more, I react maturely. I’m doing great for the most part. Although I’ve been aching for some action with any guy for a while now. Emphasis on any guy. It calls for some shaming from Keiko, but I’ll leave that for after the damage is done. 

Keiko is handed her own drink and nods to the dance floor, “C’mon, let’s have fun.” She gives me a smile and I go along happily. We walk towards the mass, seeing all kinds of bodies rocking against each other. The deeper you get in with celebrities, the more erotic and messy it seems to get. Don’t ask the stories I’ve heard. 

Keiko grabs me closer and we sway with each other to the music. The bass is deafening and I only hope chugging my drink makes it more bearable. It’s salty and sweet and blazing, amplifying the feeling of this hot club. There’s something about being in a crowded group. We all have the same mission, the same motive. We’re all dancing in clothes that cost as much as our overpriced rent, spilling drops of liquor and bodily fluid on the material without a care. 

It’s a nasty headspace, but it’s so addicting to get caught in. Especially when it’s just me and Keiko, not needing a man but only each other. I was the one who introduced her to nightlife and she was very hesitant at first. She wasn’t used to the lights or the drinks but just like me, once she got into a groove, the right drink, the right people, we didn’t stop. Every Saturday till 4am we’d be out. And that was for a few years straight. 

Once you vomit mid-way into every night out, it becomes more of a relief. Because that means you can just keep going. Bad habit or not, it was so fucking fun. 

But now we’re nearly thirty. We pace ourselves like responsible adults. Most of the time. 

“Do you want another drink?” I ask as I see we’ve drunk both of ours in a matter of fifteen minutes on this dance floor. Keiko grins mischievously, “You know me so well Koko.” She shouts in my ear. I laugh and grab the glass in her hand, rethinking leaving her here. 

“Uh, actually come with me. Don’t want some grimy guy to come up to you.”

She nods in agreement and we both snake ourselves out of the flock of sweaty bodies. The bar glows in front of us with isles of liquor, waiting to be sipped on. Keiko turns to me as we wait for the bartender to finish up with someone else’s drink, “I saw a guy I liked.”

I raise my brows, “Is that so? Who?”

She peaks over my shoulder, “I mean I can’t really see what he looks like because of how fucking dark it is, but it’s that one over there.” She points slightly. 

I try to slyly look to who she’s referencing, seeing a man with a loose short-sleeved button up and an arm filled with tattoos. His head is leaned over as he’s talking to another man and I give Keiko a look. 

“What?” She throws her hands in the air. 

“I mean his body is nice but I didn’t think you were wanting a-”

“Shh, he’s coming over here! Wait-” She covers her mouth in shock. 

I widen my eyes from her alarming expression, “What is it?”

“Kanako don’t fucking look. DON’T LOOK.” She insists. I grow frustrated from her demands and keep my head down, per her ask. I feel an approaching presence, a voice speaking.

 “Gin, neat.” It says. A man. 

I lean over to Keiko who’s attempting to hide her face. “Is it the guy? Why can’t I look?” I do a whisper/yell type thing as I talk. 

She winces, “Just wait for him to leave.”

The female bartender walks over to us, waiting for our drink order. I notice Keiko’s silence and the impatient bartender, lifting my head once and for all to speak. Keiko shakes her head vigorously with her eyes closed like she can’t bear to watch. I don’t understand why she’s so afraid. And quite frankly, it’s getting annoying. 

“Two vodka cranberries.” I say. 

There’s a beat of quietness. 

“Kanako?” The man next to me says. I turn my head unexpecting a big reveal, but to my surprise, it is. A big one. One that I don’t want. He’s so different. His hair is long, his body is taller and so much bigger than I remember. It’s him, it’s him. Fuck, it’s him. Eleven years later. 

My jaw drops as I make eye contact with him. “Jungkook.” 

He’s as appalled as I am, saying nothing for what feels like hours. His eyes scan my body, my face, my eyes. “You- I haven’t- what…are you doing here?” He chokes out. 

I stutter, “W-We- I’m with my friend. Keiko. We know…Somi.” I respond, the information feeling so irrelevant as it rolls off my tongue. There’s so many things I want to say, and yet nothing comes to mind. What should I do? Apologize? Talk to him like an old friend? Look at Keiko for help?

Jungkook moves his shoulder to reveal the man next to him, Namjoon. 

This can’t get any worse. 

“I’ll leave you to it. Call me if you…need me.” Keiko leans into my ear to say. I try to nod but my body refuses to move. I don’t necessarily need her here, but It makes me feel stranded. I can’t say anything. All I can think about is eleven years ago. Their faces were so different. The way they carried themselves was so different. They’re global artists now, but when I look at Jungkook I still see that young glimmer he used to have. Even Namjoon, whose shoulders are broader than they were, somehow morphs into the smaller boy I knew then. 

“L-Let’s go outside. It’s quieter.” Jungkook requests. 

JULY 9TH, 2023, 10:06PM

We stand outside the club doors awkwardly. Jungkook grabs a carton of cigarettes and pulls one out, lighting it as it sits between his teeth. That’s new. He holds the white stick in his fingers and takes a long inhale, exhaling into the summer air. 

Namjoon is staring off into the road. Quiet. They’re both quiet. 

“How’ve you guys been?” I whisper. Everything I want to say sounds so stupid in the big scheme of things. I feel so small again. So insecure again. Old Kanako.

“You know.” He says, referencing their current status. It sounds kind of dick-ish, but I shrug it off. I don’t blame him for being mad. Although it’s been so long. 

I keep getting a phantom buzz in my back pocket. When I first moved here, I’d get calls from Jungkook every morning and every night. Ignored, ignored, ignored. He stopped after a few months, but the feeling still haunts me. Witnessing my phone light up and expecting to see his name was a thing for me. A thing I’d go over in therapy. 

I always said I’d pick up one day, but when that day came, he stopped calling. 

“I’m sorry.” I say in the midst of the quietude. Stating the unspoken obvious. 

“Don’t be sorry.” Jungkook responds, flicking the ash off his cigarette. Passive.

“I still am.” I mumble. 

Namjoon turns over to me, still hiding behind Jungkook in a way. His arm leans onto the brick wall, “We’ve been wondering about you.”

I chuckle, “Yeah, I read your book.” 

Jungkook takes a hit off his cigarette, “I didn’t really say that. It was the ghostwriter.” Aggressive.

Thanks. 

“Oh. Right.” I whisper. 

“Jungkook.” Namjoon mutters to the apathetic boy. 

Jungkook shrugs, “Sorry. I’m over it now.” Doesn’t feel like it. 

“What he means to say,” Namjoon gives him a look, “Is that we’ve moved on. And grown. Don’t feel bad. We now know how hard it was for you.” He tries to reassure. But I know it’d take Jungkook a while to say the same. I try not to take it personally, but all I can think about is how he’d cling to me at night. How he used to sip on his banana milk and console me with kind words. I shouldn’t expect that in the least. But it hurts either way.

“I understand, it’s okay. It’s complicated, right?” I say. 

“Right.” Namjoon smiles. His dimples, I remember those. 

“Yoongi’s doing fine, if that’s what you were wondering.” Jungkook says under his breath.

I shut my eyes, sighing. I try to level with him, “I wonder about all of you. But thanks.” I accidentally match his passive tone.

The tattooed boy tosses his cigarette on the ground, smushing it under his shoe. 

“Then why didn't you reach out?” He spits. It leaves a sour taste in my mouth. One that trickles down to my throat and almost triggers a chunky reaction. 

“JK, not now-” Namjoon starts but Jungkook has a motive. 

“No, Namjoon.” Jungkook whips his head towards me, “I’m still hurt. Yes, after all these years. Seeing you Kanako,” He bites his lip anxiously. “I wish you had fucking picked up. Just once.”

My lip quivers seeing him in this state. Small, like me. There’s tears pricking his eyes. 

“I couldn’t.”

“Why not? Tell me!”

“It would’ve made it all harder!”

He steps inches closer to me, his lip ring shining under the street lights. He’s so foreign to me, but his eyes stay familiar. An unwanted nostalgia floods my heart and crushes it under his gaze. 

“You don’t even know.” He whispers. 

I plead with him, “Then tell me.”

Jungkook clenches his jaw, “Fuck it. Fuck everything. Fuck you.”

He storms back into the club, shoulder-checking me in the process. I stand idle, in shock. In pain. He would’ve never said that to me. Not in a million years. Am I that horrible of a person? 

Namjoon walks over to me quickly, caressing my shoulder. 

“I’m so sorry, he’s just-”

“Hurt. I know. I know.” I say in disbelief. 

