Had to drop everything bc I've been headcanoning this song for madelaine for so long and her conversation with lavonte's basically cemented it in my mind ad infinitum
This post is for the 3 Lady Malys fans I know. Also lets give her ARMS.
Almost Nobody cares for the Dark Eldar, and They 100% are not going to defeat Slaanesh Because The Thrist Prince gives GW money, so theyr Lore IS kinda... Stuck, together with The rest of The Eldar Race.
Every Eldar should Unite and Kill The Pink Horror? Probably! WILL THEY???
NO, BECAUSE GW WILL HAVE CALGAR OR TITUS DO IT.
ABOUT the art, I don't make The Rules. If two characters have opposite designs, they should kiss. If One is blue and and the Other is Red, Kiss and make purple. If One is COOL and calm and elegant and the other one is a living Car Crash, Kiss. No I AM Not biased. It does Not Matter of They haven't EVEN MET in Lore, this is Just How It works.
Also Drukhari Politics are 90% sleeping around and finding out and killing the person afterwards.
Lady Aurelia Malys, The Archon of The Poisoned Tongue, My favorite Archon! And also what Would probably happen if she met Lelith and didn't Kill her in like 3 seconds! She is The best designed Drukhari ever, in full armour, with a VEIL, WITH A BLADE FAN AND HER ARMOUR HAS A TAIL. She also kinda humiliated The Laughing God in a Mind Contest and now has a rock for a Heart but details, she is as close as a Drukhari gets to bring a Harlequin without being One, probably One of The smartest Eldar ever.
And Vect IS a slut.
No, Yvraine doesn't count as Drukhari anymore, She is on her own pedestal in my heart.
issy talks: hello, everyone!! how have you guys been doing? i hope you're all doing well 🫶🏼🫶🏼 here's the backstory of girl next door! to the two anons who requested this, thank you so much. i'm not really sure if i can call this a drabble because it's a lot longer than i originally planned, but this is her story. her beginning. the pieces of her that existed long before EVERYTHING. i hope you lovelies enjoy it. i'll be posting more requests and drabbles soon, but the next big chapter will be... THE PROPOSAL YEAHHH I KNOW. spoiler alert T___T
if you guys have any ideas, thoughts, or requests, please feel free to send them in! i genuinely love reading the messages in my inbox. half the time your ideas make me immediately open my notes app. as always, thank you for being here. enjoy the chapter!!
The walk through Central Park had become a habit for the two of you. Dinner somewhere new, then a slow stroll through the park afterward. By the time you reached your usual bench near the path, the sky was already turning deep blue and the lamps had begun to glow.
A few people passed by, bundled against the evening chill. One family wandered past with a little girl trailing behind her parents. The girl suddenly stopped in front of you, eyes fixed on your bag. “I like your keychain,” she said shyly.
You looked down and smiled. “This one?” You held up the little My Melody charm. She nodded immediately.
“Do you want it?” Her eyes widened and she quickly nodded.
You unclasped it from your bag and handed it to her. “Here you go.”
Her parents immediately started apologizing. “Oh, you really don’t have to do that,” her mother said. “She was only admiring it.”
“I don’t mind,” you replied. “I have plenty at home.”
Joe sat beside you, quietly watching the whole exchange with an expression that looked dangerously close to adoration.
The little girl turned the keychain over in her hands like it was treasure. “What’s her name?”
“My Melody,” you said. “She’s kind of a bunny version of Little Red Riding Hood.”
The girl’s face lit up. “I love Little Red Riding Hood! She loves her grandma and I love my grandma.”
Something softened in your expression. You reached over and gently patted her head. “you must be a very good kid.”
The parents thanked you again before continuing down the path, their daughter still clutching the keychain.
For a moment, you and Joe sat in silence, watching them disappear into the crowd. Then Joe turned toward you with a small, incredulous smile.
You looked away, suddenly interested in the path ahead of you. “It was just a keychain.”
“To her, it wasn’t.”
Joe let the silence settle for a beat before speaking again, more carefully this time. “Can I ask you something?”
You glanced back at him. “Depends.”
“Where are your parents?” he asked gently. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to. I just realized you’ve never really talked about them.”
The teasing ease in your posture faded. Your fingers curled together in your lap as your gaze drifted toward the darkening park. When you finally answered, your voice was soft.
“They’re fine.”
