#I'D FOLLOW THEIR RELIGION ANY DAY

[penelope-regulus]

GOD?!

[lunamoonbby]

Cult!141 x Fem!Reader

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT MDNI

⚠️Warnings⚠️: Dark Content, Manipulation, allusions to past abuse very brief not in depth, female reader, swearing, pregnancy, birth, poly relationships, smut, Cult AU, the use of lord in terms to worship, Price being referred to as Father

If you or a loved one is experiencing abuse, know that there is help, and please help anyone that you know to help them escape from that abuse.

⭐️Author's Note: The religion that the villagers follow is not defined, but it is NOT associated with Christianity, Judaism, Islam, or any other type of religion there is⭐️

CHAPTER 1: New Beginnings

Running, you couldn't stop running until you were sure that it was safe to stop. There was an opportunity for you to escape from your ex-boyfriend, and you took it, only taking with you whatever cash you had left, and to be honest, it wasn't that much, $100 can't do much in today's time but you'll figure it out, but it was better than nothing. So here you are running for what felt like days but had only been hours, it was rainy and cold, your soaking wet, the ground muddy and mud covering the ankles of your jeans, your shirt a bit torn a result from snagging on a couple of branches, and hair a mess with leaves sticking to your wet hair. You spot a distant light that looks to be 1-2 miles away. You decide to rest until you catch your breath, and then you'll start running again. After you caught your breath, you started running towards the light, and as the light got closer you saw that it was village and slowed to a walk.

As you approached the village, the inhabitants were giving you strange looks from shock to disgust, but you paid no mind, as you noticed a church, and you were only focused on heading to the church that was on top of the hill. As you reached the top of the hill, you noticed a large willow tree, and the church looked rundown but gave it that slight gothic touch. You walked towards the church and opened the door, "hello is anybody in here?" You walked in the church looking around. "Who goes there?" An unknown voice resonates through the inside of the church. "My name is y/n and I'm in need of assistance, I was hoping that the church would help me, I don't have much, I ran away from my abusive ex-boyfriend I just need a place to stay and then I'll leave to another village please I need your help" Price steps out and greets y/n, "hello y/n I'm Father Price, I'm the preacher of this village. I'm sorry to hear about your troubles, I know some people who are willing to help you. You are also in need of some clothing. I'll see what I can do with that. Now follow me. I'm sure you can use a meal, a warm shower, and a cozy bed."

You breathed a sigh of relief "thank you so much but before we go, I'd like to make a prayer, on how thankful I am that I found refuge and that I am now safe, if that's ok with you." Price smile at what y/n said, "a devoted follower. Of course, we can pray. Let's go to the altar so we can pray." Price leads y/n to the alter. When approaching the alter y/n sees a symbol there's a skull but the lower jaw is missing, and there's a sword with wings coming out of the sword, and on each side, there is a viny plant and to the back of it all there was a black spade, 'must be the religious symbol' y/n thought to herself. "Give me your hands so that our lord can hear your prayers better." Y/n held out her hands for Father Price to hold. Price then starts the prayer for y/n. After the prayer, Father Price asks, "Do you have any offerings for our lord?" Shocked y/n replies with defeat, "I only have $100, and I can't use it all. I need it to help me get back on my feet." Price gently cups y/n face with one hand and swipes his thumb left and right on y/n's lower lip, "my child you seem to be a very devoted follower of our lord, if you give him that offering, he will definitely bless you, your $100 would turn into $100,000 and you would definitely get back on your feet. My 2 friends they had nothing but $50 combined, and they offered their money, and now they both have their own tavern here in this very village."

Y/n contemplated it's the least she could do after all. Father Price did help her out in her time of need, "where can I put my offering?" She said while taking out her $100. "You can place it in the black obsidian bowl." She places her money in the bowl and says a thank you, "thank you, my child. I'm sure our Lord is thankful for that generous offer. Come let me take you to a nice spot that I know so we can get some food in you and a warm bed." Price then takes y/n's hand then leads her into the town and takes her to the tavern, when they both enter the tavern, the place goes quiet cause the people rarely see Father Price outside of the church and that he also has an outsider with him. "Well, well, well, who do you have there, Father Price?"

Taglist: let me know if you want to be added by commenting

@yourloverslost @tabbslouuformer @angelrissa

@freefallingup13

I hope you enjoyed it💖

[lotusarchon]

nezha is a child in the show isn't he? why are you shipping yourself with a minor and writing romance with him?that's so creepy,,,, how are you talking about dynamicsimp when you're doing worst 🤮

Found this cute Nezha fanart anyways

I knew I had to deal with one of y'all eventually but I didn't think it'd be this soon. Damn, at least let me hit 100 followers first 😞

Anyways uh. Nezha's first introduction in season 3 came out in like, what, 2022? I'm assuming it is, because I started LMK in March of 2023, before s4 was released and already found the show up till s3 by then. S5 just released this year, of which we've seen a weird increase of Nezha screentime of which I'm not complaining.

Point blank. The Nezha age controversies are getting old and boring. New fans and old fans need to chill out with those issue about the age business.

1) It's confirmed the Lego Monkie Kid version of the deity known as Nezha is an adult.

2) This is a god of an Eastern religion who is still very much worshipped to our modern day. If you did your research, you should be able to take note that Nezha isn't only seen as a child god, but even portrayed as someone older. I'm not a Daoist nor Chinese, so I advise you check this blog ( @/ruibaozha ) for more information on the subject matter.

3) As is the case with modern media and adaptations, different shows will portray religious figures according to what works for their plot. In the movie Nezha 2019 (forgot the title whoops), Nezha is portrayed as a child, as we are seeing a comedic but angsty interpretation of his origins. In the Legend Of Hei, we see him portrayed as a child, assuming for comedic purposes and to bond with the MC Hei.

3.2) If LMK wanted to portray Nezha as a child like his appearances in Journey To The West, and the Fengshen Yanyi (?), you must understand then his design and personality would've been portrayed more childish or at the very least a mixture of mature and childish. We can see this by comparing LMK Nezha and TLOH Nezha = both are stern but where one acts, looks and often shows childish traits, the other acts like an exhausted 25 year old who needs therapy. LMK HAS made children in the past, as we've seen with the Lady Bone Demon's Host and in season 1 a few kids here and there as background characters. If the show wanted Nezha to be a child, I'm certain they would've given him a similar model.

4) If in the instance that, let's say, the god known as Nezha was a child, and LMK Nezha is an adult, you SHOULD separate fiction from religion. Do keep in mind that Sun Wukong is still very much worshipped, however, I have seen fans, in and outside of LMK, who have written heavy NSFW and simped for him. A god is not the same as a fictional character, because by that logic we shouldn't be simping much less writing NSFW of Wukong either, given his story in JTTW where he becomes a Buddha.

5) I do not like proshipping much like any sane person. I also HATE aging up minors in fiction just for something like self shipping or to write nsfw. I have been in fandoms before this one: Jujutsu Kaisen, Tokyo Revengers, and My Hero Academia specifically, and it makes me uncomfortable seeing porn written of actual minors with excuse of them being aged up. I'm not so hypocritical I'd dare to want to do the same, not when I'm uncomfortable with anyone else doing it. If LMK Nezha was a minor, and there were sources to even prove as well within the series he's a child, then obviously, I would NOT be shipping myself with him, much less write romantic/nsfw content with him. I'm an adult, and I don't feel comfortable with minors in general, so why would I want to write romantic content about a FICTIONAL minor??

If you can find any source that proves me wrong, I'd like for you to do so. But until then, you, and everyone else who still wants to entertain Nezha's age; please stop.

I get it. Some of you like to headcanon him as a child so as such, seeing content with him as romantic or nsfw is uncomfortable. I understand, I do; I headcanon Mei as an aroace lesbian so sometimes it's uncomfortable finding any kind of content with her being paired with others. I do understand where you're coming from with your discomfort.

But I feel like, considering season 5 and hopefully if there's a season 6, the whole thing is just dust now. S3 must've been released in 2022, so it's been nearly two years since Nezha's appearance in the show. People headcanon he's a child, and people prefer to like the confirmation he's an adult. We get it, that's what fandoms are, different views etc.

But calling people proshippers or creepy or pedophiles for not adhering to YOUR headcanons is not only fucking stupid, it's just hilarious and way too old, AND just...boring. Especially considering I feel uncomfortable around minors and hate proshipping with a passion. There's genuinely nothing wrong with liking a headcanon, but if someone likes something that isn't problematic and doesn't adhere to your preference, I think you need to breathe a bit.

I was saving this off for last however, you hit the nail on the coffin with this. There is a literal document talking about the disgusting actions of DynamicSimp. If you still choose to like them that's fine, but forgive me for pointing out how hypocritical it is for you to bring up the person who purposely shared porn with minors to someone who avoids minors like they're the rat plague of the Middle Ages. 🤔

"you talk about DynamicSimp but you're doing worst"

Do you mean writing porn for a character who is confirmed to be an adult? Do you mean ensuring that my 18+ blog isn't found by minors and if it is I'll block them? Do you mean supporting someone who's harassed others about Nezha's age?? Do you mean being an absolute creep around children?? Do you mean breaking the boundaries where people have clearly expressed discomfort? Do you mean romanticizing abuse amongst other things for an au clearly being consumed by minors with no regards or wellbeings?

I wonder who's the worst. Me, the adult who only recently turned 18 and has limited his interaction with minors outside of family members, or the however old they are person who has a literal document and their victims speaking up about their actions, and who to my current knowledge has not spoken up about this and is still posting and carrying on without a care in the world?

Well zoinks Scoob, guess we're not making outta this one alive 😟

Edit: .....*disappointed sighs* I think some people really oughta chill out in my comments. Anon, I blame this on you 😭 why did you bring this here holy fucking shit dawg.

Alright. Alright uh.

Okay, so while I do appreciate being told the reasons as to WHY Nezha was "aged up", because a writer wanted to justify shipping Wukong and Nezha...I feel like the entire, "ah, but this says, and that says here-" about Nezha's age is just ridiculous at this point.

Yes, I understand, this is justifiably weird.

However.

Has anyone else refuted Nezha's age?? And I mean the canon show writers? Has anyone working on Lego Monkie Kid made a statement saying: "This person is disgusting, LMK Nezha is a child." Because, respectfully, unless canon sources provide information on it, I'm not going off based on the fandom opinions.

I'm not happy I have to edit this post to add this, much less try to explain anything, but, oh well.

1) "Ali, you're just trying to justify yourself and keep writing for a child." Listen. I've been groomed and dealt with fucking weirdos my entire life. Trust me when I say whenever I hear about proshipping it SICKENS me to the core. I HATE proshipping. I don't care what the excuse is, proshipping is disgusting.

I'm not mentioning the interesting fellows in my comments because it's pointless and honestly to make drama over this is stupid. But I was given some context to understand where they're coming from, and I do in fact appreciate it. Justifiably I don't blame them for their annoyance/disgust towards the writer Sarah (?).

What I will say though; typically in a situation like this, I'm certain someone in the team would've made a statement about this to explain that the writer is wrong. I'd assume at least one writer, someone OFFICIALLY on the team would've denied this proclamation of Nezha being an adult. I have not seen ANYTHING that says the show denies Nezha being an adult.

2) My friend, who was also in the comments (hi), is a native Chinese and a Buddhist for six years. I also have another friend who I'm not mentioning but ALSO is Chinese and WORSHIPS Nezha. They have more knowledge than someone like me does have on this matter, and I find it really odd how people immediately cite wiki and website sources to say, "Nezha is an eternal child!", and, "No where else says Nezha is an adult."

As I've said. If there are sources including the staff from Lego Monkie Kid that claims Nezha is a child, then I am more than willing to delete any content I've made with him. Full honesty, I have no intention of keeping any content with canon, confirmed minors on my blog.

But not only have I found anything that says the official story writers deny Nezha's an adult, but my friends, who are again, both Daoist and native Chinese, are aware that he ISN'T an eternal child.

If you are Daoist and/or worship Nezha, then by all means you can tell me that what I'm doing is wrong and correct me about Nezha's age. I'm willing to listen. If you also find information where the writers claim Saraha is wrong for her statement, provide it. I'm a person that likes reasoning, and I'm willing to see reason.

3) "Ali, you're not gonna see reason you're just trying to defend yourself again-"

Okay, backstory time: last year when I joined LMK, when I myself was a minor, I thought it was okay to write nsfw content for the character who was Lady Bone Demon's Host. My friends at the time did not tell me what I was doing was bad, so of course I kept it up, until someone pointed out that Bai He (fan name) is actually a minor in the show and was also confirmed by the show's producers. I felt so disgusted about it I deleted all my posts made on my old AO3 about her (which is faeriicrafts and still up surprisingly) and offered a sincere apology to the fandom about writing nsfw content for her. I changed and learned, and now I feel grossly uncomfortable seeing anyone writing nsfw for her despite the canon confirmations.

Justifiably, if more information about Nezha is released within Lego Monkie Kid, of which it's confirmed he's a child, I am more than eager to delete everything I've written about him, and even apologize again for writing nsfw with a minor.

To be honest, I just feel uncomfortable with the comments who are denying actual Daoists for the sake of; "I've done my research, no other sources has said Nezha is an adult, you're lying about worshipping him!!"

It's uncomfortable and really off-putting how you can tell someone that about their religion. Yes, this is for you specifically, that one commenter who jumped in and on my friend. Even if she has long since stopped worshipping Nezha, she very much did once. And I've gone to actual Daoists to ask more information about Nezha and the religion in general, who has in fact confirmed Nezha isn't just a child. I get that this is the internet, people can lie about anything. But it's still uncomfortable, solely because had anyone else claimed they're Daoist or ex Daoist and agreed with your opinion, you wouldn't have said that.

I'll reopen my comments within a few minutes, but don't be a disrespectful cunt. And can you maybe not deny someone about their religion? Even if you don't believe them, that's genuinely not an excuse. Because I know damn well, had she agreed with your statement, you wouldn't have pulled that.

Gods. I can't say I'm not surprised, but I'm just impressed about the lengths people will go for something.

Anyways, I've said my piece. If official show writers (because my Daoist friends have already told me what I needed to know) claim Nezha is a child, I'll delete my stuff with him. If not, then I'm not stopping posting Nezha content.

Toodles.

[lorynna]

Day 298493 of saying that religions are - without exception - mysogynistic.

Specific topic today is husband and wife not being allowed to touch during certain times in orthodox judaism, which a woman named Miriam elaborates on. She owns a Tiktok account and regularly talks about her religious practices and jewish customs.

She has mentioned this custom before in reference to her period, through which she and her husband are not allowed to touch each other and have to sleep in seperate beds.

Now, recently she has had her 5th baby and talks about the fact, that she is also not allowed to touch her husband directly after birth, all the way through postpartum until the moment she stops bleeding, continues to have no blood for 7 days straight after and then has immersed herself in the water of a jewish bathhouse, called Mikva. This also includes not being allowed to directly hand things to each other. She claims this is not due to impurity of the woman but spiritual reasons.

Miriam has spoken about this matter before, where she states that waiting for 7 days after any uterine bleeding stops to touch again, for example after a period makes the husband and wife reunite again when the woman is in her fertile window again. In this video she only slightly touches on this topic by making a comment on what is advised by midwives/doctors for when a husband and wife are allowed to engage in physical intimacy again after childbirth, which is generally 6 weeks after birth.

Due to listening to Miriam I get the idea that she wants to make this seem like all of this happens in order to protect women in these circumstances but I cannot help finding these "means of protection" regressive, outdated and exhausting. Imagine bleeding for weeks after childbirth, now having 5 children you have to care for and always having to think about not touching your husband when both of you try to manage daily life after birth.

I'd really like her to dive deeper into why she thinks that this spiritually even makes sense. Again, for me it just comes across as "the woman is dirty for bleeding, a man can't have sex with her anyways plus she's not able to get pregnant during that time so let's just tell her to stay away during that time".

I feel really sorry for women following any religion. All it does is add more unnecessary rules to abide by, each day. More mental load to consider each day.

[the-rebel-archivist]

Finally finished Veilguard a few days ago and took some time to process and put my thoughts in order. In brief: 8/10 game as a whole, a really fantastic gaming experience, but 5 or even 4/10 as a dragon age game since it does no meaningful exploration of any nuance or moral complexity and seems to have forgotten what made Thedas distinct. My thoughts, critical and positive, coming from a place of love for the series with little to no spoilers:

Thedas has always been special to me because it was a nuanced world. Different groups had different opinions based on their pasts. City elves and the dalish had divergent histories. Injustice against magic was common, but you could understand the justification for it even when you didn’t agree. Now, the worldbuilding is flattened. A mageocracy is fine, it’s only bad apples. Slavery is never addressed. City and dalish elves are basically the same but one lives in the forest. There’s no conflict about what’s best from each individuals’ perception, all groups are monoliths.

“Elves won’t follow the gods just because they’re elves,” yes they would, in past lore. Perhaps not all but some would - these are their Creators. The game refuses to deal with religious belief in any meaningful way, to the point that I don't know if its impact is fully understood. Dalish religion is as much about cultural preservation as religion and it would be CRUSHING to lose that connection to the past when it had been all you could cling to for thousands of years.

