#these are the people that have signed that letter

[elizabethemerald]

The Infiltration

The Beginning of the New Pantheon

Masterpost

Donna Troy dialed a familiar number as she flew through the air from Mount Olympus. She could feel the weight of her coming responsibilities on her shoulders already. Zeus had chosen her to be Queen of the New Olympians. She would need a whole freak out later, but for now, she had to inform the others. 

“This is Nightwing.” Dick’s voice came through her comm, calm, curt, and ready for any crisis. Just what she needed. 

“Hey Boy Wonder.” Donna said.

“I get the feeling this isn’t a social call.” 

“Unfortunately no. I’m going to send you a list of junior leaguers, can you make sure they are waiting for me at Titans Tower? Along with any of you bats that are free.” 

“Of course, Donna. Does this have anything to do with the emergency meeting Diana just called with the rest of the League?” 

“It sure does.” 

“Got it. What should I tell the others? What should I be ready for?” 

Donna took a moment to think through what she thought would happen and how the others would react. 

“Tell your birds to polish their batarangs and prepare for an uncertain diplomatic situation.”

“Got it. I’ll round up the others and meet you at the Tower.” 

“Thanks.” Donna almost ended the call, but stopped. “And Nightwing?” 

“Yeah?” His voice was half distracted as he sought out where the other bats were currently. 

“I’m going to need your help to keep them all from falling apart.” 

“Don’t worry Donna. I’ve got your back.” 

.

Cassie was baffled by her mission. How was it that there was a group of heroes that had flown completely under the radar of the Justice League, yet had somehow earned the respect of the Olympians? Her list had a bunch of different names on it, but all had the same location. She had looked up the names in the JL systems as she flew from Olympus to the middle of nowhere Illinois. None of the people were in the database. Red Robin would be pissed if he knew. 

Even more concerning was the fact that there wasn’t even a town listed at the coordinates. Batman insisted that the League had the best satellites with the best cameras and there was nothing in the area. There weren’t even any JL calls! If there were a bunch of heroes who had been facing things that had been known to the Olympians, there should have been some calls from civilians for help right? 

She was really hoping this wasn’t some kind of weird murder-cult or unsanctioned government organization. She hated dealing with those, and for now she would be on her own. Young Justice got up to a lot of weird stuff that didn’t make it into the League reports, especially under Red Robin’s leadership, and this might top all the rest. 

Cassie landed just on the outskirts of what appeared to be a regular suburban town. Her eyebrows rose at the sign that welcomed her to Amity Park. Underneath the city’s name had previously been an older town slogan, she could still read the faded letters even though the words themselves had been removed, “The Most Haunted City in the US!” Over those faded marks was a new slogan, “A Place to Live.” Clearly the slogan had changed recently, with a real half-assed effort. 

Over top the new slogan was some graffiti in a neon green spray paint that crossed out the other words and said, “Welcome to Hell.” She supposed it only made sense for someone who would replace Hades as the lord of the Underworld to live in a place like this. She sighed to herself, switched her uniform to her more stealth focused look and crept past the city limits. 

Her feelings of concern grew when she saw what was clearly a government blockade stretching across the road into the rest of the city proper. Multiple all white vans blocked all out going traffic and the in going road was limited to a single lane. She could make out multiple government goons in tacky white suits carrying all manner of glowing green weapons; blasters, rifles, even what looked like a bazooka. 

A fence extended from the blockade and seemed to wrap around the entire city. The fence was topped with barbed wire and had strange sensors every few yards. She pulled a few wires, and connected them to the small palm computer she carried with her equipment. She might not be as techy as Red Robin and Impulse were, but she was better than Superboy, and Red Robin made sure they were all equipped to handle the basics of infiltration and espionage. 

Whatever the sensors were searching for, and it wasn’t movement, heat, radiation or anything else she could figure out on her own, they also didn’t detect her. There didn’t appear to be any cameras that she could see, so the goons were solely dependent on these sensors. This was becoming even more of a mystery, and she hadn’t even found Phantom yet. 

Cassie lifted off, flying easily over the fence to land on the other side. Both the goons at the gate and the sensors were aimed at the sky, so she had to imagine that whatever they were trying to contain was a known flier. Even if the sensors couldn’t detect her, she would have an easier time avoiding problems on the ground even if it would take longer to get around. 

She walked quickly into the mid-sized town from the outskirts and her concerns only grew. There were hardly any cars on the roads, which made perfect sense considering the road was pocked with massive craters like the town had been bombarded by meteors. The few citizens she could see hurried by as if afraid to be caught out on the streets. 

This was a city under siege, but from what? 

Also, why hadn’t the Justice League been called? 

Cassie had a bad feeling that she wouldn’t like the answer to either of those questions. 

She hurried through, her eyes peeled for any threat, as well as on the look out for the mysterious Phantom she was supposed to be making contact with. There were stores boarded up, more sensors along with loud speakers on tall poles, and posters warning the populace about a curfew. 

Cassie ducked into an alley at the sound of squealing tires. Her eyes just about bugged out of her head as a silver tank, with that same neon green detailing barreled around the corner. It took out a stop light, then without stopping carried on down to the other end of the street. The tank had what  she could only describe as a cannon on its roof, that same eerie green glow to it. 

She had fought alongside Superboy often enough that her first thought was Kryptonite, but unless there were somehow an entire city of secret Kryptonians, it didn’t make sense for them to carry weapons specifically against the Supers. She leaned out into the street to see if she could see which way it was going, or if there was any sign of what a tank like that was needed for. 

“Hey! Get out of the streets!” A voice hissed to her from the opposite alley way. 

Cassie whipped her head up. There in the opposite alley were two teenagers, desperately waving her over. She double checked that the tank had turned the corner and wasn’t in sight and she ran across to them. They pulled her away from the street into the back alley behind one of the businesses. 

She looked the two of them over once they were no longer moving. The girl was goth, with dark hair, pale skin, a leather jacket, and backpack with several plants hanging out of it. Cassie thought she might get along very well with Raven. The boy had dark skin, a ratty and stained beanie and the oldest PDA she had ever seen even if it looked modded to Hades and back. He would probably get along entirely too well with Red Robin. She would have to keep the two of them apart. 

The boy was watching back the way they had come, his PDA in his hand as he checked for any followers. The girl was watching with Cassie with the same examining glare she was used to from Batman. 

“What are you doing?” The girl snapped her question out. “We told all teenagers to stay off the streets. It's not safe with the GIW on patrol!” 

Cassie ratcheted up her mental alarm scale quite a bit. This whole town already had so many red flags it looked like a ski slope, and now she was adding even more. She set her feet and squared her shoulders. She was a member of Young Justice. She wasn’t going to let this happen. 

“I need you two to tell me everything you know. I’m called Wonder Girl and I’m with the Justice League and I’m here to help.” Cassie said, using her “Daughter of Zeus” voice that she reserved for during a crisis. Impulse always said he could hear thunder in her voice when she did that. 

“What’s the Justice League?” The boy asked, and Cassie was knocked onto her back foot. She had purposely said the main League because people sometimes looked down on YJ and TT because they were kids, but how could someone not even know about the Justice League? They were in the news almost every day for one reason or another. 

“Uh, the Justice League is a group of heroes that protect Earth? They’ve fought off alien invasions and saved lives and things like that? Because of my strength I usually help fight off meta humans who want to conquer the world or steal stuff.” 

The two teens looked completely baffled and Cassie just gave up trying to catalog the red flags in this town and just marked the whole thing as FUBAR. She would probably need the help of the rest of Young Justice to get this sorted, or maybe even the full League. 

“Well, ‘Wonder Girl’ my name’s Sam and-”

“Wait, Samantha Manson?” Cassie ignored the implied finger quotes around her hero name in her excitement that she may have just found one of the people she was looking for. 

“My name is Sam.” Sam snapped. 

Cassie ignored her clear irritation and unrolled the scroll she had been given, ice and frost cracking and flaking off as she did so. If Sam Manson was here, it made sense that she would know the other heroes the Olympians were looking for. Cassie closely examined the list she had before looking up at the boy. He didn’t look like a Jazz, or Danielle, he might be a Dan or Phantom himself, but considering his collection of tech she could see, she had a good guess of who he could be. 

“And that means, you must be Tucker Foley!” Cassie said triumphantly. 

Both of the teens now looked at her with even more wariness than before. That made sense considering what Cassie had seen, but she now had part of her mission objective in front of her. She dismissed the stealth mode on her costume, flicked her wrist to unfurl her lightning lasso and allowed some of her ‘demi-god aura’ out. 

“I am from the Justice League, and I am a hero, but I am also a daughter of Zeus, and I have been sent here on a mission from Olympus to summon the heroes of this town to come to our aid. It is only right that I assist you in any way I can from the troubles you currently face.” 

“What?” “What?”

[kurishiri]

01 ┊ The final promise, a mother's death

꒰ ִ ֺ ⊹ @ notice ⊹ ֺ ִ ꒱ this translation may not be 100% accurate or contain creative liberties due to characterization or narrative flow purposes. if you enjoy, please consider reblogging, but don’t repost these or claim these as your own!

— jude⌛'s past records, record #1.

— cw: domestic child abuse (physical), death of a family member, mentions of alcoholism and family neglect.

The amount of happiness a person is given in their lifetime is decided, and it is split equally for everyone.

Such was written in a book somewhere.

Just as there was no abundance of good things, neither was there an abundance of bad. Everything was made to be equal.

——If that was the case, then just what did this bloody wretched life of mine ever amount to?

Since I was born, I had never gotten a taste of that feeling called ‘happiness.’

My father was an immigrant from Ireland, who worked at the seaport.

The place was filled with violent people, making both public order and the working environment in poor condition, but not working would be the same as death.

And what was tragic about the job was the fact that you could be laid off at any point.

Jude’s father: Blast it all! I went outta my way to show up n’ they went and kicked me out!

Jude’s older brother: Was a fool’s errand from the start!

In the cramped house, the scent of liquor and tobacco pervaded the room,

and perhaps because of continuous exposure to that, my younger sister and I had weak lungs, and were often prone to asthma attacks.

Jude’s younger sister: *cough* *cough*...

Jude: Quit it already.

Jude’s father: ...Hah?

Jude: If ya continue smokin’ that stuff, ain’t no way we’re gettin’ any better.

J: If you’re gonna smoke go n’ do it outsi——gh!

All of a sudden, he hit my cheeks, and the moment I collapsed on the floor, he grabbed my hair.

Jude’s father: I dare ya to try sayin’ that again.

Jude: Hah, did ya drink so much booze your ears gone bad? I’ll say it however much I gotta.

J: I’m sayin’ ya don’t even got a penny in your pocket and yet ya go off smokin’ that stuff——guah!

This time, he hit my other cheek without holding back.

Jude’s father: Jude. How old are ya?

Jude: ...Five.

Jude’s father: Which is the age ya can go n’ work a job. And yet here ya are not doin’ that ‘cause you’re coughin’ a lung up.

Jude’s father: Who do ya think ya are, complainin’ when you’re a useless piece o’ trash, huh!?

Grasping at my hair, he tried to drag me around, when——

Jude’s mother: Stop this at once...!

Jude: Mum...

Jude’s mother: I’ll give him a talk and make him listen. Okay?

Mother took some money, and the two left the house for a drink.

(That cash... went and sold off clothes again, innit.)

She was a woman who could use perfect Queen’s English, and she was originally a well-to-do lady, or so I heard.