Flashback
When your mother finally recovered after giving birth to you, she returned to work almost immediately. Your father would drop you off at your grandmother's house every morning before heading to work himself. As a baby, you didn't know the difference. A warm arm was a warm arm, a lullaby was a lullaby, but as the years passed, the first face that felt like home wasn't your mother's. It wasn't your father's. It was your grandmother's.
She was the one who remembered you hated peas and would hide them beneath mashed potatoes. She was the one who sat beside your bed whenever a fever kept you awake. She was the one who braided your hair before preschool. To a little girl, love looked a lot like your grandmother.
One evening, when you were four, you padded into the living room holding a worn copy of Little Red Riding Hood.
"Mom, can you read me this?"
Your mother glanced over her shoulder. A phone was tucked between her ear and shoulder while her fingers flew across paperwork spread over the dining table.
"Not tonight, sweetheart. Mommy has to finish this call."
"Oh."
You waited for ten to thirty minutes. The story never got read. So you wandered into the living room instead. Your father sat on the couch watching television, a can of beer balanced on his knee.
"Dad?"
"Hm?"
"Can you read it instead?"
He didn't even look away from the screen. "Maybe tomorrow, kiddo."
Tomorrow became next week. Next week became next month. You learned how to sound out the words yourself before either of them ever read the story to you.
Summer was different. Summer meant Grandma. Summer meant mornings spent watering flowers on her tiny balcony and afternoons grandma baking cookies for you and your playmates. Summer meant sitting side by side at the kitchen table while she taught you how to read properly.
You were slower than most children your age. You stumbled over words, mixed up letters. Got frustrated easily but your grandmother never rushed you.
"Again," she'd say gently. Until eventually the words stopped looking like strange little symbols and started becoming stories.
At four, your grandmother became your entire world.
Maybe that's why you noticed when things started changing. The arguments began first at night behind closed doors, whispers that slowly became shouting. You'd sit at the top of the staircase, hugging your stuffed rabbit while listening to words you didn't fully understand.
"How could you do this to us?" Your mother's voice cracked. "You barely spend time with me or your daughter, and now you got your coworker pregnant?"
Your stomach twisted.
Then your father's voice. "Oh, you're one to talk."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"You're always working."
"I'm doing this for us."
"No, you're doing this for yourself."
"You know what? Let's just get divorced."
A long silence followed, then your father laughed.
"Finally." Your mother's breath caught. "I'm not happy in this marriage." another pause. "Or this so-called family."
The words echoed through the house.
You didn't understand divorce. You didn't understand affairs. You didn't understand broken marriages. Somehow, your chest still hurt. That night, you pretended to be asleep. Through half-open eyes, you watched your father kneel beside your bed.
For the first time in months, he looked tired, not work tired. "Hey, bug." His voice was quiet. "Did I wake you?"
You shook your head and he smiled. It looked broken. "Daddy has to go away for a little while."
You sat up immediately. "Where?"
"Just somewhere else."
"When are you coming back?"
Your father froze for a second but children notice everything. "Soon."
A small smile returned to your face. "Promise?"
He swallowed then nodded. "Promise."
He kissed your forehead. You grabbed his hand before he could stand. Tiny fingers wrapping around two of his.
"Don't go." Your voice was barely above a whisper.
For a moment, your father looked like he might stay. Like he might climb into the empty space beside you and tell you everything would be okay.
Instead, he gently untangled your fingers from his. "I love you, bug."
The following week, your mother arrived at Grandma's house carrying three suitcases.
Yours.
At four, you didn't understand why that realization made your stomach hurt.
"You're staying with Grandma for a little while, okay?"
You nodded. "Until tomorrow?"
Your mother smiled. The kind of smile adults wear when they don't know how to answer. "Something like that." She kissed your forehead and promised she'd visit soon.
Tomorrow turned into a week, a week turned into a month. And the month turned into a year. Your mom never fully neglects you, she visits with lots of gifts and gives your grandma money to support you. At first, your mother visited every weekend, but the visits became once a month. Eventually, the gifts started arriving without her.
At seven, your grandmother found you crying on the front porch. The sun was beginning to set, painting the neighborhood gold and orange, but you barely noticed.
You sat on the steps hugging your knees, tears soaking the sleeves of your sweater.
"Little cherry?" Your grandmother immediately hurried toward you. "Aw poor girl, what happened? Are you hurt?" Her hands checked your arms, your face, your knees to see if there’s cuts or bruises—none.
Just tears, lots of tears. The moment she crouched in front of you, you broke completely. "I saw Dad." The words came out between hiccups.
Your grandmother froze. "Oh."
You nodded rapidly. "He was at the park."