And no, seeking out relics of Arlathan would not make up for the foundation of your society shattering and what that would mean to the dalish. Bellara being guilty that her gods are evil is not the takeaway I expected when I thought the dalish would explore that everything they believed was a lie. I'd also like to briefly comment on how an elf can comment that they weren’t raised dalish but adopted their tattoos. Their closed practice tattoos. Closed even to city elves unless they fully joined a clan. Removing cultural boundaries didn’t make the material less 'problematic', it just created a new blind spot.

“They’d never sanitize the Crows” I said before release. Assassins who walked the line between murderer and hero depending on perspective. But in this game they give you absolute truth: they’re freedom fighters. Responsible government who, the mob is benevolent and that is never subverted. They see themselves as the 'good guys' and so they are.

“They wouldn’t put powerful mages in charge of the shadow dragons” I said. “Surely they will explore the nuance of Neve having the privilege of magic in a mageocracy even when she comes from a lower class beyond ‘everyone is welcome in the shadow dragons’.” “Surely if Maevaris is connected her intersectionality as a magister and altus and trans woman will come up - not what Tevinter expects, helping with change, but still privileged and upper class. Surely low class non mages and slaves would be leading the Shadow Dragons, not the powerful being benevolent.”

But no. All factions in the game are black and white, good and evil, no moral complexity. The bad people want power and collect bad people who want power and only bad people do bad things. The antagonists I liked most were the ones with a motivation beyond simply power and they were few.

And that’s setting aside the fact that all of the mystery and fantasy was removed from the setting by the end. The things that mattered before, the religious conflicts, the approaches to history? All false or meaningless now that we know absolute truth. Everything that set Dragon Age apart from generic fantasy was flattened. All of the lore for the world that I had spent hours, days, years in and creating fanfic for became simple groups of good and bad, subjectivity replaced by objective truth. It’s not a world I want to unravel and explore anymore.

That hurts more than the slap in the face that was every cameo and past reference. If they wanted a soft reboot, why include them at all? Every time I saw or heard about a past character or event I felt hurt and angry and it actively harmed my experience of the game. When the choices are pared down to only do something "meaningful" with them and then that meaningful thing is a codex that had been so disdained in dev comments? I do feel pretty let down. Especially when that codex isn’t even personalized.

They never use Rook or the inquisitor’s first name in text once. Vocal I get, but no codex? The Inquisitor, a person depersonalized into a symbol, signing off “Yrs. The Inquisitor” when we input their name in CC was a twist of the knife I didn’t expect. It’s like every time I lower my expectations to grant grace they need to be lowered yet again.

Similarly, the romances in the “most romantic game yet” are paper thin throughout the game depending on your choice, with few chances to truly connect on an emotional level and have deep conversations in some routes. It’s not all about kissing but having the chance to say how you feel, or try to.

But that’s part of a larger problem, that this is a “found family” but Rook is the outsider in it. Rook isn’t asked how they’re handling things or about who they are or what they want except by Solas. The team needs them to fix problems but has little interest in giving back. The companions are lovely, but I can’t help wishing they were friends with me and not just each other. Or wanted to romance me and not just each other, as they begin to flirt before I can and have more banter comments than the player romance. At least if no one got me I know Davrin got me.

These last comments are the reason it’s 8/10 as a game rather than 10/10 for me - the lore I care about but others won’t. The lack of connection is a genuine issue, along with how unbalanced it is depending on romance. I just feel sad at the lost potential to reflect and gain support from companions.

On a positive note, this is the most fun Dragon Age game I’ve ever played. The gameplay is top notch and combat is so fluid and fun. I felt excited to fight rather than dreading the next battle. Really getting into the roleplay of a slippery rogue

The environments are so gorgeous. Lighting, animation, level design, sound design, all spectacular. I’m bad with maps and yet I never got lost and always managed to find my way around. Secret passages to treasure were just the right length to be satisfying. The puzzles were exactly the right amount of investment for the reward. I never felt frustrated by them but also not disappointed by the simple ones, there was a good balance. I had a lot of fun uncovering them. So many areas looked like a perfect representation of thedosian places I had never been to and wanted to visit.

Every time I was in the necropolis it felt like coming home. Maybe it’s because the lore was the most similar to past lore, maybe it’s just because it was cool, but I loved being there. I loved the wisps most of all. And I loved Emmrich’s journey and sympathetic exploration of death. The Hossberg Wetlands were also a standout area. Absolutely horrible (complimentary). Evka and Antoine my beloveds and the environment storytelling was fantastic. Like a hideous combination of the Fallow Mire and Chateau d’Onterre and I was so there for it. Davrin’s story broke my last flight loving heart.

The set pieces and narrative flow in the major battles and main story missions is really wonderful. I also did enjoy the faction reactivity, even if there were few chances to explore the intersectionality of being a particular lineage with a particular faction. I’ll make our House proud Viago!

It’s such a fun game that when I play I can almost forget all of the things that I dislike until a codex or cameo punches me in the face. It has such great gameplay that I can finally discuss DA with my partner who refused to play the other games in the series. But what a monkey’s paw. I know from their previous work that they can foster nuance. From the art book that their instincts were there from the beginning. But somewhere after multiple reboots they made a world with contradiction and complexity removed, more reactive to fan discourse than to telling a complex narrative.

It kills me because if the nuance and subjectivity and moral complexity had been there, I would have considered this the best Dragon Age game ever made. It will always be the most fun. But it is legitimately more fun for people who don’t know lore than people who do, and that is soul-crushing. It's the most beautiful Thedas has ever been, and the least like Thedas it has ever felt.

I’ve played it once. I already started a replay. I enjoy the game a lot when I am playing it, overall. But I miss Thedas, and I miss that the “world worth saving” that I cared for is a slate wiped clean and this new world is a more simplistic place.

[midnightscramble]

Hiya, could you do a Portia Featherington x female baker reader. Of course you have all creative freedom. Thank you, love. ;P

Sugar, Sugar Part 1 (Portia Featherington x fem!Reader)

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

The Masterlist

Author’s Note: Thanks for the request! Love this idea and am so joyed to write for it. If it’s not to your liking feel free to make another request (don’t be shy!). Happy readings to you.

Summary: The stress of running a doomed household is getting to Portia. In an effort to get her daughter and Mister Finch to produce an heir, she employees local baker Y/n to fill the house with goodies.

Warnings: Portia has anxiety, slight derogatory references to religion, memories of a neglectful marriage, period typical misinformation about pregnancy and fertility, No Beta read

“Mama, I swear, Albion and I have been trying. It is simply in God’s hands. A baby shall appear within my belly when he deems it so.” Philippa shrugged and looked towards the vaulted ceiling as if it was the heavens. Portia pinched the bridge of her nose at her daughter’s idiocy. She walked towards the window and looked out upon the street, shaking her head while cursing her daughter’s religious education. Of all the books Penelope had convinced the late Lord Featherington to supply her with, it had to be the Bible that Philippa happened upon. The very same girl who could not remember her Hail Marys.

Spinning on her heel, exasperated, Portia looked towards her daughter, “It is absolutely in your hands. God gave mankind free will. Free will which you will use to become pregnant. Are you sure that Mister Finch is doing his part, is he doing all a man can to enhance his virility?”

"There is only so much Alby can do, Mama. He has many allergies, it is near impossible for him to eat the foods that are meant to increase his bravado." Philippa yawned resignedly.

"Well, have you noticed any particular type of food that effects his, uhh," Portia raised her eyebrows and whispered conspiratorially, "appetite for you?" Philippa gasped despite her mother's careful phrasing, causing Portia to roll her eyes.

Offended, Philippa tsked, "Mama, that is very improper of you to ask. But if you must know, he rather enjoys sweets before the act."

Of course, Portia thought, when does the man not want sweets. "Then I shall have the staff fill your room with treats and you are not to leave until you are sure you are with child."

"You cannot trap us in our room!"

"I very well can! All of our futures are dependent on your and Mister Finch's coupling. I cannot count on Prudence to put her pride aside and measure up to the task. Penelope has not a suitor insight while she chases Mister Bridgerton's coattail. Please Philippa, if you do not do this we will lose everything." Her ears ran hot as she tried to reason with her. Was it possible that she was the only one who understood the enormity of the situation?

Slouching, Philippa huffed "Fine, although my only request is that the sweets not be from the kitchens. I'd rather it be from Y/l/n Pastries and Delights. The shop has gained quite the following with-"

"Yes, yes. I will take care of it, now off you go! I expect you to be glued to his side by the time I return with the order."

...

The carriage ride into town was bumpy and unpleasant. Perhaps Portia was overly sensitive due to her soured mood. She despised having to haggle, especially with someone as well connected as the Ton's premier baker. Since the death of Lord Featherington, Portia had been careful to reduce the size of the staff and have the kitchens purchase day old produce from the markets. While she preferred to be frugal in such times, this expense would prove to be important. Never did she think her family's future would rely on a man's appetite.

Coming to a halt, she peered out the carriage window. Her destination was at the edge of the Ton, surprising her considering the supposed popularity of the bakery. Gingerly stepping out of the carriage, she tried to settle herself. She knew exactly how to get what she wanted. Men, older men in particular, were simple creatures. With a delicate balance of sexual innuendo and pseudo helplessness, she was sure to emerge victorious.

The shop bell jingled, causing Y/n to look up from her place behind the counter. "Welcome in! what can I do for you, Lady Featherington?" She smiled brightly at the auburn haired woman. The aroma of the shop washed over Portia gently, reminding her briefly of the display of sweets she had at her own wedding.

Portia smiled tightly and approached the counter. To be known about the Ton was both a blessing and a curse. There was pride in being instantly recognized by strangers, yet it made discrete deals such as the one she was trying to procure all the more difficult.

"Hello, Dear. I was wondering if I may speak to the head chef?"

"I am the head chef." Portia released a guffaw, "Pardon me, I'm afraid you misunderstand, I am looking for the shop owner."

Y/n smiled kindly, Portia was not the first to make this mistake, "That would be me, Lady Featherington."

Portia's smile dropped momentarily. A woman shop owner was hard to come by. Sure, there were lady bakers in the Ton, but none owned the shops they worked in. "How modern," she complemented, "I was hoping it would not be too late in the day to place an order for tonight?" She was in fact hoping that it was too late, and thus the remaining goods would have a reduced price given how long they had been siting.

"As a matter of fact, I make night batches to supply to the local families. It seems everyone is partial to dessert before bed," Y/n jested slightly. Although her heart rate picked up a notch, Portia released a laugh to show good nature. Reevaluating the situation, she looked around the shop, "Well I'm not sure what I should order..."

Reading the hesitancy in her eyes, Y/n offered "Why don't I give you an assortment. That way you can come back tomorrow with a list of what was enjoyed, hmm?" She was used to having to sell herself to the people of the Ton, none were quick to trust a female shop owner.

Portia's smile relaxed at the prospect, "That would be lovely, thank you." Y/n started packing up one of each dessert. Absentmindedly, she made conversation, "My condolences on the late Lord Featherington. When my own husband died, it nearly sent me to ruin."

Eyes widening, Portia scrambled for an appropriate response to such an abrupt topic change, "Thank you..." She drifted off, not sure what to say. She studied the young woman, wondering what she was getting at. Their eyes met briefly and Portia looked away, feeling caught.

Filling the silence she continued, "My condolences as well, was it your husband who started this fine establishment?" Internally she grimaced. She knew it was none of her business, yet the oddity of the situation drove her to seek some sort of explanation.

"We started it together. I had to petition to the province to assume control of the estate. They wanted to give this shop to my eleven year old cousin, can you believe that?"

She sucked in a breath, "Yes, yes I can." Portia was becoming all too familiar with inheritance laws.

Y/n placed three full boxes on the counter and grabbed a paper. "Now, I am going to write which box contains which sweet," she beckoned Portia closer to watch as she wrote.

"This box has", rather than listen, Portia found herself distracted in watching Y/n's hands move as she emphatically described how each pastry could be identified. Her fingers twisted as she mimicked the pipped icing atop a miniature cake. The subtle flexing of her hand when she grasped the quill left Portia wondering what strength those hands possessed. Y/n seemed to have a good work ethic, leaving no doubt in her mind that she would be behind the scenes with her staff, kneading dough, working till sweat dripped down the column of her throat- Portia's mouth suddenly felt very dry and she cleared her throat, causing Y/n to pause. Embarrassed she rushed, "Thank you, I shall return tomorrow. You can hand these off to my footmen." She spun around on her heal and in three long strides she exited.

Y/n called after her, "Have a nice night, Lady Featherington!"

...

Feeling rather worn, Portia told Philippa's maid to have the sweets brought directly to her daughter's room. She retired early, settling in the king sized bed with the latest issue of Lady Whistledown. Seldom did she wish to know the true identity of the infamous writer. However, it was nights like these that she wanted to meet the woman face to face. She was curious, how had she made it so far? Was there a man behind the publishing? If it was truly a Lady behind the gossip expose, she may be the most independent woman of their time.

Oh, to be so free, she thought.

Turning, she blew out her bed side candle and tossed the pamphlet to the floor. Even with her husband dead, she was still chained to his decisions, his name, the failures he had made and hid from her. It would have scorned her if not for the fact that she had no emotion left to give the man.

She had never truly been dependent on him, at least not in the traditional sense. There were women like Violet Bridgerton, who mourned her husband years after his passing, pious and properly. For Violet had loved him, and in turn was dependent on his love and company. Portia, on the other hand, had tried to love her husband. She gave Lord Featherington her youthful devotion, drawn to his coy smiles and cold disregard for her. There was a certain safety in giving her heart and hand in marriage to a man who was distant. Who showed his affection in gifts rather than touch or word.

Their relationship, transactional at best, had entirely ceased upon the birth of Penelope. Lord Featherington had given up on the prospect of a male heir and moved to the opposing wing. From then on, the bulk of their interactions consisted of sitting across from each other at breakfast and linking arms at social events. Both were too content to break the newly developed pattern. It was almost pleasant, to look upon each other and feel no obligation to pretend.

Tonight was like any other night in her marriage, spent alone. She was normally untroubled by the empty side of her bed, cold and firm from being unoccupied. Closing her eyes she resigned herself to ignore the sudden deficiency. She told herself that it was of most importance to fall asleep quickly. Tomorrow she would have to be sharp to negotiate with Y/n.

Reminded briefly of the baker, thoughts of little cakes with pipped icing, quills, and the smell of bread paraded through her mind as she succumbed to sleep.

[queerprayers]

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Judensau

luther inspired hitler, following him is a step away from following hitler

Welcome, beloved. I don't want to dismiss your message, but I do want to make some things clear. I, like many, have horrors in my religion that I have to be able to address, and prejudices that I do not perpetuate consciously but know that I nonetheless have absorbed from culture, and am responsible for healing. Antisemitism within Christianity is a huge topic, with people devoting their lives to studying it. I would not fault any Jewish person for antagonism toward my communities--you would be right to be wary, and if I intend to continue participating in these communities, I must be able to understand and accept any justified anger or distrust coming my way.

I'd encourage everyone reading to learn more about this through the Wikipedia link, but a brief description/summary for those who don't want details/images: The mentioned article is about an antisemitic artistic trope from the Middle Ages. The church where Martin Luther preached included an image of this sort from 1305.

Martin Luther was antisemitic. This isn't up for debate. There is more to say, of course--we can look at how his attitudes changed over his life (for the worse, to be clear), we can talk about the extent to which he specifically influenced Nazism (this is a complicated conversation that I'm not qualified for)--but he was undeniably, horrifically, antisemitic. There's a Wikipedia page solely devoted to this topic.

That said, there's huge diversity within Lutheranism, seeing as it's a large religious tradition, and if you're interested in learning about Lutheranism and Hitler specifically, I'd encourage you to look into the split within the German Lutheran Church in 1933 and Dietrich Bonhoeffer, the Lutheran theologian who was hanged at the Flossenbürg concentration camp. It's fascinating to look back at that while living through such religious division in America right now.

Luther was a complicated man, who did not set out to found a church, and opposed the term "Lutheran." He was attempting to reform the Catholic Church from the inside, because he himself was Catholic. Not a very good one, obviously, but he didn't consider himself anything else. He was a monk for a time, then an academic, and his beliefs got him excommunicated. I've read some of his writings, but not all. I find value in them, while disagreeing with a lot of it. Lutheranism is a space with which I have fellowship with God and humanity, not a set of rules or a devotion to every word of a man from the 16th century. I'm not interested in excusing or defending him, nor do I feel the need to honor him in any way. I hope I disappoint him completely.

I am a Lutheran Christian--and I would not fault anyone for thinking those words function similarly. So to explain: I'm a Christian as in I follow Christ, devote myself to his teachings, pray to him, and live for him every day. I'm a Lutheran as in I am a member of a church and culture that traces back to communities of German Protestants who identified with the theology of Martin Luther. I do not follow Martin Luther. I do not follow Lutheranism. I follow God, and participate in Christianity often within Lutheran communities--primarily because of my heritage and the music.