But, she pulled the short end of the stick, getting together with a good-for-nothing.

She sold the little jewels and clothes she had brought until she had nothing left to her name, and her health deteriorated.

—— Time skip (I think) ——

Jude’s mother: Jude, come here a bit.

Mother took me out to the garden, and there she took a stick and started writing something on the ground.

Jude: Mum, what’s this?

Jude’s mother: These are letters. They represent the words we speak... let’s see... it’s much like a ‘sign,’ so to speak.

Jude’s mother: See, this is how you write your name. J, U, D, E.

I copied Mother’s letters, writing them on the ground.

Jude: Wow, I could really get behind this. Hey, how do ya write Jazza——

Just then, Mother pulled me into an embrace.

Jude: Mum...?

Jude’s mother: In the times to come, even when your body is weak, and your money scarce, as long as you have wisdom, you can live on with that.

Jude’s mother: Jude, you are intelligent. I am sure knowledge will be your guardian.

Jude: Hey, mum, if ya hug me so tight it’s gonna hurt.

Jude’s mother: Hehe, you’re a big brother, aren’t you? You can handle this much at least.

Not too long after, Mother’s body grew weak, and she passed away.

The only thing left behind was the cold bed which she no longer occupied.

(She probably knew things would turn out this way.)

Running my hand along the cold surface of the bed, I recalled the final conversation we shared.

—— Flashback ——

Jude’s mother: Jude... I’m sorry.

Jude: What’re ya apologizin’ for? There’s a mountain of people other than ya who gotta apologize.

Father and my older brother drowned in alcohol, and even on death’s door, they didn’t bother even showing their faces.

Jude’s mother: ...I’m sorry, I’m sorry...

Jude: ...N’ like I said, don’t apologize.

Jude’s mother: ...Please...take care of your sister...Jude.

—— End flashback ——

That became the final conversation.

And, after that, my life stumbled even more down to the pits of hell.

to be continued…

first next →

masterlist🌙 ┊ ko-fi ☕️ ┊ comms 🤍

[wonyowonyo]

Whispers Through Time (P. Hanni X M! Reader)

Guess who's back, it's none other than your ghosting author wonyo! Firstly, I'd like to apologize for my very long absence as life have just been too much of a bitch for me to have the time write. I can't certainly promise to update more in the future as I only have a week break right now, which is why I was able to write a new fic. This one's about 9k words, my longest? yet, so as always I hope you all enjoy this one and I'll see yall when I see ya.

The day had started like any other. Hanni strolled through the historic district, earbuds in, a soft breeze carrying the scent of aged stone and street vendors' offerings. She wasn’t quite sure what drew her into the small, dusty museum on the corner. Something about the old sign, its letters faded with time, beckoned her inside.

As she wandered past glass cases filled with relics—muskets, uniforms, yellowed parchments—her eyes landed on an antique pendant, its silver surface engraved with intricate symbols. She leaned closer, feeling an inexplicable pull.

“That belonged to an unknown revolutionary,” said an elderly curator, appearing beside her. His voice was soft, almost reverent. “No one knows his name, but legend has it he wore this during the final days of the rebellion.”

Hanni reached out, almost without thinking. Her fingertips brushed the glass, and a sudden rush of energy surged through her. The room seemed to spin, the walls melting into a blur of light and shadow. She gasped, stumbling backward—

And then, everything went dark.

————————————————————

When Hanni’s eyes fluttered open, the air was thick with smoke. Shouts echoed around her, mingling with the sharp crack of musket fire. She coughed, struggling to her feet, her heart pounding.

She wasn’t in the museum anymore.

Cobblestone streets stretched before her, lined with ramshackle buildings. People in period clothing—mud-smeared skirts, patched waistcoats—ran past, their faces twisted in fear or fury.

“This can’t be real,” she whispered, but the acrid sting of gunpowder in her nostrils said otherwise.

Suddenly, rough hands grabbed her arm. She spun around to find a young man, his dark eyes fierce beneath a tricorn hat. “You there! What are you doing out in the open?” he hissed, pulling her into a shadowy alley.

“I—I don’t know,” Hanni stammered, heart racing. “Where am I?”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not from around here, are you? This is no place for a lost soul.” His voice softened slightly, though the urgency remained. “Come. We need to get off the streets. The Redcoats are out in force.”

Hanni followed him deeper into the alley, her mind a whirlwind. The dim passage was narrow, the sounds of chaos fading as they moved.

“What’s your name?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

He glanced back, a hint of a smile playing at the corner of his lips. “You can call me Y/n.”

————————————————————

Hanni followed Y/n through a maze of twisting alleys, her heart hammering in her chest. Every echo of musket fire or distant shout sent shivers down her spine. The air was thick with tension, the kind of fear and resolve that seemed to hang over the entire city.

Finally, Y/n stopped in front of a nondescript wooden door, its surface worn and weathered. He knocked three times in a specific rhythm. After a moment, the door creaked open, and a pair of wary eyes peered out.

"Another stray?" the man behind the door muttered, his voice gruff. He was older, with a scar running down one side of his face.

"She was wandering in the streets," Y/n replied, pushing the door open further. "We couldn't leave her out there."

The man sighed but stepped aside, letting them in. Hanni followed Y/n into the dimly lit room. It was small and crowded, with a handful of people huddled around a makeshift table, their faces lined with exhaustion. Maps and documents were spread out before them, illuminated by the flickering light of a single candle.

"Stay here," Y/n whispered, guiding her to a corner. "Don't draw attention to yourself."

Hanni nodded, sinking onto a tattered blanket. The reality of her situation was starting to sink in. This wasn't a dream. She had somehow been transported back in time, into the heart of a revolution. She watched as Y/n joined the others at the table, his expression serious as they spoke in hushed tones.

For a moment, she just observed him. There was a quiet intensity about him, a determination that seemed to burn beneath the surface. His clothes were worn, his face smudged with dirt, but his eyes—deep and fierce—were filled with a kind of resolve she'd never seen before.

————————————————————

After what felt like hours, Y/n returned to her corner, sinking down beside her. His shoulders sagged with exhaustion, but his eyes were sharp and watchful.

"You alright?" he asked, his voice soft but edged with tension.

Hanni nodded. "I... think so. I still don't understand how I got here."

Y/n studied her for a long moment, his gaze narrowing. "You keep saying that. What do you mean you don't know?" His tone was laced with suspicion now.

She hesitated. "It's... complicated. I come from a different time. A different world."

His eyes widened, and he leaned back slightly, as if she might be dangerous. "What are you talking about? Is this some kind of trick?" His voice rose slightly, drawing the attention of a few others in the room.

"No!" she whispered urgently, glancing around. "I know it sounds impossible, but it’s the truth. I was... in a museum, looking at an old artifact, and then... I woke up here."

Y/n's brow furrowed, his jaw clenched. "A museum? What kind of nonsense is that? You expect me to believe you came from... the future?"

Hanni swallowed hard. "Yes. I know how it sounds, but I swear, it’s true."

For a moment, he just stared at her, his expression unreadable. Then he laughed bitterly. "People are risking their lives out there, and you think this is a game? Some story to entertain us?"

"It’s not a story!" Hanni insisted, her voice breaking. "I don’t know how or why, but I was pulled here. Into your time. I don’t belong here."

Y/n shook his head, his eyes filled with a mix of disbelief and anger. "I’ve seen men lose their minds in this war. Desperation makes people say all kinds of things. But this...?" He stood abruptly, pacing. "You expect me to believe you’re some kind of... time traveler?"

She nodded, tears welling in her eyes. "I don’t know why I’m here, but... I think maybe it’s to help. To change something. Maybe even to help you."

He stopped, his gaze fixed on her. "Help me? How could you possibly help?" His voice was low, almost a whisper now, but the doubt was clear.

"Because I’ve seen how history unfolds," she said, her voice trembling. "I know what revolutions can become. What people like you can achieve."

For a moment, Y/n just stared at her, his eyes searching hers. Finally, he spoke, his voice soft. "If you’re lying... it could cost lives."

"I’m not," she whispered, tears slipping down her cheeks. "Please. Just trust me."

The room was silent, the weight of her words hanging between them. Y/n's expression was still guarded, but there was something else now—a flicker of uncertainty, of hope.

"Then prove it," he said finally. "Show me something. Anything that could make me believe you."

Hanni’s heart raced. She had no idea how to prove what she was saying. But she knew one thing for certain: she had to make him believe.

————————————————————

Hanni’s mind raced, searching for something—anything—that would convince Y/n she was telling the truth. She opened her bag, still miraculously slung across her shoulder, and rifled through its contents. Amidst old receipts and a water bottle, she pulled out her smartphone.

Y/n's eyes narrowed. "What's that?" His voice was tight, wary.

"It’s… a device from my time," Hanni said, holding it out cautiously. She pressed the power button, but nothing happened—the battery had died. Her heart sank.

"It doesn’t even work," Y/n muttered, his voice dripping with skepticism. He turned away, his shoulders rigid with frustration. "You’re wasting our time."

"Wait!" Hanni pleaded. "Even if it doesn’t work now, it’s real. Look at it—it’s made of materials you don’t have here. It has no seams, no screws. I can’t explain everything, but… you have to believe me."

Y/n hesitated, reaching out to touch the device. His fingers traced the smooth glass screen, his brow furrowing. "It’s… unlike anything I’ve seen," he admitted, his voice softer now, tinged with curiosity. "But that doesn’t mean you’re from another time."

Hanni’s eyes filled with tears of frustration. "What will it take, Y/n? I didn’t choose this. I’m scared, just like you."

The raw emotion in her voice seemed to reach him. He looked at her, really looked at her, and for a moment, the doubt wavered. "If what you say is true," he said slowly, "then why are you here? Why now?"

Hanni shook her head. "I don’t know. Maybe… maybe to help you. Maybe to change something."

Y/n’s eyes darkened. "Change what? We’re fighting a losing battle, Hanni. Every day, we lose more people. Hope is a dangerous thing here."

"But it’s all you have," she whispered, stepping closer. "You have to believe there’s a future worth fighting for."

For a moment, their eyes locked, and the tension between them shifted. The room seemed to shrink around them, the sounds of the rebellion fading into the background.

"You speak like someone who knows what we’re fighting for," Y/n said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "But you don't know our pain."

"I know courage," Hanni replied, her voice steady. "I see it in you. In all of you. And I know that what you’re doing matters."

Y/n’s expression softened, the walls he had built around himself beginning to crack. "You really believe that?"

"I do," she whispered.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Then Y/n nodded, a small, almost imperceptible gesture. "I don’t know if I believe your story," he said finally, his voice low. "But I believe in you."

Their eyes met, a silent understanding passing between them—a fragile connection forged in the chaos of war.

————————————————————

The days passed like they were suspended in time, quiet moments broken only by the distant sounds of musket fire or the hushed whispers of rebels making plans. Hanni found herself swept deeper into the daily life of the revolution, but it wasn’t just the work that kept her there. It was the people. The people, and him—Y/n.

At first, it was the small things. He would catch her eye across the room and offer a slight nod of acknowledgment. There were moments when he would pause, as if considering saying something, but would always retreat back into himself, slipping into the shadows like he had before.

But each time, Hanni noticed. And slowly, his distant manner softened, though she could never quite understand why.

Her days were spent helping wherever she could. She learned how to prepare simple meals with the limited supplies they had—using techniques she never thought she’d need to know. When rebels returned from the front lines, bloodied and tired, she assisted in patching wounds and soothing the pain as best as she could with the little medicine they had. The acts were small, but the trust the rebels placed in her gave her a sense of purpose she hadn't expected.