His hand stands on my arm, looking at me intently. But I can’t look at him, it’s all so hard now. Everything is coming back to me. Locked up in those dorms, Jeju, the first time I’ve ever been to a club. How quickly it ended. How quick it was for me that I left. I know I shouldn’t be mad at Jungkook, or any of them. But I feel like the teenager I was back then when Namjoon comforts me. It reminds me of those times when they’d be there for me. 

How hard it was for me to accept care from Keiko because all I wanted was them. It wasn’t the same. The smells weren’t the same. The lingering bickering was my background music. I adjusted to it so well just to leave. I can’t think about this anymore. 

I hear a ringing and Namjoon removes his hand to reach into his jacket pocket, stuttering a ‘I-I just need a second, hold on’ before walking a few steps ahead to answer the call. All I hear is a faint voice on the phone and a hasty Namjoon. 

“Yeah I know. He’s upset. I’ll talk to you about it later. Me? I’m outside. N-No don’t come, it’s not a good time. I know, but just a second. Hold on, don’t-”

The metal doors of the club open once more, a woman in a two-piece set strutting out with someone close behind. As if this night couldn’t get any worse. Reminding me of the broken pieces I had to put back into place. It’s all shattering again. 

I purse my lips in a thin line and turn my back as soon as I see him. Long haired, bomber-jacket, black jeans, him. I hope he doesn’t see me. Namjoon rushes over to me in an attempt to hide my body. 

“S-Sorry. Busy. In the middle of something.” The tall man blurts out. 

It failed though, because he knows. My silhouette, my hair. 

Like instinct. Nothing’s changed. 

“Kanako.” The oh-so familiar man breathes.

Keiko has been calling me Koko for so long that hearing my full name from him, his mouth, causes a chain reaction of goosebumps all over me. The alcohol that was seeping into my conscience has disappeared as my heart beats a thousand times a minute. 

“Yoongi.”

click here to read more of this story!

an: as this story comes to a close soon I’d love to answer any questions you have wondered about this story! or me! or anything at all! just go to my ask box and ask away! or don’t! that’s ok too! love you all! thanks for reading

[a-demain]

Warmth

Hi, this is my first fic for Les Mis.

(Additionally, this is the first fic I've ever shared on Tumblr.

Both of these things are giving me such anxiety that I'm posting it from an alternative account.)

I hope you enjoy!

exR, pining, emotional constipation, emotional breakthroughs, Grantaire gets shocked into silence.

Warmth

Telling someone you love them is not a walk in the park. Fortunately, Grantaire is there to throw one double entendre too many.

*

There’s an open-air photo exhibition in the park and, despite the late hour and the cold, Grantaire clearly can’t resist it. He keeps stopping to look at every other displayed work and, as a result, considerably slows down their pace. Enjolras wouldn’t mind – he wouldn’t be opposed to looking at the exhibition himself, even though his interest in art cannot match Grantaire's – if the freezing air wasn’t starting to seep through his clothing and cling to his skin.

“Can we go a little faster? I’m really cold.”

It’s a little past midnight and they’re walking from the Musain to Grantaire’s place so Enjolras can collect the posters and banners Grantaire and Jehan have spent the week preparing for the protest tomorrow. The protest is also the reason why the meeting tonight ended later than usual and Enjolras is tired, cold, and hungry, and completely unmoved by art of any kind. He curls his cold fingers into his palms in his pockets – he must’ve left his gloves at the Musain – and watches Grantaire finally tear himself away from the photos and walk towards him.

“Oh, I can warm you up if you’d like, Ange,” he says with a suggestive wink.

Enjolras turns his head away from him and looks at the dark road before them as they resume walking. He’s not serious, he tells himself, as always – as he’s been doing for months, trying to reason with his heart and stop it from absurd, pointless, futile hoping every time Grantaire hits him with one of his trademark crude jokes, double entendres and pick-up lines. He’s not serious. You can’t have this. He doesn’t mea--

Something inside him snaps.

“Can you?” he hears himself say.

There’s a surprised intake of breath to his left and then silence.

Enjolras feels like there’s a silence inside him, too. Suddenly, there is no trace of the anguish and the tempestuous emotions that had been tearing him apart in recent months; it’s like someone closed the window in a blizzard. He feels that whatever has snapped keeps breaking, like a fracture that runs across the surface of the ice, slowly forming a rift. He has no idea why he said what he just did, nor how he expects Grantaire to respond (although he knows how he’d like Grantaire to respond. You can’t have this, you can’t have this, drones on the old voice in his head. But Enjolras is cold and tired and hungry and starved. It’s been two years. It’s been most of his life. It’s been every time he had feelings for someone).

“I’m sorry, I—”

“Don’t apologize.”

He stops suddenly and so does Grantaire, who looks at him, his expression tense and unsure.

“Don’t say things like this when you don’t mean them,” says Enjolras, his own voice sounding alien to him, the words, clear and sharp, leaving his mouth without the participation of his consciousness. Suddenly, he feels his throat constrict and his jaws clench together, and he can’t speak any more. He’s never considered telling Grantaire how he feels about him; he’s never even told any of his friends. Admitting that he’s not immune to Grantaire’s comments hints at these hidden feelings and pulls them close to the surface, making him feel exposed and vulnerable, and completely out of his element. He takes a deep breath to calm himself and stares ahead, still unable to talk and feeling too unsteady to look at Grantaire.

Next to him, Grantaire is still silent, though Enjolras can feel he's watching him. A moment passes.

“What if I do mean them?” asks Grantaire quietly.

This shocks Enjolras enough to make him face Grantaire. Of all things he could expect to hear from him, this isn’t one of them.

“What then, Enjolras?” insist Grantaire, his eyes serious and a little desperate, like it costs him a lot to say it.

Enjolras blinks. His heart thuds in his chest and he feels as if he’s watching himself from the outside, like someone else has taken control of his body. Someone who hasn’t been made feel, many times throughout the years, that he was too different, too intense, too serious, too much to be loved and wanted; that he could only be valued and respected for the skills that made him a good leader and activist, but rarely appreciated and needed as a friend, a human being. Someone who hasn’t been coping by trying to ignore his need for closeness and affection and hoping he’d never fall in love, convinced he could never be loved back -- but failed and fell for Grantaire, spending two years hopelessly consumed by feelings that the rare, short-lived crushes he had in the past couldn’t compare to.

He feels like it’s not him but that person who he doesn't recognize who now calmly takes a step towards Grantaire, lays a hand on his shoulder, leans in, and kisses him on the lips.

Grantaire stops breathing and goes stiff and Enjolras immediately breaks the kiss, worried that he’s misread the situation and embarassed by the lapse in his usual restraint. Grantaire blinks at him and something wild flashes in his eyes. His hands slide into Enjolras’s hair, he pulls him back down and kisses him fiercely. Enjolras stumbles a little and reflexively grabs Grantaire’s shoulders for balance and Grantaire wraps an arm around his waist, which both helps Enjolras steady and presses him tight to Grantaire’s chest. Enjolras kisses back dizzily, overwhelmed by the closeness and the waves of the long-suppressed emotions that have suddenly been set free. He holds onto Grantaire and Grantaire holds him and they kiss and kiss until they’re both breathless.

Grantaire doesn’t seem interested in letting him go, when the kiss ends; he watches Enjolras with an expression of open tenderness and wonder, his arm still wrapped around his waist, his thumb slowly caressing his cheek.

“What now?” he whispers eventually with a smile. Enjolras huffs a quiet laugh. He doesn’t know. “Grantaire does mean it, actually, and you can have it” isn’t a scenario he considered likely or planned for.

“What do you want?”

Grantaire watches him for a moment. He blinks a few times, breaking eye contact and looking down for a moment and visibly gathering himself before he draws a shaky breath and speaks.

“I’ve been in love with you since I met you.”

It’s not a proper answer to the question. It’s everything Enjolras ever wanted to hear.

“I’ve been in love with you for two years,” he says. “I thought I had no chance with you.”

Grantaire throws his head back and barks an incredulous laugh. “Hah, no, Enjolras, that was never a possibility,” he says, “but I thought the same of you, so I can’t complain. Okay,” he says taking a step back and releasing Enjolras from his embrace, “let’s get out of the cold. We don’t want you to catch the flu before the protest.” He extends a hand, looking at him a little shyly.

Enjolras takes his hand and they resume walking down the lane.

“I’m not cold anymore, actually.”

“Oh, you aren’t?”

“Mmm.”

“So I can warm you up.”

“So it seems.”

*

[cerosin-bis]

Do you have any more hcs for Ghost? Maybe particularly if he got a crush or somethin (if you're comfy with that. if you aren't comfy, you can just do general hcs, I won't mind at all). I feel like I hc him too soft because I like soft but that doesn't really work with COD because these aren't particularly..... soft people. So I really like hearing more nitty gritty and rough stuff bc I think its more realistic. I also love your art and foam at the mouth so hard when I see it!!!!