Protestants don't have Saints in the Catholic sense, nor do we have a pope. Martin Luther is not our Saint, or someone we pray through, or our leader. We don't read his writings in church, we don't look to him for answers. He's someone many people have found wisdom in, someone who has inspired countless reformers, but he is a man. A saint in the Lutheran sense, a lowercase-s saint, a member of Christ's community--a sinner from his mother's womb. He probably wrote more about his own sin then you ever will. He devolved into conspiracy, and said horrible things about Judaism and Catholicism and Islam, and we have seen the legacy of German antisemitism (which he did not create, but obviously contributed to), and it's a good thing I don't idolize him. I honestly don't think about him very much. Yes, I read his catechism in Bible classes, but we were free to disagree with it--we were using his most basic writings as a starting point. The words of his that are most present in my life are his hymns, which we do sing often. His teachings were intended to lead people to the Bible rather than leaders/traditions, which is why he translated the Bible into German, and why I go to the Bible, not to him. I learned about his antisemitism growing up, and prayed for repentance on behalf of my ancestors.

There are people who hold Luther in higher esteem than me, to be sure. Do I think they're basically following Hitler? I don't know. It depends why they value him, I would say. Idolizing anyone is dangerous, especially men in the 1500s. I can think of no historical male writer I value that was not at least slightly misogynist. The two authors I've read today, Virginia Woolf and Shakespeare, both have antisemitic writing. Countless people sainted by the Catholic Church, and countless popes, have been antisemitic. There is no innocent tradition. I'm not trying to excuse any of this, or say we shouldn't be critical, but this is why we don't base religions on people. They have to be founded and organized by people, which means there's going to be issues (and Christianity's are quite obvious), but Christians have to remind ourselves every day that the only human we worship is the one who was God.

I wish you well, beloved. I'm glad you see the evil in my religion, genuinely. Not enough people do. I hope you continue educating people and being active in your fight against antisemitism--if you're not Jewish yourself, hopefully this shows up more as supporting Jewish people and communities, and less like borderline accusing people online for following Hitler because they still use the word for their traditions that their Norwegian great-grandparents did, because it's the word that stuck from the beginning. We're named after Luther's excommunication, not his antisemitism--Catholics would have had to change their name to Lutheran too if that was the theological issue happening. There's a whole conversation to be had on whether we should call ourselves Lutheran, but regardless, the communities and heritage exist, and will continue to evolve.

May God have mercy on the crimes of my community members. May God lead me to walk in the way of justice. May our religion serve us, and may we serve God.

<3 Johanna

[a-small-writer-in-a-big-world]

Trip: knight!price x princes!reader

Idk if this should be a warning but there's like a tin y bit of a mention of religion but like not that much. Also it's the fantasy middle ages unfortunately it's a topic that has to come up. Also another long chapter, sorry lol

It was early in the morning when Sir John Price had come to you and asked if you wanted to take a trip with him for the day. He didn't have to tell you what it was exactly at the time, you just agreed and before long you were sitting on your horse with Pride riding next to you.

Only a few hours had passed and the countryside had taken over as you continued down the road with him.

He had yet to tell you where you were going or why.

"Are you taking me hunting?" You wondered and he shook his head with a small smile.

"I'd be foolish to do that, your highness." He said and you hummed.

"Where are we going?"

"It's a surprise."

You sighed but smiled and allowed him to lead you wherever he wished. You trusted him and you recognized that you were heading the direction towards the nearby village.

It had been awhile since you had been beyond the village and the fields surrounding the castle since your mother made it known you were supposed to stay close by for any suitors. You hadn't realized how trapped you felt until you were out of her shadow.

If you were being honest, this would be enough to keep you happy if Price had nothing else to show you.

"You're not worried about any unwanted attention I might bring?" You teased when you remembered how wary he'd been the other time you made an appearance in a village.

"You're far too stubborn to keep hidden." He teased back. "We won't be in the village much today."

You tilted your head but he didn't elaborate and only gave you a small smile that made you playfully narrow your eyes at him.

Regardless, you follow him into the village and greeted any villagers you passed on the way in before you followed him towards the outskirts. It was then that you realized he was leading you towards the monastery that sat on the top of the hill.

"Are you turning in your sword?" You wondered and he raised an eyebrow. "Have a I worn you out already?"

"No, your highness," Price scoffed as he stopped his horse in front of the monastery. "You know I'm not a praying man."

Price helped you down from your horse and you chuckled at the thought of him praying as often as the monks do.

"No, you are hardly devout enough for that."

"Not to God, at least."

Price let you enter first and you stared in awe at the stained glass that captured the late morning sun. You had visited a few times before but the peaceful silence and the architecture never failed to amaze you.

It wasn't long before a monk met the both of you and bowed before Price spoke.

"If it's not trouble to you, the princess would like to take a few books back to the castle with her in exchange for some that she already has."

Your eyes widened and you snapped your head towards him. You couldn't help the way that your heart skipped a beat as the monk gestured towards the stairs.

Price sucked in his lips when he saw your surprise and he bowed his head slightly.

"You said you needed more book to read."

You shouldn't have been surprised that he would take a passing comment so seriously. If Sir John was anything he was attentive about everything around him, including something so small as more books to entertain you with.

It made your heart soar and you body warm up. You wanted tot hank him but you couldn't find your voice but you feared you'd sound choked up because you could feel your throat tighten.

He cleared he throat and gestured towards the stairs.

"Shall we?"

Upstairs there were rows and rows of shelves full of books. Many of them you hadn't seen before which nearly captivated your attention immediately. Excitement bubbled up inside of you as you browsed them knowing that you could spend days looking through all of them.

Price carried any of the books you picked out even when you tried to protest but he did it anyway.

"You should pick out a few as well. I haven't forgotten my promise."

"There's no way for me to know I will like them."

"Then tell me what you like and I'll get it for you."

As you worked through the books and picked out a few that fit what he would like your mind wandered. You remembered what he told you about his upbringing but you want to know more.

You never would've guess him to be anything but noble born despite his more rugged personality than most knights.

"You're from the north, correct?" You wondered softly and he raised an eyebrow.

"Only a weeks ride from the castle." He explained. "It's a lot more country up there."

"Do you miss it?"

"Often."

You frowned. In reality, he was never meant to be far from his home. If the lord hadn't taken him in, he would've stayed there and enjoyed his life without the expectations of keeping the crown and the kingdom safe. He wouldn't know you personally, you doubt he would've ever seen you.

You hoped that he didn't regret becoming a knight, especially since you didn't make it very easy for him.

"Tell me more." You looked at him almost pleadingly and his eyebrows knitted together.

He hesitated only for a moment as he studied you carefully before he looked deep in thought.

"I lived on the lord's land. We were farmers. My house was just on the edge of the woods and I'd spend most of my time in there when I wanted to avoid doing any work...it was peaceful." His voice was calm as he reminisced and you giggled softly. "Then when the lord took me in I lived in his estate. At the time it was the biggest home I'd been in and I was put off by it."

"It sounds like you're still fond of it." You said and he nodded.

"The lord named me his heir before he passed, so I own everything including my old home."

You smiled at that but the question in your mind slowly took it away. You knew the answer but you wanted to ask just in case you were mistaken.

"And your parents?"

"They pass when I was young. They were very sick."

"...I'm sorry."

"Thank you, your highness."

Despite the sadness of the situation you were grateful that the lord had taken him in and that you know got to know him, especially as he stared at you with soft eyes that made you warm.

"Would you like to go there someday?" Price's voice was soft and almost unsure as he stared at you with bated breath.

You could see the nervousness in his eyes despite the fact that he stood tall as he always did. But he shifted on his feet and sucked in his lips, wetting them as he waited for you to answer.

And you could hardly keep yourself from looking surprised and flustered.

It was one thing for him to bring you places that you liked and that you would enjoy but it was another for him to want to bring you to somewhere he held dear. It was a privilege to let you see, to get closer to him in ways that you knew you would never get with a lord or a prince.

And you wanted to continue to do it. You wanted to get closer to him, to feel what could be if you weren't who you were.

It would ruined you but you couldn't help it.

"I would." You nodded and watched him sigh with relief.

"Then I will take you one day." He smiled softly and you couldn't hep but return it.

He glanced at the window, his cheeks a light pink before he gestured towards it.

"We still have the day. There's somewhere else I'd like to take you, if you wish, your highness."

You titled your head and watched his eyes twinkle.

"Another monastery?" You tried to guess but he shook his head.

"You'll like it just as much." Price said and you hummed.

You didn't argue. You knew that whatever he had planned would be perfect and that it didn't really matter because he was taking you there anyway.

a/n: I need him in ways that's concerning to everyone

Tags: @deadbranch @makayla-666 @glitterypirateduck @dumbbitchgalore @m0chac0ffee @dragonbe-writing @sleepyoriana @twismare @blush-haze @waiting-so-long @sofasoap @panikk-attackkk

[melanieph321]

Hiii!! Could you please write some more abt Joško?? Thanksss💘💘💘

Ofc ☺️

SEVEN DAYS OF REQUESTS 3.0

(DAY 3)

Joško Gvardiol x Reader - Potential Wedding Day

Reader and Joško are getting married. However, Reader is having second thoughts.

Enjoy!

It was now or never.

Joško's family was lovely, and perhaps that was the problem. He came from a big family, with plenty of cousins, uncles aunties and siblings. All here to celebrate your wedding day. You, on the other hand, was an only child, raised by a single mother who taught you how to fend for yourself in the real world, not how to play house with your future husband. Unfortunately, this left you with no clue on how to be the wife that Joško deserved.

It was now or never, you thought, as you ditched your heels and stepped into the Croatian sun. A beach wedding had been your idea since a wedding in a church felt outdated and quite frankly fictional. You had never been a costum to any religion or its many traditions. Perhaps this added to your list of reasons why you'd make a terrible wife.

"Y/N, is that you?"

"Fuck."

You hid behind some bushes. Joško's sister had spotted you. How could she possibly have missed the white cloud making it's way down the majestical beach?

"Y/N, is everything alright?"

You heard footsteps approaching and sensed no point of return. "Hey, Sarah. What's up?" Your head popped out from behind the bushes, a couple of twigs stuck to your hair. Trying to act normal about the encounter felt bold enough as it was.

"Erm...not much. Why are you hiding in the bushes?" The young girl bore a frightened look on her face. Especially as her gaze fell upon your bare feet.

"Oh, you know. I thought I'd take a stroll down the beach, clear my head before the big day."

"You mean the wedding? The wedding that's in fifteen minutes?"

"Right."

"I was supposed to bring you your flowers. Everyone's waiting."

"I get that, it's just that..."

"Should I get aunt Lina?" A strike of panic in Sarah's voice. Surely she was aware of what was happening, what you were about to do.

"Oh, no. I'm sure that won't be nessicery." You said and came around the bushes to stand before her.

"Your dress." She said, eyeing it with concern. You had ripped the bottom half of it and allowed pebbles of leaves to latch onto the fabric. "How about I get my big brother? Yes, I'll go get Joško."

Sarah ran off in the direction of the reception. And before you knew it, a trail of people were seen rushing your way. Joško, followed by his family.

"Y/N?" He was quick to approach you, checking for any wounds below your ripped dress.

"Oh my." The women behind him muttered. "She was about to runaway.

"What a shame." Another one said. "To leave our poor Joško at the altar."

The men regarded you with judging eyes. Most likely, I see you as a waste of time. A girl who wasn't Croatian nor knew of or respected the country's culture. They probably believed that Joško would have been better of marrying some girl next door. Now he was stuck with you, a gold digging WAG.

"Y/N?"

With a shrug of your shoulders Joško brought you out of your anxious daze. His eyes searched your face, regarding you with furrowed brows. "You're crying."

"I'm sorry." You squealed.

His face softened. "Everyone out of the way!" You were led back towards the house, Joško's hand squeezing yours.

"Ali Joško, vjenčanje?" (But Joško, the wedding?) Some in his family shouted.

"Daj nam minutu!" (Give us a minute!) He groand and made the glass doors come to a close behind you. The silence that followed was the most heartbreaking silence that you had ever experienced. You sat down in a chair, waiting, no, hoping for Joško to bring himself to look at you. However, as he did, you hadn't anticipated the sheer terror in his eyes.

"You're having second thoughts, aren't you?"

"Joško, I'm sorry."

He crumbled to his knees, approaching the chair where you sat. "It's okay. You're okay."

"It's not." Your voice trembled. "It's not okay and I should have told you before it was too late."

He laughed. A warm and rich laughed that was felt through your body. Joško pulled your chair closer to him. "It's okay." He whispered and kissed your temple. "I rushed you into marrying me. I should have known that you weren't ready. It's just....I want us to be a family before the baby comes." Joško lowered himself for his head to end up in your lap. There, he nuzzled his face against your flat belly, yet revealing the life growing inside you.

"I get that you come from a very traditional family." You nodded and traced your hand through his yet black hair. "But I don't, meaning I don't get why we can't be a family without getting married?"

Joško nodded. "We can...and we should. It's just my family that...." He stopped himself, shaking his head. "It doesn't matter. They don't matter. What matters is this, YN." He pointed between the two of you.

"You and me?"

He nodded. "And the baby."

You smiled. "Our family."

He raised his head from your lap, perking up to give you a lingering kiss. A kiss that calmed the last of your nerves.

"Don't get me wrong." You whispered against his mouth. "I want to marry you, just not today."

Joško chuckled. "Good luck explaining that to my mother."

"Or perhaps it's time we tell them about her." You stood from the chair.

Joško came up from the floor, joining your side. "Who?"

You grabbed his hand and placed it flat against your belly. "Her." You smiled.

His eyes widened. "Her? It's a she?"

You nodded, confirming it. "Yes, Joško. It's a she. We're having a baby girl."

A squelead, as Joško swept you off your feet, ironically picking you up and carrying you around, bridalstyle. Your laughter filled the room. He twirled you around in a heartfelt moment. One that you'd forever remember as your potential wedding day.

[dunmeshistash]

Dear Mr Dunmeshi, I know religion isn't mentioned much but is it kinda maybe implied that there's an afterlife of some sort? I'm looking at that chapter where Falin chooses to be resurrected. I feel that undermines Marcille learning to deal with loss and grief, but thinking everyone gets to meet again some day makes me feel a little better.

I'd say religion and afterlife in dunmeshi sound about the same as it is irl, something we can't really know for sure.

Things like souls and spirits exist, but those are linked to magic, so it's more something from nature rather than something religious. (Even if it comes from the demon, magic is part of nature cause that's how it behaves. It even seems to follow rules of energy conservation)

There's no indication of something like an afterlife that I remember. The vision we get of Falin in those fields I think it's a representation of her own inner world rather than a shared afterlife, the demon appearing there is because the demon is magic itself, the closest thing to a god, he can do that. His confrontations with Laios were inside his own inner world, I think. He isn't from our dimension our rules don't apply.

That being said, an afterlife could exist as much as it could for any religion, depends on your beliefs (or the characters' beliefs). Maybe even more possible in dunmesh since stuff like other dimensions exist, and there's many things they don't really know even about magic.

Marcille's future causes a lot of people grief and anxiety, but the same way she has to go through that journey we are all going through it too, and I think imagining Falin is gonna live longer or that an afterlife exists it's a fine way to deal with that grief we feel for her. In my opnion it would only undermine her journey if it became confirmed in canon, because it goes against the lesson she learned, for fandom and speculation everything is allowed.

[gothcsz]

𝑻𝒉𝒐𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒇𝒂𝒓𝒆 / Chapter XIX.

GIF by azertyrobaz

PAIRING: Javier Peña x Original Female Character

SUMMARY: A lot of change in such a short amount of time.

WORD COUNT: ~14.2k

RATING: 18+ Explicit topics such as sex, drugs, murder, the occult, religion, cannibalism and other triggering matters will be explored in this body of work. Minors DNI.

CHAPTER SPECIFIC TAGS: fluff x10 (these two are in love), smut, oral (f), unprotected p in v (try at your own risk), a peek into domesticity, javi wears a cowboy hat, religious content, suicide mention, talks of grief and depression, angst x1000, if there's typos/grammatical errors just pretend that there's not, spoiler tags listed at the end of the chapter.

DISCLAIMER/WARNINGS: The Javier Peña referenced in this body of work is solely based off of the character that appears in Netflix’s Narcos and not the actual person. Very canon divergent and I will tweak things as I see fit to compliment the narrative of this story. While efforts have been made to be accurate in terms of canon timeline, a lot of details will be fictionalized.

A/N: okay, not to get all rambly and stuff here but i feel like this chapter best emulates the vision i had in my head when i started writing this fic *cries* it was one of those things that was already thought up before i even had an outline, lmfao. this just fits the song thoroughfare so well (at least the way i've interpreted it for our little story :p) like i kid you not... i was crying writing some of this. this pairing means the world to me and i want to thank everyone who's taken a chance on this like ahhh i was beyond nervous when i started posting my shit publicly, but the support truly has made me a lot more confident and overall improved and left me content in my writing abilities 🖤 anyways, imma stop before this note ends up a million words (nooo kat don't stop yapping, you're so sexy aha 🫦) feel free to drop any type of feedback/support on this blog or on ao3. i'd really appreciate it <3

♰  read on ao3. ♰

♰  playlist | pinterest | series masterlist ♰

What follows is nothing short of perfect.��

She moves into Javier’s life bit by bit, her presence taking up space in the quiet corners of his trailer home until it feels like she’s always been there. Her clothes begin to mix with his in the closet, her little trinkets are scattered across his dresser, her scent lingers in the sheets. 