Y/n, too, would linger on the outskirts, watching her in quiet contemplation. He would never ask her to do anything, but there was a silent appreciation in the way he observed her, a sense of something building just beneath the surface. Sometimes, he would glance her way, his expression unreadable, as though he was trying to piece something together.

She couldn’t shake the feeling that he was watching her, not just with his eyes but with something deeper, something more searching.

And yet, every time she saw him, Hanni was reminded of the truth she had buried deep in her mind. This wasn’t her world. These weren’t her people. And no matter how strong her connection with Y/n felt in the moment, it was all doomed to end the second she returned to her time.

It wasn’t that she didn’t care for him—it was the opposite. The more she saw of him, the more she understood his burdens, the more she felt for him, the more she realized how dangerous it was to get involved with someone in this time. How could she love someone who would never truly know her, who would never understand the world she came from?

Y/n’s life was a war. His fight was for something that might never be realized, something that could be extinguished by the very forces he fought against. What could she give him, knowing she didn’t belong here, knowing that every action she took would only alter their fate?

Her thoughts were spiraling when she found herself once again standing alone by the window of the safe house, staring out into the dark, wondering about the future.

She wasn’t even sure if she could call it "home" anymore. The longer she stayed, the more she learned, and the more she felt like she was betraying the very people who had taken her in. And Y/n—Y/n made everything feel more complicated.

It wasn’t fair to him. She was a ghost in his world, and she couldn’t even promise him a future. She’d always known she’d have to leave—whether she figured out how to go home or simply faded out of their history entirely. But the longer she stayed, the harder it would be to leave. It was only a matter of time.

Y/n found her there, his footsteps quiet on the stone floor. He said nothing at first, simply stood beside her, gazing out at the same starry sky that stretched endlessly above them.

Finally, it was Hanni who broke the silence. "You’re always so quiet," she said, her voice soft but carrying the weight of the question. "Don’t you ever get tired of keeping everything inside?"

Y/n’s eyes shifted to her, a flicker of surprise crossing his features before he masked it with that same distant expression. He didn’t speak at first. Instead, he looked down at his hands, turning them over in his lap, as if weighing her words carefully.

"It’s easier that way," he said finally, his voice quieter than usual. "If you don’t say anything, they can’t use it against you. If you don’t let anyone in..." His words trailed off, and he fell into silence again.

Hanni wanted to say something, to offer some comfort, but she found herself too tangled in her own thoughts. There was something about him, something in his sadness that mirrored her own confusion. She wanted to understand him, to help him bear his burden, but the more she understood, the more complicated it became.

"Is it... that bad?" she asked softly, stepping closer to him. "The fighting, I mean. The way you’re always running, always looking over your shoulder?"

Y/n’s jaw clenched at her question, and for a moment, it seemed like he might shut down completely. But instead, he spoke again, though it was with a far-off look in his eyes—a look that seemed to carry years of loss, of moments he couldn’t forget.

"It’s not just the fighting," he said, his voice tinged with a quiet sorrow. "It’s the loss. It’s losing people, watching them fall one by one and knowing you couldn’t do enough. And it’s the guilt." His eyes met hers for the first time in what felt like forever, and there was a vulnerability there, raw and painful. "That’s what it is. The guilt. Because you can never do enough."

The weight of his words hit Hanni harder than she anticipated. She hadn’t been prepared for this side of him, the one he kept hidden beneath the steely resolve. There was so much pain, so much history she could never fully understand, no matter how hard she tried.

Her heart ached at the thought of the sacrifices he’d made, the endless battles he fought, and the people he had lost. But it wasn’t just sympathy she felt. It was a connection—a longing to help him, to take away some of that burden.

She stepped closer to him, her hand gently resting on his arm. "You don’t have to carry all of this alone," she murmured, her voice tender. "I’m here. I know it’s not much, but I’ll be here for you. If you need to talk, or just... have someone listen."

Y/n looked at her, his eyes softening for a brief moment. She could see the hesitation in him, as if he were unsure whether to accept her offer or push her away. But in the end, he didn’t pull back. He let her hand stay there.

Hanni didn’t know what else to say, so she simply stood there with him, offering him the silent support he didn’t know he needed. She wasn’t sure what would come next—whether he would open up or retreat even further into himself—but for now, she was content to simply be there, offering whatever comfort she could.

After a long pause, Y/n finally spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. "Thank you, Hanni. I... I didn’t expect this. But it means more than I can say."

She gave him a small smile, her heart feeling lighter. "It’s nothing. You’ve been through so much, and I... I don’t know how to help, but I want to try."

For a long while, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the quiet hum of the night around them. And in that silence, they shared something unspoken—a brief moment of understanding, of connection, where the world outside seemed to fade away.

Y/n stood up slowly, as if considering his next words carefully. He didn’t speak, but there was a softness in his gaze as he looked down at her. Without saying anything more, he reached out, giving her a gentle, reassuring touch on the shoulder before turning back toward the door.

"Rest," he said quietly. "We have a long road ahead."

As he left, Hanni lingered by the window, looking out at the stars, a quiet ache in her chest. She wasn’t sure what the future held for her, for them, but in that moment, she knew one thing—she would stand by him, no matter what came next.

————————————————————

The safe house was quiet, save for the soft rustling of fabric as rebels settled in for the night. The flickering candlelight cast long shadows on the walls, the warm glow offering a sense of fragile peace in a world that had long forgotten calm.

Hanni sat alone in the corner, her knees tucked up to her chest, gazing into the dying flames of the hearth. Thoughts swirled in her mind, all tangled up in the confusing mess of her emotions. The more time she spent with Y/n, the harder it became to ignore the deepening bond between them.

She couldn’t lie to herself. She cared for him—perhaps more than she was willing to admit. But that didn’t change the fact that she was from the future, a stranger in this time. How could she possibly belong here, in a world she didn’t understand, with someone who could never understand her?

And yet, in moments like these—when the world outside was chaos and the people around her were fighting for survival—Hanni found herself leaning into something she hadn’t expected: connection.

Y/n had become something more than just a revolutionary leader to her. He was a person—a person with fears and dreams, someone who wore his pain on his sleeve when no one was looking. There was so much she wanted to ask him, to know about his past, his life before the rebellion. But she also understood that there were things he could never say. Some scars went too deep to be shared so easily.

The sound of soft footsteps broke through her thoughts, and she looked up to find Y/n standing in the doorway, his figure silhouetted against the darkness beyond.

"You’re still awake," he said, his voice low and steady, though there was a flicker of concern in his eyes.

Hanni nodded, offering him a small, uncertain smile. "Just thinking," she said quietly. "It’s hard to sleep sometimes, with everything that’s going on."

Y/n didn’t reply immediately, stepping further into the room and sitting across from her. His gaze was soft but intense, studying her as though trying to read the thoughts behind her guarded expression.

"You’re still thinking about everything, aren’t you?" His words weren’t accusatory. They were simply a statement of fact.

Hanni hesitated, then sighed, pulling her knees closer. "I don’t know how to stop. This place, this time... it feels like I’m caught between two worlds. One that I don’t belong to anymore, and one that I can’t quite seem to find my way into."

There was a long pause before Y/n spoke again, his voice quiet but warm, as if he understood the weight of her words in a way that no one else could. "I know how you feel. Being stuck between two places. Torn between your past and your future."

Hanni’s heart skipped a beat. She wasn’t sure if he meant it in the way she thought, or if it was just a way to connect. Either way, it felt like an opening—an invitation to say more, to let him in.

"I didn’t think it would be like this," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I didn’t think I’d get attached. To you, to all of this. But I have. I’ve seen how you lead, how you fight. How much you care. And I’ve started caring, too. But I can’t..." She faltered, shaking her head, as if the words weren’t enough to express the conflicting emotions inside of her. "I can’t be the person you need, not when I’m from a world you can never know."

Y/n’s expression shifted then, his gaze softening with understanding. He leaned forward slightly, his eyes not leaving hers. "I don’t need you to be anything but yourself," he said, his voice sincere, as if the weight of his words carried more than just a comforting gesture. "I’ve been through a lot, Hanni. And I know what it’s like to feel like you're an outsider. But here, with us... you’ve already become part of something bigger. Part of the fight. And no matter where you came from, that means something."

Hanni’s chest tightened at his words. The weight of them settled over her like a warm blanket, but it also felt heavy, because she knew that soon, she would have to leave. Her time here, however much it felt like home, was not real. It couldn’t be real. Not in the way she wanted it to be.

And yet, she couldn’t help but feel an undeniable pull toward him. Y/n had been her anchor in this strange world, offering her moments of comfort when all she could do was stand on the sidelines and watch as history unfolded around her.

"Thank you," Hanni said softly, her voice almost cracking. "For saying that. It means more than you know."

Y/n’s eyes met hers, and for the briefest of moments, the room seemed to fall away. There were no sounds of rebellion, no distant gunshots, no whispering fears about the future. There was only this—this quiet moment where they both understood what was unsaid.

Y/n’s hand reached out then, resting lightly on hers. It was a simple gesture, but to Hanni, it felt like an unspoken promise. She didn’t know what the future held, didn’t know if she’d ever see him again once she left, but in that moment, with the quiet hum of the world around them, she allowed herself to be present. To be there for him. And to let him be there for her.

They sat in silence for a while, the tension between them slowly easing. As the night deepened, Y/n stood up and extended his hand toward her, a small, wry smile playing at the corner of his lips.

"You’ve been working hard. You deserve a rest."

Hanni looked up at him, her eyes still heavy with unspoken words. But she nodded, accepting his gesture without hesitation. She didn’t need to say anything. They didn’t need words to understand each other right now.

Instead, they stepped outside into the cool night air, where the stars hung like tiny pinpricks of light in the vast expanse of the sky. The quiet of the world felt different here—softer, as if the very earth itself was holding its breath.

Y/n’s hand brushed against hers as they walked side by side, an unspoken understanding passing between them. They stopped for a moment, standing under the canopy of stars, each of them lost in their thoughts, but also somehow connected in that quiet solitude.

"This is freedom, isn’t it?" Hanni asked, her voice barely audible, but steady. "The kind you’re fighting for."

Y/n looked up at the stars for a long moment, his eyes reflecting the distant light. "Maybe," he murmured. "Freedom isn’t always about what’s out there—it’s about what we can hold onto, what we believe in, even when everything seems impossible."

Hanni nodded, feeling the weight of his words settle in her chest. It was something she had been struggling to understand for days, ever since she arrived. Freedom wasn’t just about returning to her time, to her world—it was about what she could give in the here and now, even if it meant staying with him, with them, for as long as she could.

Y/n turned to her then, his eyes softer than they had been before. "We’ll get through this. Together."

And for the first time since arriving in this strange, violent era, Hanni allowed herself to believe him. Not because she was sure of the outcome—but because, right then, in that moment, it felt true.

They stood there for a while longer, side by side, under the vast, starry sky. The night was still, but the air between them was charged—full of the unspoken things they both needed but hadn’t yet found the words to express.

For a moment, Hanni forgot the distance between their worlds. She only knew the quiet comfort of his presence, and the strange but undeniable peace of the moment they were sharing.

————————————————————

The days seemed to stretch into one another, a mix of quiet moments and heavy responsibilities. Time, it seemed, was a constant weight pressing down on Hanni. Each passing day brought them closer to an inevitable confrontation with the colonial authorities, and Y/n’s position within the movement was more precarious than ever.