Fresh tears rolled down your cheeks. "He had a little girl." Your voice cracked. "and a new wife." The silence that followed hurt more than anything. Your grandmother pulled you into her arms immediately.
You buried your face against her shoulder. "Grams?"
"Yes, cherry?"
"Why don't they want me?"
You didn't see the tears gathering in her eyes. You only felt her arms tighten around you. "Little cherry, look at me." Reluctantly, you lifted your head. Your grandmother cupped your face gently.
"Do not ever say that again."
"But—"
"No."
Her voice trembled. "They didn't leave because you weren't lovable."
More tears slipped down your cheeks. "Then why did they leave?"
For a moment, your grandmother didn't answer because no answer could make sense to a seven-year-old or even to her. Finally, she brushed away your tears. "Sometimes adults make selfish choices." You stared at her. "That's not your fault."
Your bottom lip trembled. "Am I hard to love?"
Your grandmother's face crumpled. She kissed your forehead. Then your cheeks. Then your nose. As if she could erase the question. "This world is lucky to have a girl like you."
"You are kind."
"You are funny."
"You have the biggest heart I've ever seen."
You started crying again. This time, because of how much she loved you. And your grandmother cried too, quietly. No child should ever have to wonder whether they're worth loving. No child should have to ask that question at all.
The years passed.
At eight, your grandmother taught you how to bake. Your first batch of cupcakes came out salty, you cried. Your grandmother ate two of them anyway and called them perfect.
At nine, she taught you how to ride a bicycle. You scraped both knees, threatened to quit. Yet spent the rest of the afternoon racing up and down the street.
At ten, you discovered Ella Fitzgerald through your grandmother's old records. Soon the house was filled with jazz music and your off-key singing while kneading bread dough.
At eleven years old, you started helping customers at the bakery. You wrapped pastries counted pennies, and gave away far too many free cookies. Your grandmother always pretended not to notice.
At twelve, something changed. You stopped asking when your parents were coming back. Your grandmother noticed immediately. Neither of you talked about it. But that night, she held you a little longer than usual as if she understood what that silence meant.
At sixteen, you came home from school and heard shouting. The moment you stepped onto the porch, your stomach dropped. The voices were coming from inside. One of them belonged to your grandmother. The other, you hadn't heard in years.
"No." Your grandmother's voice shook. "You don't get to show up after all this time and take her away from me."
"I'm her mother." Your mother's voice echoed through the house. "...and she's my daughter."
"No." The word came sharp as glass. "You stopped being a mother the moment you chose to abandon her." Then your grandmother continued. "Every day I ask myself what I did wrong raising you."
Your mother's breath caught. "What?"
"What did I do wrong that my own daughter grew into someone capable of leaving her child behind?" Tears immediately filled your eyes. Your grandmother's voice cracked. "As your mother, you've broken my heart."
You pushed the front door open both women turned. For the first time in years, you saw your mother. Your grandmother was clutching her chest.
You rushed toward her instantly. "Grams?" You dropped your backpack. "Grandma, are you okay?"
She forced a smile. "I'm alright, little cherry," but you could see she wasn't.
Then slowly, you turned toward your mother. She looked older, tired and nervous like she wasn't sure what to say. Neither were you.
For years, you'd imagined this moment. Wondered what you'd tell her. Wondered if you'd cry. Wondered if you'd run into her arms. Instead, you felt strangely empty.
"Hi." Your mother's voice barely came out.
You just stared at the stranger wearing your face. "Come home with me."
The words hung between you, your grandmother went rigid.
You didn't even think. "No."
Your mother's eyes widened. "No?"
You shook your head. "I already am home." The room went silent. You moved closer to your grandmother, instinctively like you'd done your entire life. "I don't want to go."
Your mother's eyes filled with tears. "Please."
For a second, your heart cracked because part of you still wanted a mother. Part of you always would but she had missed everything.
So you wiped your tears and stood your ground. "You weren't there." The words came out shaking. "but Grandma was."
Your mother closed her eyes as if the truth hurt. Good. You hoped it did.
You immediately dropped to your knees beside your grandmother. “Grams?” Your voice shook. “Grams, are you okay?” Her hand was still pressed against her chest. Not enough to frighten you, but enough to make your stomach twist. You wrapped both of your hands around hers. “Do you need water? Should I call someone?”
Grams smiled softly despite everything. “No, little cherry. I'm alright.”
You weren't convinced. The room still felt heavy from the argument. Your mother stood near the doorway, silent now, watching the two of you for a moment and left.