Her. Her. Her.

Javier can’t deny the comfort it brings. On nights when he works late, he’s greeted by the sight of her asleep on the couch, one hand tucked beneath her cheek, the glow of the TV casting soft shadows across her face.

His heart swells at the sight every time, the weariness of the day evaporating the moment he steps inside. The kitchen always smells faintly of whatever meal she’s cooked, his dinner carefully wrapped and kept warm in the oven.

He’s used to solitude, but now he’s coming home to something more.

It’s not conventional by any means. They’re doing everything backwards, diving headfirst into a relationship that feels like it’s years old rather than what it really is.

Of course, amidst all the domestic bliss, there’s the physical side of things— something neither of them shy away from. Paloma, as it turns out, is even more insatiable than Javier ever imagined. He thought he had a strong sexual appetite; always eager to touch her, kiss her, pull her close, but her? She surpasses him with ease.

There isn’t a surface in his trailer that hasn’t been christened by their bodies tangled together— kitchen counters, the couch, the shower, even the porch steps under the stars.

She attacks him with the same wild eagerness every time, like a kitten who never tires of her favorite toy. Sometimes she waits for him by the door, barely dressed, ready to pounce the moment he walks in.

Other times, she sneaks up on him when he’s doing something mundane— washing dishes, folding laundry, and suddenly her hands are all over his broad body, tugging at his belt, her lips on his neck.

The more she’s around him, the more she craves him.

He’s convinced he’s never been wanted like this in his life, and he can’t help but give in every single time.

He never gets enough of the way her body feels under his hands, the soft, desperate moans she makes when he presses her up against a wall or when her nails dig into his back as she pulls him closer. She pushes him to the edge of control every time, and he loves the way she challenges him— how she matches his fire and fuels it even more.

It’s a storm of passion that neither of them want to temper.

Javier watches her move around the living room, laughing as she dances barefoot in one of his old shirts, and it hits him all over again how deeply he’s fallen. She is more than he ever expected, more than he ever thought he deserved, and the way she’s seamlessly integrated into his life feels almost like fate.

He can’t imagine it any other way.

“Got all of your stuff?” He lounges lazily on the couch, legs stretched out, one arm slung over the backrest. His eyes follow her as she sways to the rhythm of the song. 

She holds a glass of wine in one hand, taking slow, deliberate sips.

“All that I need, yes,” she replies with a small smile, turning slightly to face him. The soft glow of the evening light filters through the curtains, casting a warm hue across the room.

“Talk to your dad at all?” he asks, more gently this time, knowing the weight that question carries. He doesn’t push, but it’s there— the reminder that things still need to be resolved, even if they’ve been pretending like the outside world doesn’t exist.

She shakes her head, her lips pressing to the rim of the glass.

The memory of their fight lingers like a bruise that hasn’t quite healed. She knows she’ll have to talk to him eventually, but she just can’t bring herself to reach out. The sting of his accusations, his anger, feels too fresh.

The only time she goes to the house is to grab more of her things, slipping in and out when he’s not there.

Javier doesn’t say anything, letting the country song fill their silence. He understands the complicated knot of emotions she’s carrying, and he knows better than anyone how hard it is to face something like this head-on.

He motions her over with a wave of his hand. Paloma drains the last of her wine, setting the glass on the coffee table with a soft clink before climbing onto his lap. Her fingers thread through his hair the moment she settles.

“When you’re ready, we’ll go together,” he murmurs, in which she gives him a small smile, nodding and leaning in, lips meeting his in a slow, gentle kiss.

Their plan is simple— once the case is officially closed, they’re gone. They’ll head down to the Peña ranch in Laredo while he gets his affairs together before making the big move to California.

Javier has already told his father about it, something that had him feeling more anxious than he cared to admit.

He was worried about Chucho’s reaction, how he would feel about him running off halfway across the country with a girl he’s only been seriously involved with for a handful of months, and officially dating for a shorter amount of time. 

But when his pops picked up the phone, Javier didn’t need to explain much. The older man could hear it in his son’s voice— the warmth, the adoration, the way Javi couldn’t talk about Paloma without his tone softening.

It was a feeling Chucho recognized, one that reminded him of how he’d spoken about his own wife all those years ago. So instead of the lecture Javier had been expecting, all he got was a warm chuckle on the other end of the line and a simple request:

“Bring that girl home already.”

She is beyond excited for the trip to his hometown. She’s talked about it more times than he can count, her eyes lighting up whenever she imagines what it’ll be like on the ranch. There’s a spark of curiosity too, a genuine desire to understand where he comes from, to see firsthand what shaped him into the man he is.

He’s been giving her a rundown of all the names, stories, and family dynamics, painting vivid pictures of boisterous holiday celebrations.

It’s everything she never had— being an only child of two only children made growing up feel lonely at times. But now, the thought of being wrapped up in a lively, bustling, large family fills her with a sense of belonging she’s always longed for.

He smiled to himself as he watched her ramble about her plans to help his pops. The enthusiasm she exudes when talking about tending to it all is infectious. “You’re more excited about the horses than meeting my family,” he teased.

She laughed softly. “Maybe a little. I’ve always wanted to be surrounded by animals. It’s like getting to live out a little childhood dream. As you can tell, I had a lot of those.”

“Well, you’re gonna get your fill of horses, cows, chickens— you name it.”

Paloma doesn’t have a concrete plan for California, and Javier doesn’t press her for one.

She’s still figuring it all out, trying to navigate the delicate balance between who she wants to become and the life they’re about to build together. It’s why he’s been searching for a job that not only keeps him grounded but also provides enough stability to take care of her.

He’s determined to carry the weight of their future on his shoulders, even if she resists the idea.

“You don’t need to worry about some part-time job, Paloma. I want you to focus on your music,” he told her one night as they sat across from each other at the dinner table.

She shook her head, her brows furrowing slightly. “I want to pull my own weight, Javi. I don’t want you feelin’ like you gotta take care of me.”

“You are pulling your weight. Your music is your weight,” he countered gently, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. “I just don’t want you wasting your time on some job that doesn’t mean anything when you’ve got so much talent. You’re too good for that.”

She bit her lip, still not fully convinced. But there’s something so different about how Javier cares for her. It’s not about control or dominance; it’s about how he wants to see her succeed. 

To be taken care of like this isn’t completely foreign to her, but the depth of his desire to protect and provide is different to how her father had approached it.

Javier is solid, dependable, and she knows— without a shred of doubt— that she can fall blindly into his arms, and he’ll always be there to catch her.

His resignation letter is already printed, sitting on his desk at the station, ready to be dated and signed. Yet every time he considers turning it in, he hesitates. He knows the moment he submits it, the wheels are set in motion.

Romeo will likely be relieved that Javier’s leaving, but the fact that he’s taking his daughter with him?

It’ll be worse for them if he acts before she has the chance to speak to him.

Their culprit may be dead, but there’s still evidence to sift through, a case to finalize, press to deal with— and every passing day keeps them busy enough to avoid any serious confrontation. Still, Romeo finds small ways to needle him, little comments here and there that Javier swallows down for Paloma’s sake.

He’s biting his tongue more than he’s used to, and it grates on him. But a promise is a promise.

“Just don’t say anything to him,” Paloma had murmured one night, her voice lazy and sweet as they lay in bed together. She was tracing small, invisible shapes on his chest, her chin resting between his pecs, looking up at him with those half-lidded and dreamy eyes that have him wrapped around her finger.

“I mean it, Javi. No use in stirrin’ the pot just t’ get the last word in.”

He’d been in no shape to argue. Still recovering from the way she’d ridden him into oblivion, leaving him breathless, his body spent, he would have agreed to just about anything she asked at that moment. He nodded, a tired smile tugging at his lips as his fingers trailed down her spine.

“Okay, baby. I won’t.”

Since then, he’s done his best to keep his head down, ignoring the digs.

But it’s not easy. He’s a man of pride, unfortunately. Yet, every time he feels the urge to snap back, he remembers the look in her eyes, the softness of her voice as she asked him to keep the peace.

For her, he would do anything.

“Do we really have to go?” Javier’s voice carries a slight grumble, his eyes trained ahead as they drive toward the church.

“Yes, Javi,” Paloma replies with a playful sigh, barely looking away from the small mirror on the visor where she’s touching up her lipstick. “I promised Tammy. S’been two weeks since I’ve been.”

He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, fingers tapping against the steering wheel.

He’d abandoned all of it— the hymns, the prayers, the rituals— the second he set foot in Colombia, a lifetime ago. He never looked back.

Churches are just places steeped in sorrow.

Now, he’s supposed to sit in those old pews with the stuffy building smelling of musty wood and incense, trying to keep his head straight for over an hour. The thought alone feels suffocating.

But when she casually mentioned she was going, something in him felt the urge to tag along.

He glances over at her and finds her rubbing her lips together. Her hair is soft and brushed out, framing her face like she’s stepped right out of a dream, and that dress— modest, sweet, clinging to her curves just right— shouldn’t have this effect on him.

“You’re gonna get us kicked out lookin’ like that.”

She glances over at him, a knowing smile lighting up her face. “Oh, come on. I’m not even tryin’ to be sexy.”

“Yeah, well, that’s the problem,” he replies, shaking his head. “You don’t have to try.”

She lets out a soft laugh before turning her attention back to the mirror.

“If I combust into flames the moment I cross the threshold, you won’t have anyone to blame but yourself,” He can’t help but comment, eyes narrowing at the looming cathedral as they approach.

“You didn’t have to come, you know?” She counters, tossing him a sideways glance as she puts in her earrings. She knows this isn’t his scene, hell, it’s only hers because it’s all she’s known, but she made a promise to Tammy and she has to make good on it.

“I wouldn’t be a very good boyfriend if I stayed home.” The way he says it, so matter-of-factly, makes her heart swell.

Leaning over, she plants a soft kiss on his stubbly cheek. “You’re the best boyfriend,” she murmurs, trailing her lips over his skin before landing another kiss, this one just at the corner of his mouth. “I promise it won’t be as bad as you think.”

He grunts in response, parking the truck with a resigned sigh. He spits his gum into the wrapper and steps out, circling around to open her door. Because, of course he does, ever the gentleman— and before she slides off the seat, he leans in and kisses her softly.

“You really do look beautiful,” his eyes linger on her, full of that quiet admiration she’s come to adore.

“Thank you.” She scrunches her nose playfully, placing her hand in his much larger one. “Now try ‘n keep your hands to yourself. Please.” she adds, her voice teasing, but she means it. They are about to walk into a church, after all.

As they step through the large doors, the weight of every gaze in the room falls on them immediately. It’s impossible to avoid in a town this size, where everyone knows everyone— and everyone’s business.

Especially with Paloma showing up with a man on her arm. And not just any man, but the ex-DEA agent who’d swooped in like some kind of hero, playing a key role in solving the string of grisly murders that had haunted them for far too long.

The whispers are quick to follow. They ripple through the church like wildfire.

“I heard he knocked her up ‘n Romeo went ballistic.”

“Word is, she’s livin’ with him now. Bet they eloped— got hitched in secret. Do you see a ring on her finger?”

“I think it’s about time she found her a man. Can’t be young ‘n pretty forever.”

She can feel every glance, every sideways look, but it doesn’t rattle her. She’s been on the receiving end of this gossip way too many times, and Javier’s steady presence beside her is all she needs to keep moving forward. Still, it annoys her— how quickly people jump to conclusions, spinning stories based on nothing more than their own imaginations.

He seems entirely unfazed. His hand is firm in hers, fingers laced together. If he’s heard the whispers, he gives no sign of it, shoulders squared and head held high.

The man’s been through far worse than small-town rumors, and it shows in the way he carries himself, like none of this could ever touch him.

And maybe that’s why she feels so at ease despite the scrutiny. Let them talk, she thinks. They don’t know the half of it— the tenderness, the quiet moments, who they really are.

Her gaze sweeps across the room until she spots Tammy, Kristy, and Lola, already waving them over from a pew near the front. Their excitement is palpable, all big smiles and enthusiastic waves.

“Saved you a seat right next to us, pretty girl! Didn’t know you were gonna bring company,” Lola says with a grin, absolutely shameless as her eyes rake over Javier’s tall, broad frame. She’s practically fanning herself, and Kristy has to tug at her arm, reminding her with a sharp whisper, “We’re in the Lord’s house.”

She can’t blame her, honestly, he is looking extra handsome in his dark jeans, buttoned shirt and cowboy boots. “Last-minute plus one,” she jokes, leaning in to give them each a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

Tammy, being the warm, welcoming force that she is, pulls him into a hug without a second thought. “Oh, you two are so good together,” she coos, her voice full of approval as she steps back to admire them. Then, with all the subtlety of a freight train, she adds, “Your babies are goin’ to be the cutest gosh darn things, I swear.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Tammy,” Paloma manages to say, her cheeks heating up at the comment, shooting her friend a pointed look.

The older woman just grins wider, clearly proud of her little proclamation. “What?” she says, feigning innocence. “I’m just sayin’. You both got good genes.” 

Javier finds it amusing, chuckling beside her. “Let’s not give Romeo another reason to want to kill me.”

“He can kick rocks, for all I care.”

They settle into the pew after that, Javier’s arm resting comfortably around her shoulders and he pulls her just a little closer, leaning down to whisper in her ear. “She’s not wrong, you know.” His lips brush against her skin, making her shiver. “And with the way you’ve been actin’, won’t be long ‘till we see if she has a point or not.”

She glares up at him playfully, elbowing his side, “Not helping.”

And damn it, the way he’s looking at her, like the idea of a future with her, a family, doesn’t seem so crazy at all… it makes her feel something deep in her chest. 

Her eyes move over the now-crowded space, gaze flitting from one familiar face to another. 

She doesn’t quite know what she’d even do if she spotted her father sitting among the congregation.

Javier, ever in tune with her, picks up on her subtle tension without missing a beat. “He’s at the station all day.”

“Right…” she echoes, her voice barely a whisper as she shifts in her spot, sitting back against the bench.

Before he can offer her any reassurance, the opening chords of the organ echo through the church, signaling the start of mass. He exhales quietly, already bracing himself for what he knows will feel like the longest hour of his life. 

Once mass is dismissed and they say their goodbyes to the sisters, Paloma gently grabs his arm before he can leave. “Gotta go use the ladies’ room. Meet you outside?”

He nods, planting a soft kiss on the top of her head. “Sure, I’ll be waiting.”

With a warm smile, she turns on her heel and heads towards where the restrooms are tucked away. After finishing, she slows to a stop on her way back as something catches her eye.

Through the soft hues of the stained glass windows, she spots a familiar silhouette, unmistakable even from afar. Her breath hitches slightly as she bites her lower lip, hesitation bubbling to the surface. A crossroad.

Her feet decide before her mind does. They guide her to the back door, pushing her out into the small stone patio beyond.

The courtyard is quiet, the sunlight filtering down gently, a rare mercy in the typically unforgiving Texan heat. The large angel fountain at the center casts long shadows, its soft trickling sound almost calming.

There, on a weathered stone bench, her father sits. His head is bowed, a cigarette dangling from his lips, smoke curling lazily in the air. She stands frozen by the doorway for a moment, studying him.

“Hey, Daddy...” Her voice is soft, tentative as she finally steps forward, announcing herself. He doesn’t react immediately, but his head tilts up, and his gaze finds hers.

There’s no anger or bitterness in his eyes— just the same stubbornness she’s always known. He nods, acknowledging her in that quiet, unspeaking way that’s so familiar it hurts.

She walks over slowly and sits down beside him on the bench. For a moment, neither of them speaks, the space between them filled with the soft gurgle of the fountain.

“Didn’t think you’d be here today.” He says, voice gruff from smoking.

“Surprised you weren’t. You never work on Sundays.”

“Yeah, well, needed to do somethin’ to keep my mind occupied.”

A quiet settles and birds chirp in the distance, but even they seem hesitant to break the tension. Paloma picks at the lint on her dress, her fingers twitching to keep herself from fidgeting too obviously.

“Congrats on closin’ the case,” she blurts out awkwardly, still staring at her lap.

“‘Bout time we caught that piece of shit. Did us a favor by offin’ himself,” he grunts, ashing the cigarette. He blows the smoke away from her, their eyes still avoidant. “People can finally stop livin’ in fear... things can go back to the way they were.”

There’s a pointedness to that last part of the sentence she can’t ignore. She finally lifts her gaze to him, heart twisting at the sadness in his eyes that he’s trying so damn hard to bury behind his gruff exterior.

“Sweetheart,” he says, voice softening in a way that almost breaks her. “Please... come back home. It’s so quiet without you there.”

She quickly looks away, focusing on the path that leads to the cemetery just beyond the church. She wants to say something, anything, but the words refuse to come.

“That fight we had… it hurt,” his words drip with so much sincerity, she feels like she could drown in it.

Her father has never been one for grand apologies— he’s more of a man of looks and gestures, the kind of man who expects things to go back to normal after a few quiet, wordless days. But she can tell this time is different.

There’s no easy return from the things they said to each other that night.

“I shouldn’t have talked about momma like that.” She pivots the conversation.

“And I shouldn’t have called you what I did.”

She flinches ever so slightly, still feeling the sting of it.