Hanni had long known that Y/n was a target for the regime. His intellect, his strategies, his speeches—everything about him made him a threat. The more she became involved with the rebels, the more she realized just how dangerous it was for him. But she never anticipated how deeply his fate would intertwine with her own, nor how much she would come to care for him.

Still, she couldn’t allow herself to be consumed by these feelings—not when she was from the future. She had seen the records, she had lived with the knowledge of how it all played out. Y/n’s rebellion, the bloodshed, the eventual collapse—she had witnessed it from afar in her own time. She knew his future in a way that no one else could.

And the thing was, she wasn’t sure how much of it she could change.

It was late one evening, after a long day of tending to the wounded and helping prepare supplies for the next battle, that Y/n found her alone in the corner of the safe house. She had been trying to make sense of everything—the war, the lives at stake, and her own internal conflict.

He stood silently for a moment before speaking, his voice low but clear. "We’re running out of time, Hanni."

Her heart sank. She had known this conversation was coming. She had felt it in the air, in the way everyone seemed to move more urgently, more carefully, as if aware that danger was circling them.

"I know," she said, looking up at him. She forced a calmness into her voice, but inside, her heart was beating faster than ever. "What are you planning?"

Y/n sat down across from her, his expression hard, but with a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. "We can’t wait any longer. The authorities are closing in. The others are preparing to flee the city, but I can’t just leave the cause behind." His words were filled with resolve, but Hanni could hear the strain in his voice. He was worn down, his mind heavy with the weight of leadership and the knowledge that his own death was becoming inevitable.

Her throat tightened. She already knew what he was planning—he was going to make himself a target, sacrifice himself for the cause. He had been so sure of it, even before she’d come into his life, even before they’d shared the quiet moments they now had. He had already made peace with the idea of dying for freedom, for the revolution.

And that was the problem.

Hanni had spent days, weeks, torn between what she knew of the future and what she wanted to do to save him. She couldn’t let him die. She couldn’t. Not when she knew the kind of impact he would have, the hope he would inspire, the lives that could be changed if he just survived a little longer.

But changing history wasn’t as simple as saving one person. The future—her future—was fragile. She had seen what happened when people interfered with time. The consequences were often unpredictable, violent. What if changing Y/n’s fate meant altering everything she knew, everything that had shaped the future she came from?

She struggled to keep the doubt out of her voice. "You’re not making this decision alone, Y/n. If you leave now, if you go alone, you’re not just risking your life—you’re risking everything we’ve fought for."

"I know," he said quietly. "But I don’t have a choice anymore. If we keep waiting, they’ll find us. We’ll all be dead."

Hanni’s heart twisted. She wanted to say something, to convince him to reconsider, but she couldn’t find the words. She couldn’t even tell him the truth—she couldn’t tell him that she knew how it would end. How he would end.

She had known for a long time now, ever since she’d arrived in this time and begun piecing together the fragments of history, that Y/n was going to die in a few months. The specifics were unclear—there were no exact dates in the records—but there were enough details to know his fate was sealed. His death would be a turning point for the revolution, a martyrdom that would galvanize the people and push them toward victory. But for all her knowledge, for all her understanding of the future, it felt cruel to just stand by and let him die.

He looked at her then, his gaze steady, as if he could read her conflicted thoughts. "I know you’re struggling with this, Hanni," he said softly. "I know you want to change things. You’ve always had that look in your eyes, like you’re waiting for the right moment to fix it all."

Hanni felt her breath catch in her throat. It was true—she had never fully accepted her place in the timeline. She had always wondered if there was something she could do, some way she could alter the future to save the people she had come to care for. But this was different. Y/n was different.

"I can’t just let you die," she whispered, her voice cracking. "I know it’s supposed to happen—I know it’s part of the history, part of the plan—but I can’t stand by and watch it happen. I’ve seen what you’ll do for this cause, Y/n. I’ve seen how much you’ll give. But you can’t die. You can’t—"

"Hanni," Y/n cut her off gently, his hand reaching across the table to grasp hers. His touch was warm, grounding her. "You’ve seen the future. You know that nothing stays the same. But what I do—what we do—still matters. Whether I’m here or not, we have to keep fighting. I’ve made my peace with this. But you have to make your peace, too."

Hanni’s eyes filled with tears, though she struggled to keep them back. She had never wanted to hurt him. She didn’t want to change everything. But how could she let him die, knowing there was still time to save him? Could she really live with that choice?

"I don’t want to lose you," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "But I don’t know if I can change things. I don’t know if it’s right to change anything at all."

Y/n squeezed her hand, his gaze softening. "Hanni, no matter what happens, we’ve done something. We’ve given everything for this cause. The people will carry it forward. You’ve already changed the future in ways you don’t even realize. Just by being here, just by standing with us, you’ve already made a difference."

Hanni closed her eyes, feeling the weight of his words. It wasn’t just about saving him, it was about the bigger picture—the revolution, the fight for freedom, the lives of countless others. But how could she stand by and let him die?

A painful silence stretched between them, heavy with the impossible decision she had to make. Would she try to change history? Could she? Or would she accept that some things were beyond her control, that sometimes the greatest acts of love were letting go?

She didn’t have an answer yet. Not right then.

But one thing was clear—she couldn’t keep running from the future forever.

————————————————————

The days that followed were tense, as the weight of Hanni's decision pressed heavily on her chest. Each conversation she had with Y/n seemed to deepen the growing conflict inside her. She wanted to believe in the cause, to stand by him, and yet, every time she looked into his eyes, the same thought haunted her: What if I could save him?

The safe house, once a refuge, had become a place of quiet desperation. The others were preparing to leave the city, to scatter and take their fight to the countryside, where they hoped to continue their struggle in the shadows. But Y/n refused to run—not when he was the beating heart of their movement, not when he had come so far.

Hanni spent her days helping with preparations, cooking, tending to the wounded, and even assisting with organizing supplies. But at night, when the others went to sleep, she would sit in the corner, staring at the wall, her mind racing. The future was so clear in her mind—his future—and yet she felt powerless to change it. Every instinct screamed at her to act, to save him. But the question still lingered: Should she?

It was late one evening when Y/n found her again, standing alone in the dim-lit courtyard of the safe house. The sky was dark, the stars hidden behind a blanket of clouds. A cold breeze swept through the alley, making her shiver as she pulled her cloak tighter around herself.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Y/n said, his voice low and careful, as if sensing the heavy burden she was carrying.

Hanni turned to face him, offering a weak smile. “I’m not avoiding you. I’ve just been... thinking.”

Y/n raised an eyebrow. “Thinking about what?”

She hesitated, then sighed. “About everything. About what comes next. About the choices I’ve made—and the ones I still have to make.”

The tension between them grew, thick and palpable. Y/n moved closer, his presence both comforting and overwhelming. His gaze softened as he spoke, a rare vulnerability in his eyes. “You’re not the only one carrying a heavy load, you know.”

Hanni looked up at him, her heart aching at the raw honesty in his voice. “I know. I’ve seen the way you’re torn, Y/n. I know you’ve accepted what’s coming, but... it’s hard for me to do the same.”

He took a step closer, now just inches away from her, his hand reaching out to rest gently on her arm. “I know you care about me, Hanni. And I care about you, too. But you can’t carry this burden alone.”

A flicker of warmth spread through her chest at his words, but it was quickly overshadowed by the heavy weight of the decision she still had to make. She opened her mouth to speak, but the words didn’t come. How could she explain everything to him without revealing the truth of where she came from? How could she admit that she knew his future, his sacrifice, and yet still felt torn between letting history unfold as it was meant to—or changing it?

Y/n seemed to sense her internal struggle. “I’ve made peace with it, Hanni. I’ve fought for this cause, and I will die for it if I must. But that doesn’t mean I want to leave this world without knowing that you understand... what this all means. What it means to truly fight for something.”

Hanni’s breath caught in her throat. She wanted to scream that she couldn’t let him die, that she couldn’t just stand by and watch it happen. But that would change everything—everything she had come to know. The future, the world she knew, depended on certain things remaining in place.

“I do understand,” she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. “But... I don’t want you to die.”

Y/n’s gaze softened, and he stepped closer, his hand gently cupping her cheek. “I know you don’t. But sometimes, we don’t get to choose our fate. Sometimes, the fight for freedom demands sacrifices we’re not ready to make. And when it comes down to it, I can’t regret that choice.”

His words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of his conviction. Hanni closed her eyes, feeling the heat of his touch on her skin, grounding her in the present moment. His hand lingered there, warm and steady.

“I’m not asking you to accept it,” he continued. “I’m just asking you to be here. With me. Until the end.”

Her heart pounded in her chest as she met his eyes, her own filled with unshed tears. She wanted to argue, to beg him to leave, to fight another day. But the reality was clear. He was already committed. The revolution needed him. And she couldn’t change his path, no matter how much she wanted to.

The moment hung between them, fragile and delicate. Then, as if to break the silence, Y/n spoke again. “I know you want to change things, Hanni. But some things are bigger than us. The revolution... it will live on, with or without me.”

Hanni felt a surge of emotion at his words. She wanted to deny them, to argue that there was still time, that she could still save him. But the truth was, she didn’t know how to change what was already set in motion.

They stood there for a long time, neither of them speaking, just existing in the silence, sharing the weight of the future between them. Eventually, Hanni spoke, her voice barely a whisper.

“What if I can’t let you go?”

Y/n’s hand slid down to hers, and he squeezed it gently. “You don’t have to. Just promise me that you’ll remember what we’re fighting for, Hanni. Not just the cause, but the people—the ones who will carry this fight forward. They’ll need you. The world will need you.”

The finality in his voice made her heart ache. But she nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat. “I promise.”

Y/n gave her a soft smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes, as if he knew the weight of the promise she had just made. “Then, let’s make the most of the time we have left.”

With that, he pulled her into an embrace, holding her tightly as if the moment could last forever. Hanni closed her eyes, feeling the warmth of his body against hers, the steady beat of his heart that she had come to depend on. She didn’t know what the future held. She didn’t know what she was supposed to do, but for now, all that mattered was the present.

————————————————————

The night was quiet, but it carried an electric tension, like the calm before a storm. Hanni and Y/n spent the evening together, talking in the soft light of the safe house, sharing stories of their lives, of the world they came from. For a brief moment, the war seemed distant. For just a little while, they were not enemies, rebels, or future and past—they were simply two people, trying to hold on to something real.

Y/n took Hanni’s hand in his, squeezing it lightly. "Whatever happens tomorrow, I want you to know that you’ve made a difference in my life. And in the lives of the others. You’ve given us hope."

Hanni’s eyes shimmered with emotion, but she nodded, unable to speak the words she wanted to. Instead, she leaned her head against his shoulder, content in the moment. She wasn’t sure what the future would bring, but for tonight, she was with him—and that, for now, was enough.

————————————————————

The early morning light crept through the cracks in the safe house walls, casting long shadows across the floor. Hanni had hardly slept, her mind a tangled mess of regrets and what-ifs. She watched as the rebels moved quickly, preparing for their final stand. It was no surprise that the colonial forces were on their way—she had known it was coming, but knowing something in advance didn’t make it any easier.

Y/n moved among the rebels, his presence as steady and commanding as ever. He issued orders, encouraging those around him, all while maintaining a calm demeanor that belied the tension thick in the air. Hanni watched him closely from across the room. In his every movement, she saw the gravity of the choices they were all facing. And, for the briefest of moments, their eyes met.