First of all, thank you anon for the sweet comment about my art 🥺♥ And yes, with great pleasure! 🖤 Ghost has been my "OG" fave for an embarrasingly long part of my life and the character I imagine is by now an hybrid between 2009 mw2 & 2019 MW. Can't wait to see him more fleshed out in MWII. I'll try to two in one your request, and I hope you like this. I know he is a very dear character to many of us.

Rambles aside, here goes: Ghost headcanons!

...Putting these under the cut because it got VERY long oops I love him too much…

Ok so the main thing I headcanon is that he survived Loose Ends. I KNOW that's not canon with the reboot, let alone "survivable" at all in mw2 but this is how things have been cooking in my mind in the past 11 years lol. He survived being shot in the stomach and escaped the fire. Smoke inhalation fucked up his voice though (laryngeal burns are a real thing, and it also "explains" the changed voice lol). He's got burn scars albeit not extensive thanks to his gear.

With all that in mind, he's got like 10 layers of issues, and the first one is that he's a complete control freak, half due to his upbringing and half cos of the "betrayed and almost died" part.

Ghost is both a very focused, cold-headed and efficient soldier... AND the most prone to go AWOL in TF141. If the orders clash with his very strong and personal set of values and morals, he'll either do his thing or vanish. Price is on thin, THIN fucking ice and knows it.

Actual anger issues. The exact opposite of Nikto: Ghost lashes out verbally, never physically. He gets upset really really fast and you'll Hear It. He raises his voice immediately - and he hates that he does it.

A more lighthearted hc that I hold on to dearly: literally so funny when he wants. Sarcasm master but also knows how to deliver a joke with the good tone and a completely unfazed expression. He's a great actor and he's hilarious.

No culinary taste or talent at all but he just straight up doesn't bother trying. Could eat military rations every day.

He's naturally bossy as hell. So, when Ghost has a soft spot for someone, you can see it immediately because he's noticeably Less Bossy. He's the guy who literally cannot hide his soft spots.

His trust is hard earned but runs deep. He absolutely loves his team. He's a reliable friend, colleague, teammate, just watch your damn step because he's loyal, but unforgiving.

Harbours respect for anyone outright. Never underestimates or belittles anyone except for his hierarchy. (Surprising, isn't it.)

He falls asleep easily in the evening… because he's exhausted. His days are spent observing things, shaping his actions along as to know exactly what are their consequences, even for something as minor as like, making food. It's the OCD baby. And it fucking drains you.

He likes when people are defiant. He takes an almost immediate liking to people who think maybe a bit too independentely for the military, in fact.

Weirdly enough, doesn't really like animals. Not the dog person you'd expect him to be.

Bonus: I don't really have a face hc for him. To me he is just his balaclava lol. But I imagine him with dark hair + dark eyes, looking like a regular bloke, not particularly handsome or unique looking. five o'clock shadow, a couple acne scars and, in fact, very kind eyes. Also tall (6'3/193cm) and lanky. [EDIT post-MWII: this one aged terribly but I am in fact 100% adopting his new looks]

[burnwater13]

Boba Fett and Din Djarin protecting Mos Espa from the Pyke Syndicate. Image from The Book of Boba Fett, Season 1, Episode 7, In the Name of Honor. Calendar from DataWorks.

If there was one thing that made Grogu happy about all the adventures he’d been on recently was that he had found a Mandalorian who acted more like his dad than those other Mandos. Boba Fett wasn’t trying to lead and just giving up. Nope. Not him. According to Fennec, Boba Fett never gave up on anything or anyone. 

Grogu smiled thinking about that. His dad was just like that. Din Djarin didn’t give up. He didn’t sit back. He didn’t pout. As least he didn’t pout about work going sideways. He pouted a lot when Grogu just happened to have gotten mud on his armor or maybe left a bag of dung worms in the N-1 a day too long. Wow. Grogu could feel that pouting in a real way.

Aside from the unexpected outcomes of playtime, Grogu knew that when his dad was faced with adversity, the Mandalorian just became more determined to see the task out to the end, bitter or otherwise. 

“Well, my young friend, Mandalorians know more about adversity than most people you will ever meet. Certainly an individual may have a life filled with conflict an pain. But few other peoples have been so singled out for such universal treatment. I suppose it was because they were too good.”

Grogu perked up and paid more attention to the Daimyo. He had really just been looking from one man to the other. He hadn’t said anything. He hadn’t actually even made a peep, coo, or grumble. For a change of pace he had been simply silent. 

“Your face is very expressive. Particularly your eyes. I have been told that they are the same color as your father’s, as mine match my father’s.”

The Daimyo smiled at him and looked both proud and sad. 

“You rarely mention your father. Was he a bounty hunter?”

Din Djarin asked the question quietly, as was his habit within the throne room. 

“He was. A Mandalorian bounty hunter who was taken advantage of by the Old Republic and the Jedi Counsel. You know about the Clone Wars?”

Grogu nodded his head. He, personally, would have liked to have forgotten about them, but when someone like Moff Gideon spent time tracking you down, you couldn’t forget about anything that caused the fall of the Old Republic or the rise of the Empire. 

“I do. I know about the Separatists. I know that the Jedi were involved. By the time things were at there worst I was already on Concordia. The Mandalorians who trained me did not speak of it, except to say that it was a fool’s errand and no good could come of it. They were right about that, given how it ended.”

Grogu was surprised that his Dad didn’t sound as annoyed, bitter, and, not quite smug, but more aggrieved, than he usually did when this topic popped up. Perhaps he was striking a more neutral tone because of the affect that whole sequence of events had on the Daimyo. 

“They were right. But it did not start that simply. You know the Jedi have visions. There are those who say they can see the future. That ability served them poorly. They recognized that they might one day need a fighting force. One that was much larger than the Old Republic kept on hand. So the project on Kamino was started in secret.”

The Daimyo took a deep breath and Grogu almost told him that they could skip the story and go fishing if it all hurt him too much to think about. 

“I am fine. I have lived with many painful memories and their pain did not lesson because I ignored them, my friend. Now, where was I? Oh, yes. You cannot have a fighting force without the people necessary. But where would you get such a force? The Jedi knew too much and not enough. They went to Kamino, as the Kaminoans were well known for their skills at cloning, and found a willing partner in their enterprise. For a price. After that, they just needed to find a template. Clones were used for many things back then, young one. Whatever task a business might need to perform but they did not have the staff, they would either assign to droids or to clones. If you had enough funds they would rent a workforce to you for whatever specified period of time that you needed them. Then they were retired.”

Daimyo Fett laughed at that. 

“It sounds much nicer than it was, my friend. Retired is just a nice way to say that the clones were ended. They had no individual rights as they were clones. Not a unique person but merely a copy of a unique person. That is at least what they told my father and he told me. You see, when they began to look for the template for the Jedi’s fighting force they realized that they couldn’t clone a Jedi. Something about the Force affects the process. They never perfected it. 

Without being able to use a Jedi they came to the conclusion that the Jedi’s enemy would be the best source material and only one group of people had survived being the Jedi’s enemy for any length of time. Mandalorians. Funny, isn’t it? You and I and your father, we are good friends and not enemies at all. But back then heads were not so cool, on any side.”

Another deep breath. 

“My father, Jango, was an accomplished bounty hunter. Best in the galaxy according to the records the Kaminoans kept about him. They approached him and he agreed to be the template. Oh, it wasn’t quite as simple as that, but what a father tells a son may often be affected by sentiment. My father was a sentimental man. That is why I exist. You see, I am not his son in the typical way. I am his clone. A duplicate, you see. And for a time I had more than 3,000,000 brothers. They became the fighting force that the Jedi and the Old Republic needed to address the Separatists. Unfortunately for the Jedi they trusted people who should not be trusted. I say that not as their enemy, but as a student of the past. When you buy cooperation from people like the Kaminoans, you may discover it is as easily sold to another. Which they found was the case, much to their, and no doubt your, dismay.”

The Daimyo fell silent for a moment. Grogu didn’t know if he was doing that because he remembered how his own father fell or out of kindness to Grogu or kindness to Din Djarin. All three of them had lost loved ones due to the that conflict.

“I was able to escape. Take my father’s ship and leave those immediate problems behind, but I never forgot the stories my father had told me about being a bounty hunter. It had been a better life for him and I was determined to honor him by taking that up. It is hard work and not for the faint of heart. You must take a risk and work it all the way to the end. If you fail at it, well, the end is bitter and you are cold. Very cold.”