“We both said things we didn’t mean,” he continues, his voice softer now, like he’s trying to walk back the pain. “And I’m so sorry. I was angry ‘n out of line. Broke your windchime that night… swept up the pieces after, but I couldn’t bear to throw ‘em out.”

Her lips form into a pout at the remembrance of the broken sentimental item.

“… It’s been haunting me— that thing,” he says with a dry laugh, shaking his head. “It’s like she’s standing there, right over my shoulder, reprimanding me for how I treated you.”

Paloma sucks in a breath, not knowing how to react.

How is she to tell him that she appreciates his apology, but that she isn’t coming back home?

“I never should’ve said what I did,” he repeats, tossing the cigarette butt into a nearby ashtray tower. “But I need you to understand, I’ve been sittin’ in that house with nothin’ but my own guilt for company. It’s been eatin’ me up.”

“You’re forgiven, Daddy.” She turns her head, catching the way he’s already watching her. “You’re right, we both said things we didn’t mean. Caught in the heat of the moment. But I meant what I said about not putting my life on hold to stay here.”

His brows knit together, and now it’s his turn to sit in silence. The frown deepens as she continues.

“I’m not doing that anymore. I can’t.”

“What are you saying, Paloma?” His words are thick with something she can’t quite place— anger, sadness, frustration. Maybe all of it.

She swallows hard, her eyes darting between his, attempting to read the emotions building there.

“I’m moving to California.”

At that, he lets out a laugh, but there’s nothing warm or amused about it. It’s sharp, cutting, before his face hardens into a look of disbelief. “What the hell does that even mean?”

“It means what I said,” she snaps, immediately going on the defensive. “Me and Javier— we’re going to California. We’ve got plans to live there. Together.”

He shakes his head, another condescending laugh escaping his lips. He stands abruptly, his annoyance palpable.

If she wasn’t so worried about ruining her manicure, she’d dig her nails into the stone bench.

“Javier, of course,” he spits the name like it’s something foul, his lip curling in disgust. That’s when her resolve snaps, and she’s on her feet, squaring off with him.

“You know, if you’d set aside your damn pride for just a second, you’d see he’s not doing anything wrong! He treats me right, Daddy. He cares for me. And here you are, acting like he’s some kind of—”

“Some kind of lowlife?” he interrupts, eyes blazing. “You have a thing for those.”

That apology from before has officially been tossed out the window.

“You are so unbelievable!” Her voice trembles, her own frustration boiling over. “I thought we were havin’ a moment and here you go, actin’ like you always do!”

Romeo’s eyes narrow, his jaw tight as he spits back, “It’s hard not to be hurt when your daughter tells you she’s skippin’ town with some guy who slept his way through a whole fuckin’ country, worked alongside murderers— then came into town and seduced her right out of our house!”

She runs her hands down her face, absolutely exasperated.

Hadn’t he been the one who jumped on the welcome wagon first? He was the one who loved Javier right off the bat— talked him up like he was the best thing since sliced bread. But now that they’re together, suddenly Javi’s the enemy.

She can’t believe they’re doing this here, at church, of all places. They haven’t started shouting yet, but she knows it’s only a matter of time. She needs to end this before it gets to that point.

“It was my idea,” she snaps. “He’s skippin’ town ‘cause of me. I want to leave. I’m the one chasin’ the dream. Why can’t you just be happy for me?”

Her voice breaks on the last word, heart cracking open.

He just stares at her, eyes hard, jaw set in that obstinate way she knows all too well. The silence between them stretches painfully until the static of his walkie-talkie breaks it, some garbled voice calling him back to the station.

“We’ll finish this another time,” he mutters, his voice hard, already turning away from her.

Paloma grits her teeth, her whole body shaking with exasperation. Why does it always have to end like this? Why can’t they just have one conversation that doesn’t feel like a war?

“Whatever,” she hisses under her breath, the word bitter in her mouth as she watches him leave.

As soon as he’s out of sight, she sinks back onto the bench, deflating like a balloon that’s lost all its air. She buries her head in her hands, fingers threading through her hair as she attempts to steady her breath.

She needs to recompose herself before she returns to Javier— who, by now, must be wondering what the hell is taking her so long in the restroom.

Just as she’s preparing to leave, a figure emerges from the surrounding greenery. Her eyes widen in surprise. 

“Gabriel.”

He nods, tipping his tattered baseball cap, his clothes streaked with dirt, likely from a long day’s work. His usual quiet, rugged demeanor is as familiar as the earthy scent of soil clinging to him.

“Didn’t mean t’ eavesdrop on you,” he motions vaguely towards where she had been sitting moments before with her father. “Was workin’ when y’all started, uh...” He gestures again, not knowing what to say.

She nods, quickly wiping away some of the dampness beneath her eyes, her heart still hammering from the emotional upheaval. “It’s alright. Surprised you’re still workin’ here, though,” she says, trying to steer the conversation into safer waters. “Heard Sloane quit the bar.”

The mention of her ex-best friend sends a flicker of discomfort across her face, her lips twitching with a grimace. 

He shrugs, looking down at the dirt under his boots. “Ranch is really kickin’ off. August needed her there more. The hour drive wasn’t worth it no more.”

The sudden openness from him catches her off guard. This was more than she’d heard him say in all the months that she knew him.

“And you? Aren’t you needed there too?”

His throat bobs as he swallows, his eyes flicking around for a brief moment before he answers. “Yeah, just… not in the same way. Plus, I like bein’ here. S’real peaceful.” Away from them, he thinks, the words bitter in his mind, though he doesn’t dare say that out loud. There’s a heaviness to him, like he’s been carrying them for far too long.

“More peaceful than all that beautiful land y’all got?” She presses, tilting her head, genuinely curious.

“Yeah… crazy, right?” He forces a chuckle, but it comes out awkward, like the sound doesn’t belong to him.

She shifts her weight, feeling the unease creeping between them. This conversation is starting to feel weirder by the second, and she’s ready to get out of it.

“Well, I have to get goin’—” She starts, thumbing over her shoulder toward the doors.

“Right, yeah, yeah,” He blurts, stumbling over his words. “I just, uh, overheard you sayin’ you were leavin’?” The statement comes out as a question before he rushes to continue, before she has a chance to respond. “That’s… awesome. California, huh? So far. I can see why you’d wanna ditch this shithole. S’not very fun here. It can feel… stale.”

She narrows her eyes, not sure what to make of his sudden shift in tone. “Yeah. M’real excited.”

A beat of silence passes, yet it feels like it drags. He should say something— warn her— but August’s looming presence, the consequences of stepping out of line, keep him in check. Fear clings to his skin like sweat, holding him back from doing what he knows is right.

“Well,” she breaks the tension, her voice clipped with polite finality. “Have a nice day, Gabe.” She forces a small smile before turning to leave.

“Just—” He almost steps forward, as if to stop her. She halts mid-step, her back stiffening. “Be careful. Stay safe.”

Her heart skips a beat but she keeps her face calm. “Thanks. You too,” she responds, giving him one last look before walking off, her pace quickening.

She feels flustered and unsettled. All she wants now is to find Javi and get the hell out of here.

Javier leans against his truck, chewing on a new stick of gum as his eyes anxiously scan the church’s entrance. His posture tenses every time the door swings open, but when he finally spots her stepping outside, he straightens up.

Pushing off from the hood, he meets her halfway with a worried look already forming on his face.

“Saw your dad was here, and you took a minute comin’ out. I assumed...” His voice trails off as he takes in her expression. His brow furrows, and he cups her jaw, thumbs gently stroking her cheeks. “Hey, everything okay?”

She shrugs, placing her hands on top of his, grounding herself in his touch. “Dunno. Talked to Daddy about us leavin’. It started off strong— apologies, the whole woodworks,” she bites her lip, “Then I mentioned the move, and well, he got like he always does.” She rolls her eyes, still feeling frustrated by it. “Divine timing when his walkie went off. He got called back to the station. Pretty sure the whole damn town would’ve heard us arguin’ if he had stayed.”

He sighs heavily, frustration knotting in his chest. This shit always happens when I’m not around. “I’m so sorry, baby,” he feels partially guilty for being the catalyst to the emotional tug-of-war between her and Romeo.

She shakes her head, her tone resolute. “No need to apologize, honey. I’m not gonna change my mind. I know what I want. He’s either gonna have to suck it up and get with the program, or he can wallow in his sadness. S’not my responsibility no more.” Her voice breaks a little at the end, but she’s firm, determined.

She moves his hands from her face down to her waist, stepping closer, resting her cheek against his chest. The steady beat of his heart soothes her, the rising anxiety easing under the warmth of his embrace and the smell of his cologne. “Just... hug me, please.”

Javier doesn’t hesitate. He wraps his arms around her tightly, pulling her against him, his chin resting atop her head. He rocks them gently, his thumbs brushing the small of her back in slow, comforting circles.

He’s proud of her— proud of the way she’s standing her ground, making choices for herself despite how much it clearly costs her.

It kills him that she’s had to fight for her independence like this, but life is cruel and has a harsh way of teaching lessons. He should know.

The weird interaction with Gabriel fades entirely, forgotten in the feel of being in his arms.

“C’mon,” he murmurs after a while, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Let’s go home.”

She moans sweetly as Javier’s lips ravage her neck, his hands gripping her thighs firmly, hiking her legs around his waist. Her fingers thread through his hair as she tries to steady herself, arching into him. “Javi, we’re gonna be late,” she gasps, though the protest lacks any conviction.

He responds with nothing but a low grunt, lips dragging hotly along her neck, the scrape of his teeth making her shudder. His tongue flicks against her ear, the nibble on her lobe sending a wave of pleasure down her spine. 

“I can’t leave without gettin’ a taste first,” he mutters, kissing his way down her body.

Her breath snags in her throat, anticipation building as he drops to his knees before her. She props herself up on her forearms, watching him with dark, lust-filled eyes as he disappears beneath the hem of her new red dress— a gift from him.

Javier had picked it out himself, stopping dead in his tracks when he saw it in the shop window. He knew then he had to see his in girl it. 

And she did not disappoint. The way it adorned her body had him nearly losing his mind. His pulse had jumped, and his jeans got tighter within seconds, the sight of her owning the room in those matching red heels making his mouth water.

His hands slide up her thighs, bunching the fabric as he goes, but when he sees the barrier of her underwear, he lets out a dramatic sigh of disappointment. “For once, you’re actually wearin’ these?” he grumbles, teeth nipping the sensitive skin of her inner thighs, his breath hot and teasing.

She shivers under his touch, legs trembling slightly as she smirks down at him. “I’m gonna be up on stage tonight, Javi. You want everyone gettin’ a good look at my snatch or somethin’?”

Javier snorts, lifting his head briefly to meet her gaze with a wicked smile. “Your snatch?” he echoes, amused by her choice of words, his laughter a low rumble that sends a new wave of heat between her legs.

She shrugs playfully. “Well? Do ya?”

It’s this balance of passion and lightheartedness that keeps her craving every second she can spent wrapped up in him.

“As pretty as she is,” he murmurs, returning to his spot, his curved nose trailing along the skin he’s just kissed, a soft smile playing on his lips. “I’d rather keep this beauty for my eyes only.”

He sneaks his fingers up to tug at the band of her underwear and she instinctively lifts her hips, helping him peel them off, the rush of desire pushing any thoughts of being late far from her mind.

His touch is confident, decisive— he doesn’t tease, his impatience evident as he buries his tongue inside her. A sharp gasp escapes her lips, her legs instinctively clamping around his head, and he groans against her, the warmth and pressure of her thighs enveloping him.

They lose themselves in the pleasure, savoring this stolen time, but soon, the insistent ringing of his work phone breaks through their bliss, left forgotten on the dresser in the bedroom.

“Y-Ya gonna get that?” she manages to whimper out between breathy pants, the last thing she wants is for him to leave her on this table without getting her off.

Javier hesitates, half a mind to ignore it completely and continue eating her out, but the sound is persistent, and he knows it must be important. With a reluctant groan, he pulls back, trapping her clit between his lips for a final, wet suck before placing a gentle kiss on it.

“Yeah,” he grunts in displeasure, rising from his kneeling position. 

He hovers over her, leaning down to kiss her deeply, his hand moving to grip her jaw, his touch both possessive and tender. “Quédate aquí,” he whispers, their lips brushing.

She nods, still reeling from the intoxicating sensation of his tongue and the musky scent of herself lingering on his mustache, feeling her pussy flutter at his words. “Okay. Hurry,” she breathes, heart racing.

He moves quickly, and she’s left there, feeling utterly boneless, lust thrumming through her veins as she waits for his return. Am I dreaming? she wonders, hardly able to believe that a man like Javier Peña actually exists— and that he’s hers. 

She half-expects to hear the annoying sound of her alarm, pulling her back to reality.

The call keeps him longer than he’d like, but when he finally returns to the scene he left behind, the sight takes his breath away. She’s still perched on the table, her dress riding up her thighs, legs partially spread, beckoning him to return.

She looks like a breathtaking piece of art, a masterpiece crafted just for him.

“Hmm,” he hums, the sound coming from deep within his throat, and he can’t help but lean in, kissing her again and again, each peck igniting the air between them.

“Everythin’ okay?” she asks, her voice laced with breathless anticipation as she chases after his lips, not really caring for his answer— at least not right now.

“Yeah,” he responds tersely in a low rumble. His lips are swollen, aching for her as he sinks to his knees again, eager to resume where he left off.

The sultry sounds of her moans and his lewd, wet noises fill the air, creating a symphony of pleasure that dances off the walls.

When she comes, it’s with a sharp cry of his name, and he can’t help but smirk against her cunt, savoring every drop she has to offer. He lingers there, lapping her up before showering her with gentle kisses until he finds his way back to her mouth.

Her lipstick is smeared across his face, and she giggles breathlessly at the sight, brown eyes sparkling with mischief. She brings her thumb up to wipe away a smudge. “The color looks good on you,” she teases.

“Likewise,” he counters, squeezing her hip possessively, a goofy, lovestruck grin spreading across his face.

He gently pulls her panties back up, kissing each knee as he helps her off the table. As they both head into the bathroom to fix their appearances, the mood shifts.

She leans over the sink, fixing her hair, and can’t help but break the silence. “Who called?”

“One of the guys at the station. The girl from the hospital has finally been identified.”

Her heart sinks as she blinks quickly, turning away from the mirror to face him. “And?”

“Runaway reported missing from Louisiana. No wonder we never got any hits from anyone around here,” he continues, brows pulling together in a thoughtful frown.

Something curls in her gut at the news, her proximity to the neighboring state bringing back the god-awful memories of that night at the swamp— the ones she thought she was doing a good job of storing away. “Is she going to be okay?”

“Her grandparents are on their way to be with her. Aside from that, nothing has changed.” His voice lowers as he adds, “She still hasn’t woken up.”

Paloma nods slowly, turning back to the mirror for just a moment. She allows her face to reflect the uncertainty swirling within her, the worry etching lines of concern across her features. Despite her efforts to mask it, Javier’s keen eyes catch her reflection, but he says nothing.

It's much later on in the night and she’s on the last song of her set, nerves gnawing at her insides like it’s her very first performance. The familiar crowd blurs into a haze, her focus narrowing until it lands on him.

Their eyes meet, and an electric smile spreads across her face, an intimate connection amid the sea of faces.

“This last song is new,” she says, her voice trembling just a little. “Came to me in a dream.” This dream, of course, being him. “For a special someone.” Her nose crinkles with a soft laugh, part nerves, but mostly because he has this effect on her— making her feel like she’s drunk on love, intoxicated by the way he looks at her like she’s the only thing that matters.

Javier’s brows shoot up, surprise dancing in his eyes, his heart leaping at her declaration. The flush creeping up his cheeks is hot, and he tilts his head slightly, still planted in the familiar table where he sat all those months ago, always drawn to her.

Front and center, just as he always intends to be.

As she strums the opening chords, the audiences distorts into a gentle blur. These are the chords she agonized over for hours, the lyrics she metaphorically vomited in her notebook, words that only made sense when she thought of him.

Her band is here too, in perfect harmony, amplifying the depth of what she’s trying to convey. They’ve helped her make this moment feel as big as her heart— a reflection of the way he makes her feel.

Music is something that has always just been there, a backdrop in his chaotic life. It’s strange to admit, but he’d given up on enjoying that small pleasure of life a long time ago.

Sitting in this uncomfortable bar stool, watching her sing her heart out about him has a warmth spreading through his entire being like a fucking fever.

She’s using the one thing she���s best at— her music— to tell him, in the clearest way possible, that she loves him.

He’s never felt more alive.

She looks perfect under the stage lights, the guitar pressed against her body, her dress flowing like a cascade of silk.

An angel, sent down from the heavens to alter the course of his life forever. 

“‘Cause in your pickup truck with all of your dumb luck is the only place I think I’d ever wanna be.”

Once the song ends, the applause jolts her back to the present, the warmth of the spotlight melting away as she realizes that she’s not alone in this moment.

The crowd cheers, but it’s his gaze she feels most. A soft blush blooms on her cheeks, and she quickly thanks the audience and her band, her voice catching slightly with a shy laugh.

As she steps down from the stage, a few regulars come up to compliment her and she appreciates it, she does, she’s just more focused on getting over to Javi right now.