A fleeting glance. But in it, Hanni saw everything that had brought them together, everything that would be lost, and everything she had yet to say. The things she should have said long before this moment.

Suddenly, the sound of distant explosions broke the morning silence, followed by a sharp, nerve-wracking crackle of gunfire. The colonial forces were moving in earlier than anticipated. Panic erupted in the safe house. The rebels scrambled, gathering their weapons and preparing to defend the position.

But Y/n was steady in the chaos. His voice was firm and unshaken as he directed everyone to their positions.

"Hanni," he called, motioning her over. His tone was different now, focused, but still carrying the same warmth that had drawn her to him since the beginning. When she approached him, he pressed something into her hand—a small, leather-bound journal, its edges worn from years of use.

"Keep this safe," he said, his voice low. "It contains everything—our plans, our hopes, our dreams for the future. Make sure it reaches the right people. They’ll need it when the time comes."

Hanni’s breath caught in her throat as she held the journal. It wasn’t just a record of their efforts; it was his legacy, a testament to everything he had fought for. Her fingers closed around it, but the weight of it felt like a burden, heavier than she ever imagined.

“Y/n,” she whispered, almost desperate. “Please, there has to be another way. This doesn’t have to happen.”

He met her gaze with an almost imperceptible smile, but it was tinged with sadness. The flicker of pain in his eyes only made her heart ache more.

"You know there isn't," he said softly, the finality in his voice cutting through her protests. "But you've given me something I never expected to find in all of this chaos. A reason to believe that the future will be better than the present."

The sounds of fighting grew closer, the outside world closing in on them. The air was thick with urgency.

"You need to go," Y/n said firmly, pushing her gently toward the back exit. “The others will make sure you get to safety.”

Hanni froze. Every part of her screamed to stay. To fight alongside him. To change the course of history. She had always thought she could do that, thought she could somehow fix it all. But now, in this moment, she knew the truth. This was how history had to unfold.

“I won’t forget,” she said, her voice trembling as tears filled her eyes. “I won’t let anyone forget what you fought for.”

Y/n stepped closer, pulling her into a tight embrace. His arms were warm, protective, but in that moment, it felt like he was offering her his last piece of peace. He pressed his lips to her forehead in a soft, lingering kiss.

But then, almost instinctively, Hanni tilted her head upward, and Y/n's lips met hers in a kiss that was both gentle and desperate. It was a kiss filled with the weight of everything they had been through, everything they would never have, and everything they could never say aloud.

For that brief moment, the chaos of the world around them faded. The sound of explosions, the gunfire, the inevitable future—all of it disappeared as they held on to one another. The kiss was their way of defying fate, of letting the world know that, despite everything, they had each other for just a few seconds longer.

When they finally pulled apart, the sadness in their eyes spoke volumes. There were no words left between them. Just the quiet understanding that this was it.

“Live, Hanni,” Y/n whispered, his breath warm against her cheek. “Live and make sure our fight wasn’t in vain.”

The door burst open then, rebels rushing in with news of the advancing enemy forces. Y/n’s expression hardened, and he turned to face his destiny, his posture resolute.

Hanni’s heart shattered as she was pulled away by another rebel, her eyes never leaving Y/n until the very last moment. She wanted to scream, to rush back to him, but she knew it was too late.

She fled through the dark alleys, clutching the journal to her chest, her mind a blur of grief and guilt. The sound of gunfire echoed in the distance, growing louder. She could already see the outcome, hear the cries of victory and defeat. She had read about this moment in history—she knew what would happen.

And, sure enough, it was only hours later that the news reached her. Y/n had made his last stand against the colonial authorities. He had fought with everything he had, holding the line long enough for others to escape. But he was gone now. A martyr. A hero. And yet, to Hanni, it felt like the world had just lost someone who still had so much more to give.

————————————————————

Hours passed. The safe house she had been led to was empty, save for a few other survivors. But Hanni couldn’t rest. Her fingers trembled as she opened Y/n’s journal, her heart racing as she began to read.

The pages were filled with his thoughts, his hopes, his dreams for the future. The pages chronicled not just the rebellion but the man he had been. He spoke of the reasons he fought—of his memories of his family, his longing for justice. He had written about her, too, about the unexpected presence she had brought into his life. Hanni’s heart stuttered as she read his words, feeling the weight of what he had shared with her.

“I never thought I would find someone like you in the midst of all this,” one line read. “But now, in these final moments, I know I’m not fighting just for the cause. I’m fighting for something more. For the people I care about. For the future we dream of.”

The realization hit Hanni with the force of a tidal wave. Despite everything, despite her best efforts, she had failed to save him. And yet—she was determined now. Y/n’s memory, his fight, would not be lost.

Hanni wiped her tears away and stood, holding the journal close. The mission wasn’t over. The cause wasn’t over. She would make sure of that.

————————————————————

Hanni’s resolve only grew stronger as she helped the remaining rebels organize. She used the knowledge from the future to guide them, helping them evade capture and stay one step ahead of the colonial forces. The sense of urgency never left her. Each day, the walls seemed to close in tighter. But the more she worked with the rebels, the more she saw the spark of something she hadn’t expected to find—hope. She saw the people who had once been fractured, now united, pushing forward toward freedom.

Despite the growing danger, Hanni remained close to Y/n’s former comrades, trying to ensure that his memory lived on in every small victory they achieved.

But eventually, it was clear that history would not be denied. Y/n’s death had set a course that Hanni couldn’t alter. No matter how many lives she saved, no matter how much she fought to change the outcome, there was no escaping the truth.

Y/n’s last stand had come. It had been brutal and tragic, but it had been the catalyst for the revolution to ignite across the country. Though Hanni’s heart shattered, she came to understand that some events, no matter how much we want to change them, were simply meant to unfold as they did. She had tried to rewrite history, but there were forces beyond her control—forces of sacrifice, of fate—that could not be avoided.

————————————————————

In the end, the country achieved its independence, though it came at an unimaginable cost. Hanni returned to her own time, forever altered by the journey she had taken. She had seen the complexities of history, felt the weight of decisions that shaped the future, and understood the sacrifices made by those who fought for freedom.

As she reflected on everything that had happened, Hanni realized that she had learned one of the most difficult lessons of all. The past, for all its tragedy, could never be fully rewritten. And yet, it had taught her something about the power of memory and legacy. Y/n’s fight had not been in vain. His ideals, his vision for a better world, would live on, even if he was gone.

The revolution had succeeded. And in the end, that was all he had ever wanted.

 The country, though scarred, had risen from the ashes of conflict to begin anew. It was a fragile peace, but a peace nonetheless. Hanni, now back in her own time, stood at the edge of a quiet city park, gazing at the horizon as the sun dipped below the skyline.

In her hands, she still held Y/n's journal, worn and weathered by the years, but treasured more than any other possession she had. The ink had faded in places, but the words—the hope, the passion, the love for a future he would never see—remained vibrant, echoing in her heart like the pulse of a song she couldn’t forget.

Her eyes wandered to a statue in the distance, a figure standing tall, gazing forward as if daring the world to challenge it. It was a monument dedicated to the revolutionary leader who had sparked a movement that changed everything. His name was etched into the base, and while she knew it was not her place to add her own, she thought of Y/n every time she passed it.

She remembered the kiss they had shared in those final moments, the quiet promise she made to him—to live, to fight for the future he had dreamed of. She hadn’t been able to change history, but she had witnessed the change he had ignited, and that, in its own way, had been enough.

As Hanni turned to leave, the faintest sound of a melody reached her ears. It was soft, carried by the breeze—an old song, one she had heard countless times in the rebellion’s safe houses. She smiled softly to herself, knowing the song was still alive, still being sung by those who had inherited the dream Y/n and so many others had fought for.

She walked towards the source of the music, finding a small group of people gathered near the park’s center. There, under the shade of an ancient oak tree, a young couple danced. Their movements were slow and tender, as if the world had slowed just for them. A feeling of nostalgia tugged at Hanni's heart.

One of the dancers caught her eye, and the smile that spread across his face brought a lump to her throat. He was holding a violin, playing the melody that had so often comforted them in their darkest days. And there, standing beside him, was a woman who resembled someone she had once known. The woman’s eyes, shining with tears and joy, were filled with the same hopeful spirit that had driven Y/n all those years ago.

The music swelled, and the couple danced with abandon, as if the past had finally given them room to breathe. Hanni closed her eyes for a moment, letting the sound of the violin and the warmth of the evening wrap around her like a blanket.

In that moment, everything felt right. Her journey had not been in vain. She had seen the ripples of history that were shaped by the sacrifices of those who had gone before. And while she could never undo the pain of Y/n’s loss, she knew that his fight had planted the seeds for something greater than himself.

The world had continued. His world had continued. And with that thought, Hanni finally felt a peace she hadn’t known she was capable of.

As the dance finished, the couple shared a soft, lingering kiss, and Hanni found herself smiling through her tears, knowing that Y/n’s legacy was alive in every new life, every small victory, and every dream that carried the flame of freedom forward.

She stood for a moment longer, watching the stars begin to twinkle overhead. She couldn’t change the past. She couldn’t bring Y/n back. But in this moment, she was sure of one thing:

The fight he had started was far from over.

And it would live on, in every heart that remembered the cost of freedom.

[liviawildrose]

𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫

it’s a hard pill to swallow, but sometimes, you’ve got to step into a role you never signed up for. maybe your mom wasn’t the nurturing, protective figure she was supposed to be. maybe your dad let you down in ways that left scars. maybe your friends only stuck around to take, never to give. the truth? you can’t wait for someone to come and save you. you have to become your own mother.

ask yourself:

if your child was in your shoes—stuck in a bad relationship, getting treated like crap— would you tell them, “stay”? or would you say, “you deserve better than this”?

if your child was chasing their dreams but struggling, would you mock them? no. you’d guide them, push them to be their best. you’d discipline them with love and cheer them on with pride. now, apply that same energy to yourself.

be that mom who says: “get your shit together because you deserve the best life possible.”

but also the mom who says: “it’s okay to rest, i’ve got your back, and i’m proud of you.”

start showing up for yourself the way you needed someone to show up for you. and yes, it’s sad. sad that we even have to do this. but it’s also empowering to realize you can.

personally, here’s my story.

my mom never cared to take my pictures as a kid nor cared if a haircut made me happy or not, it was literally everything up to her convenience. it hurts now because i would’ve loved to look back and see those memories. but i don’t have them. i can count the photos of my childhood—20 pictures in 17 years. insane, right? so, i made a promise to myself: from now on, i will document my life. i won’t delete my photos. i’ll make sure there’s a record of who i was, what i felt, what i achieved. and when i have kids? you bet i’ll take pictures of them. i’ll curate their childhood with care because i know what it feels like to not have that.

but being your own mother isn’t just about the pictures or the memories. it’s about analyzing everything you missed out on and providing it for yourself now. it’s about being selfless enough to let go of bad habits that hold you back. it’s about kicking toxic people out of your life the way a mom would protect her child from bad influences. it’s about prioritizing your healing, even if it’s messy and uncomfortable. you have to heal your inner child. that 5-year-old who was bullied, that 13-year-old who was treated like shit in her first relationship, that 7-year-old who dreamed big but was told she couldn’t they’re all still inside you, waiting for someone to nurture them. and unfortunately, no one else is going to do it for you. no one else is going to come and fix the damage.

i made a pact with myself: when i have kids, i will raise them so well that they won’t ever need to “heal their inner child” at 17 or 18. they’ll be whole. they’ll be loved. they’ll know their worth from the start. but for now, i’m doing that for myself. and you need to do it for yourself too. because at the end of the day, the only way to heal is to become the person you needed all along. become your own mother.

what is the inner child?

the “inner child” is the part of you that holds your early experiences, memories, and emotions. it’s the 5-year-old you who loved to laugh but was scolded for being “too much.” it’s the 10-year-old you who dreamed big but felt dismissed. it’s the teen you who felt heartbreak for the first time but didn’t know how to process it. your inner child carries the wounds, fears, and unmet needs from your past, but also your natural creativity, curiosity, and joy. healing your inner child means reconnecting with this version of yourself, giving it the love and understanding it never received, and releasing the pain it has carried for years.

how do you heal your inner child?