“Boss, are you telling sad stories again? The three of you look like something the rancor dragged into that enclosure it spends all its time in. Cheer up. It’s a beautiful day out. I am told that rain is in the forecast and you know what that means.”

Grogu jumped just like the Daimyo and his dad at the sound of Fennec’s cheerful voice.

“No Fennec. I do not know what that means. Enlighten us, please.”

“Flowers. Little flowers will pop up all over Tatooine. I’m told it’s beautiful. Isn’t that right, Mando?”

Grogu turned to look at his dad. He was about to scold him soundly, but his dad beat him to it. 

“It is. Very beautiful. If you start now, you might be able to collect enough to make a posey. I’m sure that ‘friend’ of yours would like it.”

The Daimyo burst out laughing and Grogu laughed with him. He didn’t know why it was funny, but he was glad to have the opportunity to laugh. Maybe this was how Mandalorians were able to survive so much? They never forgot the present, even when they were talking about the past. In any case, he coo’d to Fennec that he was willing to pick flowers with her, but he was too late. She had vanished as quickly as she had appeared just a few moments earlier. Just like the flowers would. 

[catcas22]

hope you're okay with questions about your fics, but i was wondering what you think the relationship between millicent's sisters and malenia is like post-unalloyed? how close are they, what do they think of each other, etc. no pressure to answer of course, feel free to ignore this!

Dude, I love questions about my fics! I had additional thoughts and headcanons on the sisters, but I didn't feel like I had enough for another epilogue chapter. This is a great excuse to share!

First, some info on the sisters as a whole. The five of them (counting Millicent) were raised by Gowry in the ruins in and around the Lake of Rot. They spent their lives being trained and tested, in an attempt to produce a Valkyrie strong enough to initiate a second Bloom. Millicent ended up being the one chosen, after which she was sent aboveground to fulfill her destiny.

After Millicent lost her memories and set off on her own quest, Gowry sent the sisters after her. Although they had lived all their lives under the influence of the Rot, before each went above ground Gowry insisted on performing a ritual to bind each of them to the God of Rot. Best case scenario, they get Millicent back on the straight and narrow, and if that fails they kill her and hope it initiates a Bloom, and if that fails then maybe one of them will live long enough to Bloom.

Since you're asking about the sisters I'm assuming you've read the epilogue to Unalloyed, so following the events detailed there:

Amy, Third Sister (20)

Out of the four of them, Amy was the most clearly aware of the fact that she had been born into a cult and that the Age of Rot was nothing to look forward to. She lost her eyes fairly young, and her bitterness over the situation shaped her into the most morose and withdrawn of the sisters.

After being treated by Miquella, she was determined to use her new freedom to experience as much of the world as possible. As soon as Miquella cleared her for travel, she returned to the Lands Between and spent a few years giving the wandering ronin thing a try.

During her brief stay at the Haligtree, Malenia discovered that Amy was not only a talented blind-fighter, she was also proficient in the flowing curved sword that her teacher had used -- out of all the weapons Amy had been offered during her training, that one felt like hers.

Words cannot fully express how proud this makes Malenia. Before Amy's departure, she gifted her the sword that had once belonged to her teacher, giving her a matching pair. On her occasional visits back to the Haligtree, Malenia always insists on catching up on what she's been learning, and thoroughly enjoys hearing about her travels. While neither of them are very talkative by nature, Malenia has a knack for getting Amy on a subject that will have her talking for hours.

Mary, Eldest Sister (23)

Mary was the first that Gowry raised up from the Rot. She grew up a true believer in the Age of Rot, partly due to indoctrination and partly due to a need for her and her sisters' suffering to mean something.

For this reason, Mary was appointed the leader, despite Millicent and Maureen being more martially accomplished. During the journey to the Haligtree, she deteriorated the fastest due to her refusal to fight against the Rot.

She was nearly dead by the time she was brought in for treatment. Waking up and not being in excruciating pain for the first time in her life definitely made her question some things.

Mary was kept under guard while she convalesced -- as both Millicent and Maureen attested, she was both loyal enough to attempt a Bloom despite Miquella's treatments, and smart enough to pull it off.

She had a lot of long talks with Malenia during this time. While she could not bring herself to denounce Gowry, seeing her sisters cured was enough to shake her faith in the Age of Rot. The talks with Malenia slowly shifted from cult deprogramming to talks about life in general.

Still overwhelmed and feeling the need to get her head on straight, Mary departed for the Consecrated Snowfield. She's made up her mind to join the Haligtree family, though she's not quite willing to humble her pride and admit it.

She has become friendly with the Ordina albinaurics. Sometimes Malenia manages to catch her on her visits to the gate town. Mary's slowly warming up, and they can often pass a pleasant afternoon together so long as they keep the discussion away from the Age of Rot.

Maureen, Second Sister (21)

Out of all the sisters, Maureen has the most in common with Millicent. Like Millicent, she knew that she was on borrowed time and wanted to do something worthwhile with her life. She was very nearly chosen to bear the Bloom instead of Millicent -- but while Maureen was physically stronger, Millicent was deemed the more capable overall.

After Millicent's "betrayal," their friendly rivalry turned decidedly unfriendly. In Maureen's mind, Millicent had abandoned them, and she was going to pay for it.

Although Maureen lacks many of the better traits that temper Millicent, she very much inherited Malenia's protective nature. When Gowry sent them aboveground, Maureen offered to be the only one to carry the Bloom, as she was the strongest that remained. Unfortunately the numbers weren't adding up for Gowry, and he insisted on all four taking on the Rot to increase the chance of a successful Bloom.

Since then, Maureen has more or less buried the hatchet with Millicent -- sure she abandoned them, but she also came back and made sure everybody got their Unalloyed shots.

Malenia initially kept a close eye on Maureen out of protectiveness toward Millicent. She came dangerously close to yeeting her into the ocean the first time she stumbled onto a sparring match between Maureen and Millicent -- fortunately, Pollyanna was there to explain that a friendly sparring match between those two just looks like mortal combat, that's just how they are.

They got on much better after Maureen showed a willingness to find constructive outlets for her anger. They've made something of a game out of Malenia setting up "indestructible" training courses and seeing how long it takes Maureen to wreck it. Maureen is considering joining the Cleanrot Knights, although she is currently splitting her time between Elphael and Ordina (so she can make sure Mary's doing okay).

Pollyanna, Youngest Sister (17)

By far the most friendly and easygoing of the sisters. She was also the closest to Millicent growing up. Pollyanna was the first to be sent aboveground after Millicent went AWOL, and her first instinct was to run. After a brief detour to help the tarnished with O'Neill, she shot off on her own and made it as far as Summonwater before the truth sank in -- one could not run from the Rot. Better to rot alongside family than rot alone. She circled back and rejoined her sisters shortly after.

After Millicent failed to Bloom, Pollyanna was the first to break away from the group and ask the Haligtree for help. She was as shocked as anyone when Malenia actually agreed to help.

Once Millicent admitted that she did not hold a grudge over Operation Sororicide, Pollyanna remained more or less glued to her side for a few weeks. She was a bit jumpy around Malenia initially -- according to Gowry, their mother was a psychopath who sought to thwart the Age of Rot, and she would have no sympathy for a set of Rot-spawned children harboring stolen pieces of her soul.

She spent her first weeks at the Haligtree bouncing between Millicent and Miquella. She unilaterally appointed herself his lab assistant, and actually learned quite a lot about medicine while helping him treat the other three sisters.

Malenia had a bit of trouble with the concept of not being intimidating (after so many years of wearing the mask, it had become automatic). But she managed. She could not abide the thought of one of her children being legitimately afraid of her.

Like Millicent, Pollyanna didn't really know how to ask for affection. Unlike Millicent, who just tends to hover in the general vicinity until she gets noticed, Pollyanna takes the more straightforward approach of glomming onto her target until she gets noticed. If Malenia still had her eyes, she would have teared up the first time Pollyanna casually walked up and latched onto her arm.

[109moons]

I have absolutely nothing poetic to say and I am finally angry for the first time in 17 days that this is happening to me and I don’t know how to express how I feel like I am just fucking screaming inside to crawl out of my skin.

It’s so fucking unfair. I am fighting so hard to stay positive, to uplift other people, to comfort my loved ones about the very real fact that I am dying. And there’s nothing I can do, but take the pain everyday with a smile on my face and try to advocate for positivity to help your body heal and right now it just feels like fucking bullshit. I don’t want to be positive, I want to cry and punch walls and I don’t know how to keep saying to people that love me to please stop touching me and treating me like I’m a walking time bomb. The fact is, I am. I am shoving every feeling down except for this idiotic, “I’m smiling and laughing through the pain and all of this will be worth it when I am alive so there is no point being pissed off or talk about how god damn fucking unfair this is”.