The moment she’s close, he is out of his seat, sweeping her up into his arms without a care for who’s watching. He kisses her with such fervor that the nearby patrons break into whistles and teasing cheers. But he doesn’t hear any of it.

It’s just her— her lips, her warmth, the soft press of her body against his. His hands are firm on her waist, drawing her closer, like he never wants to let her go.

When he finally pulls back, breathless and dazed, his eyes shine with the depth of his emotions spilling over. “You are the most incredible woman I’ve ever known,” he says, his voice heavy with meaning.

She can’t help but laugh softly against his mouth, her chest swelling with a joy so pure she feels dizzy from it. “So, I’m guessin’ you liked the song?”

“I loved it, Paloma,” he says without hesitation. Before he can stop himself, the words slip from his lips. “I love you.”

She bites her bottom lip, the shimmer in her eyes giving way to the incoming happy tears. “You mean that?”

Javier’s expression softens even more, his hands cupping her face. “I do,” he declares, “I love you, and I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

Her heart feels so full— it might burst. “I love you too, Javi. So much.”

He doesn’t know how he got so lucky, doesn’t know what he did to deserve someone like her, but right now it feels like the universe has aligned just for them.

Paloma spots his cruiser as she pulls into their little secluded spot, a thrill of excitement bubbling up inside her.

It’s just a picnic, a simple one before her closing shift at the library. She smiles to herself, glancing at the basket she’s packed with all their favorites.

Javier finally put in his letter of resignation, getting nothing but a scoff out of the sheriff and nothing more. It had surprised him, but he let it go, not wanting to give him an in to continue to berate him. 

She tried getting in contact with her dad, to have that final talk like he had said they would that afternoon at church. But he slipped through her fingers like sand, dodging every attempt to communicate.

Every unanswered call, every ignored voicemail— it all piled up until she realized he was resolute on dealing with things by simply not dealing with them at all.

That hurt, more than she let on, especially knowing in just one week she’d be gone, moving on to the next stage of her life without mending that broken piece between them.

She cried in Javier’s arms the night it really hit her, the weight of it all too much. He held her tight, whispering soothing words about letting time heal the wound.

He had faith her father would come around— eventually. “He loves you, Paloma. He just needs to figure his own shit out first,” Javier had said, his hand rubbing slow circles on her back. She nodded, letting herself believe it because she had to. She’d leave him a way to contact her when the time came.

He wouldn’t stay like this forever— he couldn’t.

Now, here she is, walking past her boyfriend’s cruiser, her mood brightening as she catches sight of something unexpected.

There, sitting in the backseat, is a cowboy hat. Her eyebrows shoot up in amusement. She knows it’s part of his work uniform, but he’s never actually worn it.

The image of him in that hat— oh, she just knows he’d look so damn good. A slow grin spreads across her face as she pulls open the door and grabs it, placing it on her own head with a playful flourish. It’s way too big for her, of course, but she likes the way it feels.

She shuts the door with her hip and practically skips toward the familiar clearing. The sun is warm on her skin, and the light breeze carries the scent of wildflowers. She feels light, almost carefree, with the hat bouncing on her head and the picnic basket swinging in her hand.

Javier leans against the towering oak, his back to her, a cigarette perched between his fingers, smoke curling lazily into the air. She spots him, her eyes narrowing as she tsks at him with playful disapproval. “Javi,” she shakes her head, though there’s a teasing smile tugging at her lips.

He flicks it to the ground. “Alright, you got me. First one I’ve had in weeks though.” He turns to face her, the sight of her in his cowboy hat making his heart stutter in his chest.

She’s all soft curves and sunshine, the wide-brimmed hat too big on her head but suiting her in the most unexpected way. He removes his aviators, his dark eyes taking her in as if he’s seeing her for the first time all over again.

“You were doin’ so well,” she comments, stepping up to him with a mock scolding tone, though there’s no bite behind it. She’s already on her toes, reaching up to press a soft kiss to his lips, her fingers grazing the stubble on his chin.

“Sorry.” Javier smirks against her mouth, flicking the brim of the hat. “What’s all this?” he grabs the picnic basket from her hand as he begins to set everything up.

“Saw it sittin’ in your car and it got me wonderin’ why the hell you don’t wear it more often,” she says with a grin, bending down to help him fan out the blanket over the grass.

He scoffs, “Because I look stupid in it, that’s why.”

She lets out a sound of bewilderment, her voice raising in mock outrage. “Oh, be so serious, Javi. Ain’t no goddamn lick of truth anywhere in that statement!” She toes her boots off, settling comfortably on the blanket beside him.

Javier rolls his eyes at her in exaggerated exasperation, playing along. “I am so serious,” he mimics her, though a simper dances on his lips as he starts unpacking the lunch she lovingly prepared.

She takes the hat off her head and, without hesitation, places it on his. The moment she sets it on him, she’s breathless, her pulse quickening at the sight.

He grumbles, rolling his eyes again as he reaches up to take it off. “See? Told you— stupid.”

But she’s quicker, biting her lip and halting his hand mid-motion. “No, wait,” she whispers, her voice suddenly more insistent.

He’s confused at first, his brows furrowing slightly as he watches her climb into his lap, her flowy maxi skirt spreading out around them like a blanket of its own.

“What?” he asks, his voice low, hands instinctively resting on her waist as she settles against him, the proximity having his skin tingling.

Her fingers trace his jaw, her voice dropping to a seductive purr as she leans in close. “Tan guapo,” she murmurs, her lips brushing his chin before pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

The heat between them flares instantly. He groans softly when her lips meet his, their kiss deepening quickly. She moans into his mouth, grinding down on his hardening bulge.

Javier feels the tug on his belt just before his balance gives way, body tipping back onto the blanket with a muted thud, his brown hat still perched crookedly on his head.

He lets out a breathless laugh, a grin spreading wide as he gazes up at her, catching that mischievous spark in her eyes. “So eager, bella. Thought this was supposed to be a picnic.”

Paloma’s fingers are already deftly working at the belt, tossing it aside as she bites her lip, her cheeks flushed from excitement and the warm sunlight bathing them both. “Yeah, well…” she shrugs, “Gotta work up an appetite first, don’t we, cowboy?”

He licks his lips, dark brown eyes squinting slightly as the sun casts a soft halo around her, making her glow like some ethereal being.

It’s messy but also seamless, like an unspoken dance as they fumble to halfway undress— her camisole straps sliding down her arms, one breast spilling free as his pants get shoved down just enough to release his cock. She nudges her underwear to the side, wasting no time before sinking down onto him with a moan, welcoming the familiar burning stretch.

Javier groans deeply, one hand on her hip the other palming her breast. Her hands press flat against his broad chest, fingers spreading over the fabric of his shirt as she leans into him.

Her long skirt pools around them, and she takes a moment to find her rhythm, bouncing up and down with increasing urgency. Her hair tumbles over her shoulders, wild and untamed, as she rides him with a hunger that makes his blood boil.

Her nails dig into his shirt, leaving faint crescent-shaped marks as she moves faster, each movement sending shockwaves of pleasure through both of them.

Javier’s hat tilts precariously on his head, but neither of them cares. His hold on her hips tightens, guiding her motions as their bodies sync in perfect, chaotic harmony, every gasp, every moan intertwining like a melody between them.

He can barely tear his eyes away from her— the way she throws her head back, her mouth open in ecstasy, her body arching as she loses herself in the moment. She looks like a goddess, every movement driving him closer to the edge.

“Oh, fuck me, you’re so fuckin’ hot,” he growls through gritted teeth, his hands moving to grip her ass beneath the skirt, guiding her movements.

His knees bend as he fucks up into her, driving deeper, and she mewls loudly into the warm, open air.

“All you, cowboy,” she slurs, feeling every inch of his cock stretching her and she grips his shoulders, using all her strength to pull him upright.

He follows without hesitation, his body adjusting as they shift into a seated position, her still in his lap. Now, she’s no longer bouncing, but rolling her hips in slow, deliberate circles, keeping him buried deep inside her.

Every slow grind makes her toes curl.

She catches sight of him beneath that damn hat, getting her soaking wet, even more than she already is. God, he looks sexy, too sexy. The way it sits slightly crooked on his head, the shadow it casts over his smoldering gaze— it’s driving her crazy. 

Their mouths crash together, tongues sliding messily as they kiss with unbridled need, moans escaping between wet, sloppy breaths.

She clings to him like he’s the only thing keeping her in this realm, their bodies pressed so tightly together she can feel every pulse, every twitch. Her hips work him expertly, finding that perfect rhythm that drives them both wild.

It doesn’t take long before they’re unraveling, pleasure building until it crashes entirely.

His hands tighten their grip on her ass and she clenches around him just as he fills her up, both of them gasping each other’s names into their mouths, riding out the peak together. Her body trembles as she takes every spurt, her walls pulsing around him.

When it’s over, they’re a panting, sweaty mess. Javier’s forehead rests between her breasts, and she holds him close, her fingers twisting around the longer curls at the back of his neck, feeling the felt texture of his hat brushing against her damp skin.

Their breathing slows, but neither of them moves just yet.

“Gonna give me a heart attack one of these days riding me like that,” he mutters, his voice muffled against her breasts as he places soft, lazy kisses there. His mouth finds her nipple, drawing it into his mouth with a gentle suck that makes her gasp, her overstimulated body responding instantly. She can’t help but squeeze around his softening cock still nestled inside her, earning a low groan from him.

“Gonna get a heart attack if ya keep smokin’,” she teases, despite the lingering haze of pleasure, and he’s too fucked out to argue with her.

Javi simply chuckles, his breath warm against her skin, and she pushes him back, gently laying him flat against the blanket again.

She presses a soft kiss to his lips before slowly easing off his cock, both of them hissing at the sudden emptiness. Paloma rolls over and grabs her bag, pulling out a baby wipe. She wipes herself down first, then hands him one.

Once they’re cleaned up, the next hour drifts by in peaceful conversation under the shade of the towering tree. They share bites of lunch, talking about anything and everything, letting the simplicity of the moment soak into their bones. 

She lies with her head in his lap and Javier wears the cowboy hat, still at her request, and she can’t help but grin every time she glances up at him.

His hand strokes through her hair, lazily tucking a strand behind her ear as he admires the earrings she has on. They glimmer in the sunlight, but it’s her thoughtful expression that holds his attention.

“Baby,” her voice is soft, almost hesitant.

“¿Qué, nena?” he responds as he continues running his fingers through her hair.

She swallows, her lips twitching slightly before she takes a breath. “I think I’m ready to tell you ‘bout my momma.”

His hand pauses mid-stroke, eyes sharpening as he looks down at her, sensing the weight of what she’s about to share. “Yeah? You sure?”

She nods gently, her gaze shifting to the space around them before she sits up, pushing herself off his lap. He moves too, adjusting to give her more room, knowing she needs the space to speak, to let whatever’s been weighing on her heart finally surface.

Clearing her throat, she fidgets with her skirt, her fingers trembling just enough that he notices. “I just figured… since we’re about to leave… it’s kind of like closure to me, you know?” She pauses, her voice a little shakier now. “I don’t ever really talk about her. But she’s on my mind. A lot.”

He watches her closely, his chest tightening with quiet concern. He doesn’t know what to say just yet, so he remains quiet, letting the silence sit between them in support, giving her the floor to spill whatever is locked in her heart.

“Her name was Abeline— well, Calmana… it’s complicated,” Paloma frowns, her voice already tinged with the weight of the memory. “She killed herself when I was thirteen. Daddy found her with her wrists slit in their bathtub.”

Javier feels the words hit him like a punch to the gut, the sudden heaviness wrapping around his chest. He tries not to let his shock show, but the revelation shakes something inside him.

He noticed the lack of photos of her in the Leighton home, never once asking why. The only picture he ever saw on Romeo’s desk was Paloma’s— the man never spoke of his late wife. 

Now, everything about her and her relationship with him clicks into place with painful clarity.

“She was everything to me,” she continues, her voice growing quieter. “And she left right when I needed her most. Guess I should be thankful I even had her at all. She pushed me to be better, to raise my expectations, never let anythin’ feel like it was too hard…” She trails off, tone cracking at the edges. The vulnerability in her eyes makes Javier’s heart ache. He takes off his hat, setting it aside gently before reaching for her hand, bringing it to his lips with a sweet peck.

“And then she just went and did… that.” Paloma’s words come out broken, disbelieving. “It made no sense. It still doesn’t.” She looks at him then, and he can feel the depth of her grief, the unresolved pain she’s been carrying for so long. He hates seeing her like this, so hurt, but he knows this is a wound far too great for any of his words to balm.

He grips her hand a little tighter, offering her whatever comfort he can.

“It never makes sense,” he murmurs, careful not to overstep but wanting her to know he understands. “Only the person going through it really knows what it’s like… and that can feel very isolating.”

Paloma nods, even as her brow furrows slightly. She understands the logic, textbook reasoning, but it doesn’t bring her any real comfort. “I know, I know. But Javi… there were no signs before that. She was happy, sure, a little paranoid at times, but she was okay.”

Javier’s expression mirrors the sadness etched in her face, “It might’ve seemed that way,” he says gently, “but you never really know—”

“But I did know!” She cuts him off, her voice rising with frustration, with the raw edge of hurt that has lived inside her for years. “She had no reason to be sad. She had my dad, she had me…” Her voice cracks, and she angrily wipes at a tear that escapes down her cheek, pulling her hand from his grasp.

She sits up straighter, her breathing comes quicker, more uneven. Javier can see the edge she’s teetering on.

“Paloma,” he begins softly, his voice steady yet tender. “It’s okay to be angry. It’s okay to feel like it doesn’t make sense.” 

Her shoulders slump a little, her lip trembling. “But it’s not fair,” she whispers, “It’s not fair that she left me…”

Javier reaches for her hand again, this time more slowly, giving her the space to pull away if she needs to.

“Losing her was the worst pain I’ve ever felt,” she admits. “I did everything I could to try and understand it. Read so many books, sat through counseling at the church, but that was a waste of time.” She scoffs, the bitterness of that memory evident. “Can you believe they almost didn’t bury her there? Because of her suicide. It was so fucked up. Only reason they did was through a loophole. Her grave technically isn’t on their grounds. That’s why hers is farther away from the rest.”

The church, something that was supposed to offer comfort, had only added to the pain of her family’s grief.

It just keeps getting more upsetting, “I can’t imagine how hard that must’ve been for you, mi amor,” he whispers and without thinking, he leans over, wrapping his arm around her shoulder and pulling her to him.

His arm around her feels safe and she leans into him, taking comfort in the strength of his embrace. “That’s when Daddy started gettin’ real mean. Our fights escalated, and it laid the groundwork for what our relationship’s like now.” She pauses, her gaze drifting toward the horizon. “He only talks about her when he’s pissed or hurtin’ or drunk. It’s like her memory only exists when he’s breakin’ down, and that feels like a disrespect to who she was.”

He can’t even begin to imagine what it would be like to lose the love of his life like that, and as he gazes down at Paloma, the mere thought of her gone sends this dreadful fright up his spine.

The image of her lifeless in a porcelain tub, haunts him for a moment. He hugs her tighter, as if holding her now could protect her from that kind of pain forever. “Finding her like that must have broken him,” he tells her, though he’s not sure how to reconcile that with the bitterness in Romeo.

“From what I’ve seen, he’s not good at dealing with things.” He understands how hypocritical it sounds coming from him, given his own struggles.

She nods slowly. “Yeah, I know. I understand his side of things, I really do, but I don’t think he understands mine.” Her voice wavers, a quiet sadness lingering in her words as she looks out over the field.

The wildflowers sway gently in the breeze, their soft movement a sharp contrast to the weight of the conversation.

He watches her closely, admiring her quiet resilience. Even as she shares the ugliest parts of her past, there’s still an openness he finds beautiful.

They sit together in a pocket of silence, her gathering her thoughts, while he watches, waiting to follow her lead.

She breathes deeply before continuing, her eyes tracing the ground as if searching for the right way to put it. “It wasn’t ‘till recently that I learned more ‘bout her.”

His brow furrows slightly, sensing the shift in her tone. She pulls away from him just enough so they can sit face-to-face again. “What do you mean?” he asks gently, trying to read her.

“Growing up, she was real cagey whenever I asked about her childhood. What it was like when she was a little girl. At first, I didn’t press, you know? I was just a kid. But the older I got, the more confused I became. I couldn’t ask Daddy, and the questions just sat there, gnawin’ at me.” Her gaze finally lifts to meet his.

“And then one day, I got the answers to them,” she adds. There’s an anxious edge to her words, and he leans forward slightly.

“What were these answers?” he’s curious, tilting his head slightly to encourage her.

“She grew up in an orphanage in Argentina. You were right, on that ride up to Dallas, when you picked out my accent.” He remembers it vividly, blinking a few times in surprise.

“Just dropped her off at the doorstep when she was a baby. No identification, no explanation—nothin’. She didn’t have many friends growing up. Kept to herself mostly. It reminded me of how I was when I was little, scared of the girls on the playground.”

Javier raises an eyebrow, trying to ease the tension just a little. “You’re telling me you weren’t the most popular girl in school?” he teases lightly, offering her a playful smile.

Her lips twitch into small but genuine grin, the tension lifting for a moment. “No,” she admits, shaking her head. “I was apprehensive when it came to makin’ friends.”