1. journaling: dialogue with your inner child

dedicate a journal specifically to your inner child. write letters to them, like:

“dear [your name at 5/7/13], i remember when you felt [insert memory]. i’m sorry you went through that, but i’m here now, and i’ve got you.”

let your inner child respond. write as if you’re that younger version of yourself—pour out your fears, dreams, and questions. this process can uncover emotions and patterns you didn’t realize were affecting you.

2. therapy: safe exploration with a professional

a therapist (especially one trained in inner child work) can help you identify wounds and patterns from childhood. they’ll guide you in understanding how your upbringing shaped your beliefs about yourself and the world. therapy also gives you tools to reframe those beliefs and meet your emotional needs.

watch “dear zindagi” lol

3. look at old photos and memories

revisit old photos, journals, or artwork from your childhood. don’t just look at them—analyze them. (i wish i could d this but im stuck with 20 photos so… 😭) what do you notice in your younger self’s eyes, body language, or expression?

• ask yourself:

• what was i feeling here?

• did i feel safe? loved? excited? scared?

• what did i need in this moment that i didn’t get?

• use this reflection to understand your inner child’s unmet needs.

4. create new positive memories

your inner child is still alive within you, and they crave fun, love, and freedom. do things your younger self would’ve loved but never got to do: buy yourself a toy you always wanted. go to an amusement park or build a pillow fort. dance around your room like no one’s watching. this isn’t childish it’s healing.

5. practice reparenting

treat yourself as if you were your own child. when you feel sad or scared, don’t ignore it.

ask yourself: what do i need right now? and give it to yourself.

be the loving, supportive, and protective parent your inner child deserved.

6. identify triggers and patterns

notice when you’re acting out of a place of childhood wounds.

for example: do you get overly anxious when someone’s mad at you? do you seek validation in toxic relationships? trace these behaviors back to your childhood.

were you taught that love is conditional? did you have to “earn” attention by being perfect? once you identify the root, you can start rewiring your responses.

7. inner child meditations and visualizations

find a quiet space and imagine your inner child sitting across from you. visualize yourself comforting them, hugging them, and telling them they’re safe. remind them: “you don’t have to be scared anymore. i’m here for you.”

8. nurture yourself daily

make self-care non-negotiable. eat foods you love, sleep well, move your body, and spend time doing things that make you happy. when you treat yourself with care, you show your inner child they’re worth it.

9. forgive

healing isn’t about excusing those who hurt you. it’s about releasing the hold they have over you so you can move forward. write a forgiveness letter—not for them, but for yourself. (they don’t deserve the love i’m sorry)

“i release the pain you caused me so it doesn’t control me anymore.”

10. promise to break the cycle

vow to yourself (and your future children if you want them) just cause your grandma bleed on your mom and then your mom passed it to you does not mean you will make your future kids life miserable too. the generational trauma must break with you. your future child does not deserve it and so your inner child protect you inner child and when you have a child of your own be the best mother possible, i personally would love to make my future kids childhood so memorable and happy that they will feel the need to comeback and relive their childhood that’s the kind of childhood i want to give them

“i will not let this pain define me. i will create a life of love, joy, and freedom.”

healing your inner child isn’t easy, but it’s life-changing.when you reconnect with that innocent, wounded part of yourself, you’ll find that the love and peace you’ve been searching for has always been within you.

11. foster your inner child’s dreams

when you were a child, your dreams weren’t influenced by fear, rejection, or societal pressures. you dreamed with your heart wide open, purely and authentically. reconnecting with those dreams can heal the part of you that felt unheard or invalidated back then.

a. reflect on your childhood aspirations

• sit down and ask yourself:

• what did i want to be when i was 5? 10? 13?

• what made me happiest back then?

• what did i lose interest in because someone told me i wasn’t good enough?

• write down every dream, no matter how “unrealistic” it seems.

hint: those childhood dreams often point to your soul’s calling.

b. start chasing those dreams now

• even if your dreams have evolved, find ways to honor the essence of them.

• wanted to be a singer at 13? start singing lessons or recording yourself.

• wanted to help people? explore careers like psychology, teaching, or coaching.

• don’t hold back.

it’s not about being perfect, it’s about reconnecting with the passion your younger self had.

c. create small wins for your inner child

• maybe 8-year-old you always wanted to paint but never got the supplies. buy yourself a beginner’s set and paint, even if it’s messy.

• maybe 6-year-old you wanted to be a dancer. take a fun dance class and twirl like no one’s watching.

• small wins send the message to your inner child that they are finally being prioritized.

e. validate your inner child’s feelings and failures

• remind yourself:

“it’s okay that 10-year-old me struggled with making friends. i was just a child trying my best.”

• instead of shaming yourself for past actions, honor them.

every mistake was a step toward becoming the incredible person you are now.

f. use your dreams to shape your future

• your childhood passions aren’t just hobbies—they’re roadmaps to your authentic self.

• align your current goals with your inner child’s desires.

• if 7-year-old you dreamed of making people smile, maybe your career or side hustle should reflect that.

• if 12-year-old you loved storytelling, find ways to write, act, or share your voice.

fostering your inner child’s dreams doesn’t just heal the past—it builds a future that feels authentic to you. every time you take a step toward those dreams, you’re telling your inner child: “you were always worthy. your dreams always mattered. and now, i’m making them come true for you.”

[captainuranium543]

How I think various fairy tail characters would text - part 1

Lucy

- She never had anyone to text growing up (sorry) so when she first starts she treats it like writing letters

Dear natsu dragneel,

"😂"

Sincerely, Lucy heartfilia.

- she uses lots of emojis

- 😂☺️✨⭐❤️😍🤭🤗<-her favorites

- she gets the hang of it pretty quick but still uses perfect grammar regardless of situation which can throw people off sometimes

Levy: "good morning"

Lucy: "Good morning Levy."

Levy: "are you upset?"

Lucy "No."

Natsu

- he doesn't text much but when he does he puts everything in one massive paragraph with no punctuation at all and filled with typos so it's nearly impossible to read

- He also likes emojis but uses random ones that have nothing to do with anything most of the time because he just thinks they look cool

-"good morning!👹🔥💥🐱🧨🐉🐉🐉"

- basically what I'm saying here is this guy is impossible to talk to

- also it's even worse because he downloaded a bunch of the worst most unreadable fonts because for some ungodly reason he thinks they're easier to read then 12px arial black

Erza

- Driest of the dry texters, half the time will just reply with one word answers.

- When she does give longer texts they are filled with spelling mistakes, but not typos from writing too fast, oh no.

- she just genuinely can't spell and thinks autocorrect would be a sign of weakness.

- she fucking loves emojis, she uses them very literally

- "bad news guys makarov died💀😭"

- she treats them like tone indicators and genuinely thinks they are so helpful since irl nobody can ever read her tone but it backfires sometimes and looks threatening as fuck

"natsu I'm going to kill you😀😀😀"<- smile meant to indicate joking tone

Gray

- bro hates emojis, cant give a reason why he just doesn't like them

- only ever uses emotocons and only the most boring lame ones

- types normally, like incredibly normally, no emojis or insane spelling errors, barely any typos at all actually, it's creepy

- he's also the only one that can semi interpret what everyone else is saying

- references memes a lot

- he's low-key chronically online

[green28go]

Butterflies.

What an unpleasant day, Magnus thought as he sat in his apothecary and stared at vast nothingness despite having demonology books on the study table. Alexander was not back yet. No, the whole truth is that Alexander, who was angry with him, had left in the morning at nine past and was still not back. It’s 4 pm now, and since his boyfriend left their home, his mind constantly circled back to the fight they had in the morning. It was awful and really loud—the argument. It had been about the immortality issue once again and this was their first big argument after they got back together since the Camille debacle. This time he had really pushed Alec’s buttons which he’d never willingly do. And Alec, by the look on his face, could understand that his boyfriend’s resolve broke and was seconds away from slamming the door, right on his face. From then, up until now, he sat worrying about him. He’d wanted to do nothing more than to look into the bright blue eyes and tell how sorry he was and that he did not mean a single syllable that he had uttered at that moment, he knew that Alec required space and he respected that, but now, his mind starts to worry and he glances at his phone if he’d received any text from Alec but feels dejected as there is no sign of what he is looking for.

He gets an idea that he deems fitting as an apology to the Archer for the way things ended between them in the morning. So, he summons a small stack of Clairefontaine Triomphe writing papers and, writes a short and sweet letter for Alec.

Dear Alexander,

                            I apologize for my suboptimal behavior earlier this day and would want nothing more than to tell you by holding your hand that I did not mean an ounce of what I said in the moment of heat. Believe me, love, when I say that you are indeed the best thing that happened to me in decades. Now, if you will come home, to me, I would gladly curl up with you on the couch and kiss you till the daybreak.

Love, Magnus.

He perfumed the letter with sandalwood, of course, what else would he use, and performed his little trick that sent the letter, converted into a fire message, flying out of the room to his Alec, in the form of a butterfly. He watched as it left the room swiftly and started waiting patiently for Alec to reply.

He waited and waited. Ten minutes turned into thirty and that turned into an hour and a half.

No reply, not a single word through any means from Alec. He was not on a mission or on patrol as Alec would always ensure he informed him beforehand. So, he must either be in the Institute or with the Alliance. Magnus has a half mind to track him but he resorts to calling Isabelle instead.

“Hello, my favorite compatriot from Brooklyn!”  

“You don’t really know many people in Brooklyn,” he replied.

“Of course, I do, like your boyfriend who lives with you,” he is amused at Isabelle’s reply.

“And pray tell, why is your brother not your favorite?” he asked.

“Because he is in a grumpy mode and had already snapped at me once and twice at Jace,” she answered.

He is indisputably aware of the grumpiness in his boyfriend and it is his job to make it go away. Just when he was about to inquire about what Alec was doing, Isabelle pondered a question towards him.

“Magnus, does it have to be something to do with you?” she asked.

His reply was easy. Silence.

“By the angel, should’ve already known it was you, I thought it had something to do with mindless Shadowhunters who are refusing to cooperate with the Alliance,” she said again, more like realized.

“Is he in your line of sight, dear Isabelle?” he asked her.

“Yes, we are in the training room and he is staring at a piece of paper with his signature “I’m unimpressed,” look,” she said.

What Isabelle said only meant one thing. Alec is nonchalant about his apology, not impressive enough, so he’ll just strengthen his strategy to woo Alec through his cher-courrier.

“Thank you, Isabelle, now I have to make it up to your brother,” he said with determination.

“I know you will, Magnus,” she said leaving the call.

Now, he took the writing paper and started expressing his love for Alec, molded into an apology in the form of words.