I don’t god damn deserve having to be a “protected patient” while I am actively dying because my Mom decided to go off her fucking rocker and straight up abuse me. I should not be fighting to protect myself tooth and nail against her. I should be able to lean on my only parent and instead I have to safe guard myself to such extreme measures that I have to be a fucking Jane Doe so she stops sending people for me because I will not surrender control of my life to her. I would rather die. I have spent my entire life in the hands of self victimizing sociopaths and in the most vulnerable time, an absolutely inexpressible terrifying time, and I am forced to surrender my pride to let my family take care of me while I rail against letting anything else be taken away from me.

I am losing so much, it is so hard to even imagine life after this nor fathom what it will take to come back if I survive at all. I do not deserve to live disabled for what is left of my life. I do not know if I have it in me to go through procedure after procedure to be cut in half and have more pieces taken from me. I’m scared. I could die on the table and I very well might. My surgery is far more complex than a normal transplant. My recovery period is expected to be twice as long. I am scared. I will be on a ventilator and intubated for weeks. I will lose all autonomy and have to lean completely on my best friend and siblings. Leading up to my surgery, my medical team has to push me to the brink of death to move me up the transplant list. There is no guarantee I will even make it to the surgery once they have pushed my body far enough, I very well might have a heart attack and die before I can make it to the OR. If I live, I am disabled forever and on oxygen. I am no longer independent. I am so fucking afraid and it is so fucking unfair.

How the fuck do you talk to a 30 year old about their end of life directive? How am I supposed to just act like I am strong when I’ve had to take legal action against my only parent and I am making the scariest choices of my life knowing I am completely dependent on my best friend? How can people be so god damn selfish and destructive that they force a dying person who is drowning to fight a battle to prioritize their healing? I lay here in bed shaking because my blood pressure is so low, I am so anxious from trying to crack open my feelings about my fear of death and what is to come, and everything seems so fucking trivial.

No amount of sedatives is touching this. No amount of anxiety meds. No amount of writing, of coloring, of reading. I cannot stop shaking my feet and moving my legs or I think I will sink through the floor of the hospital or just take off running for the hills straight through the walls and run until my lungs give out and that way I can control how I die. Just as I’m writing this, I had phlebotomy come and order more vials of blood. I knew I didn’t feel well tonight. I knew my labs from the evening were going to be weird. I am scared because I was hoping I was wrong.

It just baffles me that at home there are people that call me family or claim they love me, but are home in their little worlds thinking about the little things that they want to believe about me to offer them solace. There is almost something amusing about it, not in a way that is meant to be dismissive of other feelings, but how small it is.

She’ll miss me one day and see that I was not broken the way I was, and that she missed out on loving someone because she only loved the image she wanted to preserve. She will see that the reason she has no one, is because others see the sadism and manipulation. How small I have always been. That there is a reason every person except one is rallying behind me telling her that she is helping kill me.

I don’t really care too much what the “he’s” think. I was not perfect by any means, but I was good and I loved hard and genuinely, despite my mistakes. I forgave, even when I was not forgiven for my mistakes and I was crucified for less. I rose above. Most of all, I loved and I know I gave and gave until I could not. I have no regrets, except for wishing I saw my worth before my life became something I could no longer recognize. These things seem so small now, it is hard to even place myself in their shoes anymore.

Those who only cared to weaponize my illness, who used my vulnerability to their own means to stroke their egos, the friends that did not show up. It is no real loss. The only loss again is that I wish I loved myself before I started losing my chance. I do not recognize the person in the mirror and if I live, I still will be a stranger. These people do not know me, and will not know me after this. I hope you do not come to my funeral.

I do not really know what is happening anymore.

I am the furthest thing from alone, and the loved ones that have stepped forward have moved me immeasurably about the purity of human nature. It is difficult to feel loss about the people I loved who left me or wounded me.

I hope I am missed. I hope people remember my laugh. I hope that those who have watched me dying the last two weeks in front of their eyes remember me walking in the wake of the shore in the sunshine. I hope no one forgets that I could lift a keg my size and that my biggest fears are grasshoppers and werewolves but I will walk straight into gunfire for someone I love. I hope someone loves my animals and don’t let them forget that I loved them more than anything. I hope people remember me for me, that I loved peaches and listening to soft piano, that I always made too big of pasta dishes and gave them all away. I hope they remember how fiercely I protected the people I love. I hope I see my Dad.

I’m not even going to edit this.

[apocalypticavolition]

Let's (re)Read The Dragon Reborn! Chapter 14: The Bite of the Thorns

I forgot to do a rambling, pointless, painfully unfunny spoiler warning last time and I won't do it again! I assure you dear reader that this paragraph will express its concept in far too many words and far too few jokes. I won't simply say "Don't keep reading if you haven't read the whole Wheel of Time series" because that might be useful or informative! And if that (or the spoilers) is a problem for you, don't keep reading!

I believe this is the first appearance of the mirrored women chapter icon. It's one of the ones I like the most graphically, and obviously it comes to prominenence when the Black Ajah is about or at least being discussed.

Darkfriends in the White Tower. Faugh! I’ve spent my life denying that.

And look where it got you! Sounding the alarm as Amyrlin might not have ended well for Siuan personally, but forcing the Tower to acknowledge the danger earlier might have led to them being on a better footing against the Black Ajah now that it's ready to come out of hiding and start fucking things up. Observing the law of the Three Oaths without caring about their spirit leads to ruin.

“I should be able to trust Leane and Sheriam, at least. But do I dare? Verin?” Her shoulders shook with a quick, silent laugh. “I already trust Verin with more than my life, but how far can I take it? Moiraine?” She was silent for a moment. “I have always believed I could trust Moiraine.”

Of the four women named, two are Black (even if Verin isn't a threat as one) and neither is the one who Siuan is doubting at this point. And of course Siuan, despite what she says, isn't trusting the girls in this room either because she won't admit that she knows Rand is the Dragon Reborn and that she's trying to support him.

If you want my opinion, Moiraine is not to be trusted.

It's a miracle Nynaeve ever changes her opinion on this.

Liandrin tried to stuff you headfirst into a weir, and it may well be she left because she learned you were returning, and could unmask her, so I have to believe you aren’t—Black Ajah.

Between this and Siuan's earlier statements about denying the Black Ajah, I think that Jordan hadn't quite solidified the full backstory he'd go with in New Spring. Siuan seems genuinely uncomfortable discussing the subject at all.

“So you can keep your temper, when you want to. I had to know that.” Egwene wondered how much of it had been a test; there was a tightness around the Amyrlin’s eyes that suggested her patience might well be exhausted.

Since Siuan can't lie but I trust Egwene's instincts, I think that it was a very impromptu test that Siuan came up with as soon as she opened her mouth to yell.

Liandrin and her twelve went, but did all of them go? Or did they leave some of their number behind, like a stub in shallow water that you don’t see till it puts a hole in your boat?

Siuan is almost naive to say "some" were left behind. The thirteen who left are barely a rounding error in the full ranks.

“They are all full Aes Sedai. Egwene hasn’t even been raised to Accepted yet, and you know I cannot channel enough to light a candle unless I am angry, not of my own free will. What chance would we have?”

Almost no chance at all, since of the 13 you guys only each capture one. Sometimes I think that this particular plotline got away from Jordan, like the Shaido but at least with a firm number of assailants.

“As one of the Accepted, you choose your own studies, within limits, and the times for them. And the rules are a little easier for Accepted. A little easier. They must be found, child.”

I think this makes it pretty clear that if Siuan hadn't needed Egwene for the hunt, she and Elayne probably would have stayed novices.

I would make her one of you if I could, but at the moment Morgase gives me enough problems as it is. When I have her combed and curried and prodded back on the proper path, perhaps Elayne will join you. Perhaps then.

I guess Siuan can't think the answer is outright no (or she wouldn't be able to say perhaps), but I still get the feeling from how she says it that the idea of making Elayne a hunter outright is the furthest thing from her mind.

Nynaeve opened her mouth, and Egwene felt a flash of anger; it was such a relief after fear.

I think the Seanchan debacle is a big part of the changing dynamics between Egwene and Nynaeve and why Egwene is so vicious about it: if she's going to feel negative emotions (and after being da'mane you bet your ass she's feeling negative emotions), anger at least lets her feel more in control.

If you have even a suspicion, report it to me.

I can't help but feel that neither Egwene nor Nynaeve actually heard this sentence.

She opened the black box on her table, hesitated and looked at the other two women as if still unsure she wanted to do this, then took out a number of stiff, folded papers. Sorting through them carefully, she hesitated again, then chose out two. The remainder she shoved back into the box, and handed those two to Egwene and Nynaeve. “Keep these well hidden. They are for an emergency only.”