Your grandmother looked between you and her. Then she asked quietly, “Are you sure about your decision?”
For a second, you blinked.
Then you laughed. A small, disbelieving laugh. “Grams.” You squeezed her hand. “Why are you asking me that?”
Your grandmother didn't answer.
You looked at her for a moment before your expression softened. “Where would I even go?” Your voice was gentle. “I already have everything I need.”
“You taught me how to read.” Your grandmother's eyes immediately filled with tears. “You taught me how to ride a bike.” You smiled weakly. “You taught me how to bake.” Another tear slipped down her cheek. “And whenever I thought something was wrong with me...” your voice cracked slightly, “you were always there telling me there wasn't.” You swallowed hard. “There isn't a day that goes by that I ask myself if I'm worth loving anymore.”
Your grandmother covered her mouth, she remembered the little girl, that little girl was gone now. Not because the hurt disappeared, but because she had been loved enough to heal.
You leaned forward and wrapped your arms around her. “I learned that from you.”
Your grandmother hugged you so tightly it almost hurt. “Oh, little cherry,” she whispered.
You buried your face in her shoulder. Then, after a moment, you pulled back and wiped your eyes dramatically. “Okay, that's enough crying for one afternoon.”
Your grandmother laughed through her tears. “Is that so?”
“Yes.”
You pointed toward the backyard. “You're going to sit outside and watch your plants.”
“Bossy.”
“Very.”
“And what are you going to do?”
You grinned. “Make you tea.” Then you paused, your nose twitched. “Also, unless I'm imagining things, somebody's cinnamon rolls are ready.”
Your grandmother's laugh finally returned, warm and familiar. “There she is.”
“Of course, there I am,” you said, offering her your hand. “Now come on. You raised me. You should know I'm impossible to get rid of.”
The years that followed were some of the happiest of your life. There was laughter echoing through the bakery before sunrise. There was jazz playing from the old radio while your grandmother kneaded dough.
There were afternoons spent tending her garden, evenings spent sharing tea on the porch, and countless mornings where she greeted you with flour on her cheek and a cinnamon roll already waiting.
And then, one day, there wasn't. The house became unbearably quiet. No humming from the kitchen. No gardening gloves left by the back door. No voice calling you little cherry.
The first week without her felt impossible. You tried to keep the bakery open because that's what she would've done, but grief followed you into every recipe. The cookies came out too salty. The cakes too dry. The bread underproofed. You forgot ingredients you'd known by heart since childhood.
One afternoon, an elderly customer watched you pull a tray of burnt pastries from the oven with tears streaming down your face. He gently placed a hand on yours. "Go home, sweetheart," he said softly. "The bakery will still be here next week."
You found yourself standing in your grandmother's room. The scent of lavender still lingered on her blankets. Her reading glasses still rested on the nightstand. Everything looked exactly the same. As if she had simply stepped out for a walk and would return any minute.
That illusion shattered when you opened her bedside drawer. Inside was a cream-colored envelope. Your name written across the front in familiar handwriting.
Beside it sat dozens of photographs. Pictures of climbing trees. . Your dress she sewed for your prom. Holding your first tray of cupcakes and sleeping beside Ponkan as a kitten.
Every version of you.
Your hands trembled as you opened the envelope.
My little cherry,
If you're reading this, then I'm probably no longer sitting in my favorite chair by the window, pretending not to watch you burn another batch of cookies.
First of all, stop crying. Yes, I know you're crying. You've always cried when your heart feels too full. You cried when your first loaf of bread came out flat as a pancake. You cried when that orange cat followed you home and refused to leave.
And if I know you at all, you're crying right now with tears falling all over this letter. Please stop that, my handwriting is beautiful. I would hate for you to ruin it.
Now that I've hopefully made you laugh a little, let's talk. I don't know how to begin a goodbye. Truthfully, I don't think this is a goodbye at all. Because how could I ever leave you? You are in every beautiful memory I have.
When I close my eyes, I still see the little girl who followed me around the bakery carrying a wooden spoon twice the size of her hand. I see the little girl who insisted on reading recipes out loud even when she could barely pronounce half the words.
I see the little girl who brought home every stray animal, every lonely friend, every broken thing she found because she believed everything deserved to be loved.
Little cherry, the day you were born changed my life. Not because you fixed anything. Not because you gave me purpose. You never owed me that. I loved you because you were you. Because you had the biggest heart I've ever seen. Because your laugh could fill an entire room. Because even when life wasn't kind to you, you somehow remained kind anyway.