Dear Alexander,

                         I once again stand here to tell you how sorry I am for what happened in the morning. Darling, you are exqui………………….

He filled the entire letter with his adoration for his loving Shadowhunter and, transformed it into a butterfly, scented it, and sent it flying towards the Institute.

He waited for forty-five minutes and when nothing came his way from his beloved, he took the feather into his hand and started writing again. Maybe the letter was quite a bit. So, he tried again.

My Dearest Alec…………….

No answer. He tried again.

I truly am remorseful……….

Nothing from his boyfriend. He wrote afresh with a different ink.

I want to hold you……………

None. No reply. He was reluctant to give up. He sprinkled glitter in the letter and sent it Alec’s way.

Sweetheart, I love you………

Nope, not a singular word from Alec. So, he dipped the feather in the black ink and started.

Alexander, talk to me……....

He was exhausted, not because of expressing his affection and fondness for Alec but because of having his beloved not give an expression for what he was saying. The silence was absolute torture and now it turned into anger.

Come on, this is not fair………

He wrote, and waited. The answer became obvious when he held the feather again.

He was feeling what was a huge amount of sadness, hurt, and a bit of anger and decided that this was his last letter and he was going to the Institute, once the reply from Alec resembled his previous replies.

Come home, Alexander, I’m sorry………

He sent it and waited. It was almost 10 ‘o'clock and he seriously questioned his boyfriend’s stubbornness in not wanting to speak with him and ghosting him. Was this how Alec felt during the time of their break up? He remembered how sorry Alec was and how frustrated he got in a certain voicemail. He had listened to all of them, a part of him at that time hoped that he’d preserve those voicemails if Alec never wanted to get back together with him. But that was an obstacle that they had overcome, together.

He didn’t make an effort to dress himself ever-so-enticingly as far as his fashion sense goes. He was worn out and missed having Alec by his side. The only energy he has is required to open up a portal directly to the Institute and he did that.

He was at the back of the Institute and walked, without a single thought on his mind, into the place, as he no longer required anybody to escort him. He found Jace in the corridors and Jace, who must’ve either sensed it or found it from Isabelle, had simply mouthed at him that said training room.

He strode towards the place with quietude, careful not to show his wretched worry.

There was his Alexander, his back facing him and his position upright. He was holding the bow and arrow, aiming towards the target with the proficiency that can only be achieved by vigorous training. He cleared his throat to draw the attention of his boyfriend.

Alec didn’t turn toward him and just spoke in a tone that indicated detachment and coldness. If he was surprised by his presence, he did very well not showing it.

“What do you want?”

Oh no. That angered him. After all those apologies and letters and his obvious efforts, Alec just did not do that.

“What do I want? What exactly do you want Alec?” He said with a clear indication of how furious he was.

“Nothing,” Alec stated, not moving an inch.

“Why are you being so uncompromising?” He said, his voice weary.

“You mean difficult,” Alec answered, finally turning towards him.

“No, I didn’t say that,” He immediately responded. Alec looked like someone who hadn’t been sleeping for two days and he could notice the bruises on the archer’s hands.

“But you meant it,” Alec quietly voiced his opinion.

“You’re never difficult to be with, Alexander,” He uttered in a soft voice.

Alec didn’t respond to that, he was just standing there, with his eyes looking anywhere except at the person in front of him.

“I’ve apologized so many times, Alec, and I-” he started but was cut short.

“Wait, when did you apologize?” Alec asked him, clearly confused.

“Seriously Alexander,” He said, looking every bit unimpressed.

“Magnus, You didn’t apologize at all, today,” Alec finished.

“I did,”

“In your dreams, I suppose,” Alec muttered.

“Alexander,” he retorted.

“I seriously have no idea what you’re talking about,”

“What did you even read in those letters, Alec?”

“What letters?”

“The letters that I sent you,” he exclaimed.

“I did not receive a single letter from anybody today, the Institute mailbox is empty,” Alec declined.

“Are you sure?”

“Oh, now you don’t think I am telling the truth, fantastic, what else is new?” The bitterness in his voice was evidently clear.

“Alec, will you just stop, I am trying to make things right between us,”

“So, you think I am not?”

“For Lilith’s sake, I don’t see you doing that,” He said, frustrated.

“Magnus, if you are really here to pick fights with me I-”

“My purpose of being here is not that, but I highly suppose you are the one who is trying to do it,”

Just when Alec was about to remark, they were interrupted by footsteps making their way toward the Institute. So, they naturally fell quiet. It was Clary, and she was carrying a strange cage in her hand.

“Hey, are you guys okay?” she inquired.

They nodded.

“Magnus, I’m here to ask if these belong to you,” she pointed to the box she was holding. Now, it became distinct to him what was in it—his letters—all of them. Their wings were fluttering, and those butterfly-shaped letters were trying to get out of the cage.

“They’re sparkling and have a natural glimmer of your magic, so I brought them to you,” she said, holding them out.

“Yes, they belong to me, and how did you get them? " He said, taking the cage into his hands.

“Oh, the new group of Shadowhunters from Geneva caught them, they are still waiting for more in the entrance,” she answered.

He’d take care of them tomorrow but for now, his priority is Alec and giving him these letters.

 “Thank you, biscuit. You truly helped me a lot today,” he said with a breath of relief and gratitude toward the redhead.

“You’re welcome and good night, the both of you,” she left with a smile on her face.

He looked at Alec, who was looking at the cage in his hand. There was no anger, only mild irritation mostly masked by curiosity.

“All right, brace yourself, Alexander,” he said, hoping Alec would like what he had done.

He opened the cage and the letters went flying toward Alec, landing on Alec, forming a half-silhouette of the Shadowhunter.

“Magnus, what are these?” Alec asked not moving an inch and holding still so as not to disturb those little inanimate letters.

“Pick one and read,” he instructed his boyfriend gently.

Alec did as he was told. He watched as his eyes skimmed over the letter swiftly, the expression on his face changing, his gaze softening and a small smile forming on his angelic face.

Alec looked at him and asked.

“Are all these letters, apologies?”

“Yes, they are,”

“Why so many?”

“You were not responding so I-”

“I forgive you,” Alec didn’t blurt it out but had said it calmly.

“You didn’t read all of them,” he said.

“I will but to forgive you, you are enough,”

Alec uttered those words with such sincerity that it made him want to reach out to the Archer and wrap him in the warmest hug. But he didn’t.

“I do not mean anything I’ve said this morning, I’m sorry-” he started instead.

“Magnus, I know,” Alec told him gently.

“So, you already forgave me?”

“Of course, I did,”

“But, you didn’t say so,” he said in a quiet tone.

“Because I wanted to know,” Alec hesitated. “I wanted to know if you’d reach out to me before I’d do it,” Alec whispered.

He moved towards Alec.

“Oh, Alexander,” He cupped Alec’s face in his hands and gently tugged at his face so that the Shadowhunter would look at him. The butterflies on Alec's body stayed where they were, only fluttering a little.

“Of course, I would reach out to you,”

“I know, it’s a stupid doubt to have-” Alec mumbled but he cut him off in the middle.

“Of course it’s not sweetheart, I’m sorry that I gave you the implication that I’d never come to you first and that you had to doubt me about it,” he softly said those words, meaning every monosyllable.

Alec looked at him with adoration and in a heartbeat, kissed him. The butterflies came to life when their lips touched and then again settled on Alec.

The kiss was soft, nothing passionate but rather it was a slow one, one that is full of love and familiarity. Their hands wrapped themselves around each other.

When they finally broke the kiss but, didn’t break away from the embrace, Magnus bent his head forward and a bit downward, his forehead touched Alec’s.

“I’ll try to do better,” he said gently. A soft smile spread across Alec’s face.

“So will I,” Alec uttered with reverence.

It was a promise from both of them. They smiled into their kiss once again.

[eerna]

staying on anon specifically to say this silly dumb joke:

Jailor Anon here,

You are SO right. That's exactly the word for this season tbh, "insensitive".

And it's so disappointing largely because they showed us in season 1 that they HAVE the willingness to talk about this (even though it was heavy handed in season 1 as well, tbh, with Vi's comments and Ekko's comments compounding to basically just stating it to Caitlyn's face in bold letters and neon signs) but this is on a whole 'nother level.

They want to end it on a ""sad but hopeful"" note but?? like WHAT hope? Where is the hope!!!

Is Sevika alone at the Council against 7 bigoted Topsiders supposed to be the hope?

They actively made sure to show us one of the Council women giving her the stink eye too, like what? (And people excusing it as "oh that's realistic" is like? Oh sure, we're going to keep THAT ""realism"" after showing me goddamn mages and ressurected werewolf mutants and magic crystals and fucking Eldrtich Time Traveling Mosses and?! We're not gonna abolish the Council itself? Not going to let Zaun become its own sovereign nation? No no, THIS is what we keep ""realistic""" give me a breeaaaaak [oh the rant came out of nowhere—])

Is Vi "dirt beneath your nails" supposed to be the hope?

It's so ridiculous (god, don't get me started on the bullshit ass "Humans are imperfect and that's what makes us beautiful so Piltover should be forgiven for the oppression and uwu baby they are baby and not perfect uwu" speech that they had Jayce pull out of his ass-)

If s1 wasn't so insistent on the class battle, I wouldn't have expected anything from s2!!!!!! There's a bunch of media with 0 class awareness I enjoy!!!! But those stories don't have their characters monologuing about how the ruling class is keeping them in the dirt half the time. If you wanna borrow the emotions of a theme, then you better carry that theme with you the entire way!! It can end badly, no progress has to be made, but make it into a point and don't chicken out halfway through!!!

[lenetaylor]

That time Paul McCartney stole a London street sign (probably)

Whilst perusing this photo set, my attention was caught by the street sign in the background, fixed to the wall:

The sign says Wellington Road NW; this road runs parallel to Cavendish Ave.

So at first I thought he and Heather were somewhere out on Wellington Road, but this didn't make sense: there are no places to swim (except the canal at the southeast end of Wellington, but, gross), and anyway Heather's wearing a nightgown. But as I looked more closely, I realized the photos were actually taken (by Linda, I assume, perhaps in 1969) the backyard of his house at Cavendish. The crappy paving stones and the multicolor brick wall match other photos at roughly the same time:

Note also the railing and steps, which match the fifth photo of Paul with his leg up.

But where did the sign come from?

These street signs were and are ubiquitous in Westminster. The original signs (installed in the 1950s) are cast iron and use the Crown Estate’s gilted crown emblem and relief lettering in a serif font. They look like this (note the Cavendish Place sign in this lot!):

In 1967, they started replacing them with a new style of sign, designed by Sir Misha Black. From this article:

If you ask most people what the typical London street sign looks like, they will probably describe something that looks very like the classic Westminster design: white enamel with neat black lettering and the postal district in red, then the name of borough in red across the bottom, all in sans serif. This classic and copyrighted design – many genuine examples of which are currently being auctioned online by Catherine Southon Auctioneers – feels historic but was in fact conceived as recently as 1967 by Misha Black’s Design Research Unit. Black was commissioned by Westminster City Council to design a simple and striking template that would replace the existing anarchic street sign policy – which he did with great success.

Here's the new Wellington Road sign:

The old Wellington Road sign ended up in Paul's backyard sometime after 1967. I think he must have seen it on the side of the road and picked it up while he was walking around, or fished it out of a skip. Or maybe he straight up nicked it while they were doing the sign replacement. Who can say?

I'd love to know how long he kept it fixed to the wall.