Again, I feel like the girls don't listen to this particular instruction at all.

A Darkfriend won’t heed that any more than a Whitecloak would. They would both likely kill you just for having it. If that paper is a shield . . . well, paper shields are flimsy, and this one may have a target painted on it.

Not mentioned is the sheer disaster letting such an enemy have the paper would be. Moreso the Darkfriends than the Whitecloaks, but I imagine even the latter could do some real damage with such a seal.

Next time: A new type of Shadowspawn shows up!

[purplebass]

Congrats 🎉💜 How about "You are my family" with Blackdale? 🤗

I really hope you like this 🥰 You are one of the few people I know who gets them the same way as I do, and I hope this will bring you happiness. It has a little hurt/comfort in it, but also parallels with TDA, so I think you would like it ✨👀🫶🏻

Read on AO3

For the Ghost That I Used To Be

London, 1904

“I feel like I should go to Chiswick,” Jesse announced to Lucie as they lounged on the loveseat by the window of his bedroom, after a long day he spent outside helping her father. “To, you know, sort things out. Or whatever is left of them.” 

It was not too long after Belial had been defeated, and that everyone had reunited in the gardens of what used to be Jesse’s house to bury things from their past. They all knew that they would never truly move on, but they were trying to. They had to try. Some moved on with their significant others. While some others, like his dear sister Grace, by putting her passion into science. 

“Do you think there is something left to save there?” Lucie inquired, dubious. “The place is in ruins, and I wonder if Tat-, your mother –” she shook her head and sighed. “That woman didn’t get rid of stuff that belonged to you or to your sister while you were away.” 

Every time she had to say Tatiana Blackthorn’s name, she didn’t know how to address her. That woman didn’t deserve to be acknowledged as his or Grace’s mother, because she never acted like a mother throughout their lives. Lucie tried as much as she could to avoid speaking about her, unless it was Jesse who mentioned her during a conversation, which was rare. 

“You can say her name, Lucie,” Jesse said earnestly, his expression neutral. 

Lucie opened her mouth to talk, but only a sigh came out, as if she wanted to say something but thought it was better not to. “I’m sorry, Jesse, but,” she bit her lip to silence herself. Instead of continuing, she took his hand.

 “What are you apologizing for?” he squinted at her. “You’re doing it again.”

“What?”

“You don’t want her name to come up in conversation, and as much as it is thoughtful and sweet, and you don’t want me to get hurt, I,” he inclined his head and a hint of a smile appeared on his lips, “can handle the truth, nor I don’t want to be protected from it. Tatiana Blackthorn was an awful human being and even though I would’ve left her to rot in an isolated jail cell in the Silent City instead of killing her, death is what she deserves for what she did.”

“Would you have spared her, why?” Lucie raised her voice, suddenly curious. They had never discussed the topic too much and she never dared to ask about that in casual conversation. She expected him to talk when and if he was ready. “It’s okay if you don’t want to talk about it.”

Jesse frowned, and held his breath, his lips pursed. Lucie could tell it wasn’t easy for him, and she kept holding his hand, the summer breeze ruffling his dark hair off his forehead. 

I am here if you want to open up. I am willing to listen. I am willing to be a safe harbor for you. I am willing to let you cry on my shoulder if you need to. I’m willing to love you twice as much as that woman should’ve loved you. Even more. I would love you…

“I do not condone anything she did,” he began, gazing up at her, looking her in the eyes. “But I do believe in mercy. Sparing someone’s life not as an act of forgiveness, but of penance. Death is easy,” he wrinkled his nose disapprovingly. “It doesn’t matter how painful it is that you die, peace comes at some point, for most,” he forced a smile, and Lucie knew he was talking about himself too, and about his seven years stuck on the threshold between peace and misery. All because of his own mother, who had waited for the moment he would be old enough so his body could sustain the parasite. Belial. “You’re a corpse. You cannot atone for your sins, if you die, can you?” he asked rhetorically. “While if you live,” he heaved a deep sigh, and his voice came out uncharacteristically detached and far away, cold. “You will live the rest of your life with your guilt, haunted by the ghost of what you did. I find it the most effective punishment.”

“I know you would’ve stopped her if you could have,” Lucie moved closer to him and started stroking his back, feeling the tension in his bones as she did so, trying to ease some of it with her touch. 

“What angers me the most is that the Clave had evidence to shackle her, to indict her, to even banish her –” he glanced up, his tone bitter. His shoulders shook, and when he turned to her, his eyes had a haunted look. “If only I hadn’t been stubborn, they could’ve stopped her.”

The pale glow of the night behind him made him look ghostly again, but also ethereal. A boy who defeated death and came back stronger. A boy who barely showed his resentment, although Lucie knew, he still harbored some in the depths of his soul. Some of his frustration was also aimed at himself, for not having been there physically to stop his mother. For being left in the dark about it all.

He probably still blamed himself for wanting to become a shadowhunter, and the angelic magic clashing with what was inside of him, leading him to his death. His uselessness as a ghost. That was what he meant with his last sentence, and Lucie’s heart grieved for him. She loved him so much and it destroyed her when he felt like this. But it also made her fist clench in anger because of Tatiana, who didn’t just ruin Jesse’s life, but the lives of many others. 

Lucie understood him well, even though there were sides to him that she still didn’t know, and that she was still learning day after day. Jesse didn’t show much of a temper because he knew how to manage his indignation well, but that wouldn’t disappear overnight. And it was the reason Lucie probably avoided the topic. It wasn’t easy to discuss, it didn’t matter that he was confident that he could handle it. 

“Alas, we will never know that,” Lucie replied sincerely. “They could’ve still favored her. In the eyes of the Clave, she was the one who had been wronged, and she knew how to plead her case,” she said firmly, trying not to shake with fury. “Even if you had been alive at the time, and tried to stop her, I’m sure she would’ve found something so she could throw you to the wolves.”

Jesse’s face fell. She didn’t mean to be too blunt, but he needed to know, since they were talking. “I assume you’re right,” he told her after a long beat. “I think you are right, Lucie. I –” he took in a sharp breath, “I was always meant to be none other than a pawn in her revenge. Mistook her refusal for me to join the shadowhunters as a way for her to protect me from those she said hurt her the most. For love,” he said, dejected. “When in truth, I was one of her means for revenge. One of her possessions.”

Tears welled up in his eyes and she gently started wiping them with her fingers. He closed his eyes, and leaned his cheek into her hand. She drove his face to her shoulder, and he nestled his cheek there. There was so much Lucie wanted to say to him. Yet, she thought everything she wanted to tell him came down to the only words that encompassed all the possible sentences that ran in her head. “I love you, Jesse. I love you.” 

He wept silently until he had enough. Lucie stood beside him on the loveseat, threading her fingers in his hair, trying to soothe him, to tell him it was okay. She didn’t know how much time they had been there. The door to his bedroom was not completely shut, and she wondered if her parents might have come to check on them, and heard him cry. 

“I believe that I can still find some of my belongings and family heirlooms at Chiswick,” Jesse whispered after a while, his head still on her shoulder. Lucie nodded. “And if we don’t, it won’t matter.”

“We can go whenever you feel like it,” Lucie answered quietly, her hand quietly caressing his hair. She wanted to add if you want me to come with you, but she thought it was a given. 

“We can go the day after tomorrow, at noon,” he told her. “With the light.”

“Sounds perfect to me,” she agreed, and kissed the top of his head. 

While in bed that night, Lucie thought about everything that she and Jesse had talked about, and decided that the only thing she could be thankful to Tatiana Blackthorn for was that she gave birth to him. If it was for her, she would’ve killed her several times, or made a voodoo doll to inflict pain on her. Not only because she had sent Jesse to his death. Because she had also destroyed Grace’s life, because she had killed Christopher. Because she decided to burn all the bridges her uncles had tried to build to reach her. She hoped that Jesse could find closure someday. She would try to show him the love she thought he deserved.

Chiswick was even messier than how Lucie remembered. She recalled the last time they went there. Everyone had gathered to bury things they wanted to leave in the past. It was a symbolic action to mean a new beginning for everyone. It didn’t magically erase what had happened, no enchantment could. Trying to start anew was the only option in order to survive. 

Jesse immersed himself completely in his new life as a shadowhunter. He often helped around the Institute, and Will and Tessa also started mentoring him because they noticed he could follow in their footsteps in the future. Of this, Lucie was ecstatic. More than half a year before he didn’t have a future, and knowing he could potentially get her parents’ position someday made her happy. 