That is something I have always admired about you. There were days when I wished I could protect you from every hurt this world had to offer. The nights you cried yourself to sleep. The questions you asked that no child should ever have to ask. The moments you wondered whether you were difficult to love.
If I could go back and change one thing, it would be that because the answer has always been so simple. You have never been hard to love.
The truth is, loving you has been the easiest thing I've done in my entire life. I need you to remember that. There will be days when you miss me so much your chest aches. Days when you reach for the phone because you want to tell me something before remembering you can't. Days when the bakery feels too quiet. Days when the world feels unfair.
On those days, I want you to be gentle with yourself. Drink water. Eat something. Open the curtains and please stop trying to work through your sadness. You've never been very good at hiding it.
Now listen carefully, because this is important. I need you to keep going. I need you to chase every dream you've ever told me about. Build that little café you've been sketching in your notebooks. Fill it with flowers. Fill it with books. Fill it with silly decorations and mismatched chairs. Learn new recipes. Travel somewhere you've never been. Buy yourself pretty things without feeling guilty. Adopt another cat if you want to, though perhaps not too many. One orange troublemaker is already enough.
And sweetheart, leave this town. I know you'll argue with me about that. I can practically hear it now. "Grams, I don't want to go." Yes, you do. You've simply forgotten that you're brave. You're too big for this town, you always have been.
Don't stay because you're afraid of leaving me behind. I'm coming with you. I'll be there in every cinnamon roll you bake. Every cup of tea you make. Every flower you plant. Every person you help. Every recipe card stained with butter and flour. You'll find me in all the places that love lives.
And one more thing, someday, someone is going to love you very, very much. Not because you're beautiful, though you are. Not because you're kind, though you are. Not because you take care of everyone around you, though you do. They're going to love you because you're you. The same way I always have.
When that person arrives, let them love you. Don't push them away. Don't convince yourself you're asking for too much and don't spend your whole life carrying everything by yourself.
You were never meant to. The strongest people still deserve someone to lean on. Promise me you'll remember that.
Thank you for being my granddaughter. Thank you for every birthday. very burnt cookie. Every late-night conversation. Every hug. Every laugh. Every Ella Fitzergerald.
Thank you for letting me be your grandmother. If I had a thousand lives, I would choose you in every single one.
Now wipe your tears, feed the cat. And go live the beautiful life that's waiting for you. I'll be cheering for you the whole time.
Forever and always,
Grams
P.S. The secret ingredient was always a little more vanilla than the recipe called for. Don't tell anyone and don’t forget to eat breakfast.
One year passed.
The moving truck pulled away from the curb with a low rumble, carrying the last boxes that remained of your life in this town.
You stood in the driveway for a long moment. The house looked the same. Your fingers tightened around the car keys. "Okaaay," you whispered to yourself.
Then, after a moment, "Okay, you got this." The second time sounded more convincing. Beside you, Ponkan meowed from inside his carrier as if reminding you he was still waiting. You laughed softly. "Right. Sorry."
You glanced back at the house one last time.
For a second, you could almost picture your grandmother standing on the porch waving you off with that familiar smile. The image vanished as quickly as it appeared. You smiled anyway. "Love you, Grams."
You got into the car, next stop was the bakery. The woman who had purchased it was already waiting when you arrived. The little bell above the door chimed one final time as you stepped inside.
"I promise I'll take good care of it."
You looked around the bakery one last time. A lump formed in your throat. "I know you will."
The woman stepped forward and hugged you. "Good luck on your journey."
You hugged her back. "Thank you." When you finally pulled away, you realized your eyes were wet.
A few minutes later, you climbed back into the driver's seat. Ponkan immediately stretched across the passenger seat like he owned the car.
You started the engine, the road ahead stretched farther than you could see. You rested a hand on top of Ponkan's head. "Ready to see New York?"
issy talks again: every comment, reblog, message, and like genuinely makes me want to keep writing this series. sometimes i'll be staring at a blank document wondering what to write next, and then i read your comments and messages, and suddenly i have ten new ideas. thank you for making my heart so full 🫶🏼💗🍪💐
This is what I imagine when Toff said “Will and Mack… at least when I hangout with Will and Mack, they are very respectful of each other and it is nice. Especially cause they are clean, their hotel rooms everything is tidy”
Vs Samisa’s “Sam and Misa’s hotel room and it is just clothes everywhere, garbage everywhere, water bottles on the floor, it’s time to grow up a little bit… It would be Sam and I taking care of Misa, he would become our son.”