In conclusion, Paul McCartney stole a street sign (I think).

[viktor-leagueoflegends]

Hey gang, the viktormains subreddit has been compiling letters of peoples' opinions on the surprise Viktor rework so I opened up this google form for the tumblrfolk to get a word in too. These will be sent directly to the viktormains mod sigealol, who's been spearheading this whole thing, for him to submit as part of the VGU's PBE feedback. That opens tomorrow, but new letters can be sent whenever. There's a little more info on topics of relevance inside the form, if you don't know what to say. The letters don't have to be long, just voice your honest opinion.

Even if it doesn't work, at least we'd have done something, you know?

[yourreddancer]

Trump Is Running His Transition Team on Secret Money

Breaking with past practice, President-elect Donald J. Trump has not agreed to disclose the donors paying for his planning effort or to limit their contributions.Trump Is Running His Transition Team on Secret Money Breaking with past practice, President-elect Donald J. Trump has not agreed to disclose the donors paying for his planning effort or to limit their contributions.

President-elect Donald J. Trump is keeping secret the names of the donors who are funding his transition effort, a break from tradition that could make it impossible to see what interest groups, businesses or wealthy people are helping launch his second term.

Mr. Trump has so far declined to sign an agreement with the Biden administration that imposes strict limits on that fund-raising in exchange for up to $7.2 million in federal funds earmarked for the transition. By dodging the agreement, Mr. Trump can raise unlimited amounts of money from unknown donors to pay for the staff, travel and office space involved in preparing to take over the government.

Mr. Trump is the first president-elect to sidestep the restrictions, provoking alarm among ethics experts.

Those seeking to curry favor with the incoming administration now have the opportunity to donate directly to the winning candidate without their names or potential conflicts ever entering the public sphere. And unlike with campaign contributions, foreign nationals are allowed to donate to the transition. “When the money isn’t disclosed, it’s not clear how much everybody is giving, who is giving it and what they are getting in return for their donations,” said Heath Brown, a professor of public policy at John Jay College of Criminal Justice who studies presidential transitions. “It’s an area where the vast majority of Americans would agree that they want to know who is paying that bill.”

“Mr. Trump’s transition team, led by Linda McMahon and Howard Lutnick, both of whom were nominated to cabinet positions last week, has repeatedly said it intends to sign the agreements with the Biden administration, known as memorandums of understanding.But it blew past deadlines to do so in September and October, and nothing has indicated progress being made to that end in the two weeks since the election. The White House, which is obliged to offer the agreements to presidential candidates under a federal law known as the Presidential Transition Act, has said it is ready to assist the Trump transition to ensure a smooth handover of power.

On Thursday, Senator Elizabeth Warren, Democrat of Massachusetts, sent a letter to the Biden administration, raising concerns that the Trump transition’s failure to sign the agreements was “uncharted territory” that “threatens the American public.” She asked for an accounting of how the administration was engaging with the Trump transition on the agreements.

“The Trump-Vance transition lawyers continue to constructively engage with the Biden-Harris administration lawyers regarding all agreements contemplated by the Presidential Transition Act,” Brian Hughes, a Trump transition spokesman, said in a statement responding to queries about the status of negotiations with the Biden administration.

Transition efforts help the president-elect with the complex task of taking over the federal government, including selecting thousands of potential political appointees. Previous transitions, including Mr. Trump’s before his first term, have signed the agreements.

Mr. Trump’s transition team, formally known as Trump Vance 2025 Transition Inc., has revealed nothing about how much money it hopes to raise, who has contributed to the fund or how it is spending the money.

The current Trump transition, like its predecessors, is set up as a “dark money” nonprofit. Those groups typically do not have to disclose their donors, even to the Internal Revenue Service. But unlike Mr. Trump’s team this year, earlier transitions accepted financial support from the General Services Administration, which oversees much of the transition process. In exchange for that federal money, they agreed to conditions that other dark-money nonprofits do not have to follow, like capping individual contributions at $5,000 and disclosing the names of their donors.

When Barack Obama won the presidency in 2008, his transition raised $4.5 million while restricting donations to a maximum of $5,000, and pledging to refuse money from corporations, labor unions, political action committees, lobbyists and registered foreign agents. Nearly 60,000 people contributed, with an average donation of about $75.

In 2020, the Biden transition set a fund-raising goal of $7 million and brought in seasoned Democratic fund-raisers to help. But when the General Services Administration, spurred on by Mr. Trump’s false claims that he had won the election, withheld government funding for weeks, private donations flooded in.

By the time of the inauguration, Mr. Biden’s team had raised more than $22 million, with 450 employees on its books. Its disclosure report, released in February 2021, was over 1,000 pages.

Before the 2016 election, Mr. Trump relied on former Gov. Chris Christie, Republican of New Jersey, to run his transition. But, as the journalist Bob Woodward later reported, when Mr. Trump discovered that Mr. Christie had been raising money to pay for that venture, Mr. Trump accused him of “stealing” from his campaign and “jinxing” his chances.

Mr. Trump fired Mr. Christie immediately after the election, replacing him with his running mate, Mike Pence.

The 2016 Trump transition, which did sign the agreement with the General Services Administration, had roughly 120 employees and ultimately disclosed raising $6.5 million and receiving $2.4 million in federal reimbursements. Mr. Trump used office space in Trump Tower to interview candidates during the transition, and filings show that his transition spent $258,000 on “rent and utilities,” though not who was paid.

In 2018, that transition donated $150,000 in leftover money to another dark-money nonprofit, the 45 Alliance, which was meant to help Mr. Trump’s appointees and reportedly held a reception for them at what was then Mr. Trump’s hotel in Washington.

The 2016 transition also paid some $1.8 million in legal fees, much of which was spent after Mr. Trump had been sworn in as president. In late 2017, for example, the transition challenged the government’s decision to hand over its emails to Robert Mueller, who was then the special counsel, during his investigation of Mr. Trump’s ties to Russia. The group also fought legal battles with New Jersey’s attorney general, which sued it for failing to register properly as a nonprofit with the state.

That transition was eventually wound down and, as required by its settlement with New Jersey, donated the last of its funds to a charity, according to Kory Langhofer, a lawyer for the 2016 transition. The transition chose the Wounded Warrior Project, a nonprofit that helps veterans. That charity said it had received $17,478. Leading up to this year’s election, Mr. Trump’s campaign and groups supporting it raised more than $1 billion, according to federal records, including more than $100 million apiece from three billionaires: Timothy Mellon, Elon Musk and Miriam Adelson.

But opportunities to curry favor with large contributions do not end on Election Day. A traditional post-campaign target has been the presidential inaugural committee, which, as an entity separate from both the campaign and the transition, raises money to fund the parties held to celebrate the handover of power.

In 2016, Mr. Trump raised $107 million for his inaugural, including from 30 donations of $1 million each. The attorney general of the District of Columbia later sued, accusing the inaugural committee of misusing funds, including by overpaying for space at Mr. Trump’s Washington hotel. The suit was settled for $750,000.

As with campaign donations, contributions to inaugural funds are regulated by the Federal Election Commission, which requires the inaugural committee to file detailed lists of donors. It also prohibits donations from foreign nationals. Transition funding is not regulated by the F.E.C. And I.R.S. rules permit the nonprofits in question to accept donations from foreigners without public disclosure.

Max Stier, the president of the Partnership for Public Service, which studies transition operations, said disclosure rules were intended to keep donors from using the transition fund to seek favorable treatment privately from the incoming administration before it even begins. “The transition government is a little like setting up the universe, pre-Big Bang,” Mr. Stier said. “It’s a lot of influence.”

The Trump transition was registered in Florida in August by Jacob Roth, a lawyer for the Dhillon Law Group, a prominent Republican firm. This month, Mr. Roth also registered Mr. Trump’s inaugural fund in Florida, and the inauguration group began seeking individual donations, from $50,000 to $1 million, a fund-raising flier reviewed by The New York Times shows.

Mr. Roth did not respond to a request for comment.

Because the transition has also failed to sign a separate agreement with the Justice Department, the Federal Bureau of Investigation has been unable to conduct background checks needed to grant appointees security clearance. As a result, the transition is reportedly using private firms to vet candidates, leaving open the possibility that federal law enforcement may never properly review Trump appointees.

The Trump transition has also left unsigned a memorandum of understanding with the White House that outlines how appointees and other staff members can gain physical access to federal agencies and classified information before Inauguration Day on Jan. 20. That agreement is contingent on the transition submitting and posting publicly an ethics plan that complies with federal law, including an explicit statement about Mr. Trump’s own plans to avoid potential conflicts of interest. It has so far not done so.

Experts on presidential transitions say lawmakers did not appear to have anticipated that a presidential candidate would decline millions of dollars from the federal government or refuse to post an ethics code.

In theory, the I.R.S. could audit the Trump transition and ask it to provide information on its contributors, but even if it did, the agency would not make those names public.

Brian Galle, a Georgetown University law professor who studies nonprofits, said he was skeptical the I.R.S. would conduct an audit.

“Given the political sensitivity of this organization,” Mr. Galle said, “I’d say the odds of their being audited are zero.”

Grifters gonna grift

[bahoreal]

if yall dont know whats happening in British politics right now, the guy who is like 90% likely to become the next pm, who is the leader of the (previously) more left wing party labour has been systematically removing all the left-wing MPs (members of parliament) who are likely to get re-elected and telling them they cannot stand as a labour MP at the election in july. he has been replacing them with people who are more right wing, for example one of them has a day job as a ceo of a privatised healthcare company, and another is literally an israel lobbyist. labour is becoming a right wing, racist, and blatantly pro-israel party. if labour gets in, it will no longer be "ohhh we totally cant take a stand on israel :///" they are likely to become explicitly pro-israel. they have abandoned all their left wing policies. they will be the tories 2.0, but worse in many areas. it feels like this country is copying americas lead with one more """left wing""" party whos campaign line seems to be "we're not as bad as the other guys!" whos policies suck ass as they can freely become more right wing and not what the public wants because "there's no better option". it SUCKS. and its NOT TRUE.

if you're in the uk, please look at your constituency and try to vote green, or independent, or whoever isnt labour or tory. party politics are failing us, we are NOT a two party country, we can do better than labour.

[queerbauten]

“Taika Waititi is part Jewish, so that’s probably part of why he signed that let—” if you do not stop talking,

[katebihshop]

there is a world of difference between "this person was fired for supporting palestine" and "this person was fired for being a raging antisemite" and you do in fact need to actually look at what that person said to determine which it is. it sets a dangerous precedent to consider any support of palestine inherently antisemitic but it is just as dangerous to excuse antisemitism under the guise of supporting palestine.

[sukibenders]

Bridgerton really is the only fandom where you could create a random ship for pure enjoyment, that was about the two characters in said ship finding one another and the life they could have together, and yet somehow certain people in this said fandom would go "Okay but what about this person outside this ship (who wasn't even mentioned)? Obviously, if this ship exists they can't be happy, so just stop talking about it in general. Besides, it's not canon so just accept reality. "

[definegirlfriends]

.

[fiovske]

ngl. happy over the ofmd cancellation. taika openly signed a zionist-ass letter and all of you all love to ignore that completely and act like its not a thing he did. notwithstanding the fact that I thought s2 was massively meh anyway, no show even if it was good, is worth supporting zionists, even in their creative projects. I think this fandom's tendency to pinkwash careless supporters of genocide is. not my cup of tea. idgaf. good riddance or whatever.