She pauses, licking her lips as if trying to decide how to move forward. “Anyway,” she continues, “she grew up wanting to be a nun. I guess it made sense, considering who raised her. They were the only family she ever knew.”

This is Paloma’s truth, her connection to her mother, the piece of her heart she’s been keeping to herself.

“She was invited to Europe to join a special convent— a real selective one. The kind that had members handpicked by the Vatican. Real elusive, you know?”

At this, Javier feels a faint pull in his gut, a strange, uneasy sensation settling there. Something about this revelation sends a ripple through him, but he tries not to let his apprehension show. “Sounds intense,” he says, keeping his tone steady, though his mind races.

When she speaks again, it’s like she’s unveiling the most earth-shattering truth. “Turns out, Javi,” she exhales his name softly, “my mom, Calmana, was a direct descendant of Cain and Abel. And I don’t mean in a metaphorical sense. I mean literally— part of her family tree”

He stares at her, biting his tongue to keep his thoughts in check. His gut reaction is skepticism, but he masks it, choosing neutrality. “That’s... a lot,” he says slowly, his voice even, hoping it won’t give him away.

But she doesn’t catch the undercurrent of doubt in his words. She’s too wrapped up in the whirlwind of her story.

“They believed she was meant to bring peace to the world,” she continues, her eyes wide with conviction. “No more wars, no more famine, no more suffering. But before anything could happen, the convent was defunded and disbanded. That’s when she moved to the States, met Daddy, fell in love, and had me.”

Javier’s stomach churns. The story sounds eerily similar to the case they just closed. The killer, the strange ties to Rome, the impossible connections.

There’s no way this could all be related... could it? They caught their guy. The evidence was there. But the motive?

He clears his throat, trying to steady himself. “Paloma, how do you know all of this?” His question comes out sharper than intended, and he immediately regrets the tone when he sees her stiffen.

“I found some things,” she lies, her voice defensive. “Hidden away in her stuff. In the extra bedroom.” She’s careful to keep August’s name out of it, knowing it would lead to a different type of confrontation that, frankly, she’s not prepared for.

“And you... you believe it?” His voice is quieter now, searching her face for any cracks in the story. But she lets out a scoff, her eyes flashing with offense.

“Why the fuck wouldn’t I?”

He presses his lips into a thin line, feeling the conversation slipping out of control. He rubs the back of his neck, trying to choose his next words carefully. “I’m not tryin’ to discredit you, or her, but—”

“But what, Javi?” Her voice sharpens, her heart pounding in her ears. The way he’s looking at her, the disbelief in his eyes— it’s like she can already see where he’s headed, and she hates it.

He winces, knowing there’s no easy way to say what he’s thinking. “She was sketchy about her past, and then she died the way she did. Is it possible that maybe... maybe it’s not all true?”

His words hang heavy in the air, and he immediately regrets them, especially when he sees the way her expression darkens, eyes narrowing like she’s about to rip him apart.

“You think that she just made it up?”

He sighs, trying to stay calm, though he knows he’s already in deep. But the words tumble out anyway, against his better judgment.

“Maybe it was something to help her cope with whatever she was dealing with when she was younger. Something that eventually caught up with her...” His voice trails off, and he flinches at his own clumsy attempt to make sense of it. 

And drove her to suicide? Yeah, great job at fucking listening to her, Javier.

Paloma’s laugh rings out, sounding every bit like her father. “You think this is bullshit,” she accuses, her eyes hard.

Javier feels the sting of her laugh. “I didn’t say that.” His voice is low, but he watches as she stands abruptly, brushing herself off with irritation.

He mutters a curse under his breath and rises with her, a sinking feeling in his gut.

“You didn’t have to.” Paloma’s movements are quick and precise, yanking on her boots as she avoids looking at him. “I’m real good at readin’ between the lines.”

“Baby, no—” Javier steps forward, trying to stop her, his hands reaching out in a plea. “Just listen—”

“I gotta get to work, Javi.” Her tone is cold, firm, and it shuts him down before he can say more. “We’ll talk about this when I get home tonight.”

“Don’t do that,” he says, soft but commanding. The tone halts her in her tracks, and she recognizes his frustration.

It’s the same as she felt when her father had pulled this kind of shutdown on her.

Her arms cross over her chest, and the disappointment in her eyes has him regretting running his fucking mouth.

“Your pragmatism wasn’t what I was expectin’ when I opened up to you about something so personal.”

“You’re right,” he admits. “I’m sorry. It’s just that... it sounded so much like some of the stuff from the case, and I couldn’t help but think about it like that.” He can see her stiffen, her glare piercing right through him. “But that doesn’t matter, querida. I know how personal this is for you, and I don’t want to undermine it.”

She nods slightly, appreciating his apology, but her mood has already been soured.

She needs space, wanting to escape to the library, where at least the silence won’t push back. “I just... I need to be alone.” She looks at him, but her eyes are somewhere else. “Or as alone as I can be. Promise we’ll talk about it later, okay?” Her lips brush his cheek in a quick, almost mechanical peck.

Javier stands there, watching her go, knowing full well he just made a mess of things. “Paloma—” he tries again, but her silence stops him cold. There’s nothing more to say. Not now.

She throws a look over her shoulder, wordlessly telling him to clean up their picnic, and he’s left in the clearing with his hands on his hips.

The urge to light a cigarette gnaws at him, but he fights it off. He’s already fucked up twice today— he doesn’t need to make it worse.

Paloma rolls her shoulders back, trying to shake off the weight of the day. She’s down to her last few closing tasks, moving through the motions, though her mind is miles away.

The shift at the library had been fine— routine, even— as she’s been trying to enjoy the last few that she has before she leaves.

However, her thoughts kept circling back to the spat with Javier earlier. It needles at her the way his skepticism had stung.

She just wants to go home, to fix things, to talk it out. 

Finally, with her bag slung over her shoulder, she locks up and steps out into the night. Her car is parked across the street since the library’s lot is being repaved— long overdue, the cracks and uneven pavement have made even walking through it a hazard.

The streetlights do little to cut through the shadows of the darker lot, and she glances around, her nerves a little more on edge than usual.

She rifles through her bag as she walks, fingers brushing past lip balm and receipts before finally finding her keys. She fumbles with them in the dim light, the metal cold beneath her fingertips, and just as she’s about to unlock the car door— clang— they slip from her grasp, clattering onto the asphalt.

“Shit,” she curses, bending down quickly to pick them up. But when she stands again, her breath catches in her throat.

Leaning casually against the hood of her car is August, a joint lazily hanging from his lips, the tip glowing red in the darkness.

“August,” she clutches at her chest, trying to calm her racing heart from the scare he’s just given her.

His name feels foreign on her tongue, like something she’s meant to leave behind.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he says smoothly, his thick accent curling around each word like smoke. He pushes off the hood, moving with a lazy confidence that makes her stomach turn as he rounds the car to stand at the driver’s side, too close for her comfort.

“What are you doing here?” Her voice trembles, though she works hard to keep it steady. She’s gripping her keys tightly now, her fingers digging into the metal grooves.

“Heard you were leavin’,” he replies, taking another drag of his joint. His eyes gleam with something predatory.

Gabriel must’ve told him, that rat, but she isn’t surprised.

“Yeah. Next week.” She nods curtly, hoping her clipped tone will get her out of this uncomfortable encounter.

“A shame to see you go, little dove,” August says, his gaze sweeping over her with unsettling familiarity, lingering on her chest and hips. It makes her skin crawl, and she shifts uncomfortably beneath his leer.

“It’s late. I really need to get home.” She tries to sidestep him, but his presence is a blockade.

He chuckles, the sound low and arrogant. “So icy, P. Thought we left off on good terms?”

He steps toward her, closing the space between them, and she instinctively takes a step back.

His grin widens, amusement flickering across his face like he’s enjoying this little game. “Why you steppin’ back? I just wanna talk.”

Her heart hammers in her chest, something in his tone setting off alarm bells. She takes another step, desperate to put more distance between them— only to collide with something soft and warm behind her.

“I think she’s scared,” a familiar voice purrs into her ear, and Paloma yelps, spinning around only to face Sloane, her countenance twisted into a smirk. 

She glances between them, feeling trapped.

“What do you want?” Her voice trembles despite her best efforts. Their eyes are watching, calculating.

“For you to come back with us.” August’s voice is casual, as if he’s proposing something harmless, and it takes every ounce of restraint she has not to scoff in his face.

Instead, she lets out a sharp, bitter laugh.

“I thought I told you I had no interest in that anymore.”

“Yeah, well, that’s on me for makin’ you feel like you had a choice.” He flicks the filter of his joint to the ground, the ember dying as it rolls away.

With a simple jut of his chin, three more figures emerge from the shadows, closing in like predators. Paloma’s throat tightens as the weight of her situation hits her full force— she’s outnumbered.

Her fingers curl tighter around the keys in her hand. Her mind races, trying to gauge if she could make a break for it— grab one of the weapons stashed inside her car and either fight her way out or get the hell out of here.

“Don’t be stupid, August,” she warns, “You try anythin’ ‘n we both know s’only goin’ to end bad for you.”

He barks out a laugh, shaking his head like she’s just told the funniest joke. “Oh yeah? And who’s gonna stop me? You? That pissy old daddy of yours?” His eyes gleam maliciously. “Or maybe your incompetent, narc boyfriend?”

The mention of Javier makes her jaw clench, her teeth grinding together as anger flares hot inside her. But before she can snap back, Sloane’s voice cuts through, dripping with venom.

“Don’t worry,” she coos, a smug smile playing on her lips as she tilts her head condescendingly, “I’ll make sure to stop by and check on him when he finds out you’re gone. He still likes his women on top, right?”

Before she knows what she’s doing, Paloma lunges at her, fury propelling her forward. But her body slams to a halt, restrained by the large, rough hands of one of August’s men.

Her keys and bag tumble to the ground as she struggles against his iron grip, twisting and kicking, but he’s too strong.

“Let go of me!” she shouts, thrashing in his hold, her boots scraping against the pavement in a futile attempt to break free. The man’s grip only tightens, his fingers digging painfully into her arms, and her chest heaves with frustration and fear.

August steps closer, his face inches from hers, and he wraps his hand around her throat, holding her steady as he leans in. His breath is warm and sickeningly close.

“Can’t do that, little dove,” he murmurs, blue eyes darkened with intent. “Been lettin’ you do as you please for too damn long. S’about time we finally get this over and done with.” His thumb presses lightly against her pulse, and she glares up at him with every ounce of hatred she can muster.

“You dunno know how long I’ve waited for this,” he says softly, his lips curling into a twisted smile. “To finally have you the way you’re meant to be had.”

Her stomach churns, revulsion boiling in her veins. She narrows her eyes, her breath ragged as she gathers every bit of defiance left in her.

Without a second thought, she spits in his face, her saliva hitting him squarely on the cheek. “Fuck you.”

For a second, he stills, disbelief flashing across his face. Slowly, he wipes the spit from his cheek with the back of his hand, his expression darkening.

Then, without warning, his hand swings back, and the sharp crack of his palm colliding with her face echoes through the lot.

Pain explodes across her cheek, and she whimpers involuntarily, her knees buckling beneath her. But the man restraining her keeps her upright, his grip never loosening.

“Don’t make me hurt you, Paloma,” August says coldly, shaking his hand out like the slap had been nothing more than a casual inconvenience. “I don’t like doin’ it.” He turns away from her, his voice indifferent as he gives instructions to the others.

Her breaths come in ragged gasps, the sting of the slap still burning across her face. But adrenaline courses through her now, sharpening her mind.

She needs to act, and fast. She lifts her boot and slams it down hard onto the foot of the man holding her, grinding the heel into the soft flesh. It’s enough for him to loosen his grip and let her go.

Without a second thought, she bolts, heart pounding like a war drum as she sprints away.

Hope flickers in her chest like a fragile flame, but it’s snuffed out just as quickly when she feels a sharp tug on her hair.

“Damn it!” she gasps, the rough pull yanking her off balance. But her father’s voice echoes in her mind, reminding her of the self-defense moves he drilled into her.

Thinking quickly, she drops into a squat, lowering her center of gravity and using the momentum to twist violently. She feels the man’s grip falter as she moves, and then—crack!—the sickening sound of bone breaking reverberates in the air, followed by a pained cry.

She can barely believe the move worked, running as the world blurs past her in a rush of shadows and moonlight. 

The sheriff’s department isn’t far, just down the street— if she can make it there, she’ll be safe. She darts down a narrow alleyway, the walls closing in around her, and for a brief moment, she thinks she might make it.

She can hear them shouting behind her, the thud of footsteps chasing after her, but she keeps running. 

But then, pain— sharp and blinding— slams into her temple. She crumples to the ground, her body suddenly too heavy to move.

Through the haze, she sees Sloane standing over her, a baseball bat in her hand, the exact one Paloma keeps in the trunk of her car.

“I got her!” Sloane shouts, her voice triumphant.

She tries to crawl, her hands weakly clawing at the pavement. Blood trickles down the side of her face, warm and sticky, and her vision swims as dizziness overtakes her. She feels the bottom of the girl’s shoe press down on her back, keeping her from moving.

“Fuckin’ hell, Slo,” August’s voice sounds distant, like it’s coming from underwater. “Did you have to wack her in the face? Always doin’ too much— just like that girl at the barbecue.”

Paloma hears the words, the memory of that poor girl flashing in her mind. Sloane had dragged her into the woods, and now… now she’s about to meet the same fate. Her heart aches with the thought of what this will do to Javier, to her father. How this will destroy them.

“The bitch shouldn’t have tried to run off.”

They bind her wrists and ankles with thick rope, her body limp as they drag her back to the lot.

She’s thrown into the bed of a truck, her mind slipping in and out of consciousness, her thoughts spiraling back to the people she loves.

Javier’s face swims in her mind, and she clings to it, even as darkness begins to swallow her whole.

“Sadie, you know what you have to do. Dump her car in the lake. Go down with it. Remember that you’re doing this for a good cause— for her. Don’t be scared. You’re brave; you can do this.” August’s voice cuts through the haze of her consciousness, a distant echo tainted with a chilling calmness.

The young girl, Sadie, shifts nervously, her hands trembling as she takes in the weight of the task assigned to her. 

The corners of the truck bed feel as if they’re closing in around her like a suffocating shroud.

Time seems to slow, every second stretching into an eternity as she fights to stay conscious.

After a moment of nervous hesitation, Sadie nods, her resolve crumbling.

Her pulse quickens as she feels August’s weight shift beside her.

He hops into the bed of the truck, looming over her frame, and she shrinks back, every instinct screaming at her to fight, to flee. But she’s too weak, her body betraying her with each shaky breath.

“Don’t worry, little dove. Soon enough, this will be nothing but a hiccup, insignificant as you cradle the entire world in your hands.” His words slither into her mind, tainted with a sickening promise.

He leans in closer, and she catches a whiff of his cologne mixed with something rotten. Her stomach churns, and she fights against the gag reflex rising within her as he presses a dirty rag against her mouth, muffling her cries.

The truck’s engine roars to life and begins to move. Tears spill from her eyes, hot and unrelenting, tracing paths down her cheeks.

She glances up at her captor, who is grinning down at her as he wipes away the blood and tears on her face, the moon looking menacing in the night sky behind him.

spoiler tags: slapping, kidnapping, depictions of violence. just a heads up, we are venturing into the more darker content era of this fic. i'll be tagging future chapters accordingly!

[anouchard]

Malevolent Liveblog: Episode 13

Lucky for some! Spoilers under the cu(l)t ...

John sounding a bit sarcastic with his lovely purple prose here.

It *is* still very lovely, though.

I'm glad they're getting to talk this through.

You can feel the push-me-pull-me between John's identity with Arthur and his identity as the King, even down to his speech patterns, which I really like. The difficulty of a god who has never known human meaning, reconciling his godliness with his developing humanity ... what a journey we are about to go on.

We All Ignore The Pit.

"I take it back, I don't forgive you."

LET HIM TRY.

To the left, take the box now y'all.

AND A KNIFE

No need to get quite so excited, John.

Gosh, the soundscaping on those trees.

So, Arthur doesn't like rules, huh?

I'd love to know more about Arthur as a boy.

Also, the IRONY of Arthur talking about his survival skills while not being able to tell someone might be following them.

OH WE'RE RUNNING NOW HUH

Hey so you know that one bit in The Fellowship of th-

ALMOST

OH. He can see them BOTH?

Excellent character voice.

Wallet? NO

A crystallizer of dreams!

It makes things travel between worlds ... hmm.

"No we don't!"

Glass of Leng ...

"You will leave when it wants you to"

Well, that's not ominous.

"We've been in the dark before!" GOSH, Arthur there's a difference between Arkham dark and Dreamlands dark.

To our left, to the log no-

OH HELLO

Why does this sound like a dragon.

What is this.

Why is this.

Hello? Friend?

Are we out of the woods yet are we ou-

Nope.

Oooh, a mirage?

Wood whales??

"Ah, religion".

Pick a direction, any direction.

I wonder how John ended up being such a poet?

I forget they've only known each other for a few days.

"I'll take that as an awkwardly-worded compliment."

Discussion of religion followed by discussion of surrounding, above, below, like St. Patrick's Breastplate, which is linked to ideas around Féth fíada? HMM.