She grinned, and looked up at Jesse as they entered the main foyer of the house. She held his hand – something they both liked to do whenever they were out together – and she tightened her grip on an instinct when they crossed the threshold. Jesse exchanged her smile, but Lucie could tell he was a little on edge. They never returned to this place after they buried their belongings, and, without anyone taking care of the house, it gathered even more dust. 

“We should start looking in my grandfather’s study,” Jesse announced, and lead the way. 

Several hours later, they gathered some things that Jesse thought were worth taking away. A couple of old books he had cherished. Some other things he used while he was little. The rest, they arranged on a table but they were unsure whether they needed them or not. 

“I wonder what this is doing here,” Lucie said when they were looking in the attic, where Jesse told her he used to hide most of the things he didn’t want his mother to find as a child. She showed the portrait she had found to him. “I think this is her,” she told Jesse. 

“Her, who? She does look like a Blackthorn, but I don’t know her. Her portrait was never hung on the wall with the others.”

“Annabel,” Lucie whispered, looking at the back of the portrait. There was a date scribbled over, perhaps of when the artist had painted her. “The woman Malcolm used to love.”

“Oh, that Annabel,” he asserted, frowning at his girlfriend. “The one you wanted to find for him.” 

Lucie nodded, glancing at the portrait. She told Jesse about her promise to Malcolm and how she couldn’t fulfill it because she lost her power. She waited to tell him because she thought it wasn’t important, since she couldn’t keep her promise anyway, and it wasn’t like the warlock had helped raise him. That was the original pact. 

But then she realized that she didn’t want to keep things from Jesse, who was reserved but always sincere. To her, a good relationship needed to be built on mutual trust and honesty, which she believed they had. Her secret with Malcolm was the only thing she had kept from him, and she felt the need to free herself from the weight of it.

“I wanted to help Malcolm,” Lucie admitted, her hands twisting on her lap. “I could’ve helped him like I helped you.”

“I’m sure you would have,” Jesse tensed in his seat, and he sighed in frustration. “What could’ve happened to you, if you had? You’ve slept for days after you raised me. Occasionally waking up but still unconscious,” he closed his eyes briefly, the memory of that time in Cornwall still haunted him to this day. “I could have lost you,” he said in a broken voice, flinching, as if only thinking about that made him panic. “You could have gotten hurt,” he added, shaking his head again.

She knew he would get upset. He didn’t want Lucie to risk her life to bring back someone else. She already risked enough for trying with him, and even if he was thankful, he would’ve never wanted her to try again. 

“Yes, your ancestor,” Lucie continued. “Oh, there is something here,” she realized, touching the back of the portrait. A tiny wooden box was built behind the canvas, which opened when she picked on the lock. “I wonder what this is,” she said, picking up a small leather bound book. 

Jesse came closer and he started looking. “This looks like a diary,” he said, opening the first page. “No, it isn’t,” he corrected himself. “It is a poem. A poem by Edgar Allan Poe. He is a mundane poet.”

Lucie peered at the small volume. “My parents would be delighted to see this,” she marveled at the precise scribbles. “It is a poem, indeed. What’s the name? Annabel… Lee,” she gazed at Jesse, who wore the same surprised expression as hers. “Could have been…?”

“Written by Poe to that Annabel? I don’t have a clue,” he shrugged. “But anything is possible. Otherwise, why would it be hidden behind her portrait?”

“And, most of all, who could have hid it here?” Lucie inquired, trying to make an impression of the famous character Sherlock Holmes, a detective written by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. 

“Give it to the members of the Blackthorn family to still make noise even after they’re dead,” Jesse remarked with a giggle. “What an astounding family.”

They laughed together, and it was liberating. She was afraid that it would be hard to be in his old house, surrounded by a lot of things which used to belong to his family. And indeed, she knew that it wasn’t easy for him. But at least, the mood had softened and Lucie thought that Jesse seemed relaxed after their latest find, and she was glad of it. 

“Can I keep the poem, Jesse?” Lucie asked when they finally gathered everything he meant to take with him to the London Institute. She was a little shy about asking, mostly considering their past talk about Annabel, but she still took her chances. The worse he could do would be saying no, which she would completely understand.

Jesse didn’t seem to be taken aback by the request. “I can already see your mind spinning, Lucie,” he declared, the corners of his mouth turned up into a sincere grin, which made Lucie’s cheeks flush with heat. “Keep it, if you like it. I don’t mind.”

Lucie beamed at his consent, and pushed herself up on her tiptoes to give him a kiss on the cheek. She put the small volume in the pocket of her dress for safekeeping, and then, they left.

London, 1910

During the first weeks at the Institute, several years before, Jesse tried to get used to living again. He kept himself busy, tried to distract himself from the reality of this new life, and from the overwhelming sensation of being seen. He didn’t mind being around Lucie and her parents. They respected his space and he was sure they knew how to read his mood and dealt with him accordingly. They respected him and he respected them, and always made him feel like part of their family.

Jesse remembered when he gathered the courage to go to Chiswick, and told Lucie about it. And the conversation diverted on the topic of his mother, and he broke down in front of his beloved girl, who carefully avoided talking about Tatiana not to trigger him. She was a sensitive topic, but he realized that, in order to move on, he needed to face his demons, and that included his wicked and loveless mother and the house that she had turned into his prison for years. 

They had been there before, when everyone decided to bury their belongings which were a symbol of the life they wanted to leave behind. Jesse had left his coffin behind, as he didn’t need it anymore, but he had also asked himself whether or not he would be able to move on from that part of his existence where his life couldn’t be defined as such. “It was the ghost of a life”, Lucie told him on a warm afternoon, while they discussed one of her new writing projects. “And now the ghost is finally living his life,” she added. “This is a hopeful story.”

Chiswick hadn’t changed, if not for the excess of dust covering all the surfaces like the eerie cloth of an unkind ghost. The wind, now gentle, now strong, found its way through the broken shutters, and graced the furniture with fresh air in a place otherwise dead. 

Jesse hadn’t been shocked to find his old house in such ruins. On the other hand, he thought it would be in worse condition. He considered this place lost. He hadn’t wanted to go back, but he felt like he needed to. He needed closure, and he was puzzled to see the remnants of his previous life were still there, laying untouched in the attic. Lucie also found a tiny volume with a poem, and it was part of the reason they were there that night.

As one would expect from the heads of the London Institute, there would always be some party to attend, or some people who wanted to meet him. He didn’t mind being around people, but he needed to manage the amount of time he was around people. There were some occasions when he just couldn’t bear to be among the throngs of shadowhunters, and had to catch a break. 

It didn’t happen as often now, but tonight, because of the special occasion they were celebrating, Will and Tessa had invited even more people than usual. He would hide in an alcove next to the ballroom or on the balcony, where he knew people didn’t like to venture when there was music and drinks and food in the party room. He liked the balcony, and appreciated the breath of fresh air that would breeze when out on one, without the constraints of the frame of a window. 

And Lucie always found him. They were like magnets, attracted to each other like opposite poles. He also felt that pull with her. He sensed where she was, when they were in a crowded room. He would smile at her and she would smile at him in acknowledgment. And her presence would calm him, tether him to the here and now. To the world of the living.

“Found you,” she told him playfully, not too long after he fled the ballroom teeming with inebriated shadowhunters. “Is everything okay, Jesse? You seemed distressed.”

“I am,” he decided not to lie to her. “I just feel like –”

“Like this is too much?”

“It is,” he revealed. “Too many people tonight. I just needed to catch my breath and then I would return. And this balcony is the perfect place.”

“Do you want me to leave?”

“Not at all,” he offered her a smile. “Come here,” he opened his arm, and she nestled close to him, placing her hand on one of the lapels of his jacket. “This is much better,” he said, and secured his hand on her shoulder, lingering on Lucie’s sheer-covered arm.

“This place is the best to take a breather,” Lucie observed quietly. “I was also getting fed with people in the other room. Rosamund Wenthworth wouldn’t stop asking me where I found the material for my work, which, surprisingly, she said she enjoyed.”

“Congratulations for making Rosamund enjoy something,” Jesse commented, remembering how Lucie told him that Rosamund and her brother used to mock her for having a ghost as a friend. If Lucie didn’t like befriending ghosts, he probably wouldn’t be here today. “She and her lot seem hard to please, but they do like to intrude in people’s lives. She once cornered me to ask me about Chiswick and how I used to live there,” he huffed. “Since, according to the stories she’d heard, we only ate what grew in the greenhouse.”

“That’s such an insensitive question,” Lucie was outraged, and Jesse could only grin wider. “If only I had been there! But she doesn’t dare to say those things in front of me,” she snorted. He knew she would fight all the Rosamunds in the world for him, and his heart filled up with so much love just thinking about that. “What did you say?”