Oh of COURSE the corpse is moving.

Welcoming back despite former actions? Interesting hint there, Jonathan.

I did NOT notice this whispering.

With enough force you can WHAT.

Yep, I too would need a second, Arthur.

OH GOD

Cool. I'm about to listen to a man bite his own finger off. This is fine.

No, wait, I'm about to listen to a man injure an eldritch entity at the same time.

This is fine this is fine this is fine

Penance?

I am CRINGING.

Love the chaos of the music here.

Thank you Harlan.

"You did good John. Well done." Like a child at the dentist.

Hey look guys, you planted a tree! Very environmentally conscious.

Uh oh.

They even got a replacement finger! Nice.

Well done, lads.

Oh, NOW you question it?

Oh we ARE out of the woods now!

A DESERT

Hey.

HEY.

Nyarlathotep, you here?

"This too shall pass".

On we go ...

[somekindofmoss]

Now, I'm not entirely sure what came first, the tcw show or all of the novels expanding on Mandalorian culture, but nonetheless it annoys me so much whenever i watch tcw and they depict the Mandalorian people, one of the most diverse cultures in starwars, all with blue eyes and blonde hair. Mandalorian is a culture, a religion, not a race. A creed anyone of any species or origin can join.

The Mandalorians were so prolific in adoption into their creed, that it lives on despite their ancestors -the Taung- having died out. All you even have to do in Mandalorian culture to adopt someone is speak a vow, (The gai bal manda) which is recognised by Mandalorian law. (and I'm distraught that in the Mandalorian show we didn't get to see Din speak this vow to Grogu, but I digress.)

The show also presents Sundari, Mandalore's capital at the time, as so... clinical and bare? Yes the new pacifist Mandalorians have foregone the war worshipping ways that founded their culture, but the worship of war also bred a celebration of life and relishing each moment and day you get -Shereshoy being the term for it. From a culture like this I'd expect a little more... soul to their home.

They dress everyone in such plain (lack of) colours too!! When the pacifist Mandalorians discarded their armour, did they discard the cultural meanings or importance of colour too? (And I'd love to see New Mandalorians treating their clothing with as much respect and reverence as they traditionally did armour, following the Resol'nare's tenet of Beskar'gam in their own, new way. I have so many thoughts on how the Resol'nare can apply to a peaceful lifestyle, but ultimately I know that's far too much detail for tcw to have delved into, and I'm sure i wouldn't be the first to talk about it, if only there was a show solely about Mandalorians that could explore their culture in such depth-)

Ever since I had a hyperfix on Mandalorian culture a year or two ago I haven't been able to consume Mandalorian related content the same way, and I am trying to resurrect the intense interest because it ended before I was able to learn Mando'a, and by goodness I think it might be working.

[incorrect-koh-posts]

Hello I have a bit of a weird question here , well , do you think modern women or modern women we consider beautiful in our time now would be considered beautiful in the medieval times ? Let’s say conventionally attractive women of this time such as Tyla , Madison beer , Sabrina carpenter , women we agree all that they are beautiful, do you think they would be this appreciated in let’s say medieval Europe or the crusader kingdoms ? Thank you very much for reading and answering 💗

Hello, anon! Sorry for the extremely late reply 🙈

Ngl, I had to google these people because I had no idea who they are. So in case any of my readers are like me and lack a basic understanding of recent pop culture, here they are for reference:

All in all, medieval ideas of beauty were actually not very different from our present ones. Looking at descriptions of beautiful women in medieval European literature, we see that, in general, writers prized features that are symmetrical and signal youth and health - which also pretty much sums up our 21st-century understanding of feminine beauty. So it is likely that those we as a society consider beautiful would have elicited a similar reaction from Baldwin and his contemporaries. (Though I imagine they would have had a word or five to say about the future's skimpy clothing, and not only for reasons of modesty. Like, where are the swathes and swathes of luxurious fabric? Are we too poor to afford it?)

Of course, medieval and modern ideals differ in some particulars. As you asked specifically about medieval Europe and since the crusader kingdoms largely followed the customs & culture of the French court: Yes - to get the obvious out of the way - there was an emphasis on the whiteness of a woman's skin at the time. Which is here not only an issue of race (a whole 'nother can of worms to open) but also of class, as lighter skin would have been regarded as a signifier that the woman was (or looked like) a member of the nobility, who did not have to do physical labour in the fields etc. where the sun would have been beating down on her all day.

That said, there are examples of dark-skinned characters in medieval European texts who are described as beautiful, such as Queen Belacane in the early-13th-century German chivalric romance Parzival. However, I would be denying history if I didn't acknowledge that even these characters, sometimes subtly, sometimes considerably less so, tend to be presented as an Other. In Wolfram's Parzival, for example, Belacane's people are "liute vinster sô diu naht" ("people dark as the night", Parzival 17,24). She is thus deliberately constructed as the opposite of the European ideal of the courtly lady (Mieger 191), who tends to be described as things like "liehters denne der tac" and "touwegen rôsen" ("lighter than the day" and like a "dewy rose", Parzival 24,6 and 24,10).

I haven't found any specific research materials on beauty standards in the crusader states, but I'd imagine this might have been less of an issue there than in the more remote parts of Europe, given that the cultural melting pot of the Levant would have exposed its inhabitants on a daily basis to different ideas and ideals of beauty. First and foremost, in any case, would have come considerations of religion - a beautiful "heathen" would have had to be very appealing and otherwise virtuous indeed for a European writer to apply courtly adjectives to her, whereas a Christian woman, no matter the colour of her skin, would have been regarded a little more favourably (though again likely exoticised as an Other if she wasn't white).

What did European courtly culture consider appealing then, other than ominous "dewy roses"? As far as text sources go, medieval society liked women to have a slender figure, healthy but not too thin, with a small but full mouth, a well-formed, not too prominent nose, rather small feet and hands, a long elegant neck, and white and even teeth. Mathieu de Vendôme’s Ars versificatoria (late-twelfth century) uses the example of Helen of Troy as the epitome of beauty. His Helen has golden and free-flowing hair, a “Milky Way-white” forehead, black and separated eyebrows “like arches”, sparkling eyes “like stars”, rosy cheeks, a straight nose which is neither too flat or too large, rosy and delicate lips, straight teeth that are “whiter than ivory”, and firm, small breasts (da Soller 98).

Another interesting example is offered in a thirteenth-century Castilian translation of an Arabic folk story, La historia de la doncella Teodor: “the beautiful woman has eighteen signs: three long, three short, three small, three white, three black, and three red. three long: torso, neck, and fingers; three white: body, teeth, and white of the eyes; three black: hair, eyes, and eyebrows; three red: cheeks, lips, and gums; three small: mouth, nose, and feet; three wide: hips, shoulders, and forehead” (101).

So, going back to the three women you mentioned, I'd say they fit the medieval ideal pretty well. Though we prefer somewhat more prominent curves and probably slightly more striking facial features nowadays than our ancestors (as well as fortunately moving away from prizing only light skin), I think we do see here that the difference between medieval and modern isn't actually that large. There's still an undercurrent of kalokagathia in our society's thinking, i.e. the idea that outward beauty signals inner virtue (think, for instance, of the fact that our fictional villains tend to be conventionally unattractive as opposed to the usually attractive good guys).

All things considered though, I shall end this rambling lecture by saying that, ultimately, tastes differ, today as well as in the Middle Ages. It is understandable that you might wish to appeal to, say, your favourite medieval king, but after expounding at length on what's supposedly beautiful or not, let me remind you: As people (and especially women), we do not exist to be ogled and judged by others - you are valuable regardless of whether a particular person considers you beautiful or not. 💛

Sources:

da Soller, Claudio. "Beauty, Evolution, and Medieval Literature." Philosophy and Literature, vol. 34, 2010, pp. 95–111.

Mieger, Hannah. "Königin of Color – Belacane in Wolframs von Eschenbach Parzival als intersektionale Figur." Intersektionalität und erzählte Welten: literaturwissenschaftliche und literaturdidaktische Perspektiven, edited by Verónica Abrego, Ina Henke, Magdalena Kißling, Christina Lammer, Maria-Theresia Leuker, 2023, pp. 187-201.

[apollos-olives]

If I may ask - and this is a question that is genuine and by no means trying to dehumanize of offend you - but what is it like to be queer and Palestinian? Palestine is a majority muslim country, altho I am aware that that does not mean that you are Muslim or belong to any other religion that Palestinians follow but if you do follow a religion, then what is it like to be queer because again, to my knowledge being queer or rather engaging in non-hetero relationships (i apologize for my wording) is forbidden. So how does it work, if you follow a religion. I'm truly sorry if this is in any way rude but my question comes from wanting to know more and not from a place of malice

i've actually talked about queerness in palestine before and honestly it isn't more or less special than any other country. almost every country in the world is homophobic as well. palestine isn't special with it's homophobia just because it's a majority muslim country. i'd get hatecrimed in the america more than i'd get hatecrimed in palestine, i can tell you that.

i am muslim, and i follow what i think is best for myself. i've studied the qur'an and have looked into queerness in relation to islam from the qur'an directly and yk what i found? nothing. the qur'an never mentions homosexuality. the story of prophet lut 3alayhisalam is the only thing the qur'an even gets close to mentioning about queerness. i'm not going to go into the full story but basically god destroyed an entire village for committing "indecent" acts, which were rape, pedophilia, premarital sex, infidelity, and along with that, the people of the village also were having same sex relationships. it's very explicitly clear that rape, pedophilia, infidelity, and premarital sex is not allowed, since those rules are mentioned in the qur'an more than once, but homosexuality was never even mentioned in the qur'an at all. it's only implied outside of the qur'an through passed down stories that the people of the village were homosexuals, and the islamic community decided to basically discard the rest of the story and focus on homosexuality only, so they translated the story into "god crushed a village of homos bc they were bad ppl so being homo is bad" even though the context and the direct translation of the qur'an never even brings up that the act of homosexuality itself is a sin. god didn't punish those people because they were gay, he punished them because they were commiting horrible sins like rape and pedophilia. they were just having same sex relationships on top of that, which god never directly condemned or even mentioned in the qur'an.

god always has rules for a reason. premarital sex is a sin because you may become diseased, and god wants the best for you so he forbids it. eating pig is a sin because pigs carry diseases and are generally unclean, and god wants you to be clean and to be well so he forbids it. etc. etc. etc. god has rules and reasons for everything because he is fair and just. there is simply no rule about homosexuality being wrong, and also no reasons as to why it would be wrong.

and even with all of that, so what if being gay is wrong? why would god create me this way if he didn't love me and accept me for how HE created me? doesn't god love all his creations? doesn't god love me for being true to myself and loving others as well? i don't think it's wrong, in any sense of the way, to love people. because if there is no harm in it, what's wrong with love?

and one thing i love about islam is that doing one sin only counts as one sin. we believe that certain actions and good deeds can count for many times it's weight. praying 5 times a day counts as many good deeds as praying 50 times a day. reading surah al-ikhlas even once counts as reading 1/3rd of the whole qur'an. our good deeds are magnified, while our bad deeds are only singular. while one good deed may count for 50 of them, one sin will only ever count as one sin. a muslim eating pork one time will only be counted as a single sin. a muslim having premarital sex one time will only be counted as a single sin. and IF homosexuality is a sin?? well. that only counts for one single sin. it's so easy to go to heaven. if you're a good person, you'll make it, even if you're gay or trans or whatever else. it doesn't matter. one sin compared to a mountain of good deeds is not going to affect you. that's why i love islam. god is kind to us like that.

and being trans comes into the equation as well. many muslims are against trans people because they believe it's a sin for a "man" to be effeminate and that it's wrong to change your body bc god created you perfectly. but like... there is literal science proving trans people exist. and the topic of dysphoria proves it even. if trans people are so dysphoric and so mentally harmed by not being able to transition or pass that it affects their mental or physical health, isn't it wrong to forbid them to receive treatment?? and what if the only treatment that works is for them to directly transition? god allows any permanent altercation to the body as long as it's for health reasons, and being trans is most definitely a health reason. god wants us to love ourselves, not harm ourselves. and the people who complain that it's "changing how god created us" make no sense because what if someone was born deformed and wouldn't survive without a surgery that changed their appearance? are you going to just let them die because you don't want them to change their appearance because that's disrespectful to gods creation? no, of course not. being trans is a health related thing and god always wants the best for us, especially when it comes to health and wellbeing.

as for me, i have an uncomfortable relationship with my own queerness. i don't like or use labels, and i don't consider myself part of the lgbtq+ community, because i don't feel welcome there. but i'm still queer. i've had queer relationships before and i'm open to having them again, but i'm just very skeptical of actually being in one. i've kind of resigned myself to a point of "semi-celibacy" where i don't actively seek out relationships nor do i imply that i want one, but IF one day, something happens... well 🤷‍♂️ something happens. i don't think i'll ever get married though, because that'd be a whole other religious story, but as much as i'd like to go out and have relationships, i think my safest option is to be celibate until i've decided for myself later what i want to do. not to punish myself but just so i don't get distracted and stray away from god accidentally.

in the end, being queer as a muslim depends on the specific muslim and how they view their relationship with their queerness and their relationship with god. it's different for everyone and it's only up to a persons own self to decide what is best for them and their religion. i've done research about queerness in islam for myself because i simply could not live with myself if i actually knew that being queer was wrong, and it isn't, so i'm alright now.

muslims aren't horrific with their homophobia, just misguided and misinformed. that doesn't mean i hate them or try to convince every muslim i meet to agree with my views abour queerness, no, because it's only up to the person themselves to decide not to be a bigot. the reality is that most muslims are homophobic and that's it 🤷‍♂️ they may be wrong, but it doesn't mean anything in the end.

we as palestinian muslims need to be given our basic human rights to EXIST before we move onto queer liberation. we must be liberated on a humanitarian level before we are liberated on a queer level. palestine simply hasn't had time for queer liberation because we're too busy fighting to survive. and even then, i do believe it's absolutely justified for palestinians to be anti lgbtq when many lgbtq people are actively calling for our genocide. doesn't mean it's right to be a bigot, but you must understand that if my entire family got massacred in front of my eyes and my entire house got bombed with me inside it, and the people who did it were raising a rainbow flag... well. i would hate whoever stands behind that flag as well. bigoted hatred comes from a place of fear and hurt and misinformation. if palestinians haven't had time to unlearn homophobia, of course they will be misinformed about the queer community and fear it. it's only fair.

this was a wonderful question and i'm glad you were curious to learn more :)

[no-where-new-hero]

The house in the hollow was "a mile from anywhere"--so Maywood people said. It was situated in a grassy little dale, looking as if it had never been built like other houses but had grown up there like a big, brown mushroom. It was reached by a long, green lane and almost hidden from view by an encircling growth of young birches. No other house could be seen from it although the village was just over the hill. Ellen Greene said it was the lonesomest place in the world and vowed that she wouldn't stay there a day if it wasn't that she pitied the child.

I don't think LMM is necessarily a master at openings, but I do think this opening paragraph does a lot to foreshadow the rest of the series. She hits us with several establishing situations at once: 1) the house takes center stage. We are introduced to a house before any other people, and houses will continue to remain important. 2) we're told what the local people say about it. LMM's novels are suffused with rumor, hearsay, and gossip, but this series in particular is one where the heroine needs to fight against the voices of other people in order to listen to her own. 3) the natural world is wild and yet hermetic. You have to walk a long way to find something hidden, and it's "lonesome." It's representative of Emily herself. 4) Finally we meet Ellen Greene, another side character whose opinions we're privy to, and whose opinions of Emily herself are immediately rebutted in the following paragraph.

Unlike Anne, though, we do meet Emily immediately, and we get the benefits of her thoughts and opinions with a certain forcefulness that's not exactly present in other LMM heroines. We know things she loves (Pilgrim's Progress , her cats, her father) and things she hates (Ellen Greene). Her world is complete. In fact, this opening chapter perfectly conveys this world as a trifle Edenic--the Adam-and-Eve trees, her communion with nature, and her supernatural "flash" reinforce this, as well as Emily's own unorthodox ideas of religion. Even the fact that "Emily didn't know she was being pitied" plays into this, because she's as yet innocent of other people's opinions, that societal evil she will have to fight through the rest of the series.

Other things I noticed this time around:

Douglas's eyes are "fixed dreamily and unseeingly" on the wall. The only other man with "dreamy" eyes is Dean, which makes me wonder how much LMM just wanted Dean to be a Douglas replacement in Book 1. Emily is the only other character who merits "dreamily/dreamy" as a description.

Emily's birthday is May 19 (we learn in Book 2), so since the book begins in early May, Douglas seems to have died right around her birthday. I think this is more of LMM's sloppy chronology, though, because this anniversary isn't really referenced again.

More religiousness with a touch of the pagan: Emily's "rapt little face" when she returns to Ellen Greene, the ecstatic "flash" (LOVE @batrachised connecting this to the ecstasy of St. Teresa), the hill calling to her and her calling back in some inimical conversation.

A thing that I've always loved:

"You put on your hood and mind you scoot back if it starts to rain," warned Ellen. "You can't monkey with colds the way some kids can."

I ALSO could never monkey with colds when I was a kid because I have a shit immune system, so Emily was the most representation I'd ever had in my life.