“I didn’t want to be disrespectful, so I replied that regrettably, the story she knew was incorrect,” he declared proudly. “We didn’t just eat the crops that grew in the greenhouse, we also sowed them. Unfortunately, it was just corn and beans.”

“Jesse!” Lucie objected, glancing up at him. He was laughing. “I wouldn’t come up with a better answer, if I tried. It’s easy to poke fun at Rosamund. She believes in everything you say,” she observed. “She tries to flirt, even,” she rolled her eyes. “When she has a husband and a child.”

“I don’t know about that,” his eyes sparkled with amusement at Lucie, who was rarely jealous. “Well, if she ever did, the joke is on her. I am happily taken, and I’m sure the guests your parents gathered here tonight also know it, Rosamund included.”

“She better,” Lucie smiled at him, content, nestling her head back under his welcoming arm. They stayed in silence for a while, just enjoying each other’s company and warmth. “This balcony didn’t exist before my parents started working here,” Lucie said suddenly. “When I was a child, I wondered why. It is uncommon to have balconies in Institutes, since they’re often churches. They’re more common in mansions or other private houses.”

“There are balconies at Chiswick,” Jesse said, and Lucie nodded, gazing up at him. “I even remember you sneaking in from one, when I was still a ghost.”

“I did,” she bit her lip, blushing. “By the way, I overheard my parents talk one day, and found out the reason they wanted a balcony so bad. You wouldn’t believe it.”

“The view is great?” Jesse wondered rhetorically, and Lucie shook her head. “But the view is indeed great, I have to admit it,” he said, maintaining eye contact with her. 

“I agree,” she beamed at him. “Other than that, I reckon that they’re very fond of balconies because,” she took a moment to say it, “they shared their first real kiss on one of the balconies at Chiswick. My papa’s words, not mine.”

“Ah,” Jesse said. “Now that you mention it, I can see the appeal,” he tilted his head to the side, and she couldn’t read his expression clearly. “It is indeed a private enough place for frolicking. It makes me want to kiss you.”

“Then,” Lucie muttered, “what are you waiting for?”

He made a quiet giggle of amusement and then his expression turned serious, yet sweet, as if he was trying to keep her face in his memory before closing his eyes and meeting her lips with his own. Lucie, still trying to hide in the warmth of his jacket, hugged his torso and clung on the back of his shirt. His hand cupped the side of her jaw and they shared a tender kiss which gradually grew in rhythm.  

“Perhaps we should go back inside,” he said placidly, tracing her cheek with his finger after the kiss. “Your skin is cold and your father must request our presence to cut the cake.”

Lucie huffed, still reeling from the kiss, and she tightened her hold on him. “You’re right,” she nodded. “Particularly considering that I am one of the guests of honor.”

“And you spent the last half hour with your socially anxious future husband on a balcony,” Jesse interjected with a raised eyebrow, apologetic, as the two went inside and walked towards the ballroom. “The other guest of honor.” A mix of cheerful and shouting voices could be heard from there. At least, people were enjoying themselves. 

Lucie smiled and halted her step, needing to tell him one thing before they would have to go back into the crowd of friends and family. “I’ll tell them to leave once everyone eats the engagement cake,” she promised him, fixing his tie as she spoke. “Then we can go on the balcony again, if you like. My parents wouldn’t object, since this is our night.”

Jesse nodded. “It’s too cold outside, maybe we should retreat somewhere else? We can decide later.”

“Yes, anything you want,” she said. “Jesse, did you ever –”

“Oh, I found you!” a small girl’s voice interrupted their talking. It was Cordelia and James’ younger daughter Layla. “Grandpa Will asked me to look for you!”

“Dear, did they send you by yourself? Where is your mama?” Lucie wondered, lowering to the child’s height. 

“She also asked me to look for you, saying that they were waiting for you and uncle Jesse to cut the cake! You must hurry, or we will eat everything!” Layla grabbed Lucie’s hand and she grabbed Jesse’s, their conversation cut but far from over. 

It was roughly around eleven that all their guests finally left, and only the inhabitants of the London Institute stayed behind. Will and Tessa had retreated to their room, and they told Lucie and Jesse not to stay up too late, which was something they often said out of habit, as if they were still children. Lucie was sure they would tell them even after they would become man and wife, and she didn’t mind it. She was lucky that both her parents were alive and well, and she cherished every moment with them. Not many people could say the same. 

In the end, they went into the game room. It wasn’t one of Lucie’s favorites, but the fireplace was larger than the one in their rooms and she was in need of warmth. Well, she was warm, if they asked her, but more heat wouldn’t hurt. She outstretched her arms so she could feel the heat on her palms. 

“Tonight was amazing,” Lucie commented, feeling peaceful and at ease. Jesse was in his shirtsleeves, while she still wore her evening dress. She wondered if he was as warm as she was. “I can’t believe we are finally engaged,” her tone was jovial. She glanced at her hand again, a spark of giddiness filling her heart at the sight of her ring. 

Jesse grabbed her hand and glanced at the ring he had picked. “You are breathtaking, if I haven’t told you already,” he complimented her, and she turned red. For the record, he had told her too many times to count, but he still loved to say it and for her to hear it. 

“You look good yourself,” Lucie took him all in, taking in his green eyes and their contrast with his black hair. “I can’t believe mam invited all those people, and they all came,” she leaned on the pool table, the balls scattered in different directions because somebody had probably played while the party went on and forgot to rearrange them. 

“Your parents are influential,” Jesse said. “Even those who might not approve of their union must know that it is better to keep them as friends and not foes,” he shrugged. “Even Rosamund and Thoby know.”

Lucie nodded, lost in thought. “I’m still blown away that she liked my book,” she rolled her eyes. “That anybody in that room who has read it, told me nice words about my book,” she rubbed her hands together, still in disbelief. 

“Why wouldn’t they,” Jesse held her chin between his fingers, stroking the side of her jaw. “You’ve written many things throughout the years we’ve been together. And I don’t want to pick a favorite among your writing, but to me, this is the finest. Maybe you were meant to write for children.”

“If you told me five years ago that my first published work would be a collection of shadowhunter tales for children, I wouldn’t have believed you,” she said, delighted. “And it is you I have to thank,” she stared at Jesse. “I’m beyond grateful that you let me use the book we found behind Annabel’s portrait. It was a way to remember her, since I couldn’t help her case.”

“To be fair, you didn’t need my consent to write your story,” he replied. “I still have no clue as to why the volume was behind the portrait, nor who put it there. The poem is of public domain. It was published in a newspaper, so it isn’t a secret,” he raised an eyebrow and gave her half a shrug. “I, along with Grace, are the only Blackthorns left in London. It is a great responsibility, carrying this name” he said solemnly. “You are my family, Lucie,” he offered her a smile, and held her hand. “Grace, your parents, my uncles and aunts, they are also my family. But when we get married, and after then, someday,” his eyes filled with affection and devotion, “my family will also be our children. Any children who would want to join us.”

Lucie couldn’t help but give him a wide smile. “Are you thinking about a number? Because I suggest we should have one child for every year you couldn’t fully live. So, seven children.”

“Are you sure? Half the job is mine,” he raised his eyebrows. “But you will have to carry them for nine months. It’s over half a year and –”

“I was joking,” Lucie giggled. “Not about having kids. I love children,” she grinned. “And I would love to have kids with you, someday. I can’t wait to start our own family. Fill the Institute or wherever you want to live with lots of Blackthorn children.”

He blushed, his heart pounding loudly in his chest. “Blackthorn children who we will read your shadowhunters tales to,” he fixed a strand of hair behind her ear. “And the best books in English literature but also of literature from all over the world.”

“And who we will teach how to spar in a duel and all the names of the different demons they may encounter at night,” she said, putting her hands behind his neck. “Including ghosts.”

“Here I thought you loved ghosts,” he said. “I’m offended.”

“What if I kissed you for offending you?” she raised an eyebrow alluringly. “Even though you are not a ghost anymore.”

“You can do it for the ghost that I used to be,” he answered. “And I’m not anymore. But please, hurry. Or I’m going to kiss you first.”

He didn’t have to ask her twice.  Lucie smirked, and soon her lips found his, joined in the perfect conclusion to an already flawless night.  

Hi! Thanks for reading everything. I hope you noticed the parallels I wanted to make, especially with Jesse and Lucie being the Blackthorns who will began the new legacy of the family once they're married. And also with Lucie writing the children's stories that we see Tavvy Blackthorn has in TDA :) I thought it would be nice if she found Poe's work and turned Annabel into a magical heroine in order to remember her, just like she did with Jesse when he used to be a ghost. I planned to add a bonus scene where Lucie and Jesse talk about her pact with Malcolm, but I will post it tomorrow, I think. I hope you enjoyed this one! I'd love to hear your thoughts <3